Chapter Ten
Friday Afternoon to Sunday Morning
Lucille did
have a penchant for Brass Monkeys.
Tom told her
just that one morning. Needless to say, Lucille replied that she didn't.
“But if I did
I'd wear it so's they'd know exactly what I liked to drink, yessirree Bob.
GoodmorningHotelJefferson mayIhe'pyou? 'Zat you Maggie? Yeah, well, whaddya
need? Ain't you doin' the laundry? Well, you just go ahead and pick up the
cocktails when you're finished. We got one big weekend ahead of us. Hold on –
Goodmorning - HotelJeffersonmayIhe'pyou? Just a moment. I got her on t'other
line. Maggie, whaddya want the boys to bring? Okee doke. 'Lo Judd? Just pick up
some big red steaks. Yeah, them red juicy ones like I know you know I like.
Hold on. GoodmorningHotel JeffersonmayIhe'p you? Yessir. Just a moment. Daddy
B! it's Mr. Davies on the line. Yessir. Maggie you still there?”
Lucille
pulled the plug out and swiveled around to address Tom.
“Hey Tom? You
know where I can get one of them brass monkey penchants? You think they got'em
at Best? 'Cause I'd pick one up to wear tonight, 'stead of this old hoot owl.”
Tom looked at
the large jointed hoot owl that hung between Cille's breasts, or rather in the
center of her bosom, a massive structure spanning her chest from armpit to
armpit. The owl was the sort of gold plated costume jewelry that fascinated
small children and simple men, a cheap trick of design for a calculatedly garish effect. You couldn't help
noticing it, any more than you couldn't help noticing Lucille. She was
absolutely vast, and no matter how daintily you might remark her gait was,
people on the street and in cars were wont to turn their heads when she surged
past them on the hot July sidewalk. Lucille was so big in fact, that it made
you wonder who made turquoise stretch pants that size. But you did have to
admit that she had a pretty face and she took care of herself. Rarely could
anyone admit to seeing the slightest line of brown at the base of her curly
golden locks, pulled to a poodle topknot at the zenith of her skull. Her
toenails were always freshly enameled the same shade as her fingernails. Her
clothes, despite polyester delicacy to small runs and indelible stains, were
not just clean; they were immaculate.
The
switchboard lit up again when Daddy B was finished talking to Mr. Davies. He
then appeared in the doorway with the mail sack.
“Cille, you
goin' to work the afternoon shift too? You seen the note from Marilyn?”
“Oh, I plum
forgot. I jus' cain't Daddy B. I got a big weekend in front of me. And I s'pose
you want me to work tomorry mornin' too?”
“Well, 'less
you can get someone to take it over for you.”
“You give me
a room for the weekend?”
“A room for
the weekend? Cain't you go home and come back? This is a hotel, not a
flophouse!”
“Well Daddy
B, do you want to work the switchboard tonight and tomorrow morning? 'Cause I
got plans as it is. We havin' a bobbycue tonight, me and Maggie wid our new
bows.”
“Now Cille,
you know I'm goin' to the river this afternoon. How can I work the
switchboard?”
“Well, why
don't you get the Days to do some work round here?”
“Great day in
the morning Lucille! They don't neither of them know a outside line from a hole
in the ground. The switchboard's been your responsibility the last twenty
years. You just do it.”
“I ain't a
goneta. 'Less you give me a room.”
“Awright,
awright. You just talk to Tom. And a single, mind you. And I don't want none of
that funnystuff like what happened with Virl. You got that straight?”
“Donchoo
worry none Daddy B. I learnt my lesson. Now go on and get the mail, afore the
cobwebs grow on it down to the post office.
GoodmorningHotelJeffersonmayIhe'pyou? Just a moment please. Miz Farris, it's
your better half. No, your husband.”
“And no
funnystuff. Got that Lucille?”
“Daddy B, now
do I look like I'd go around doin' anything I shouldn't?”
“You don't
look it, but you is it. And if anything does happen, I don't want to hear about
it.”
