Comfort & Joy

The stores are closed for the day, and I’m glad. I don’t want to see anyone yet.

What I want is a bed. My head is hurting again and I’m beginning to feel the cold. In a small, warm diner I find a wall of pamphlets and one old man drinking coffee at a bar. I see an advertisement for the Comfort Fishing Lodge, and a feeling of destiny settles around me, makes me shiver. It is the pretty little place I read about in Hunting and Fishing News. The place that welcomed me to come and stay awhile.

I could use some comfort. And I certainly need a place to stay.

I leave the light and heat of the restaurant and try to follow the map on the brochure.

I am alone again, and cold, and my head is really starting to hurt, but at least I have a destination.

I find Lakeshore Drive and follow it, walking along its crumbling edge, stepping over tire-sized potholes, for so long my feet start to ache. It begins to really bug me that I’m missing a sock. It’s odd; my head hurts, my skin feels raw, my stomach is on fire where the seat belt bit me, I’ve walked away from an accident scene (that has to be illegal), and I’m worried about blisters on my feet.

It is quiet out here in a way I’ve never experienced; it’s not the city way of silence, when folks are asleep and their cars are parked. This is a preternatural kind of quiet, where birdsong can startle you with its volume and a squirrel can be heard scampering up a tree as you approach.

I’m enough of a city girl to wonder what I’m doing in this no-man’s-land.

I find myself glancing back down the road, toward town, wishing I could hear a car. I’m just about to head back, in fact, when I turn the last corner and find myself in a large clearing, with a still, flat lake on my left and the immense forest on my right. The road becomes a driveway, lined on either side by bare-limbed fruit trees. At its end is a rustic—no, run down—log building. The roof is a carpet of moss. The wraparound porch sags tiredly to one side. To the left of the front door is a large chainsaw carving of a trumpeter swan. Beneath it is a hand-painted sign welcoming me to the Comfort Fishing Lodge. Beside this sign is another—one that reminds me of my own life.

“For Sale. ”

Great. What do I do now?

I’m too tired to walk back to town. Some guy is playing drums in my head.

I will throw myself on the owner’s mercy. Surely he’ll have one room to rent. What choice do I have?

“No wonder I only dreamed about adventures,” I mutter, following an untended stone path from the parking area to the lodge, where I find the front door ajar.

“Hello?” I call out, stepping inside. My greeting fades into the quiet, unanswered.

The lobby is a big room with a huge stone and timber fireplace and twin floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the lake. Shadows cling to every surface, but in the moonlight I can make out a green-and-red plaid sofa that faces the fireplace, two worn red leather chairs, and an antique trunk serving as a coffee table. Black-and-white photographs, matted in white and framed in dark wood line the walls. Even from

a distance, I can tell that the prints are antique.

To my right is a brass and wood registration desk, complete with an antique cash register. A display case in front of it is filled with brochures and flyers.

I stand there in the shadows, trying to figure out what to do, but it’s difficult to think. My head hurts.

Maybe I should just lie down on the sofa and go to sleep.

But I’m desperate for a bath.

I’ve already committed a crime—breaking and entering—so I may as well find a bathroom and a bed.

I move forward cautiously.

One by one, I try to open the doors. None of the knobs turn for me, so I go upstairs. A single door is open to my left. I creep cautiously forward, and step into the room. Everything is in shadows; it takes me a minute to focus.

When I do, I see a boy, sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes and blinking at me. “Mommy?”

“No. I’m Joy. I’m sorry to just walk in on . . . ”

“Are you real?”

I smile at that. “Yes. I’m trying to check in to the lodge, but there’s no one at the desk. ”

“We’re closed. ”

“Oh. Is there another motel nearby?”