What Happened In Paradise?

Second Visit: ...And Welcome Back to The Inn

The plantation house is pearl white with the exception of the window trims and rails (which are of a colour that matches the night’s sky). Three stories high and about as wide, the plantation is about the same size as his apartment building. On the first floor is a series of arches; he assumes he will enter through the one at the centre.

“Thank you.” He pays the driver and bids him farewell. He carries the suitcase in his hand, not wanting to risk losing a wheel. When he begins to mount the wide stone steps to the centre archway, he realizes that the taxi driver is behind him.

“You are not from here,” he says. “I will help you check-in.”

“I don’t have any more cash on me for a tip.” Maxwell lies. While he waited on the flight to Water Island, he’d withdrawn cash from an ATM at the airport. He’s paid the driver enough. He’s not made of money.

Moonlight lights his path to the archway, illuminates him. Breeze swishes through the cane field; an eerie note. His skin tingles and his hair stands on end. He looks back; the driver is still with him; he's still smiling. Maxwell wants to be rid of the driver and that devious smile of his. “I appreciate your help but I’ve got it from here.”

Maxwell hurries up the steps, crashing the base of the suitcase into each one he mounts. The front of the plantation house is awash with natural light; the white walls look unblemished up close. At the top of the steps, he looks at the archways through which he assumes he should enter. It’s dark; they’re all dark. Pitch black. It’s like staring into a tunnel with no light at the end. Maxwell looks over his shoulder. He wonders if there are men ahead, lying in wait for him. Again he wonders if the driver has delivered him to robbery and death. The driver is steps away from him. Maxwell takes a shaky step toward the dark. It makes no sense for him to trust the dark more than he trusts the driver.

“Hello?” He takes another step. “Hello?”

The driver brought Maxwell here. Whatever awaits Maxwell in the dark, the driver is party to it.

Maxwell takes another feeble step into the dark.

“I have a guest checking in,” the driver says. The archway floods with the light, the same yellow light that’s at the front of the plantation. Maxwell had stopped counting the driver’s steps. The driver now stands shoulder to shoulder to him; his grin firmly in place. “I will help you check-in.”

The driver leads Maxwell across ash-grey stone slabs, to a large mahogany double door that yawns open for their entry. Inside, a white staircase flows from the second floor to the entryway; its handrail is mahogany, and the balusters the blue of the window trims. A woman descends the staircase, fine, honey fingers gliding along the handrail as she descends.

“It’s past check-in,” she says. “You know we must keep strict hours for the sake of our other guests.”

“This one came in late with nowhere else to go.” The driver’s voice is low, so is his head.

Lack of vacancy is a reason to deny a guest, not, the other guests have a bedtime. Maxwell clears his throat. “Don’t you have any vacancies?” He’s tired, frustrated, and very likely under suspicion of murder. He doesn’t have time to be courteous.

The woman is at the foot of the staircase. She moves to one of the pair of potted plants that flank the bottom of the stairs. She massages a leaf lamina with her thumb and index finger, then smells the plant.

“I thought it was plastic,” Maxwell says. Perhaps he should try to engage her...then beg.

“It is,” she returns.

“I need somewhere to crash for the night.” Maxwell forces a laugh - it's weak. He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t really think this trip through. “I’ll sleep on the stairs if I have to...if…if you allow it. I’ll be out of here before the other guests are up.”

“No need for that.” The taxi driver finds his voice; he steps forward. He's waving his hands frantically. “There is always room at The Inn.”

“That decision lies with WIC.” Her face is stern, tight, like the bun at the back of her head. Her eyes seem to pull upwards into her forehead and her lips, into a thin line.

WIC . Where has Maxwell heard that name before? “Military police!” He blurts out the memory. Her buttoned grey shirt is neatly stuffed into the waist of grey pants which themselves are stuffed into shiny black boats. It’s not the grey camo of his memory, but it’s certainly not sleepwear.

The driver turns to Maxwell. “I’ll speak with her,” he says over his shoulder.

The woman leads him over to another plastic potted plant near the inside of the double doors.

“You need to accept him,” the driver says. His tone is feverish, desperate.

If Maxwell didn’t know better, he’d think that the driver is the one without a bed for the night.

“I do not know what you have heard, but the rules have not changed.” The woman puts her hands behind her, one inside the other. “We still decide.”

“This one is mine. “

“Yours?”

“Uhm...I mean I brought him here. The rules...the rules can be revisited. They should be revisited.”

“If we allowed you to make the rules, it would be chaos.”

This sounds more than a decision about his check-in. Maxwell isn’t trying to spark a coup or trigger a revolution. He just wants sleep. He walks over to the door. “I’ll figure it out,” he says when he’s next to them.

“You!” the woman says. “I did not realize it was you.”

“Me?”

“Your hair has grown but it is definitely you.” She smiles for the first time; a smile that matches the one he saw on the driver. On her, he identifies the trait that produces the smile: greed. She looks greedy. “There is always room at The Inn.”

“Thank you,” the driver says before Maxwell gets a chance to.

The soldier rebounds on the driver. “The rules have not changed.”