Chapter 2, Twenty five years later - beginnings - rewrite
Billie eyed the gentlemen cautiously, as she did anyone whom she had to be in close proximity with. Everyone was out for themselves she reasoned and that reasoning had stood her well all these years. Being the only tenet the hotel had put up in five years, the only real distraction she had been lucky enough to grab hold of despite her usual brusque act of dismissal. She had turned others away before with it but he had insisted and didn't look like he would be a threat.
The Widow Hostetter had delivered Billie's noon meal and Billie had invited her tenet to have the meal with her, something she had never done to anyone previous overnight borderer; but something about the old gentleman had told her it was safe. It was cramped in the hotel aparment's little kitchen, the aparment wasn't built to be lived in by more than a single person and that only for the time needed to sit the desk. Billie sat in her special chair, one fitted for her bent over stature that lifted the seat high so she could sit the table without much difficulty. Her spine, so she was told, was deformed and forced her to walk like an inverted "L". Her world had always been one of only seeing what was at ground level and having to always look up high to see anyone or anything at normal height. Her posture didn't explain why her hands where crooked and ached at the joints nor several other maladys she carried around with her. It also didn't explain why she was an orphan, or at least why she'd been told she was.
The man wanted to talk while he ate, something she was unused to as she lived most of her life in silence. The Widow never stayed for the meal and Sheriff Tate only wandered by now and again to annoy her with his presence.
"I'm surprised this place is still around, I mean this whole place looks pretty dead," the man stated between bites of roast beef.
"Been like since I remember," Billie replied. It wasn't that the conversation wasn't welcome or, she reasoned, she wouldn't have invited him to join her. It was she was unused to the interaction. She had grown up in the hotel apartment alone, waited on by the Widow and checked in on by the Sheriff. That was it from day to day, the same routine. The arts of conversation were something she had never practiced.
"Why do you even still run this place if the town is dead?" the man asked.
"Always have," Billie replied.
"I noticed the photographs in the living room were all old photos of people. You don't have any recent photos of anyone. Are your parents still alive?" the man asked.
"Parents dead," Billie replied, "die in car accident or so they tells me."
The gentleman sat across from her and rested his elbows on the chipped and stained formica blue table top and cradled his coffee cup below his nose. "Where you young when it happened?"
"Not know parents," Billie replied as she steadied herself on her chair. Despite how it was made, she still had difficulty holding an upright position at the table for long lengths of time. Her head bobbed up and down slightly as her waist muscles strained to keep her posture so she could look the stranger in the face and keep her hair out of her dinner plate. The kitchen was as it had been twenty five years ago when the hotel was built and the fixtures had not aged gracefully. The counter tops where peeling the top plastic surface that covered what used to be sky blue surface beneath. A tall coffee percolator stood by the sink and save for the gentleman's attempt to make coffee in it, hadn't been used ever in Billie's recolection. Billie rarely stayed in the kitchen accept to eat her daily brought meals and then only for the amount of time it took to shovel the food into her mouth.
"You were young then?" the gentleman asked.
"Baby," came Billie's tert reply.
"So you don't remember it," the gentleman stated and sipped at his coffee.
"No," Billie said.
"That is probably good; not something I'd want to remember."
"People told me about it and accident," Billie said.
"The car accident," the gentleman paused.
"And what happen at plant."
"Oh, the place from the photograph in your living room?"
"Yeah, that place," Billie said and pushed herself away from the table.
The Widow Hostetter had delivered Billie's noon meal and Billie had invited her tenet to have the meal with her, something she had never done to anyone previous overnight borderer; but something about the old gentleman had told her it was safe. It was cramped in the hotel aparment's little kitchen, the aparment wasn't built to be lived in by more than a single person and that only for the time needed to sit the desk. Billie sat in her special chair, one fitted for her bent over stature that lifted the seat high so she could sit the table without much difficulty. Her spine, so she was told, was deformed and forced her to walk like an inverted "L". Her world had always been one of only seeing what was at ground level and having to always look up high to see anyone or anything at normal height. Her posture didn't explain why her hands where crooked and ached at the joints nor several other maladys she carried around with her. It also didn't explain why she was an orphan, or at least why she'd been told she was.
The man wanted to talk while he ate, something she was unused to as she lived most of her life in silence. The Widow never stayed for the meal and Sheriff Tate only wandered by now and again to annoy her with his presence.
"I'm surprised this place is still around, I mean this whole place looks pretty dead," the man stated between bites of roast beef.
"Been like since I remember," Billie replied. It wasn't that the conversation wasn't welcome or, she reasoned, she wouldn't have invited him to join her. It was she was unused to the interaction. She had grown up in the hotel apartment alone, waited on by the Widow and checked in on by the Sheriff. That was it from day to day, the same routine. The arts of conversation were something she had never practiced.
"Why do you even still run this place if the town is dead?" the man asked.
"Always have," Billie replied.
"I noticed the photographs in the living room were all old photos of people. You don't have any recent photos of anyone. Are your parents still alive?" the man asked.
"Parents dead," Billie replied, "die in car accident or so they tells me."
The gentleman sat across from her and rested his elbows on the chipped and stained formica blue table top and cradled his coffee cup below his nose. "Where you young when it happened?"
"Not know parents," Billie replied as she steadied herself on her chair. Despite how it was made, she still had difficulty holding an upright position at the table for long lengths of time. Her head bobbed up and down slightly as her waist muscles strained to keep her posture so she could look the stranger in the face and keep her hair out of her dinner plate. The kitchen was as it had been twenty five years ago when the hotel was built and the fixtures had not aged gracefully. The counter tops where peeling the top plastic surface that covered what used to be sky blue surface beneath. A tall coffee percolator stood by the sink and save for the gentleman's attempt to make coffee in it, hadn't been used ever in Billie's recolection. Billie rarely stayed in the kitchen accept to eat her daily brought meals and then only for the amount of time it took to shovel the food into her mouth.
"You were young then?" the gentleman asked.
"Baby," came Billie's tert reply.
"So you don't remember it," the gentleman stated and sipped at his coffee.
"No," Billie said.
"That is probably good; not something I'd want to remember."
"People told me about it and accident," Billie said.
"The car accident," the gentleman paused.
"And what happen at plant."
"Oh, the place from the photograph in your living room?"
"Yeah, that place," Billie said and pushed herself away from the table.
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