fiction by arely anaya
The Reek of Motels
Frida’s mom used to visit a motel a few times a month to see a new boyfriend she was in love with. Her mom always took her along because, “That’s what good mothers do.” She’d snap at Frida if she as little as narrowed her eyes at the comment. Frida wishes she had stayed home alone even if she hadn’t been ten yet.
The boyfriend was twenty-something, about a decade younger than her mother, and traveled all over the country with a circus. He wasn’t one of the motorcycle riders who rode in the mesh-sphere ball, The Globe of Death. He also didn’t guarantee free tickets or VIP viewings of the tiger cages. He only sold over-priced merchandise.
His pimples popped the longer Frida stared, and she stared a lot because she had an urge to pick at things. His hair was drenched in baby oil, and every time he did a hair flip, she felt a drop on her cheek. His clothes fit him too tight. His shirt rose every time he lifted and wrapped his arm over her mother’s shoulders, and Frida would spot lint in his hairy belly button. Frida scrunched her face at him a few times. Her mom pinched her arm or smacked her when they got home until she learned not to make faces.
Frida remembers his voice the most because it was the only thing she liked about him. It was smooth chocolate. It’d put her to sleep when she listened long enough. That power made her nervous then, and it makes her nervous now. During every motel visit, he put her to sleep as early as he could with stories about the circus, like when he was allowed to release the tiger cubs onto the stage from a cardboard box or stand twelve feet off the ground to watch the gorgeous, ariel silk performers glide down among beams of purple and blue light. Frida ached to stay awake, but his voice hugged her like a warm blanket. When she’d start to give in, she’d beg herself to at least stay asleep through the night but she never did.
Each time, Frida woke up in the dark to the suffocating reek of earthy mustiness and her mom trying not to moan. A more specific time she can’t get out of her head is when the motel only had double rooms available. Frida thought maybe they wouldn’t fuck this time if they had to share the bed with her. But the boyfriend purposed a coin flip for him and her mom or Frida to sleep on the carpeted floor.
Frida chose tails and won the bed. So, the boyfriend and her mom fucked on the floor. Frida shifted on the bed to indicate she was awake. She turned her head slowly to the ground and made out their figures under their blankets. The boyfriend slowly moved off her mom.
“You did little,” she said.
“I don’t want to wake her up.”
“You won’t.”
They were quiet for a few minutes until they shifted and started again. Frida stayed a rigid pile on the bed, knowing her mom would snap at her if she got up. She squeezed her eyes closed until it hurt her eyelids and pressed her hands against her ears until she had a headache. When she heard the heavy breathing, she yelled in her head.
Pleasestop! Pleasestop! Pleasestop!
She accidentally released a tiny shriek.
Frida opened her eyes and pressed her hand over her mouth. The heavy breathing stopped.
“What?”
“I think she’s awake,” he said.
The motel room got so quiet Frida’s ears started ringing. She waited for her mom to sit up from the ground and reach for her to pinch her skin raw. Not smack her, never in front of him. The ringing eventually died out. Frida listened to a diseased car engine outside their room followed by car doors and slurred voices. Then there was shattering glass, bottles hitting concrete. She could blame that noise for waking her up.
She sat up carefully, her hands sweating and her body sore from how long she stayed stiff and still.
“Má,” Frida called out.
Their figures shifted a bit on the floor.
“Go to sleep.”
Arely Anaya graduated from Columbia College Chicago with a major in fiction writing. When she isn’t writing, she’s teaching English Language Arts and English Language Development in Butterfield, MN. When she isn’t teaching, she’s most likely watching film.