Thunder Inn

Thunder Inn

By Sarah Clowes

Martha Blum had not intended to come out of her motel room that night. After ten and a half hours navigating the two-lane highways of New Mexico, Oklahoma, and Kansas in a Nissan Pulsar with her cat, Paul, Martha was ready to take a hot soapy shower, slip into her clean Lion King flannels, watch the news, and collapse into the well-deserved oblivion of sleep. Paul, of course, had other ideas. Paul was a feisty street cat Martha had adopted a few months earlier when one of the secretaries at the small-town paper where she worked as a reporter had been on a crusade to get her coworkers to adopt strays. At least Paul was handsome: He was a long-haired white Himalayan with blue eyes and too much pluck. Unlike Martha’s favorite musician, the subdued Paul Simon, his feline namesake was spastic; he liked to sprint up and down Martha’s legs, leaving scratches that bubbled up red the next day. Martha didn’t hate Paul, in fact he often made her chortle, and his tornado kitten charm could be endearing, but after the long drive to the outskirts of Lincoln, Nebraska, it was hard to forgive him for darting through the door of their room. It was even more difficult to forgive him for climbing up a tree.

It was not just that Martha was tired. It was also that she was wearing her pajamas, and she did not love being in public in her Lion Kings. It was also that the motel where they were staying, Thunder Inn, did not seem to be located in a particularly safe part of town. Further, the motel’s placard advertised “XXX Movies,” and the walls and ceiling of their room were mirrored, reflecting large wooden tiki decorations (and of course antics of hyperkinetic Paul). It was not the type of place Martha would have chosen had she been less exhausted, or had she not promised herself that she would check into the first motel she found. Still, here she was, and here was Paul, perched adorably on one of the higher branches of the aspen next to the parking lot.

Here we go, thought Martha. She located her key card and slipped on her socks. Pocketless, she hid the key in her waistband.

“Here Paul,” she cooed, “Come here kitty. Here kitty kitty.” Paul remained uncharacteristically inert. “Here Paul, come on down and get some catnip.” Even as Martha proffered the catnip, she knew it was a weak bribe. Paul had spent the day strung out on catnip leaves she had pushed through the wires of his carrier. Offering him more now was insulting, and they both knew it. “Come on Paul,” Martha whispered, not sure Paul could hear.

A young man with a peach fuzz mustache and oiled back hair pulled into the parking spot next to the tree and exited his hearse-inspired navy-blue Dodge with a pudgy, tired-looking young woman wearing a leopard miniskirt and fishnets. The girl stared disapprovingly at Martha’s pajamas, then spied Paul in the tree.

“Aww…it’s a kitten,” she said, suddenly friendly.

“Yeah,” Martha said. “Damned if I know how to get him down.”

The young man pulled up his baggy pants and said, “You need tuna.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Martha.

“Cats love tuna,” said the young man.

“Here kitty kitty,” said the man in a falsetto.

The man behind the desk who had checked Martha in earlier, presumably the owner of the motel, peeked through the window of the office, scowled, then walked out. He was a balding middle-aged Indian man with a pouchy gut and bags under his eyes. Martha estimated that he was probably just a few years younger than she.

“Cat up the tree,” the man said, eyeing Paul. It was not a question.

The young man hoisted his pants up and repeated, “You need some tuna. Cats love tuna.”

The Indian man scratched his chin and disappeared.

The young man put his arm around the young woman and said, “good luck.” They entered one of the hotel rooms, leaving Martha alone, gazing at Paul. Although her pajamas were clean, and the ground was not, Martha sat down cross legged on the dirt and held her head in her hands. A few minutes later, the Indian man reemerged with a can of tuna and a ladder.

“Thank you,” Martha said.

The man opened the can of tuna and climbed up the ladder, standing about five feet below Paul. “Here cat,” said the man. “Come down,” he said, “come get some fish.” For about five minutes, the man wafted the tuna scent towards Paul with his hand and cooed. Paul took a few steps down toward the open tuna can, but stopped, afraid of falling. Eventually, the man descended the ladder.

