Chapter Nine
April 1954
How Holly
hated her.
Why, the very
nerve of that woman, calling Horace on Christmas Eve to discuss his most recent
financial disaster. It had been hard enough to keep her husband docile, with
eggnog and all the other cups of Christmas cheer at the small circle of parties
that she had consented to attending. Horace would start drinking big-time after
this ill-timed phone call.
Holly knew
the routine by heart: Anne would call her brother and chat for half an hour and
then Horace would start to knock back any and all forms of brown liquor as soon
as the receiver hit the hook. With each sip he would grow higher and mightier,
crescendoing into a cadenza of outrageous lies. Thus motivated, he would call
down to the front desk and demand a taxi come immediately, Hell, he'd give the
driver a fifty dollar tip, so that he could make it to a $500,000 deal in
Nassau aboard his private Lear jet and Goddamit it he wanted it right now and
another drink thank you Ma'am.
“Goddamn her.
If I only think ‘Goddamn her’ maybe I can keep from saying it. Goddamn her,
she's got me stuck. Stuck by life, fated, doomed and martyred to my little gold
wedding ring. The Smolletts never had had any morals, that much was plain to
see.”
Confiding in
Anne proved a grievous mistake.
“Well my
dear, go ahead and divorce him. If he's giving you that much trouble, just
divorce him. I don't even know why you hang onto him the way you do. He's not going to come into any more money, that's
for sure. I certainly don't plan to leave him anything in my will.”
The snotty
bitch. Twenty years earlier, it had been Anne who'd cooed “Marry him, marry
him,” when Holly and Anne were rooming together their senior year at Westerton.
Oh, they'd been the best of girlfriends and thrived on one another's company.
They dated the same boys in the same fraternity, had the same shoe size, got
the same hairdo from the same hairdresser, and came from the same comfortable
(but with a name, an old name) background. Each had met the other's family with
a minimum of embarrassment and it was clear from the start that Anne's brother
Horace had it bad for Holly. He was too good to be true; if only he'd been
Catholic. But then again, Episcopalian was about as close as anyone could get
without being an outright Papist.
Horace didn't
seem to drink too much when she met him, though old Dr. Smollett was
continually and rather amiably, in his cups. Horace had been drinking the night
he proposed, but then again, everyone had nipped a drop too much at the dance.
Back then,
she was sure it had been the most wonderful evening of her life.
She and Anne
had spent the better part of March and April fidgeting over dresses, hunting
down costume jewelry, and being indecisive about what to do with their hair for
the Westerton ring dance, their coming out into society after the final rigors
of their educative years. It was her first big chance to shine in the cool
glimmer of her severity, descending the stairs of the Jefferson, her gown of
gold silhouetted against the ruby red wool of the Gone With the Wind staircase.
The procession of virgins from a Byzantine mosaic, each more richly dressed
than the last, marching, moving, gliding to old ballads from the orchestra,
slipping into a huge human “W” on the marble floor of the beautiful Victorian
lobby. Her father took her ring from his coat pocket and slid it onto the ring
finger of her right hand. The orchestra played a dreamy version of “Where or
When.”
“Oh Daddy,
I'm so happy, I feel so wonderful. I hope you're proud of me.”
“Holly honey,
you know I am. But sweetheart, don't you think this dress is a little, well, a
little too showy and perhaps more revealing in the back than it should be?”
Holly glanced
down at the five yards of costly lamè and winced.
“Daddy,
you're hopelessly old fashioned. Anne told me, she told me, 'Holly, you're old
enough to wear a backless dress anywhere you want, and what's even more
important is that you're still young enough to wear a backless dress anywhere
you want.' She's right you know.”
“I guess so.
It's just, well, it's just confusing for me to have my hand on your bare flesh.
Makes me feel like I should be throwing you into the pool. You look lovely
dear. I suppose that I'm just not willing to admit my little Indian Princess
has become a lady.”
“Well, I
have.”
The orchestra
broke between numbers and polite applause resounded from the four corners of
the lobby. Beaux who'd been dancing with their Belles' mothers quickly turned
and tapped the Belles' fathers on their shoulders saying, “May I?” The husbands
turned to their wives with a tear and a smile.
