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217 Revisited

           Whatwasabathmatdoinginhere?Itshouldbedowninthelinencupboardattheendofthewingwiththerestofthesheetsandtowelsandpillowslips.Allthelinenwassupposedtobethere.Noteventhebedswerereallymadeupintheseguestrooms;themattresseshadbeenzippedintoclearplasticandthencoveredwithbedspreads.HesupposedDannymighthavegonedownandgottenit-thepasskeywouldopenthelinencupboard-butwhy?Hebrushedthetipsofhisfingersbackandforthacrossit.Thebathmatwasbonedry.

           Hewentbacktothebathroomdoorandstoodinit.Everythingwasallright.Theboyhadbeendreaming.Therewasnotathingoutofplace.Itwasalittlepuzzlingaboutthebathmat,granted,butthelogicalexplanationwasthatsomechambermaid,hurryinglikemadonthelastdayoftheseason,hadjustforgottentopickitup.Otherthanthat,everythingwas-

           Hisnostrilsflaredalittle.Disinfectant,thatself-righteoussmell,cleaner-than-thou.And-

           Soap?

           Surelynot.Butoncethesmellhadbeenidentified,itwastoocleartodismiss.Soap.Andnotoneofthosepostcard-sizebarsofIvorytheyprovideyouwithinhotelsandmotels,either.Thisscentwaslightandperfumed,alady’ssoap.Ithadapinksortofsmell.CamayorLowila,thebrandthatWendyhadalwaysusedinStovington.

           (It’snothing.It’syourimagination.

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