The Secret
A short story
“Don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret,” Beatrice Reilly said as she handed Joseph her credit card so he could check her into the motel.
Joseph paid as little attention to the woman as was necessary to get her checked in. While she prattled on about the weather — “should have brought an umbrella, there is some nasty rain coming,” and politics — she blamed Joe Biden for the rising price of a room at the motel — his thoughts were anywhere but this dimly lit motel lobby with peeling walls.
“Mr. Cohen, are you listening?” She said.
As she rambled, he gazed at her, judgmental but indifferent. She wasn’t exactly attractive. She had some potential — maybe? — but it went unfulfilled, the victim of dubious aesthetic choices, like fake blonde hair that curled unevenly and clashed disturbingly with her brown eyebrows, and a nose ring that accentuated her vaguely unnatural-looking nose.
Also, she talked too much, and nothing she said meant anything.
“It’s Joseph,” he said, catching his last name but little else she had said.
“Well, Joe, I hope you’ve been listening … ?” She said, pitched somewhere between a statement and a question but failing to be either.
“Not Joe. Joseph.” He hated the name Joe.
“I said it’s a secret.”
He handed her the keys to the room, and she headed off.
He watched her walk away. He didn’t know what her secret was. And he didn’t care.
She didn’t look like the type of woman who had anything interesting to hide.
Joseph had been the motel manager for nearly two years.
“Look, Joseph, the motel probably won’t last long,” Bob, the motel owner, had told him. “Business is bad. The clientele is barely getting by. There’s a loan due in two years. If we can’t refinance it, the bank will take over the motel, shut it down, and maybe tear it down so something more viable can take its place. But if you want the job, you want to take a shot, do it.”
Joseph didn’t have a lot of other options. “Okay, Bob.”
“Congratulations. And welcome to broke hospitality.”
So, he did it. He took a shot.
He missed.
Bob was right. The motel was as hopeless as the guests that came and went.
Guests like Beatrice Reilly. Victims of bad life choices and worse hair products.
But now, he had an idea. He was not just the failed manager of a failed motel in a failed little town full of failed people.
He would write a book. The book that would save him.
He booted up his laptop and began to write:
“The Secret”: a Novel by Joseph Cohen
“Whatever you do, you can’t tell anyone. It’ll just be our little secret,” the woman checking into the hotel told Jack as she handed him her credit card.
Jack checked the name on the card. Angela Foley. There was something familiar about the name.
As she spoke, Jack gazed at her. She had luscious brown hair that went on and on and matched the soulfulness of her eyes. He imagined running his hand through its rich, endless flow.
She didn’t say much, but every word sounded profound, full of truth and meaning, coming from her lips.
Especially when she said his name.
And yet. He couldn’t remember her secret. How had he missed it?
What was the secret?
“Yes, of course, Angela. The secret. Our secret. I’ll never tell.”
“Thank you, Jack.”
“Enjoy your stay with us, Angela. And please let me know if you need anything. I’ll be right here.”
“Hey, man. What are you writing there?” Joseph was interrupted by Raymond, the motel clerk arriving for his shift.
“Oh, hi. I’m writing a novel.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Maybe I have something to say. Maybe I have a story to tell.”
“Right. Maybe.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“Well, I hope you know. Everyone wants to write a novel. But no one wants to read one.”
“Don’t you ever get bored, Raymond?”
“Bored with what?”
“This life. This motel. Grinding it out. Every damn day, the same as the last.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. Tomorrow could always be much worse than today.”
“What does that mean?”
“The loan, Joseph. It’s due in a week. What are you going to do about the loan?”
The loan. That damn loan. The bank wanted to see the books before it decided whether to refinance. But the books were … not good.
“Joseph, let me ask you something. Do you think you’re too good for this? That you’re special? You’re not special. You’re another random string of chromosomes. A coincidence. An accident of time. But the time, it’s running out.”
Joseph thought about this. Was he no different than the guests, than Beatrice Reilly? Was he no different than Raymond? Was he no … better?
“Hmm. Maybe you’re right, Raymond.”
“Yeah, but hey. It’s good to have goals.”
Suddenly, the dimly lit lobby got a little darker. One of the overhead lights had burned out.
Joseph’s phone rang. It was the bank. He didn’t answer it.
Angela Foley. Where had Jack heard that name before?
Then he remembered. She was the wife of a local politician, Ron Foley. Was he a Congressman? The mayor? Jack didn’t pay much attention to politics. But he had heard about a scandal involving Ron and an intern in his office.
How did such a dirtbag ever snag a woman like Angela anyway? Jack wondered.
Angela had checked into the hotel by herself. Without Ron.
She must have left her husband, Jack thought. That’s why she’s here at the hotel without him. That must be the secret.
He thought about that hair. Those lips. And now, she was free. Alone.
But maybe not for long.
Joseph was working the front desk a couple of days later when Beatrice stopped by.
Something about her looked different, he thought.
“Hi, Joe,” she said. He didn’t correct her. “Why is it so dark here, by the way? Someone needs to fix those lights. Anyway, about what I was saying the other day …”
“Yes, I know, I know, your husband, the Congressman. I know all about that.”
“Wait, what? What are you talking about?”
“Sorry, not Congressman, I meant mayor. Anyway, it’s okay. I won’t tell, Angela.”
“Angela? Who’s Angela?”
She looked at him, but he was gone. He was far away.
Overhead, another light burned out.
Angela Foley called Jack at the front desk.
“Angela, so nice to hear from you,” Jack said. “How’s your stay so far? Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Would you mind coming up to my room when you have a moment?”
It’s happening, he thought. “Of course. Anything you want, Angela.”
“I wanted to speak to you in private,” Angela said when he arrived, shutting the door. They sat side by side on the bed.
Jack felt his pulse quicken. “I understand.”
“So, you’ve probably heard about my husband, Ron.”
“Yes, of course, Ron. The … um, Congressman.”
If he was wrong about her husband’s position, she didn’t correct him.
“He knows I’m here. He may try to come by. I don’t want you to let him in.”
“No, of course not. I understand, Angela.”
“Thank you so much, Jack. This whole situation has been difficult for me.”
“I can imagine that,” Jack said.
“Anyway, I don’t want to bother you with my troubles. Perhaps you could stay for a drink? I’ll pour us a glass of wine.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Lately, I’ve been thinking about us,” she said, handing him a glass of chardonnay. “I mean, Ron and me. Maybe he was never who I thought he was. Maybe he’s not the type of man I need to be with. Maybe I need to be with someone else.”
They looked at each other. Her hair was longer, straighter than he remembered, her eyes more soulful. Although, surely, that wasn’t possible.
“Well,” he said. “I’ll drink to that.”
Joseph was at the front desk when his phone rang. It was Bob.
“Joseph, I’ve been trying to reach you,” Bob said. “The motel is shutting down. The bank won’t refinance. They said they’ve been trying to reach you too. You need to notify the guests. Everyone has to be out in three days.”
“Oh. Yeah. The guests … but … Angela … the secret …”
“What? Joseph, you’re not making any sense. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The motel is done. Since you’ve been MIA, I’m having Raymond come by the motel to close it all down and hand over the keys to the bank.”
Raymond found him sitting alone in the dark, typing on his laptop. All the lights had burned out.
“Time to go, Joseph,” Raymond said.
“What? No … no, I’m not done yet. The story … the story isn’t finished.”
“It’s over, Joseph. The story is over.”