Horace was no
exception. He arrived instantly in the amorphous formality of a poorly cut
tuxedo which he'd managed to brighten up with a Stuart plaid bowtie and
cummerbund.
“You're such
a rake, Horace.”
“What can I
say, Holly? How can I say anything when you come down that staircase looking
some queen out of the movies? You're just magnificent, downright glorious, no
other words to describe you and I'll do anything your little heart desires. My
queen!”
Holly managed
to catch him before he completely prostrated himself at her feet.
“You're embarrassing me.”
“You're embarrassing me.”
“You love it,
though. And I love you. Let's get away from these people, buncha stuffed-shirt
clubbies. Let's go upstairs, just you and me alone for a few minutes.”
The music had
stopped and as the applause lightly echoed, Holly consented.
“Give me your
arm, and we'll walk up the staircase.”
As they
slowly and gracefully mounted the cascade of crimson, Holly's dress dazzled the
crowd, outshining the burnished gilding on the capitals. Up they climbed,
slowly, nonchalantly as the applause died away in the background and melted
into a fox-trot. At last they reached the marble gallery, and Holly spotted her
mother and Anne out of the corner of her eye. They had assumed the
unquestionable posture that accompanies juicy gossip.
“Thank you so
much for the corsage. It's just beautiful.”
“Think
nothing of it. I just had to row clear the way to Atkinson to find violets just
the right shade for my queen. Anne was so great twisting it all together.
Adding the pink carnations was my idea though. Let's walk down here.”
They strolled
down the Mezzanine and entered the Empire room, dark and unused. Chairs were
randomly scattered about the room, quiet in the dusking of brilliant royal
turquoise columns and gold encrusted ceiling. On the far wall, three arched
windows behind a plywood dais peered into the night on Main Street.
“Where's the
light switch, Horace?”
“Oh forget
it, let's see if we can see the moon out this window.”
“Horace!”
“Come on,
I'll behave.”
As they made
their way to the windows, Horace dragged Holly too fast and she stubbed her
sandaled toe.
“Horace
Greeley Smollett, I am not taking one more step.”
“Okee doke.
I'll carry you.”
Whoosh and up
she went.
“Watch out!”
“I'll be all
right. Howzabout a little kiss for your knight in shining armor?”
“Put me
down!”
“Oh, Holly
look. There's old man moon.”
“Put me
down.”
“Give me a
kiss first.”
“Put me
down.”
“Okee doke,
I'll kiss you.”
“Put me down
this instant.”
Holly turned
her head upon the lips' advance and Horace nipped her on the nape of her neck
at her one weak spot, right above the clasp of her pearls.
“Put me down,
and I'll give you a real kiss.”
Horace
continued to hold her aloft and precariously sat himself down on the edge of
the dais facing the window.
“Look Holly,
there's the moon.”
“So what? Now
kiss me.”
As their
faces closed in on one another's parted lips, white jacketed Eldridge peeked in
the door.
“Whachalldoin'
in heah? This heah room is closed and it's best for y'all to leave it
direckly.”
“Goddamit,
just leave us alone. I'm in here with my girl for just two seconds of privacy
and I don't need to be hearing lip from your kind.”
“Now, suh,
they ain't no need to be usin' such language with me and tickuhluhlly in front
of a lady. Tha’ss no way for a gennulman to talk.”
“You're right
boy, so leave us alone unless you want me to get even more ungentlemanly than
I’ve already been. Now get out!”
The white
jacket receded into the light, its servile head shaking.
“Now Horace,
you always get too hot and bothered with niggers. I mean, they do have their
own jobs to do.”
“You're
right. It's just that I want to be alone with you - forever.”
“Forever?”
Holly was summoning up the role of coquette.
“Yes, forever.
Let me stand up.”
Oh my God!
Horace was reaching into his coat pocket to produce a small purple velvet box.
He's going to propose to me right here.
“Holly, this
ring has been in my family for generations. My grandmother was the last woman
to wear it, and I hope that despite the fact that it's only a very small
garnet, it is in a ten-karat gold setting, and I would be right proud if you
would wear it. I want you to keep it. I want you to marry me.”
