THE INN

 

Every summer, I slid side to side as Dad swerved around each switchback, the red and black vinyl seats sticking to my bare legs. Wind whipped through the open windows, tangling my raven black hair into wild knots. At every stop, I glanced into the rearview mirror and caught Einstein’s droopy eyes staring back at me.

Dad’s heavy foot pressing the gas pedal to the floorboard. His cigar, clenched between his teeth, hanging out of the side of his mouth. Mom gripped the seat’s edges for dear life. Heat dissipated with each climb, gears grinding.

Bubbles burst against my little brother’s flushed cheeks, sending him into a laughing fit. In the background, we listened to, “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog,” Elvis’s baritone voice crackling through the speakers.

When we arrived, everyone piled out of the 1957 Chevy. Mom ran her fingers through her frizzy blonde hair. Dad adjusted the tilt of his black hat and fastened the top buttons of his shirt.

Inside the parlor, a young bellhop stood at attention, ready to serve. His nails were short, maybe chewed. His uniform was crisp, pleated pants and a stiff shirt. His shoes gleamed like he’d spent hours polishing them.

Crystal chandeliers suspended overhead. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the thick-paned windows, their jeweled teardrops glistening, casting reflections on the gold leaf wallpaper.

Everyone knew his name. Elias Young Evermore.

The guy at the ice machine, the cleaning lady who banged her cart down the hallway, even the fellow who rocked away the day on the veranda, reading his newspaper.

But everything changed the next summer.

The evergreens still stood around the three-story house. Mail poured through the door slot, piling like the steep mountains that surrounded the old place.

Mom refused to touch anything. “Everything must remain as it was,” she said.

But nothing was the same, no matter how much she wished for it. Dust mounted. Bare walls echoed. Curtains stayed drawn. And no one, under any circumstances, ventured into the dark stairway that led to Dad’s office. Only he had the key.

 

Twenty-seven years later, my brother and I fought through a lengthy court battle. The place was worthless, but neither of us backed down.

Cobwebs covered the rusted iron lock. Windows had been painted shut. The rocking chairs were barely recognizable, their woven patterns rotted through. The W and E had faded from the WELCOME doormat.

Yet somehow the CLOSED sign still hung strong, chain-linked, dangling from the porch ceiling.

I made my way to the basement, stared at the locked office door, and inserted the weathered silver key etched with his initials, E.Y.E.

The door creaked open.

I stepped inside and flipped on the emerald lamplight. Nothing had changed. His brimmed hat still hung on the coat rack. The black telephone cord coiled from the edge of the desk and looped around the office chair. A yellowed piece of paper lay beside the typewriter. I leaned in.

I’M WATCHING, it read.

The grandfather clock chimed twelve times. Gray cigar smoke filled the musty room. I grabbed the key, locked the door behind me, and called my brother once outside.

 “You can have it,” I said.