No Vacancy: Chapters 1–9

I try not to think about the dirt and sit down, and Sammy snuggles against me until he spies the display stand near the front door. It’s filled with colorful pamphlets, the only thing in the room that’s not dull and dreary. Sammy toddles right over and starts pulling them out one by one and dropping them on the floor.

I try not to think about the dirt and sit down, and Sammy snuggles against me until he spies the display stand near the front door. It’s filled with colorful pamphlets, the only thing in the room that’s not dull and dreary. Sammy toddles right over and starts pulling them out one by one and dropping them on the floor.

He heads for a door on the far side of the room across from the desk, which says Pool. That explains the chlorine smell. I can see the water through the grimy glass.

Because as of today, I—Miriam Brockman, formerly of New York City—live in a motel in Greenvale, New York.

I rummage through my suitcase looking for the piece of paper where I wrote Lekha’s camp address and find my mezuzah tucked next to it. I turn the pretty metal case over in my hand and lift the flap to see the piece of parchment inside, where there are words written from the Torah that Jews are supposed to put on the doorposts in their homes.

I rummage through my suitcase looking for the piece of paper where I wrote Lekha’s camp address and find my mezuzah tucked next to it. I turn the pretty metal case over in my hand and lift the flap to see the piece of parchment inside, where there are words written from the Torah that Jews are supposed to put on the doorposts in their homes.

I lean over the balcony. I can see the diner next door, the one from the ad. Down below is the empty parking lot, the dinky playground, and the trees lining the side of the road that I saw on the drive in.

The Jewel’s old owners, the ones who left, had to move across the country when the man’s mom got sick, so Dad said they sold him the motel at a good price. He told Mom it needed some minor sprucing up, but he didn’t think it was anything we couldn’t handle.

I can’t get up because my lap is full of invoices that I’m supposed to be putting in order.

“There’s some breakfast stuff upstairs in the little kitchen in the back of the dining room. We can cook there but we don’t have our own dining room. We just use the motel one. And Mabel’s Diner is next door. Mr. Whitley makes awesome grilled cheese, but he’s never heard of challah and makes it from regular bread.”

I stop, remembering that Uncle Mordy won’t eat in a restaurant that isn’t kosher.

“Mo-dee take poo! Take Sammy poo!”
Uncle Mordy looks horrified.
“He wants you to take him to the pool,” I say, being the family expert in Sammy-speak.

Uncle Mordy did bring barbecued chicken, plus potato kugel and couscous, along with the challahs and grape juice.

I close my eyes and pretend we’re back at home, eating Shabbat dinner on the special Friday night china, on top of a real tablecloth, the one that Mom’s grandma made, with hundreds of tiny flowers that she embroidered herself around the edge.

“Speaking of tomorrow, Danny,” says Uncle Mordy, looking at Dad. “Where is the nearest synagogue here?”

Lekha is a vegetarian, sort of. Her parents are Hindu and believe that animals are sacred.

White wisps of coolness cover us as we open the sliding door. Kate chooses a red, white and blue rocket-shaped popsicle and I grab an ice cream sandwich, even though I know it’s so hot that the ice cream will ooze out the sides with every bite.

“What if we made a better sign?” I ask, popping the last bite in my mouth. “Like repaint it or something. It’s pretty pathetic, and Mom and Dad don’t have time. Everyone’s busy enough with the inside of the motel. Yesterday Mom was scrubbing mildew off all the shower curtains because she says there’s no money to buy new ones.”

“Oooh!” says Kate. “Grandpa’s got a stack of paint cans in the basement. Maybe he’d let us use them. And there’s a set of stencils somewhere too, from when they repainted the letters on the diner window a couple of years ago.”

It’s gotten pretty hot and the petunias look wilted.

Maria clasps the necklace around my neck and I look at myself in the mirror, twisting back and forth, the color of the cross changing as I move.
“It’s made of opal,” Maria says. “My grandmother gave it to me for my confirmation.”

He read from the Torah in front of the whole congregation and made a speech and after there was a fancy lunch at the synagogue to celebrate.

I end up spending the morning in Room 112, which gets the best reception, reading one of the ancient magazines I took from the stash under the coffee table in Reception, while Sammy is mesmerized by a cartoon squirrel singing about sharing acorns so everyone has enough for the winter.

We play Spit on the rickety picnic table next to the playground, trying not to get splinters.

The red brick building is just one story high and all sprawled out, not narrow and tall like my school back home.

Kate hops off her bike and I follow her. We lie down on the warm asphalt, staring up at it.

It takes me a moment but then I see how the cracks kind of make a dragon snout with fire coming out of it.
“And there’s an ice cream cone near the bottom.” She waggles her finger until I see it. “I can’t believe I still remember them.”
“It’s like constellations,” I say. “How about over there?” I point to an area in the middle. “It kind of looks like a face.”

We stand at the bottom and look up. From this angle you can’t see the screen anymore. We walk around to the back. There’s a ladder on the side and scaffolding all the way up the back.

The Church investigates Virgin Mary apparitions? Does Kate know this?

Sammy starts to whine and lag behind so I give him a piggyback to the upstairs balcony.