Tears tears,
time for tears. Holly panicked and as she pumped her ducts for the maidenly
flow, her mind went yes, no, no, not just yet, yes, maybe, nyes, yes, no, no,
no, no, no, yes, no, no, no, no, yes, but where will I end up if I stay with
him? What's he got? Then again, what have I got?
The salty
gush of virginal modesty widened on her cheek to reflect the moon, the ring,
and Horace's ardent gape.
“Yes.”
Anne had
known all along. When Holly reached her behind one of the sheltering columns
downstairs, Anne even knew of Holly's moment of indecision, and what her answer
had been. Anne reassured her and pecked her on her cheek.
“You’ve taken
my poor brother away and given yourself to me as the sister you’ve always been
and that I’ve never had. I'm so happy. I wish you all the best.”
All the best
was right. Anne later married a little too well and kept all the best for
herself. She did however, continue to wish Holly and Horace all the best, then
proceeding to demonstrate precisely what it consisted in. Anne traveled widely
and styled herself in couturier clothing while Holly settled into a respectable
prep look and bore a child. Horace soon began to wash himself down the
financial drain with tumblers of bourbon, and Anne was always on hand to help,
admonish, and gloat.
Horace's
resistance to alcohol paralleled his finances and Holly dyed her hair Palomino
red in search of any sort of cosmetic lift available. Soon enough, they found
that they could not maintain a cleaning woman, much less a household, and with
Horace's increasing losses, they sold off what was left of the house after the
mortgage and moved into hotels, only to be repeatedly asked to leave because of
Horace's drunken rages. They finally moved into the once magnificent Jefferson
in an attempt to capture the last flicker of grandeur possible for their lives.
The suite had a small living room, a minuscule bedroom, and even tinier
bathroom plus maid service twice a week. The Hotel itself was starting to get
run down and definitely had its humilities, but it was respectable and somewhat
isolated from any evidence of other people's financial well-being. Things would
be fine.
“Holly, this
is Anne honey. Listen, I'm phoning from Baltimore. Jack and I are coming to
stay in Richmond for business, oh a month or two, maybe three, and I just thought
that we'd go ahead and stay with y'all at the Big 'J.' Do be a dear and reserve
one of the Grand Suites for us. The one with the balcony would be lovely.
Ooooh! Got to run, thanks darling, and see you on Thursday.”
The nerve.
She's going to stay in the Grand Suite and lord it all over us.
Holly started
going to Mass every Saturday as well as Sunday.
Oh, and Anne
just did as Holly had predicted. Anne strummed on her charitable purse strings
and made Horace and Holly dance to the tune of monetary condescension.
“A new car?
Aren't you two being just a little too extravagant? Well, I imagine we all need
our little luxuries. Horace, do have another drink. Holly, what a smart skirt
you have on; why I bet you can wear it with practically everything. Such a
shame your young Mary Frances couldn't board up North. Come on into out living
room for a drink or better yet, let's sit out on the balcony. Here are some
extra Symphony tickets we won't be using. They're in the upper tier though.
Horace, you just fix yourself another drink when you want one, oh, and do fix
me one too.”
Holly became
extremely religious during Anne's stay, and Horace, even more bibulous. Mass
for her every other morning, and a fifth and then some for him every evening.
The staff at the Hotel reacted with increasing hostility towards Horace. There
was nowhere left for them to go. It became apparent that Horace needed to be
dried out.
“Now Holly, I
want to send him to Asheville. I understand they have the very best little
clinic with the very best...”
“He's going
to St. Jude's where we can afford to send him, and that's that.”
“Holly, now
stop being foolish. I don't mind lending you...”
“Well, I do.
Stop butting into our lives.”
