White Man's Problems (18 page)

The TV screen displayed a ticking clock with the caption, “One moment please, your selection is starting.” But after three minutes Hansall realized it wasn't clicking over. He went to the Main Menu and began the process again. This time the ticking clock remained on digital hold, promising him what he wanted but not actually giving it to him.

He called the front desk.

“I can't get a movie,” he said to the desk clerk.

“Let me take a look,” the girl said. After a moment, she came back. “Movie system is on, don't know what the problem is.”

“That's weird,” Hansall said.

“Unless you're trying to get something that's child protected. Hold on.” She left the line and returned. “Yeah, your room is child protected. Are you trying to get an adult film, sir?”

He froze.

“It says here this block of rooms is child protected. Are you with a school group?”

“No, I was trying to get something else. Forget it. I was really just calling for a wake-up call. Can you put me down for six thirty?”

“You're already set for a wake-up call at six a.m., sir.”

“Well, make it six thirty.”

“Ok, fine.”

He turned the light off and tried to sleep. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he looked at the curtains above the radiator in front of the window. They were dark and polyester, a sort of unidentifiable color that did not quite match the carpet and the paint. What makes a hotel room cheap? Is it simply the finishes, the quality of the sheets and drapes, the infrequency of the paint jobs? Or is it more the architecture of the building, the size of the rooms, the way the edifice is set up? That's it, he thought; a hotel room is cheap long before they fill it with shitty building-grade sinks, faucets, and sheer shades hung inside awful curtains. Bad hotel rooms are conceived in mediocrity. They are not meant to be great.

No one is fooled, just so you know. Johanna was saying he was only on the trip to bolster his defense against her motion to reduce his visitation rights. His lawyer advised him to do as much with Will as possible while they were battling it out, and Hansall had moved his schedule around to make the DC trip. He had sacrificed a week in Hawaii, his first real vacation since the mess with Francesca concluded with her relocation with the baby to New York. He had a moment of gratitude that a baby didn't require a phone call late at night.
The Ambien was not working. Tonight was extra hard, he reasoned, and he went to the bathroom and popped another. He was sure he could score one or two later in the week from one of the moms. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the curtains again. Why was he even fighting for Will? Did he really want to be with him, or was it the appearance of being an involved father he was after? You couldn't possibly not fight a motion to reduce involvement with a child. To give in was to give up, even if a part of him was thrilled at the prospect of one fewer day per week taken up with mothers, teachers, kids, and fathers who knew what he had done.

***

By 9:30 a.m., the group stood in the intersection of the two main dirt roads of their destination, the Colonial Village of Williamsburg. Mrs. Coyle was previewing the day.

“Ok, Websters, we have a lot to do. This is busy, busy, busy. No lollygagging, you have to stay with me. We'll be here until four thirty. The shoppes and the crafts people are one hundred percent authentic to colonial times. You could really spend a week here, and we're trying to do it in a day, so stay focused.”

Linda was standing next to him, just behind Rebecca and with her arms draped on the little girl's shoulders. Hansall moved to get Linda's attention, acting as though he needed to tell her something important. She leaned in. “I think,” he whispered, “I would prefer to spend the next eight hours in prison. You know, a jail. I'm not sure if I'd take federal prison. It's a close call.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side, smile cracking. “Stop it.”

He moved in for more. “This is a trip my grandmother would take. I
hate
this.”

“
Stop
…”

“Craftsmen. Think about it. All day with the crafts of the seventeenth century.”

She talked out of the side of her mouth out of respect for Mrs. Coyle's lecture. “You're not interested at all?”

“No. It's a hundred and ten out here. I've already sweated through my clothes. Don't get too close.”

“Oh c'mon, it's fun,” Linda said. “You're a big baby.” She looked up at him. “A very big baby. How tall are you anyway?”

“Not important. Ok, six three.”

She giggled. “Yeah, right. You're not
that
big.”

“Back to this: I'd rather stick pins in my eyes.”

