The air hung heavy with the scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke, a stark contrast to the dreams that swirled in my mother's head. Escaped from the harsh realities of her childhood, raised by her grandmother in the shadow of Pittsburgh's steel mills, she found solace in this rural Pennsylvania roadside hotel and banquet hall tucked away off the old William Penn Highway in Cresson. Her Uncle Tom, the manager, had secured her a job as a waitress, a chance to build a new life far from the troubles she left behind in the city. A secret pregnancy was a consequence of a fleeting encounter before arriving here and weighed heavily on her. Her new boss, a loquacious kind-hearted (divorced) businessman, offered an unexpected solution – an unofficial marriage, a shield from judgment in this small, conservative town. She would be his secretary.
They never legally married, a private pact that bound them together. Tonight, the cocktail lounge was surprisingly quiet, the only sounds were the clinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation. A lone figure sat at a corner booth, a man with thoughtful eyes and a worn briefcase beside him. He caught her gaze, a hint of a smile playing on his lips, a cigarette smolders in his right hand. The memory fades, a whisper in the wind, but a name echoes in the silence – Rod Serling. Did she meet him here, in this very place, and confide in him about the burdens she carried? His voice, etched in her memory, narrated iconic episodes of The Twilight Zone – tales of lost souls, social pressures, and the blurred lines between fantasy and reality. Could her own story, a story shrouded in secrecy, have inspired one of his intriguing masterpieces? The uncertainty gnaws at her, the melody of the pianist in the hotel swirling around her like blue tobacco smoke in the shape of a question mark, begging for an answer.
The weight of a thousand unspoken questions pressed down on my chest as I stood in front of my mother's grave. She died in 1996. Like Mr. Serling, she was a heavy smoker —3 packs a day. You know it’s what killed them both way too young. The secret she held so close, the secret of my own identity, was buried there with her. Until, of course, the new DNA tests. My father, a good man in his quaint way, had never openly questioned my parentage, but a funny shadow of doubt always lingered in his eyes —almost playful. Like he knew. His silence spoke volumes. They both knew how to keep secrets.
Determined to find answers, I thought about going back to the source – the popular Pennsylvania roadside hotel where my mother had worked back in the late 1950s. But then, a memory surfaced, a detail my mother had shared years ago, almost forgotten. The hotel, it turned out, was partly owned by her future husband who dabbled in real estate development. The same husband whose family construction business had suddenly collapsed just before I was born, taking their financial security with it. Could there be a connection? A forgotten conversation with a kind stranger, a moment of solace amid the hardship? The thought sparked a flicker of curiosity. Perhaps the truth wasn't buried with my mother after all. But it was complicated.
I imagined traveling to the old Hoffman hotel, walking in, back in time before I was born. My breath hitched as I stared at the face – a man with thoughtful eyes and a worn briefcase beside him, a man I recognized from countless reruns of The Twilight Zone on my little black and white TV from childhood. Rod Serling. An odd wave of emotions washed over me – disbelief, hope, a flicker of fear. Confusion. Was this just a cruel twist of fate, or was it the first piece of a puzzle that could rewrite the narrative of my life? The truth was stranger than I imagined … I imagined a melody from the piano in the hotel lobby gently swirling around me, a haunting echo of the past.
Determined to find answers, I ventured down a rabbit hole to the forgotten site of the hotel near Bedford. Even as I had known it was gone through my internet research. All that remained was a vacant lot, a silent testament to the passage of time. But with the help of the internet and a yellowed copy of the old Duncan Hines travel guide, I pieced together a fascinating revelation. The hotel, once a comforting beacon for weary travelers, was listed as a trustworthy establishment, a haven for nearly anyone passing through that part of Pennsylvania. Suddenly, the possibility of my mother's encounter with Serling felt more plausible. The guide even mentioned a charming cocktail lounge with a worn leather booth in the corner – a detail that sent tingles down my spine. Was this just a coincidence, or a missing puzzle piece that validated my mother's memory?
The DNA test results were as yet unknown, a potential lead I wasn't ready to explore just yet anyway. That would come later. For now, my focus was on uncovering the truth about Serling's potential visit to the hotel. Did he stay there during a research trip? Were there any guest logs or archived records that could confirm his presence? There was that old gas station in Bedford, a cute little Art Deco building that Dad built in the 1930s. Remarkably, it still stands today, preserved for posterity. The more I delved into the past, the more real the possibility of a connection became.
The email arrived late on a Tuesday night. A single line of text: Results are in. Please log in to view. My stomach lurched. With trembling fingers, I logged in to the DNA website. The screen blurred as I scrolled through the data, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Finally, I reached the section labeled Close Family Match. A name stared back at me, a name I didn't recognize. It wasn’t Serling, but I had no connection to the Moyer family. None whatsoever. It confirmed my mother’s lies. So it’s true. Dad lived to nearly a hundred. I would not be inheriting his longevity. Disappointment washed over me, a cold wave threatening to drown the tiny spark of hope I'd nurtured for so long. But then, a chilling thought wormed its way into my mind. If this wasn't the answer, who was? Interestingly, there was a connection to Binghamton New York —Serling’s hometown. After combing through census data, I discovered that I had distant genetic relatives who worked at the nearby Endicott-Johnson Shoe Company.
The truth about my parentage, and the nature of my mother's encounter with Serling, remained a mystery then. But the journey of discovery had begun. Armed with the knowledge from the Duncan Hines guide and a renewed sense of purpose, like a private detective, I was determined to unearth the secrets buried beneath cobwebbed layers of time. Did my mother confide in Mr. Serling? Did her story inspire an episode of The Twilight Zone, blurring the lines between reality and imagination? The answer, like the shadows dancing at the edge of the vacant lot, remained tantalizingly out of reach.
A lone leaf, the color of faded memories, pirouetted on a rogue gust of wind, then settled at my feet in the dusty emptiness. It seemed the only companion to my solitary search, a poignant echo of the life that once thrived here, and the secrets it now held captive.
The basic shell of the book is pretty much done. I’ll make sure you have a complementary paid subscription here to read through each of the 14 episodes I’ve written. It’s only available here on line exclusively. I haven’t pushed myself to get any publishers interested yet. But if one hears about it here and I can get enough free subscribers, then I’ll have more ammunition to get them interested. So, encourage your friends to click for a free subscription!
Yep, I enjoyed reading this, J.E., as expected.