It wasn't
long before the whole world knew. Holly started going to Mass every morning
before work until Horace's release. When he finally did get out, he was fine
until Anne started calling him. The whole cycle started over again. First, there were Quiet
nights of simple drunkenness at home in which Holly would even participate,
hoping for the renewal of love. Then Horace would start to get drunk in public
restaurants, at the Country Club (Anne's thoughtful Christmas present), and
finally in the East End cocktail lounge they'd sunk every last cent they could
borrow or mortgage into. When it got to the point that their own employees
wouldn't take it, it was time to send him to be dried out again. And again and
again. Holly never gave up on Horace. Never.
“Til death do
us part,” said the priest at their wedding and now Holly knew that this was a
fight to the bitter end. A husband was all the respectability she had left.
Tonight
however, she was going to leave him, just for the night. He'd started to get
violent, cursing and screaming at the switchboard operator since she and the
management had decided that their telephone bill at the Hotel was better off
without him. Virginia Gentleman was splashed about the carpet and a brown stain
was running down the hunt print over the teetering butler's table. Fortunately,
he'd left for more bourbon. She'd left him a note, icily informing him that
she'd return tomorrow maybe, and not to try to get in touch with her, she would
definitely call tomorrow. She locked the door and hurried over the grimy
pattern in the hall carpet, around the corner to the elevator where she pushed
the down button. She turned around and caught her reflection in a freely
interpreted Williamsburg mirror. Not a hair out of place, and the beige makeup
base gave her that ski resort look, so popular in this month's issue of Town and Country.
The elevator
doors opened and Holly was assaulted by the stench of stale urine. “These old
geezers that can't control themselves have no business being allowed to stay in
a hotel; they need to be farmed out to nursing homes.” As the elevator doors
opened onto the lobby, she added a new whiff of perfume and proceeded to march
out straight-away. Old Mr. McDougherty waved and smiled, lisping “Merry
Christmas, Holly,” from over top one of the ashtrays he was perusing for the
longer butts.
“Merry
Christmas, Donald.” She strode out to the front desk.
“I'm leaving
and won't be back until tomorrow.”
“Is
everything all right, Mrs. Smollett?”
“Fine,
perfectly fine, thank you.”
She turned on
her heel to leave and the clerk wished her a Merry Christmas, which she chose
to ignore.
“Bitch,” retorted
the front desk clerk under his breath.
Tom was in
high spirits.
He didn't
mind doing the audit on Christmas Eve; someone had to do it, and he'd had
plenty of days off when he'd wanted them; his family lived in town, and so he
thought he'd go ahead and give someone else the chance to get away and spend
Christmas with their family. It was a minute sacrifice that someone would
greatly appreciate.
But there was
another reason. Tom had been nurturing his own romantic vision of ushering in
the grand holiday in the grand hotel. His city, his hotel, his culture, his
genteel mannerisms and notions all converging in that Lobby, transforming
themselves into some rare apogee of Ethnic Magic for the commemoration of
Christ's birth, consecrated before the Jefferson's Christmas Tree.
Years ago,
the tree at the big “J” had been the symbol of Christmas in Richmond. Towering
forty feet into the atmosphere of the Lobby, the tree used to be decorated by
residents, transients, staff, and homeless children at the annual Christmas
singalong party. The pagan symbol at present now reached only twenty feet
toward the ceiling, but the elderly residents and staff nonetheless decorated
it with all the garlands, tinsel, and ornaments that the old forty-footers
wore, during the now meagerly attended Jefferson Christmas sing along party.
The result stuck out as gaudy even in the gilded lobby with brede overwrought.
Since The Tree was now installed at
the State Capital, no one bothered to look after the Jefferson’s tree anymore
and it quickly dried out. As each branch and twig desiccated, the overburdening
bulbs intermittently crashed onto the marble floor.
After gazing
at the fairy lights of the twinkling tree in a cozy sort of rapture, Tom's
glance fell upon magazines scattered on the floor before the front desk.
“What's
happened here?”
“Smollett's
been putting on a real show tonight. Drunk as a wild fart, screamin' and
cursin' up a storm. Been on the phone every ten minutes demanding a Rolls Royce
limo and then fighting with his wife until she managed to get the receiver
down. She's gone now. Left 'bout a hour ago after he stormed out, bottle in
hand. When he came back and found she was gone, well he came down here mad as a
wet bat out of Hell and demanded that we give him an outside line.”