Twenty minutes later they were by a brickmaking site, complete with a large kiln and work tables, where a rugged man with a ponytail like Mel Gibson wore in that Revolutionary War movie was yelling, “Are we making bricks today? What do you think?” He glowered at the kids. When no answer came, he said, “Of course we're not making bricks today. When do you make bricks?”

“In the summer,” Mrs. Coyle shouted.

“That's right. And
why
do you make bricks in the summer?”

Hansall looked at his shoes and thought,
it sure fucking feels like summer
.

The mason kept shouting. “You make bricks in the summer because that's when the clay is
dry.
” His tone betrayed his contempt for their lack of historical knowledge. Hansall noted Mrs. Coyle, decked out in black polyester pants and a red shirt, nodding in approval. Hansall felt his hatred for her flair up into his nostrils.

The berating continued as the group moved throughout the points of interest. The silversmith was angry they didn't know the value of a shilling; the apothecary threatened to bleed them. The roaming street actors had weird tics, and Hansall occupied himself trying to determine whether these were attributable to the acting. The basket maker had a little cry in her voice.
Was she trying to sound colonial?
The blacksmith was a big man, much less articulate than the other performers.
Was he cast as the kind of strong, silent, and ruddy fellow who would shoe horses? Or was he just the only guy in the area who fit the part? How deep did these things go?

Mrs. Coyle became excited shortly before lunchtime when she saw Patrick Henry, in search of clots of children to whom he could give rousing speeches. After a ten-minute roadside rant, during which sweat dripped in ball-bearing-sized droplets from his face, the group moved to lunch at Wetherburn's Tavern. The kids were directed to a long table. The air smelled of french fries.

Hansall sat in a chair next to Linda at the grownup table. Waitresses in wench costumes hustled around, pouring water and Coca-Cola from plastic pitchers. “Choice of chicken fingers or Caesar salad with chicken,” the wench said. She was older, certainly past retirement age, as were most of the people who worked in the town. She was especially ugly, Hansall thought. He considered what these wenches were paid and whether they had a union, and if so, what freak show those union meetings must have been.

“Ye olde chicken fingers?” he said, looking at Linda for a laugh.

The wench was not amused. “Never heard that one before.”

All six adults ordered the Caesars. Miss Barlow asked for a pitcher of Diet Coke, and when the waitress returned, the group held their plastic drink cups up like Dickensian children asking for more.

“Can I get some water, also?” Hansall said after his cup was full. It was something he'd asked in restaurants a million times before, not so much a request as an instruction. He turned to Linda, and said, “You know, I'm not even so sure how realistic any of this is.”

The old wench said back to him, “I just gave you Diet.” She pointed at his plastic cup.

“Yes, and I would like a glass of water, too.” He tried to walk it back. “Please.”

Once he was satisfied the wench was complying with his wishes, he returned his attention to Linda. “
I just gave you Diet
. Can you believe she just said that?”

“I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amused.”

Hansall laughed in relief. The rest of the women did not make eye contact with him. It was, by now, a familiar feeling.

“Well, it is hot, huh?” Linda finally said to the table.

The rest of the ladies nodded and went back to their conversations. Mrs. Coyle rose and headed toward the kids' table, her instinct for misconduct triggered like a clock-radio alarm in the morning.

“You were saying?” Linda said.

“Huh?” Hansall said.

“You were saying you don't think this is realistic?”

“Well, no,” he said. “It's just, with the plastic and the french fries, and the pretend Patrick Henry…you know. Maybe it's just that I was a history major and it bugs my sense of something.”

“I was a history major, too,” she said, her voice on the upswing.

“Really, where did you go?”

“Just to Fullerton,” she said. “But I love history.”

He waited for her to ask him where he went to school, but she didn't. He took it for insecurity, that she was self-conscious about her education.

“What did you specialize in?” he said.

“We did a lot of American History—that's why this is so exciting to me. I've never been back here.”