No sooner was
Daddy B. out the front door than Lucille squealed.
“Oh goody!”
“Tom!”
“Do you want
me to watch the switchboard for a moment?”
“Yeah,
tonight from 3 to 11.”
“Cille, you
know I'd do it for you in a heartbeat, but I’ve got to do the audit tonight and
Saturday night, and I just can't work twenty-four hours straight and then face
another audit. I'm sorry.”
“Fiddlesticks,
fiddlesticks, fiddlesticks. What am I goin' to do?”
The great
pudge of Lucille's chin met the delicate pudge of her palm as her cinnamon rose
fingernails drummed the ebony ledge of the switchboard. She was thinking.
“Hello,
Walter. What you doin' this afternoon?”
“Cille, I am
not going to work the switchboard this afternoon.”
“Oh, come on,
pretty please?”
“Cille, hon,
even if I wanted to, I’ve got to work the Mezzanine for supper. What you got
goin'? Plans?”
“Yessirree.
Bigguns. Great big.”
“As big as
that hunk of manhood you call Judd might be?”
“Walter you
always been able to read my mine! Pretty please with sugar on top?”
“Cille, now
I...”
“Walter,
ain't you never been in love?”
“Now Cille,
it's not...”
“And it's a
heckuva lot more money than working up in the restaurant.”
“Oh Cille, I
can’t...”
“And Maggie's
goin' out to buy us Brass Monkeys. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't
find a bottle in the filing cabinet to call your own tonight.”
“Cille, I
really...
“Walter,
what's on your mind?”
“Cille, if
it's really that important to you...”
“I knew I
could count on you, bud. Now listen. I'll give you a call when I want you to
come down. We got to wait for the big bald bear to get on down to the river.
Got it kiddo?”
“Cille, I
smell trouble brewing.”
“That ain't
no trouble. It's Riskyoo. It's Avon. Like it?”
“Cille, you
just give me a call up in my room, and don't tell me nothing about nothing.”
“Knew I could
count on you, pal. Bye. Thanks a mill’.”
“Bye Cille.
Bye.”
“Oh goody!
Tom?”
“Cille,
what's gotten into you?. Are you that serious about this particular gentleman
caller?”
“Serious? You
know I ain't serious about nothin' and Judd ain't hardly my idea of a
gentleman. Now which room you putting me in tonight? Gimme a 20. Gimme 520. And
don't mark it on the room sheet tonight. I'll take care of everything.”
“Cille, how
much trouble are you planning to get us all into before the weekend's up?”
“Trouble? Me
get people into trouble? I'm the only one in this place that keeps everybody
out of trouble. Nothing bad ever happened to nobody while I was on duty. 'Cept
for Brantley's stroke, and that was a act of Gawd. Come on kiddo, fork over the
key.”
“To Pandora's
box?”
“What are you
talking about? Room 520 please, and keep an ear on the switchboard whilst I go
up and survey the battleground.”
“Okay.”
Hup and down
she came off her high green naugahyde stool. A peremptory stretching out of her
white top and voluminous turquoise bottom, sides, and front, was followed by a
gentle touch to her temple, and off she waddled to the elevator.
Cille had
chosen room 520 for several obvious reasons. First, it was on the fifth floor,
where as few people as possible were lodged since it was the most dangerous in
case of fire. As there was no one on the sixth Floor because the Hotel didn't
have sufficient turnover to warrant keeping all six floors running, the Fifth
Floor was the best suited for kicking up your heels. So, she wouldn't disturb
anyone. She would have picked 586 which was even more isolated, except for the
fact that it was the black hall. Despite desegregation and integration laws, a
white corridor and a black corridor existed on each floor, though the fact was
never consciously mentioned. There was no substantial difference in the rooms
either; the black rooms had showers and no bathtubs, and the black corridor was
quieter since the windows didn't give directly onto a side street.
But room 520
was safe, respectable and next to Susan Lassiter, who was usually out cold by
ten in the evening, or didn’t remember getting back to room 518 if she came in
later than ten. There wouldn't be any trouble.