“Which he is
forbidden.”
“Exactly.
Well, he started to rantin' and ravin' and I told him no phone and where to get
off, to which he replied with his bourbon and water in my face, completely
clearing all three counters of the front desk as he marched out. He's gone now.
God only knows where.”
“Did you call
up Mr. Beauchamp?”
“Lord child,
Daddy B's in Kentucky and the Days are in Louisiana. Here's the key to the
drawer. You have yourself a merry little Christmas.”
Henry and
Walter floated out from behind the desk, Christmas cheer in hand, laughing.
“Merry
Christmas Tom, see you tomorrow!”
Might as well
get started on the accounts, so Tom ambled on out front and started to shuffle
the various slips around. A bulb dropped off the tree and crashed to the floor.
“I want an
outside line now!”
Drink in hand
and swaying because he was ten sheets to the wind, there stood Smollett in front of the
cashier's desk, glowering at Tom.
“I'm sorry
Mr. Smollett, but you know the management's policy on that. I'll be glad to
loan you twenty cents for the pay phone. Here you go.”
“I don't want
your goddamned money, piece of common white trash. I’ve got a goddam
sixty-million-dollar contract to negotiate and after I do, I'm going to get
your ass fried and good, now give me an outside line this second. I'm not going
to take any more of your or Beauchamp's crap, wait till I get ahold of old man
Davies, we'll see who's got their ass around this douchebag you like to call a
hotel, Mr. High and Mighty.”
Every sinew,
every tendon, every hair on and in Tom's body bristled as he tried to control
his mouth. Smollett's absurdly garish plaids and patterns of Palm Beach posing
as country club standing in front of him didn't help Tom hold his temper. A
cobalt alligator marched across Smollett's chest, his heraldic symbol of
affluence. It snapped in outrage at Horace's own limited means, camouflaging
his covetousness for monetary riches. The precious appliqué on his breast did
not, however, quite conceal the hole in Horace's soul that he would gladly fill
with money. The little alligator raged at the world, and Tom had no use for its
presence nor for its sentiment. Horace Greeley Smollett indeed: Tom found him
thoroughly revolting.
“Mr.
Smollett, if you continue to use that language and drink in the lobby, I'm
going to...”
“Are you
threatening me?”
“Now just a
minute.”
“Don't you
just a minute me!”
“Nossir, you
hold on; I'm talking and I have something to say. To begin with, you just
threatened me and I don't like it. You know the management's policy in regard
to you and the telephone. I’ve offered to lend you money to use the pay phones
which you’ve refused. There is nothing more that I can do; I'm sorry, but that
is that.”
“Well, I
never...”
“Well sir,
you just have. Now, unless there is something else I can help you, with you'll
have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
“You little
bastard. I'm going to...”
Tom did his
best to ignore Smollett and his barrage of obscenity, which was apparently
going to continue ad infinitum.
“Hey Tom!”
“Hey Tony!”
“I'll get you,
you blue-balled asshole.”
Tony's
appearance prompted Smollett to leave.
The Italian
night engineer was Tom's favorite person to work with. To the casual eye, Tony
Caprara appeared not much more than a dark head of rumpled hair and dirty
western-cut clothing that both looked like they'd just rolled out of bed along
with the sleepy eyes encased in dark circles. Tony always worked the night
shift and it showed. He was however, easygoing, fairly mature, and intelligent,
all of it cloaked in a somnolent nature bespeaking absolute lethargy. Tony
always did what he was supposed to do, or what they asked him to do, and you
might even say that he did it cheerfully if he didn't look like he was ready to
lay down and catch forty winks from one moment to the next. Tony was everyone's
favorite though by no means the darling child. Tom was glad Tony was there this
evening.
“What's with
Smollett tonight?”
“Oh, he's
been drinkin' and his wife's left him. He knocked everything off the counters
and now he's after me.”
“Why don't
you call Beauchamp?”
“He's out of
town and so are the Days. There's no one here but you and me. Lord, I'm in
charge of the whole hotel tonight.”
“Big man.”
Smoke curled
out of the faintest grin and swathed Tony's olive face.
