Free Mother's Day by Patricia MacDonald Page A

candy, Eddie thought as she sailed out the door of the lobby. “G’nite,” he said.
    He turned on the ancient black-and-white portable TV behind the counter and began to watch the Red Sox game. He managed to get through two batters before the door to the lobby opened and he looked up to see his wife, Valerie, come striding in wearing a sweatshirt, cut-off denims, and gold, high-heeled bedroom slippers. She was dangling a lit cigarette in one hand. A cloud of carnation scent and smoke seemed to fill up the room.
    “Well, well, I thought you’d be off plunging some toilet,” she said by way of greeting.
    Eddie’s gaze returned to the game. “What do you want? Where are the kids?”
    “Right out there in the car,” said Valerie.
    “Well, take ’em home and put ’em to bed.”
    “I have to talk to you,” she said, picking a stray speck of tobacco off her tongue with her silver-polished fingernails and examining it.
    “Didn’t you ever hear of a phone?” said Eddie.
    “That’s just it,” she cried triumphantly. “They turned the damn phone off today.”
    “So, pay the bill.”
    “With what, Eddie?” Valerie demanded, taking a deep drag on her cigarette. “I can’t afford to pay it. Not with what you’re giving me.”
    “Stop bitching. Nobody tells you to call your mother for an hour every day. That’s what runs it up.”
    “Don’t talk against my mother, Eddie. She’s been good to us,” she said, pointing her cigarette at her husband. The long ash trembled, dropped, and disintegrated on the countertop.
    Eddie rolled his eyes. “Use an ashtray,” he said sullenly, and slid a magenta aluminum ashtray down the counter to her. Valerie squashed out her butt on the gold-leaf printing in the center that read “Jefferson Motel, Parkway Boulevard, Bayland, Mass.” and a phone number.
    “You always have enough money for the magazines and those cancer sticks,” Eddie observed.
    Valerie shook the last cigarette out of her pack, her stringy blond hair drooping around her pinched face. She crushed the pack wearily and tossed it on the floor. “Look, babe,” she said, “I didn’t come here to fight.”
    “Pick that up and put it in the trash, for crying out loud,” said Eddie. “Margo will get all over me for your mess.”
    “Margo,” Valerie grumbled, bending down to retrieve the wadded-up, empty pack. “Look,” she said, “why don’t you just ditch this place, come back home, and see if you can get your old job back at the water company.”
    “Number one,” said Eddie, “they’re still laying people off at the water company, and number two, if I come home, it’s just going to be more bitching and complaining from you.”
    “I won’t,” said Valerie. “I promise. The kids miss you.”
    Eddie shook his head. He wasn’t about to discuss number three—that even though it was a shit job, he liked living here, sleeping late in his own room with no one to bug him. And the job had another benefit, too, which he didn’t want anyone to know about.
    “Come on, babe,” she pleaded, “We’re still good together.”
    Eddie pretended to be thinking it over. Just then the lobby door opened and a good-looking, dark haired woman walked in. Eddie straightened up, composing his sharp features into a friendly expression.
    The woman walked up to the desk. She glanced at Valerie, who took a seat on one of the lobby chairs and pretended to leaf through a magazine.
    “I’d like a room,” the woman said.
    “Okay,” said Eddie. “How many nights?”
    The woman frowned and hesitated. “I’m not sure.” She brushed her dark hair off her forehead in a nervous gesture.
    “The reason I ask is, we have a weekly rate,” said Eddie helpfully. He turned a Jefferson brochure around to face her. The woman read the information while Eddie’s gaze traveled slowly up and down her frame.
    Valerie coughed, and when Eddie looked her way he saw her narrowed eyes were riveted to his face.
    The woman pushed the