I push my trolley through the lobby and head toward the elevator. Another group of ladies, probably on a “girls’ getaway,” rushes past me. They close the elevator in my face, something I’m used to. The maid can wait. The maid goes last. Finally, I get an elevator all to myself and push number 4. The button glows red. I feel queasy as I go back to the fourth floor for the first time since finding Mr. Black dead in his bed. Pull yourself together, I think. You don’t have to enter that suite today.
The doors chime and open. I push my trolley out but immediately bash into something. I look up to discover I’ve just run into a police officer, his eyes so glued to his phone that he’s entirely unaware that he’s blocking the elevator. Regardless of who’s at fault, I know exactly what I’m supposed to do. I learned this in an early training session with Mr. Snow: the guest is always right, even when they are paying no mind whatsoever to whom they may be inconveniencing.
“My sincerest apologies, sir. Are you all right?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’m fine. But watch where you’re going with that thing.”
“I appreciate the advice. Thank you, Officer,” I say as I maneuver my trolley around him. What I really want is to run right over his toes since he refuses to step out of the way, but this would be inappropriate. Once I’m past him, I pause. “May I be of assistance to you in any way? A hot towel, perhaps? Some shampoo?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “Excuse me.”
He steps around me and I watch as he heads toward the Black suite. There is bright-yellow caution tape across the door. He stands to the side of it, leaning against the wall, one foot crossed over the other. I can see already that if he lolls around like that all day, he’ll leave a stain that will be a challenge to erase. I’d love to take my broom handle and flick him off the wall, but never mind. It’s not my place.
I head to the far end of the floor to begin my work in Room 407. I’m pleased to find it empty, the guests checked out. There’s a five-dollar bill on the pillow, which I pick up and put in my pocket with quiet thanks. Every penny counts, as Gran always said. I busy myself with stripping the bed and laying fresh sheets. My hands are a bit shaky today, I must admit. Every once in a while, a flash of Mr. Black enters my mind—sallow face, cold to the touch—and all the things I witnessed after. A bolt of electricity flashes through me. There’s nothing to be antsy about, though. Today is not yesterday. Today is a brand-new day. To ease my nerves, I concentrate on happy thoughts. And nothing is happier to me right now than thoughts of Rodney.
As I clean, I replay our burgeoning relationship in my mind. I remember when I first began working at the hotel and didn’t know him well. Every day, as I collected my newspapers at the start of my shift, I tried to linger a bit longer. Slowly, over time, we became quite cordial—dare I say congenial? But it was one day over a year and a half ago when our affection was cemented.
I was on the third floor, cleaning my rooms. Sunshine was cleaning one half of the floor and I was tackling the other. I entered Room 305, which was not on my roster for that shift, but the front desk had told me it was vacant and needed to be cleaned. I didn’t even bother knocking since I’d been told it was empty, but when I pushed through the door with my trolley, I came face-to-face with two very imposing men.
Gran taught me to judge people by their actions rather than by their appearances, so when I looked upon these two behemoths with shaved heads and perplexing facial tattoos, I immediately assumed the best of them rather than the worst. Maybe these guests were a famous rock duo I’d never heard of? Or perhaps they were trendy tattoo artists? Or world-renowned wrestlers? Since I prefer antiques to pop culture, how would I know?
“My sincerest apologies, sirs,” I said. “I was told that all the guests in this room had vacated. I’m terribly sorry to disturb you.”
I smiled then, as per protocol, and waited for the gentlemen to respond. But neither said a word. There was a navy-blue duffel bag on the bed. One of the giants had been packing away a piece of equipment when I intruded, some kind of machine or scale that he was about to put in the bag. Now, he stood stock-still with the odd apparatus in one hand.
Just when I was feeling slightly uncomfortable with the amount of silence that lingered, two people stepped out of the bathroom behind the two men. One was Rodney, in his crisp, white shirt, with sleeves rolled, revealing his lovely forearms. The other was Juan Manuel, who was holding a brown paper package, his bagged lunch or dinner, perhaps? Rodney’s hands were balled into fists. He and Juan Manuel were clearly surprised to see me, and to be perfectly honest, I, too, was surprised to see them.