“I don't want
to think about it.”
“Howzabout me
going to get some pastrami and cheese and bread and we'll have Christmas
dinner?”
Tom glanced
down at the quivering piece of pumpkin pie wedged between two halves of a
flaccid roast beef sandwich, liberally doused with stale potato chips. The
whole affair was tightly bound in Saran wrap and had been sitting there,
waiting for Tom since eight. A medium-sized waterbug was creeping around the
underside of the plate.
“Sounds
great.”
“I'll be
right back. Hey, cut on the tube so we can catch Christmas Mass with the Pope.
I'll be back in a half hour.”
At two
minutes to midnight, Tom had managed to put most of the receipts in order with
the pomp and circumstance of papal Rome blaring in the background. A
middle-aged couple walked up to the register as Tony returned with the food and
Smollett stomped up with a fresh drink.
“How long
will you be staying with us, Mr. Peters?”
“You fuckin'
twat!”
“Mr.
Smollett, I'll be with you in just a minute.”
“Goddam
shit-eating...”
“Please
ignore him. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
Smollett
turned and went upstairs. Thank God.
“Here's your
key. The elevator’s straight back. Have a Merry Christmas.”
It was the
stroke of midnight. In less than an hour, Tom had long since forgotten what
Ethnic Magic it was he'd been seeking. He walked back behind the key locker to
the Papal Blessing and Tony's extended hand.
“Merrrry
Christmas!”
“Merry
Christmas to you, Sir.”
They sat down
to eat and Smollett returned.
“Listen you
little shithead prick, if you don't connect me, I’ll...”
“Mr.
Smollett, if you don't leave me alone, I'm going to call the police.”
“Are you
threatening me? You just wait. You just wait. I'll be back down here with
something to make your snotty mother-fucking prick face do what I tell it to.”
“Sounds like
he's fixin' to shoot you.”
“Shoot me?”
“Sure. He
brings his rifle down here at night when he's had one too many. But he never
does anything with it.”
Rifle? Vivid
images of Tom's powder-burned face spilling brains all over the Assistant
Manager's desk ripped through his imagination.
“Think I
ought to call the police?”
“Got me. He's
right drunk.”
“I'm going
to.” Tom broke into a cold sweat and stared to quake just the slightest bit. He
was terrified.
“Are you all
right?”
“I'm fine.
Listen, watch the desk for me please.”
Nine one one.
“Hello, this
is Tom Wharton, the front desk clerk down at the Jefferson Hotel. All the
managers are gone but me and I’ve got an inebriated guest (Tom's voice started
to quaver) who is threatening me. What am I supposed to do? OK. Send'em on
down. Yeah, he's still here, in his room, I think. Thanks.”
Another bulb
crashed to the floor as Tom started to add up the folio sheets. 276-278,
SMOLLETT M/M $350/MO. They were always at least $1,500 in the red. Tony left
for the engine room and to take some towels to the Peterses who'd just checked
in. The bulbs continued to drop from the tree as the night wore on. Tom was
close to finished with the audit when Smollett reappeared.
A litany of
predictable obscenities and threats ensued. Some men walked into the lobby and
Tom went over to the register to check them in. Smollett was still holding
forth and started to leave for the door so he could get something out of his
car. As the new guests came closer, Tom caught the glint of a walkie-talkie and
pointed to Smollett as he made for the door.
“Hey you,”
yelled one of the plainclothesmen. “Can I have a word with you for a moment?”
“Get your
goddam puss out of my sight.”
“Tony, why
don't we play a game of backgammon, what do you say?”
While Tom and
Tony set up the board, Smollett began to mewl and puke in front of the police
officers once he was certain of their identity. They managed to calm him down
into a drunken impersonation of respectability, and stopped him from attempting
to get in his car and drive off.
“You get in
that car, and you'll be in real trouble.”
The policemen
and Smollett approached the front desk and Smollett continued as he went
upstairs, but not before he mumbled a “Good Night Sir,” in Tom's general
direction.
“Gosh, can't
you take him away or something?”
