Going South: The Inquiry

The coffee in my hand lands on the neck and shoulder of a man twice my size – an officer. I am just as shocked as he is. He gasps and pulls at his crisp blue shirt, pealing it away from his skin, mouth open in shock. I back into the breakfast table while the reception guy comes running with a towel. I shouldn’t be afraid but I am. How does he know my name? Am I in trouble for not leaving a security deposit? If not for that, surely for assaulting an officer. I want to run but I'm frozen, watching the two men fumble over each other.

“Ms Knighton?” the officer says, still toweling off, irritation in his voice.

“Yes. I'm sorry, sir.” I wish the table would disappear so I could back up further. I wish he didn't know my name. I wish I weren't so freakin petrified.

The reception guy skedaddles as soon as possible, tossing me a nod before disappearing.

“I'm Officer Joe Hayes.” He presents his hand for a shake and I take it. “What is the nature of your stay here?”

My breath hitches in my throat. The nature of my stay? Escape. Survival.

“Just a little vacation,” I say and smile, my shoulders up by my ears with tension.

“Where are you visiting from?” Now that the coffee has been cleaned up, his hands are on his hips... er his holster ...belt.

“Boston.” Close enough.

He looks around the area where we stand. “Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes, sir.” Please don't ask any more questions.

He looks me up and down. I can't tell if he thinks I'm a suspect or victim. His inspection stops at my waist, which I soon realize is where my left hand rests.

“Your husband’s not with traveling with you?”

I suck in much needed air and avert my eyes. “No. My husband and I are separated.”

With narrowed eyes he asks, “Mrs Brighton, are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No!” I answer too quickly and let out a nervous laugh. At least I'm not a suspect. “Why would you think that?”

“Mr. Domki thought you were... in need of help.”

Damn you, reception guy. Why couldn't you just stay out of it?

“No. I'm fine. That's silly. Honest. I'm alright.” Shut up, Ana. Just shut up.

“Where will you be staying for the remainder of your …vacation?”

Crud. I don't know and, if I did, I wouldn't tell him. “Here.”

He made eye contact with Domki then looked back at me. “Okay, ma'am. If you need anything, you know who to call.”

“Yes. Thank you, sir.” Thank you for leaving.

In my room – without breakfast – I grab my bags and head for the sliding glass door, slip out, checking both ways for …anyone. It's a courtyard, unfortunately, so I must find another door back into the hotel. I walk briskly through the hallway and exit onto a side lot, running as soon as I clear the door. Across the street, I duck behind a convenience store to catch my breath.

The buildings along the busy highway hide me for several miles until I spot a HELP WANTED sign posted out by the road. I have no idea what help is wanted until I circle around the front of the building – a hair salon.

The smell of hairspray and curling irons hits me the second I open the door. Hairdryers drown all other sound. A young girl in ripped jeans and layered tank tops puts on a fake smile and greets me.

“I'm here for a job,” I say.

“Excuse me?” she yells.

“I'd like to apply for the job,” I say a bit louder, pointing towards the road where I saw the sign.

“Oh.” She drops the fake smile. “Hold on.” She leaves me there in a cold sweat. I have no idea what the job is, if I'm qualified or if she'll pay me cash. She returns with a middle-aged woman, slightly heavy set with short funky hair.

“Hi, I'm Neva. And you are?” the woman says, shaking my hand.

“Ana. Hi.”

The hairdryers shut off within minutes of each other, leaving me with a sense of deafness in the quiet.

“You're here for the job?” she says.

“Yes.”

“Are you a stylist?”

I can tell she's skeptical already. I realize my jeans and top are not very trendy.

“No,” I admit. “Is that what you're looking for?”

“No. Actually, we need a shampooer and receptionist.”

Over her shoulder I catch the receptionist rolling her eyes.

“I can do that,” I say with confidence.

“Great! Let me get you an application.” She leaves through the arched door to the salon area and returns a moment later.

Sitting in the thin leather chair of the waiting area, I plop my bags down next to me, smooth the application over a magazine on my lap and begin work on the application.

Name: Ana Knighton

Address: …

Crud. My pulse picks up. How can I fill out an application without an address? I skim down the rest of the page – references, insurance, social security number. My sweaty palm sticks to the paper as I lift my hand to my head.

Don't panic. Maybe there's some way I can explain my situation to her without giving too many details. I stare at the blank form with my name at the top and suddenly remember George and Rosanne, wondering if they miss me yet, wondering if Bosley has called them looking for me. Do they know what's going on? Do they know I won't be coming back to work for … well maybe never? Will they manage okay without me?

I wish I could call them to explain but I can't. I just can't get them involved. And I can't risk Bosley tracing me here. Officer whatever-his-name-is was scare enough. Someday I hope I will have a chance to explain and apologize.

“All set?” Neva says, standing in front of me, breaking my gaze.

“Not quite. Two more minutes.”

~~ Should Ana fill in fake info or come up with some explanation? ~~

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