The first
thing Cille did upon entering was to draw the drapes and open the window,
hoping to disperse some of the time-honored mustiness the Hotel had become
renowned for. A double bed, perfectly horrid wood and brass lamps with raw
linen shades, a Queen Anne armchair, and water-stained prints were all immersed
in the glum translucency that only an unused hotel room manages to accumulate.
The bathroom was in fair shape; new towels would be necessary since those
present had slowly earned a sickly yellow dinge. Cille looked at the bed and
glanced at herself in the mirror, standing on tip toe to see the portly expanse
of her chin.
“Watch out
mankind! Cille's out for her big time!”
While she
giggled, sweet kisses and loving snuggles floated through her brain along with
the inebriating aroma of ice cold Brass Moneys tickling her olfactory
voluptuousness. The big red juicy steaks on the grill sent up heady curls of
beef fat smoke. The slow dying twilight filtered through the screen-door as the
steaks turned browner and browner, keeping pink on the inside.
The phone
rang. That meant Daddy B was back. And that meant Tom had told him everything.
Oh no! Cille grabbed the receiver.
“I hope to
high heavens you told Daddy B I went to the ladies room!”
“That's right
ma'am. The rooms are seventeen dollars a night for a single, twenty-two for a
double.”
“You did tell
him I went to the Ladies room, didn't you?”
“Yes ma'am,
that's right.”
“Okay kiddo.
Hold down the fort. I'll be down quicker'n you can say the Pledge to
Allegiance. Thanks bud.”
She might
have been fat, but when it came to moving, Lucille could be a veritable tidal
wave. Down to the Mezzanine, she zipped past Arthur Pembleton wandering around
the halls, to the east stairs, around through an unused grill room, back across
the ballroom draped in sheets, and out of that into the corridor that led to
the Ladies room, out the glass door into the Lobby which she sailed across,
cheek and thigh bobbing left, then right, topknot awhirl against the white
hotspot of morning sun angling through the Main Street Door.
She caught
her breath and pushed through the maroon doors to the switchboard room. Tom was
smoking a cigarette and reading the dead magazines.
“Thanks a
mill’, hon.”
“Oh, that's
all right. Now I'm going to the bathroom.”
Daddy B.
handed her another bundle and Cille slipped on a pair of tan reading glasses
with multicolored plastic chain and started to write the new addresses and the
occasional “deceased.”
The morning
wore into the afternoon. The luncheon plates descended full and left half
empty, the permanents straggled in and out of the Lobby, and the emotions of
the people who had to work for their living fluctuated between the exhaustion
of a week's work during the first warm spell of summer and the anxiety that a
cool drink would relieve at five. Lucille drummed her nails on the switchboard,
pushed back her cuticles, took her glasses off and put them on again. Time did
not pass.
“GoodafternoonHotelJeffersonmayIhe'pyou?
Just a moment, I'll see if he's in.”
“GoodafternoonHotelJeffersonmayIhe'pyou?
Judd? 'Zat you? Yessir, it's me.”
Daddy B
swaggered through the doors to the switchboard room, laden with luggage: a
suitcase for clothes, a case for liquor, a tackle box, and a fishing reel.
“I tole you
honey, I'm sorry but I got to work a double shift tonight. Marilyn's sick
again. I know I what I tole you this morning, but things are changed.”
“Lucille?”
“Just a
moment, hon - yes Daddy B?”
“I'm goin'
now. If anybody calls, tell'em I'll be back late Sunday, and don't give the
number out to anyone where I'll be. 'Less it's relatives and they's most all
dead now. And Cille?”
“Yes, Daddy
B?”
“No
funnystuff in your room tonight. Got that?”
“Funnystuff?
You mean I can't watch Johnny Carson?”
“You know
durn tootin' what I mean. And if something does happen...”
“You don't
want to know about what's not going to happen?”
“You got it
sister.”
“Have a good
time at the river, brother.”
“And you try
to keep this hotel in one piece.”