“Not unless
you swear out a warrant. Come on down to 6th and Broad if he gives you any more
trouble and we'll lock him up for the night. G'night. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”
“Let's see a
two and a five, that's seven. Are you gonna swear out a warrant?”
“Don't know.
You just moved eight Tony.”
“You're
right. Sorry.”
“That's all
right.”
“It wouldn't
stick anyway.”
“What won't
stick?”
“The warrant.
Velma said she tried it when she worked at the Westover and he'd go off. Said
he's got friends in the system. Why do you think he manages to keep his
driver’s license, as much as he drives around drunk?”
Tom
overreacted. “Great, just great. Legal battles if he does anything, and
connections with the Genteel Mob. It all adds up if you put the East End jive
joint with it.” The rifle was but the tip of the iceberg in Tom's new vision of
fear.
Long about
four, a white-haired wino wandered into the Lobby and dragged his feet back
toward the elevators.
“Let's go get
him Tony. You never know where he's going to end up.”
“Sir, may I
help you?”
“I'm just
going to the grill downstairs.”
“I'm sorry
sir, but there is no grill downstairs.”
“Well, there
used to be.”
“Tony, do you
know anything about a restaurant being in the basement?”
“Got me.”
They discussed
the situation for about two minutes and then the ritual began. The wino
insisted that he had the card for the grill in his wallet and he made Tom and
Tony sit down and participate in his litany of useless slips of paper. He took
out a new plastic wallet with not a cent in it, and started to shuffle through
the calling cards that he carried around with him.
There they
sat on the velvet pouffe by the plastic boxwoods while the wino insisted that a
calendar for 1977 had the address of the aforementioned grill on it.
“No, that's a
calendar for 1977.” The wino dutifully and seriously held up each worthless
scrap of paper from his collection while Tom responded to his silent monologue
of detritus. “That's a prayer, a pawn slip, a VA card, a welfare official’s
card, a liquor receipt for $2.50, a calendar for 1975, (must have been good
years), another prayer, a coupon for insecticide, a hospital ID from North
Carolina, and a fake check from a bank promotion.”
“I'm sorry
sir, but if you want to, you can stay in the lobby and sleep on one of the
sofas where I can see you. You'll have to leave when I tell you, which will be
about 6:30. Would that suit you?”
The three of
them wandered back, Tony and Tom to the game and the wino to a mustard colored
couch at the foot of the stairs. A bulb dropped and a hanging lamp flickered
out.
“I'll bet
he's hungry.”
“Yeah, a two
and four, let's see.”
“How 'bout
that sandwich you didn't eat?”
“1 2 3 4, 1
2. OK. Hold on while I go see if he wants it.”
Tom swung his
legs over the counter with the plate and landed in the lobby.
“Excuse me
sir, but if you'd like this sandwich and piece of pie, you're welcome to it,
because I'm not hungry. Here's a fork and a napkin too.”
Tom laid the
plate on the table and the wino nodded yes and took a bite out of the sandwich.
Then he curled up on the couch. Tony and Tom continued to play.
“Double
threes, just what I needed; you got to want'em to get'em, Tony.”
“You.”
Tom turned
his head and sure enough, there he was.
“Yeah, you
and your cocksuckin' friend, too.”
“Your roll,
Tony.”
“I’ve found
out about you. I know where you live and I'm going to send Mary Frances's
boyfriend over there to bust up your ribcage. Just you wait. Nobody treats me
like that and gets away with it. Hey you! Yeah you, Mr. White Nigger! I'm
talking to you. What's this? (pointing to the wino). Do you allow this kind of
riffraff in here? This toilet you like to call a hotel is going to hell in a
fucking wheelbarrow and you don't give a good goddam. But just you wait. I'm
going to fix your little pissant wagon, smartass attitude. Listen to me,
Goddammit you fuckin' pussy-whipped piece of shit! I'm talking to you. You
won't be able to work anywhere after I'm through with you. Or your cunt-lickin'
buddy, either.”
The
backgammon game had been continuing nervously and Smollett stomped out the Main
Street door.
