eleven

I assumed an experience traveler would have considered the rest of our cross-country flight routine. For me it held stretches of excruciating boredom punctuated by moments of extreme discomfort and infrequent swells of alarm.

Still, we arrived at Los Angeles International Airport on time and “taxied” for a long period before arriving at Gate 37B. I was anxious to leave the aircraft as soon as possible, but Ms. Washburn pointed out that it had been necessary to store her bag in a bin behind the row in which we sat, so even after the snoring man (who had awakened virtually at the moment the airplane’s wheels touched the runway) had trundled up the aisle and off the aircraft, we had stayed behind until she could retrieve it. I felt this was a result of her stowing her luggage inefficiently but did not voice that opinion.

After finding my bag at the carousel in the luggage area—something with which I was more familiar, having done so with Mother after she traveled—Ms. Washburn successfully navigated us to the car rental shuttle area. After six minutes the proper van arrived to take us to the facility on airport property where the transaction could be completed. There was yet another line before reaching the counter, where Ms. Washburn showed various forms of identification and signed seven insurance waivers before being directed to a bright blue Kia Soul in a nondescript parking area.

Ms. Washburn had brought the portable Global Positioning System unit she usually uses in her Kia Spectra in New Jersey, and because there was no mounting device for it in the rental car—the company prefers one pay extra for a vehicle equipped with the capability—asked me to hold it and program it with the address of the hotel in which she had reserved rooms. I took the relevant information from a printout she furnished and Ms. Washburn steered out of the rental car parking area and began driving to Canoga Park.

The trip, from information derived on the Global Positioning System device, would be one of 26.3 miles, but it took 57 minutes to navigate the startling amount of traffic. We spoke very little other than for me to reiterate or elaborate on instructions given by the voice emanating from the device.

“I thought New Jersey traffic was bad,” Ms. Washburn said at one juncture. I would have concurred but I wanted her to concentrate on the road and the enormous number of vehicles inhabiting it.

We reached the hotel and I watched as Ms. Washburn approached the desk in the lobby where check-in is accomplished. Since this was my first stay in a hotel I had done some research on the subject, but this facility did not seem to have employees who carried one’s luggage to the room. Ms. Washburn and I were responsible for our own. Each of us was given a key card for a room, and Ms. Washburn reiterated that they be adjacent rooms, which the employee behind the counter assured her they were.

Ms. Washburn showed me how to use the key card because it was not the same as a debit card used in a store. I opened the door to Room 306 and entered behind Ms. Washburn. It is polite to let the lady enter first.

“Do you want this to be your room?” she asked once we had both wheeled our larger cases inside. “It is okay?”

I had thought the room assignments had been predetermined. “How will the other room differ?” I asked.

“Probably it won’t at all.”

I assessed the room. It was not the same as the elaborate suites I have seen in motion pictures, but it appeared to be clean and did not bear many traces of previous guests. I had asked Ms. Washburn if we could reserve rooms that had never accommodated anyone else but she said that was not possible “unless you’re there the minute they finish building the place.” It was not my first choice but the room seemed the best possible alternative.

It held a rather large bed, much wider than the one I have at home, a desk with a chair not dissimilar to mine in the attic apartment. A low armoire had a flat-screen television mounted on top and a taller dresser had four drawers at its bottom and two doors above. There was also a small refrigerator that, when I opened it, held a number of small items including a bottle of spring water which I began to reach for.

“Never take anything out of the honor bar,” Ms. Washburn warned, and I retracted my hand. “They’ll charge you an arm and a leg for that stuff. We can get water bottles in a drug store or something and you can put those in the fridge.”

I considered the adage about a company taking one’s limbs in exchange for a product rather nauseating, but did not mention my slight revulsion to Ms. Washburn. Instead I nodded and closed the door of the small refrigerator.

The bathroom required closer inspection but there appeared to be no obvious signs of unsanitary conditions. Even the drinking vessels were covered in plastic. I turned toward Ms. Washburn. “I believe this room will be satisfactory,” I said. I would have preferred to reverse the trip and fly home to sleep tonight but knew that was not possible.

“I’ll unpack in my room and then maybe we can plot strategy and find some dinner,” Ms. Washburn said, reaching for the handle of her wheeled suitcase. “How does that sound to you?”

It sounded like Ms. Washburn’s normal conversational tone. “It is fine,” I said. “Should I come with you?”

She smiled a crooked smile I did not understand. “Why don’t you unpack and I’ll text you when I’m ready to leave,” she suggested. “We need a break.”

“I am not going to unpack,” I said. “I prefer to leave my belongings in my own bag.”

Ms. Washburn hesitated briefly and nodded. “Well, I am going to unpack. You can lie down for a while or whatever you like. I’ll text you, Samuel.” She turned and wheeled her suitcase out of my room.

I did not intend to place my clothing into the drawers provided by the hotel because I had no idea who had been using that furniture before me or how recently and thoroughly it had been cleaned. There was some utility to removing the three plastic bags I had packed containing my toothpaste and toothbrush as well as a few toiletries. Those I placed, sealed, on the counter next to the sink in the bathroom.

The sun was beginning to set when I walked out and stood in the center of the room. I had seen hotel rooms depicted in motion pictures and television programs of course, but I had not been prepared for the somewhat clinical smell of the carpet and the walls, something that must have been overwhelming because I do not have a strong sense of smell.