***

The afternoon ended with an elaborate staged argument in the public square about the free rights of Englishmen, resulting in an almost-lynching of a tavern dweller who had cursed the Crown. Hansall remembered he had not put sunblock on Will. At four forty-five they made their way toward the exit, which was, of course, by the Gift Shoppe. The teachers granted everyone fifteen minutes to search for souvenirs.

It was a modern store, fresh with beige floor, beige shelves, and beige lighting. Pencils, snow globes, and T-shirts were intermixed with specialty calendars with photographs of The Beautiful Colonial Village of Williamsburg at Night, silver spoons, printed china, stuffed bears with hats reading
Grandma and I love Williamsburg. Will wanted to buy an authentic colonial pipe with a stem reaching eighteen inches, and after a minor protest, Hansall relented. Will also made him try on, and then insisted he buy, a three-cornered hat. Declan and Harry each chose a paperweight. As Hansall stood in the checkout line with the boys, Jobie tugged at his shirt.

“Can I have my money?”

“Well, show me what you want to buy,” said Hansall.

“I need ninety-five dollars.”

“Whoa, whoa. Ninety-five dollars? What's ninety-five dollars?”

Jobie produced a box set of fifteen commemorative handcrafted silver spoons, the choice of a real Williamsburg devotee.

“Hey, no. C'mon, man. That's too much, these are too much.”

Jobie looked up at him in protest.

“Dude, that would be spending most of your money. You have to save some of it.”

“Yeah, but…”

“What?”

“It's my money.” Jobie said it with firmness. Hansall felt a wave of accusation, as though he were the boss man withholding a miner's wages at the company store. Jobie's big black eyes were on him. His bangs were chopped severely, giving the appearance of a child who called for no ceremony, no grand expense.
It's my money
. The kid was right about that. Hansall was tempted to give Jobie the glassine bag and tell him to go nuts. It
was
his fucking money, after all. Hansall did the math quickly in his head. If he bought the spoons, how much would be—was there sales tax? Wait, wasn't this whole Revolutionary War business about tax anyway? He concluded the kid would have about forty-five bucks left. That could be enough for the rest of the trip.

Mrs. Coyle was suddenly next to them. “What's the problem?” she said.

“Jobie wants to buy these spoons. They're ninety-five bucks. I told him they're too expensive.”

Mrs. Coyle took over. “Jobie, that's too much. You won't have enough money left, honey. Go find something else.” The boy turned to go, but not before shooting back a final glance.

“You have to just say no,” Mrs. Coyle said after Jobie walked off. “They're idiots sometimes.” She gave Hansall a smile. “But they're cute.”

***

After another night battle with the green drapes and the fading darkness, Hansall faced the Marriott's morning buffet. His three boys were already eating their bacon-only breakfast when he arrived at the table. A waitress dropped off coffee and orange juice, much as a postal worker drops off the mail. The pans over the Bunsen burners at the buffet table held piles of sausage, scrambled eggs, and other familiar breakfast fare. Having grown up in Connecticut, he associated grits with being somewhere against his will. Hansall hated Texas, Florida, and Atlanta, was not excited by Nashville, and did not see the wonder of Charleston.

After breakfast, Hansall squeezed in next to Will, who was against the window in the midbus range he preferred. Linda sat a row in front of them, her daughter pressed up against the glass. Hansall looked at Will, who was strapped into earphones and watching his iPhone. On the screen, a group of rappers gesticulated at the camera. The lead singer smiled, displaying a solid gold grill. All over the bus, kids were riveted by LED screens. Hansall's phone buzzed.

“Put him on,” said Johanna.

“Here. It's your mom.”

He handed the phone to Will, who removed his headphones, smiled, and said, “Hi, Mama.”

Hansall cringed at the way Will addressed Johanna. He drifted into watching one of the bus' monitors.

Mrs. Coyle had a DVD of
National Treasure
playing, and the opening credits rolled with lush images of DC. Hansall leaned up to talk to Linda.