“Ain't I
always done it?”
“I guess you
have.”
“Have a good
time at the river.”
“I got's to
tell my Tommyboy good-bye.”
Daddy B
ambled out to the front desk.
“Judd, it's
all set. I'll call you back in twenny minutes.”
“What you
sayin' in there Lucille?”
“Nuffin,
Daddy B. Just whisperin' sweet nuffins to a nephew. Bye, Daddy B.”
“Bye Cille.”
He finally
left. “Lord, that man spends more time piddling around than a hen in menopause,
I declare. And now what do I do? I think it's better to just sit tight until
I'm sure he's gone.” Visions of brass monkeys danced in her head, as Lucille
planned what to wear.
“White
sandals that's for sure, 'cause they do make you look like a lady. And maybe a
white top, the one with the button, and then, well, would I look better in
black pants or pink? They're both nachul classics with a white top. I guess it
all depends on how much I want Judd to think there is of me to love. Or, I
could wear my new yaller top and then the black pants, 'cept that do make me
look like Queen Bee. But then again, yaller's a good compliment for Brass
Monkeys.”
“Say Tom,
where do you think I could get one of them brass monkey penchants?”
“Lucille, are
you still going on about those brass monkeys? I don't have the faintest idea
where you might find one, but I might suggest Pier One. You may very well find
a brass monkey without a chain.”
“That's a
start. Oh goodness, I got to call Walter and Maggie and Judd.”
While Tom was
counting out the money, Lucille did her best with the bread and honey, managing
to convince each person to perform those activities that were closest to her
general strategy. It wasn't the least bit difficult; her plans were rarely
complicated, she could talk a mummy back to life, and there was basically no
way to refuse her once she was set on what she wanted you to do. Lucille didn't
use guilt, she didn't threaten, and she didn't cry. She was simply sweet and
good, and no matter how much she connived and wheedled, there was no way it
could be attributed to evil forces unless those forces turned out to be her own
masochism. No one had ever known if or how much she suffered. Some things were
just not fit for conversation. Lucille didn't talk about them. She blamed no
one, she didn't curse, called her ass her “hiney,” and if you could catch her
saying something under her breath, it was most likely to be “good for nothing”
or “idiot.” She had no enemies but rather few admirers, though there wasn't
anyone who didn't like working with her.
And so in no
time, there was a hot bottle of brass monkeys waiting in the filing cabinet for
Walter, room 520 had been sprayed with Risquè, and the air conditioner was
going full blast. In a back yard on Grace Street, not half a mile from the
Hotel, the charcoals had been lit.
Judd had had
too much to drink. Or maybe it hadn't been such a good idea for him to switch
from cheap bottled Brass Monkeys to cheap canned beer halfway through his
second steak and fourth helping of potato salad. At any rate, he had become
what most ladies referred to as “over-affectionate in public,” so Lucille
decided that it was far the wiser to go ahead and make their way back to the
Hotel before eleven. Maggie's beau had been at it too, and since their
apartment was so small that Cille and Maggie had to sleep in the same room and
no couch was big enough for Cille and another..., well just plain big enough for
Cille period, and since both of the gentlemen callers had wives at their
respective homes, well it was just the right idea to shovel Judd in through the
Jefferson Street door, send him up the side stairs and scoop him back up again
on the Mezzanine after greeting everyone at the front desk. The hour was right;
all the permanents would already have trudged up in pilgrimage toward
dreamland, there were no parties scheduled, and if Judd could just get up the
stairs without breaking his neck, then everything was going to be fine.
“ 'Lo boys.”
Walter and
Tom were sitting at the reservation desk smoking cigarettes and chatting
quietly while Velma totaled up the accounts from the three to eleven shift. The
Lobby was warm and still, interrupted only by the grindings of the NCR
register.
“Well Lord
have mercy Cille, what have you done with Judd?”
“What have I
done? Nothin' and it looks like more of the same. He went a little heavy on the
Brass Monkeys but they went a little heavier on him.”
