Free Between You and Me by Emma McLaughlin Page A

all two-hundred-something of us. Now well versed in the odd economics of tour accommodations, I’ve learned that only a handful of hotels have drive-in parking with tour-bus clearance, which security mandates. Of those, maybe two have the class of rooms that Michelle demands on Kelsey’s behalf, which no one begrudges. I’m not dancing for a hundred and twenty straight minutes a night, and I’d like a soaking tub.
    I would have thought that these establishments would be falling all over themselves to secure such massive group bookings. But our travel coordinator explained that hotels also host conventions. And whom would you prefer, insurance salesmen who’ll leave your establishment cleaner than they found it, and with hefty in-room porn billings to boot, or assorted dancers, singers, gymnasts, and crew who’ll scuff, snag, and stain not just the rooms but the hallways, no matter how much I beg, and whose keynote equivalent will choke the entrance with paparazzi? Which is why when Andy went red-faced and pounded the desk with his varsity ring in Athens, the clerks obstinately refused to bring on more staff to speed check-in, dancers fell asleep in the lobby, were late to rehearsal, and the run-through was a disaster.
    This clerk quickly returns, and I can hear her colleagues stirring through the office doorway. “Thank you so much,” I say, “I greatly appreciate it. Could you be so kind as to process the suite for Miss Wade and her parents first, and then we can do the rest in this order?” I hand her the stack of passports.
    Andy steps off the elevator in his rumpled tracksuit and aggressive stubble, pulling Kelsey’s bag. “All set?” he asks gruffly. “Can I tell GM to wake her?”
    I give him a thumbs-up, and he leaves her case by the ashtray. I tell Fraulein I’ll be back, and head to the top floor to complete my daily ritual. It’s challenging, each time the elevator whisks me past the plebeian floors, not to flash to my initiation into the world of penthouse suites, and pull out my phone. But each day I don’t call Finn is a day I can look forward to calling Finn. As Jeff Stone taught me, savor the anticipation because reality has a way of depositing you in a cab.
    In the presidential suite I kick off my sneakers, because Michelle hates tread marks on freshly vacuumed wall-to-wall. First I order Michelle’s chamomile tea while I open the balcony doors, letting in fresh air to vanquish the predecessor’s or the predecessor’s conquest’s perfume. Michelle has a very sensitive nose from her days as a mall spritzer. Then I turn on Kelsey’s tub, set out her toiletry case, and run across the suite to make sure the hotel completed the turn-down service in Michelle and Andy’s room. By the time Kelsey’s bath is run, she’s usually listing bleary-eyed in the doorway. Andy throws the TV on full blast and settles in on the couch while Michelle follows Kelsey to the bathroom, seating herself on the toilet lid with her tea to discuss the performance, the day, the next day, while Kelsey, her eyelids drooping, musters murmured responses, her mouth managing to stay just above the bubbles. While simultaneously supervising the check-in of two hundred plus other people, I periodically swing back to make sure that Michelle doesn’t need anything. And finally, when they hear the TV mute, Kelsey gets out, Michelle goes to bed, and I am dismissed for the night.
    Today we’re doing pretaped segments, which means I don’t need to wake Kelsey until eight. I’m about to knock on the Presidential Suite when I feel my hand buzz with a voice mail. I don’t even bother to check the time stamp. My messages are slowly finding me, hours, days, sometimes weeks later, like birds thrown off their migratory pattern by electric wires.
    “Logan, it’s your mother. I just spoke with some man named Greg who answered the phone in your apartment. He has never heard of you and was quite emphatic that you don’t live there.