When Devils Sing(7)
Neera took a few cautious steps forward and peered through the smudged glass of the lobby window.
A burly man stood across from her grandfather at the front desk, hands resting casually in his worn, stained blue jeans. His face was turned away from Neera, but she recognized him by his shaved head, the dozens of raised scars that ran down his forearms, and the dented toolbox that sat on the counter. Wiley was the motel’s handyman, but he was rarely helpful. Each time he showed, her grandparents were visibly on edge.
“I will pay it back soon,” Nanaji insisted. His voice carried through the lobby’s propped-open door.
“I need you to be more specific.” Wiley stepped forward, resting his hands on the counter. His skin was pale and muted, but his scar tissue shimmered beneath the harsh fluorescent lobby lights. “As I’m sure you know, my boss ain’t a forgiving man.”
“Soon,” Nanaji huffed, his expression indignant. “A few months. I will have it all by then.”
“Months?” Wiley snorted. “Way I see it, you got a week. Until the Fourth of July.” He stepped away from the desk, taking in the dingy lobby. His beady eyes darted quickly, then met Neera’s through the window. “Otherwise, you and your family may end up just like that son of yours.”
The threat was a simple thing. Quiet, and unassuming. It hung in the air for only a breath, swallowed up by the buzzing of the tiny front desk fan and the drone of the newscaster on the old TV.
Nanaji blinked, then slammed his hands down on the desk, rattling the tools in the toolbox. “Get out!”
“July Fourth, Mr. Singh,” Wiley said casually. He grabbed his toolbox with ease, giving Neera a quick, impersonal nod as he stepped out the lobby door and disappeared into the night. His Chevy pickup peeled out of the parking lot and onto the dark, two-lane highway the Colonial sat on.
Neera lingered in the doorway once again, fear twisting in her gut, while Nanaji slumped in his chair, rubbing his eyes. Shame crept across his face.
Neera didn’t know what to do. Ever since Ajay died, her grandfather had a weak heart, at a high risk for heart attacks. Fighting with the handyman in the middle of the night was the last thing he needed. But her grandfather was stubborn to a fault—the type of man who would refuse water in a drought if it was given and not earned.
“Are you … okay?” Neera asked finally. She resented the question, wanting, instead, for Nanaji to ask that of her. To comfort her—to offer her the illusion of safety, if only for a moment.
Nanaji wouldn’t look at her. He kept his gaze trained on the front desk, absently shuffling pages of the open newspaper. “I am fine,” he said flatly. But even from the doorway, Neera could see his trembling hands.
Seconds gave way to minutes, but Nanaji refused to say anything more. He was content to leave Neera with unanswered questions and Wiley’s threat echoing in her head. With one last look at her grandfather’s slumped form, Neera slipped away from the lobby and continued to her room.
Neera shared Room 4 with her mom. She unlocked the door to the sight of two twin-size beds, a tattered dresser missing one of the drawers, and a TV that was older than she was. All the belongings to their name sat in trash bags along the wall. A handful of boxes stacked in the corner.
It was the most stable home Neera had ever had in her life. The Singh women had a knack for leaving, which meant they also had a knack for returning. Whenever Kiran broke up with a new boyfriend or was in between jobs, they’d always return to Room 4 at the Colonial until her mom was on her feet again.
They’d been back at the motel for about a month now. With Neera recently graduated from high school, and her mom’s newest ex out of the picture, they no longer had any ties elsewhere. The pair could stay for as long as it took to move forward again.
Or so they thought.
The night’s events proved that the motel’s stability was clearly barreling toward an end. It was no secret the Colonial was in the red, but Nanaji owing money to a mysterious person was a surprise. He was meant to owe money to the bank, just a few small business loans to keep them afloat until business picked up for the Cicada Festival. But to be threatened in the dead of night—owing money to someone’s boss—none of it seemed normal, much less legal.
What exactly had Nanaji done to keep the motel afloat? Was it worth their safety—their lives?
But where else is there for us to go? The thought sent an uneasy tremor through Neera’s gut. She collapsed onto her bed fully clothed and shut her stinging eyes. She had no answers. No solutions for her family’s mounting problems as they grew suffocating like the humid, summer air.
* * *
“NEERA,” A VOICE said. “Wake up.”
Neera’s eyes opened. Her mom was standing over her, still in her bartending uniform from her shift at the Tavern. Kiran’s face was exhausted and stricken.
“What’s going on?” Neera struggled to sit up. She’d fallen asleep in her grimy housekeeping clothes again, shoes and all.
“We gotta go.” Kiran pulled Neera from the bed. “There’s a fire.”
Her mom’s words cleared away the last haze of sleep, then Neera smelled smoke. She stumbled out of bed and followed Kiran out the door. The sharp tang of smoke and gasoline hung heavy in the air. Somewhere in the distance, the roaring siren of a fire truck.