“It’s nice of you to try” Martha said. “I really don’t know what to do.”

The man cracked a wry smile. When he smiled, he looked different – younger, softer, more human, as if a brittle outer layer were cracking away. “This happens all the time,” he said.

Martha’s lip turned up on one side, “Cats love adult movies.”

The man’s cheeks flushed, and he stopped smiling. Martha wished she had said something else. She was too tired, and her guard was down. The man handed her the open can of tuna. There was no way the strong, salty odor was not reaching Paul. Martha could see his nose and whiskers twitching.

“Keep it, in case,” said the man. After a pause, he asked “Visiting Lincoln?”

“Passing through,” said Martha. “I’m driving up to Peoria. My mom is having cataract surgery next week. She’s in her 80s.”

“I can see why you brought your cat,” he said.

Martha furrowed her brow, then grinned. “I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would travel with a pet if they didn’t have to, but I’m also moving.”

“Oh,” said the man. “Where from?”

“New Mexico,” said Martha, wondering why she was divulging so much personal information to the rounded motel owner, a stranger. She looked up at Paul near the top of the aspen, so picturesque, so stubborn, then back at the man next to her. “Where are you from?”

“India. Near Mumbai. You know India? Bombay?”

“Sure.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes, looking up at the white kitten.

“I’ll call the fire department,” said the man. “Wait here.”

In a few minutes, the man returned with two cans of Coke. “You want a Coke?” he said, offering one to Martha.

“Oh thanks,” she said, “that’s so sweet of you, but the caffeine will keep me up. I’d better not.”

“You’re right,” he said, holding the cans awkwardly. “I’m Raj.”

“Actually,” said Martha, “I don’t think anything will keep me up at this point. I’m so tired. I might as well have one. It’ll probably keep me from collapsing.”

Raj handed a can to Martha, shifting weight from one foot to the other. When she opened it, foam exploded in a mini geyser, spilling onto the asphalt. Raj opened his and experienced a similar explosion. Martha giggled.

“How long have you been here?” asked Martha.

“Too long,” said Raj. “But not long enough. Still paying off the mortgage. Still helping my sister with her son back in India.”

“Her son?”

“He’s…he has disability.”

“Ah,” said Martha. “That can be hard. The hotel’s yours?” she asked.

Raj nodded. “I came to this country to study mechanical engineering, but the math classes got me. Eventually, I saved enough money to buy this place.”

“You have family here?”

Raj shook his head. “A son, but he’s far away.”

“I have a son, too. Grown up. Far away,” said Martha. “And a wife?” Martha asked, already knowing the answer.

Just then, a fire engine pulled into the parking lot. The firefighters set up their longer ladder right behind Paul’s fluffy tail and scooted him down the tree with a hook. A firefighter handed Paul to Martha, who stroked the cat’s head and offered him the tuna. She put Paul on the ground so he could finish eating it.

“The fire department, they actually do do this all the time,” Raj said, cracking a slight smile as the firefighters pulled away.

“Raj, thank you again for helping me. I honestly don’t know what I would have done. Also, it was nice talking to you” Martha said. She looked at Raj in the light from the motel sign. He didn’t look as tired as he had earlier, and she found herself wanting to see his wry smile again.

Raj crushed his empty Coke can and said, “You need anything else? Your room is good? You need any movies? Pay per view?”

Martha suddenly noticed how dirty her socks had become, the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra under her pajamas, the fact that she didn’t have anything with her except the key card to her room, which had slipped into the back of her underwear, the fact that she was alone at night in a questionable part of town.

“No,” said Martha. “No. I don’t need anything. Thanks. I’d better be going.”

Raj’s face hardened again, and he hung his head and walked back to the office. When Martha looked down, she saw that Paul was vomiting up the tuna near her feet.