I walked to the large windows overlooking the parking lot of the hotel. If I looked up I could see the Santa Monica Mountains in the distance. Closer to where I stood lights were beginning to glow. The sky was clear and a darkening blue without a cloud to be seen.

I had never felt so isolated before.

I decided that Ms. Washburn’s advice, which had always proven to be helpful, was worth following. I lay down on the bed without removing the bedspread or rearranging the pillows. It felt like sleeping in someone else’s home and my childhood fear of doing the wrong thing was strong in this place. I folded my hands on my midsection and stared at the ceiling, which was unremarkable.

It was going to be a very long four days (including travel back) and three nights.

Nonetheless I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I noticed was the tone from my iPhone indicating that I had received a text message. The room was almost completely dark now except for the lights of the city visible through the windows. I pulled the iPhone out of my pocket and looked at it.

The message read Ready for dinner? It was from Ms. Washburn.

We decided to meet in the hallway outside our rooms and then took the elevator to the lobby, although I privately would have been more comfortable with the stairs. Now that we were not carrying any luggage the relative safety of a stairwell, rather than an elevator I had not personally inspected, would have been my preference. Ms. Washburn probably would have acceded to my wishes, but I was trying to seem “normal” on this trip although I wasn’t certain why that was a priority.

Ms. Washburn had done some research on her cellular phone and discovered a restaurant called Just Nice within walking distance of the hotel. I would have preferred to find an outlet of a national chain like Applebee’s, but Ms. Washburn said there were none within a reasonable distance and certainly not one to which we could walk. I decided not to double-check her research on the subject.

The restaurant was small and had a menu consisting of recognizable foods, which is a priority for me. I did have to ask that my small sirloin steak be served without kale or plantains and the server, who informed us his name was Blaine, said that would not be a problem.

Ms. Washburn ordered a diet soda and I drank water, which we had to request because of the area’s severe drought. Once Blaine left to take our orders to the kitchen, Ms. Washburn asked what our plan for the next morning would be.

“The most direct option is for you to drive to the address we have for Kaplan Enterprises and see if Reuben Hoenig is there, although I consider that to be unlikely,” I answered. “It is probably also worth investigating the idea of visiting the local office of the Reseda Neighborhood Council, since its records online are not very complete. The city of Los Angeles governs Reseda but its public records are voluminous to say the least. This is a small neighborhood. Someone interested enough in its welfare to staff the council office might know about many residents and certainly about the zoning issue you discovered on the plane.”

Ms. Washburn considered that and agreed. “Can we go to the Chinese Theatre on Hollywood Boulevard?” she asked.

That seemed an odd request. “Is there some connection to finding Reuben Hoenig at the Chinese Theatre that I have overlooked?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I’ve always wanted to see the footprints in concrete,” she said. “I’ve never been to Los Angeles before.”

“This is not a sightseeing trip,” I told Ms. Washburn. “We are here to answer Mother’s question.”

“Why can’t we do both?”

Blaine brought a basket of rolls and Ms. Washburn’s diet soda along with my water. He quickly retreated again and each of us drank from our glasses, although I wiped mine with my napkin before doing so and Ms. Washburn did not. I am not a germophobe but I do not like to take chances when dealing with people I do not know personally. The person washing glasses might have been in a hostile mood.

“Are there other side excursions you’ve been planning without telling me?” I asked when we were alone again.

“I’d like to go on a studio tour,” Ms. Washburn answered, not realizing I was asking sarcastically because I have difficulty modulating my tone. She must have seen a pained look on my face. “If we have the time.”

“I had no idea you were interested in the filmmaking process,” I told her. “I do not think that business will have a connection to finding Reuben.”

Ms. Washburn chose not to follow that thread of conversation. “You know, it would make your mother happy if you referred to him as your father.”

That seemed a strange point to bring up at this moment. “My mother is not here,” I reminded Ms. Washburn.

She closed her eyes momentarily and leaned back in her chair. “I know, Samuel. I assume you called her when we got to the hotel?”

That was not actually a question but Ms. Washburn’s vocal inflection implied that it was, so I responded in kind. “Mother knew the time the plane was scheduled to land and is perfectly capable of finding the airline information online,” I said. “She trusts your ability to drive a car and she knows we have a Global Positioning System device. Surely she knows we have found the hotel.”

Ms. Washburn smiled slightly. “I’m going to take that for a no. Samuel, your mother isn’t used to having you away from home, especially at night. She’d probably like to hear your voice.”

That made little sense to me, but I trust Ms. Washburn’s judgment on such matters so I took out my iPhone, which was in the left hip pocket of my trousers, where I keep it whenever I am awake. I considered calling Mother, then looked at Ms. Washburn.

“It is three hours later in New Jersey than it is here,” I noted. “But Mother is probably not asleep yet. Do you think it would be jarring for her to hear the phone ring at this hour?”

Ms. Washburn’s smile broadened a bit. “Very good, Samuel. You’re thinking about your mother’s feelings. Yes, perhaps it would be a little bit of a shock when she’s getting used to being in an empty house. Maybe you should just text her.”

Just as Blaine was arriving with our dinners I finished sending Mother the redundant information that we had arrived safely in Los Angeles. I then devoted my attention to the food on my plate, and did not find any reason to send it back to the kitchen. Ms. Washburn had chosen the restaurant well.

Perhaps being distracted by the dinner was the reason I did not notice until the next morning that Mother had not responded to my text.

That was odd.