“Lost to the
bottle?”
“You could
put it like that.”
“Oh well,
'tis better to have lost, than not to have lost at all.”
“I don't know
what you said bud, but I guess you're right.”
“Night
Lucille.”
“Night
Velma.”
“Night boys.”
“Night
Lucille.”
Off she
waddled to the elevators, past the plastic topiary and cozy sofas in mustard
velveteen.
When the
doors of the elevator opened onto the Mezzanine, Lucille was greeted by the
sight of Judd with his shirt off, making to lie down on one of the horsehair
couches. She was lucky that lonesome Gladys Hall wasn't wandering around that
hour of the night. Plopping her overnight bag down against the elevator door to
keep it open, she tiptoed over to Judd and putting her forefinger to her mouth
with a wink of her eye, she managed to cajole Judd into the elevator without
making a sound.
The elevator
trip to the fifth Floor was a hands-on experience that Lucille hadn't bargained
for. That's not to say she didn't secretly enjoy it, but she wasn't about to
take part in any funnystuff when the elevator door could open at any moment and
expose her to the criticisms of the guests.
“Hold your
horses, buckeroo. There's plenty enough of me that won't go bad aforen we get
to the room.”
“Oh Cille,
honey, just gimme a little shugah. Just a teeny itsy bitsy little taste.”
“I'll give
you more than that with a cherry on top if you'll calm down and ack like a
gennulman until we get to the room.”
“Good evening, Hotel Jefferson. May I help you?”
“Where's
Lucille?”
“Why, I
believe she's asleep up in her room.”
“'Cause this
is Maggie her roommate. Can you connect me up with her please? It's very
important.”
“Just a
moment.”
Tom had just
started the audit, which meant that Judd and Lucille were making the second
trip around.
“Tom, I'm
trying to sleep.”
“I ain't Tom
honey. This is Maggie.”
“Well,
whaddya want? I'm trying to sleep.”
“Cille, I
know you ain't sleepin'. I know just what you're up to, and all I can say is,
'More Power to you.' But you'd better watch out.”
“Maggie, what
in tarnation are you jabbering on about?”
“Your
husband.”
“Virl? Why'd
you have to bring him up? I was havin' such a good time.”
“Because he's
coming down to get you.”
“What?”
“He called
ten minutes ago.”
“And you tole
him...”
“I didn't
tell him nothing. Barney Einstein here did. He answered the phone while I was
cleaning up the grill.”
“Lord have
mercy!”
Virl entered
the Main Street Door. He was only a little drunk, but that was more than
enough. Tom in his innocent ignorance, logically assumed that he was Judd.
“May I help
you?”
“Yes. I
believe a certain Miz Dillard is here tonight, and she and I have a little
appointment. Can you tell me her room number please?”
“Certainly
sir. It's 520.”
“I'm much
obliged.”
“Good
evening.”
By the time
Virl got to the fifth Floor, Cille had just barely managed to get Judd back
into his trousers and shoes. When Virl knocked on the door, she'd succeeded at
getting one arm into the wrong sleeve.
“Who is it?”
“It's me your
husband, Virl. Open up! Whachoo doin' in there?”
“I'm trying
to sleep. Now go away and leave me alone. Beauchamp tole you if you showed your
face around this hotel again, he'd call the police. Now leave me alone.”
“I know
you're in there with another man; open up before I break this goddam door
down.”
Judd was
quaking. Virl started to rant and rave and Cille cut the lights on. In the
adjoining room, the ruckus was so great that it awakened Susan Lassiter,
notwithstanding a good pint and a half of vodka tonics.
Another door
opened in the hall. Standing there in her white peignoir, locks of reddish hair
streaking down her cheeks, Susan Lassiter investigated as best she could.
“I'm trying
to sleep. Now, what is all this about?”
“Shut up
bitch, and leave me to my wife.”
“What did you
call me?”
“I called you
a bitch, you old slut.”
“Well, well,
well, well, well, well, well, if you don't stop this roughhousing, I'm going to
call down to the front desk.”