“I hope he
gets in his car. I hope he gets in it and drives off the Nickel Bridge or wraps
it around a telephone pole on Broad Street. I don't just hope it, I would
almost pray for it to happen. It would make life so much easier for everyone.”
In came the
paper man with the Christmas issue of the Times
Dispatch.
“Y'all been
outside? Smollett's out there, gone crazy I expec', carrying' on and screamin'
and cryin' at the moon. 'Cept there's no moon. Been givin' you trouble?”
“Plenty.
Thanks for the paper.”
The wino
stirred and the paper man strode back to the elevators. Tony ran down to the
engine room to get the boiler going as Perk came in and got the keys to the
kitchen for the morning's ice. Tom went to wend the wino on his way, wrapping
the remains of the sandwich in the plastic and then deftly shoving it into the
wino's coat pocket as he pointed him toward the door. Time to fill out the
Manager's Report.
“Daddy B, Mr. Smollett in room 276, has been,
threatening me, insulting the clientele, and making a general mess all night
long. I called the police which only made matters worse, but I did not want to
swear out a warrant. I am not coming back on the night shift unless there is an
armed night watchman.
Your Tommyboy.”
Tom resented
being left there by himself to deal with something that belonged behind the
bars of an asylum or jail cell. He also realized for the first time in his life
that he was in the right place at the wrong time, that just being in certain
locations meant being in serious danger, and that, outside his bourgeois
enclave of home and school, he was defenseless and prey to all the distortions
the human mind is capable of. But Tom wasn't ready to accept it just yet,
because all he could feel was helpless. He was starting to realize that all the
fine sentiment, love, and gilt lilies in the world were never going to assure
him that he was anything close to secure or safe. He had finally seen something
which really frightened him: a touch of unpretty, aggressive derangement.
Velma came in
to work the day shift and Tom related the night's incidents as well as the
ultimatum that he had come to.
“Tom, now
there ain't a thing in the world you can do 'bout Smollett. He's crazy, but
he's harmless and Beauchamp ain't goin' to do nothin' 'bout it now. If you ask
me, our old Daddy B has had some kind of a stroke, 'cause he's sure not the way
he used to be when I worked with him years ago. All is not well atwixt them two
ears. My advice to you is to forget it.”
“Well, I'm
not about to forget a threat on my life. I'll tell you this Velma, if we stand
together we can make him do something, but we'll never get anywhere if we don't
take a stand together.”
“I hear ya.
We'll see.[*]
You go ahead and run along, but give me a big Christmas hug first, you old
rascal you.”
Tony met Tom
at the door to the bellman's room.
“Wanna go
smoke a Christmas joint?”
“No thanks, not today. I’ve got to go buy my grandmother some chocolates for
Christmas. I'll take a rain-check, I do believe.”
“OK Tom.”
Tony's smile
broadened into sincere good will.
“Merrrrrry
Christmas!”
“A Merry
Christmas to you too. See y'around.”
Tom walked
out of the Jefferson not quite knowing whether or not he'd have the nerve to go
back. It was quiet at seven that Christmas morning, no bustle inside or out as
he walked to his car. He trudged on a dead chrysalis with a half-gnawed roast
beef sandwich inside, lying on the sidewalk on the path to the Metropolitan
Blood Bank.
When Tom got
to his car which was parked on the Hotel side of the street, he could not find
the keys to his parents' home under the front seat. They weren't in the car.
Anywhere. Tom had left the car unlocked.
“I know where you live and I'm going to... “
Tom drove
away from the Hotel into the opaque dawn as its first ray struck the
penitentiary across the freeway. He half expected to find the Wharton family
gunned down in their bedrooms on Christmas morning. Completely wired from the
evening’s events, and too exhausted to think, he flipped on the radio as it
blurted out an instrumental version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”
[*] Velma
did indeed see four months later. Daddy B refused even to consider the watchman
for the graveyard shift and she continued to do the audit until one fine April
morning. On Easter Sunday at half past three a.m., middle-aged, overweight Velma Boggs was held up while
working the night shift. The thief then held a knife to her throat and raped
her on the floor beneath the cash register. Velma never forgave Tom for his
Christmas ultimatum.