When Cille
heard this, she opened the door. Judd scooted out like greased lighting, ran
smack dab into the wall, and crumpled to the ground.
“Judd! Virl!
Miz Lassiter! Oh Lord! What am I going to do now?”
“You ain't
goin' to do nothin' Cille, 'cause I'm going to take care of you right now. Now,
get back into that room, and shut that door behind you.”
Judd stirred
on the floor, realized it would be safer to play dead, and opened one eye when
he heard the second door close. After staggering to his feet, he managed to
finish putting his shirt on inside-out and staggered to the elevator.
Cille knew
she was in bad straits. She'd managed to get the room from Daddy B, get Walter
to work the switchboard, get Maggie to retrieve the Brass Monkeys, get Judd to
give her some lovin', and get Miz Lassiter not to call down to the front desk.
But her hour of reckoning had come. She'd never been able to get Virl to do
what she wanted and even less so since their separation. She resigned herself
to her fate for the next hour or so. It wouldn't last any longer than that and
she wouldn't make a sound. Talking and crying were useless. Screaming for help
would cost her her job, most likely.
Virl took off
his belt and shoes.
Luckily, he
rarely raised blood.
At 6:30, Tom
gave Cille her wake-up call. He could have called earlier that morning since
she had plenty to powder over, but she managed to be presentable in the space
of twenty minutes, and ready to descend to her green naugahyde throne. She
wished she'd brought a long-sleeved shirt, but given that Daddy B wasn't there,
she would be fairly safe.
“Is that you
Lucille?”
“Rarin' to
go.”
“Well, how
did you sleep?”
Tom stopped
cold at the entrance to the switchboard room. Although Cille was facing the
switchboard, he could see the long, thick welts, four or five on each of her
arms.
“Cille, what
happened to you? Are you all right?”
“I'm just Jim
dandy. A little sore, but it'll pass.”
“Lucille, what
did you do to your arms?”
“Oh, it's
nothing.”
“Lucille,
look me in the eye. What happened to you?”
With a dainty
swish of her sandaled foot, the chair swiveled around. All the talcum powder of
distant Avon could not cover the goose egg of swollen flesh that threatened to
close her right eye, nor adequately hide the various green and gold and navy
blue bruises that splotched across her face. The split lip was apparently still
too sore to be lipsticked.
“Lucille!”
“I know, I
know, it ain't Halloween for another four months...”
“Lucille,
Good God! You look like...”
“Oh Tom,
don't tell me. I already know. I looked in the mirror before I came down. Do
you promise not to breathe a word of this to Daddy B?”
“Of course,
but are you all right?”
“I'd be fine
if this old eye don't swell shut.”
“Did you put
some ice on it?”
“Now where do
you think I was going to get ice at two o'clock a.m. in this dump? ‘Course
not.”
“Well, you
just hold on.”
Tom strode
off to the fountain room, and returned with a pink napkin full of ice.
“Here, put
this over your eye.”
“But it's
cold.”
“It's ice.
It'll stop the swelling.”
“Ouch, it
hurts.”
“Go ahead, a
little at a time. Now, what happened?”
“Oh, nothing.
Virl was a little heavy handed with the hugs.”
“Virl? I thought his name was Judd.”
“You mean Mr.
Yellow-stripe-down-his-back-to-where-the-sun-don't-shine? He left when the
going got tough and the carpet got hot.”
“Who's Virl
then?”
“My ex.”
“Husband?”
“Uh-huh.”
The
switchboard lit up.
“GoodmorningHotelJeffersonmayIhe'pyou?
Just a moment.”
Tom stood
there and stared at Lucille. He was lost somewhere in a vast region bordering
on compassion, concern, and confusion.
“Hey,
buddy-roe! Not a word of this to the big bald bear. Got it kiddo?”
“Sure Cille,
but I’m...”
“Don't think
about it no more. It ain't that bad after all. After all, he didn't rip up my
clothes none. After all, flesh heals. Polyester don't.”
