Chapter Twelve
June Evening
Daddy B was
in love. Well, yes; he was past the stage of serious like and arming himself
for courtship. He was ready to gift this and that: sweaters, bottles of liquor,
pens; allow special privileges, help whenever it wasn't really necessary, and
just generally hang around since he didn't have much else that occupied his
time or was worth his trouble. Everyone could see it; it was just as plain as
the nose on your face. Daddy B's in love, yessirree Bob, and you'd better watch
out. The only person caught unawares was the very loved one. But let's face the
fact: Tom was not the least bit interested.
One quiet
June evening about a month after Tom had started working at the Hotel, Daddy B
had himself a drink or two, and, he just decided that he'd mosey on down to the
front desk and keep Tom company. The dinner dishes were sitting on the grimy
desk behind the key locker and Tom was musing over his cigarette as the last
bit of the evening news dissolved out into the damp air of the lobby. Marilyn
was cooing on the phone to Fritz and the lobby regulars were all upstairs
brushing their hair and shoes for the evening descent into the lobby and its
conversations.
The glass in
the door to the switchboard room rattled under its dingy sheers and Marilyn
whispered into the receiver that she had to go. Tom turned and looked and
smiled.
Daddy B never
let Tom talk too much when they had what Daddy B termed a nice little chat, but
then again, Daddy B always had the more interesting things to say. Tom was also
quite charmed by Daddy B's self-proclaimed image as a gentleman, hotelier, and
southerner; he fairly spouted character, mannerisms, and local color. “A
hotelman is a gentleman on a level with his guests, 'cause we all lay down when
we go to sleep,” was one of Daddy B's preferred mottoes which helped to lend
dignity to a job of uncertain status at times. The Manager of the Jefferson was
what Tom considered good company: honest, hard-working, and jovial. Daddy B'd
seen lots and known decades and decades of people and was always glad to talk
about it. There was nothing Tom craved so much as listening to someone who knew
how to tell a good story. Daddy B had a quiverful.
“How we doing
down here?”
“Everything's
in order. I'm just sitting here waiting for Mae to bring the dining room slips
down. They finished serving about fifteen minutes ago. And I'm just as fine as
I can be. How're you doing?”
“Can't
complain for myself. This muggy weather is starting to act up my leg though:
gettin' stiff as it can be.”
“Well, what's
the matter with it?”
“Oh nothin'.
It's just your basic old war wound. The Big One.”
“The War
Between the States?”
“Now don't
you go pulling my leg son. Hurts bad enough as it is. Nossir, the Big One.
Double-U Double-U Two.”
“What
happened? Did you get shot?”
“Shot! Lord
have mercy, no. I never saw any fighting. 'Cept for Pearl Harbor.”
“You were at
Pearl Harbor the day it got bombed?”
“Yessirree.
The seventh of December, 1941. It was one Helluva way to wake up, let me tell
you that. Airplanes flying in all directions and bombs exploding everywhere,
and great mountains of smoke in the air. Just a ruckus. Went on for hours and
warn't a thing any of us could do about it.”
“No guns, or
just surprised?”
“Not exactly
that. You see, I was with the Quartermaster, you know supplies and all that,
and they didn't let us near guns. Oh, they'd taught us how to shoot and all
that hoorah, but guns were so scarce as it was that there wasn't much call for
us to have'em. No, for me it was pretty much a normal day, 'cept I had to be
careful not to get my tail blown off. I'll never forget the cook. At 8 o'clock
on the dot, just like the day before and the day after, why he came out of the
mess hall wearing his white apron and rang the triangle. There was airplanes
flying over him and bombs burstin' all around him, but there he was cool as a
cucumber, ringing that dang bell, with a worried look on his face, not for the
bombs I mean, but for the fact that he'd been cooking and it didn't look like
anybody was going to come for grub.”
Tom smiled
and gently twisted his head, sending the smoke straight up from his mouth, FDR
style. The oral tradition, even the simplest mountain of fat redneck woman
frying oysters and jabbering on about her grandchildren enthralled him. There
sat Daddy B, blue and white and bald, eyes a‘twinkling, stamping his foot and
shaking his head. Daddy B then made his first assay at what he hoped might
prove worth the chasing.
“Well, didn't
you go eat?”
“I wasn't
that hungry son. And there was a plenty to be done even though most of us were
so caught off guard that we weren't even sure of what the best thing to do was.
'Cept for this one feller. He always knew what to do all the time, any hour of
the day or night. When I walked back into the barracks, there he lay propped up
on his bed, choking the life out of his gobbler.”
Tom twisted
his head to see if he wasn't urgently needed at the front desk. No such luck.
“I talked to
him. The officers talked to him. Even the doctors talked to him. And even when
he was dressed, well those paws of his were in constant motion in his pockets.
People who didn’t know him did think he had a mouse in there at first. He was
with the Quartermaster too, and after we shipped out to the Philippines, there
it all ended.”
“Did he die?”
“Now son, you
know just as well as I do that you can't keel over dead from strangling your
gobbler.” (He shifted his legs). “No, everybody got so tired of it, that they
finally shipped him back home where he could play with his gobbler all day long
and no one would disturb him. He was something.”
“Tom, can you
watch the switchboard while I go to the bathroom?”
Marilyn had
started to get the jitters, and if she didn't get to that bottle in her
pocketbook soon, she wouldn't be tolerable for the rest of the evening. Tom was
grateful to get out of what was promising to be a very sticky situation.
“You go on
back son. I'll take care of the desk. Just give me the key to the cash drawer.”
Daddy B's
palm was moist.
Tom was
relieved, Daddy B was satisfied. You just can't spring too much on them at one
time, or they get scared. He'd broached the subject in a manly way, talking
about the war and all. It was a good first move. While Tom seemed fascinated by
it all, he'd got awfully nervous and didn't look like he wanted to hear any
more for the time being. That was just fine for Daddy B. Courtship was never a
thing to be rushed too much, but to be enjoyed in and of itself. Shooting down
your prey is fun, but the reason you go hunting is so you can walk around the
woods with your buddies and keep a look out, or so Daddy B reasoned. After all
his years of experience, he knew he was right.
His life had
not been an easy one, although it had always been the extreme of comfort. He
ate whatever he felt like, the most refined dishes that bland Tidewater South
could offer. He traveled as far as his meager desires could carry him, staying
in the better hotels with colleagues he had worked with during his career.
Despite modest retribution, he always had plenty of pocket money, spending it
only on clothing, since food, board, and laundering were all included in the
job. He didn't smoke, never had. He only drank occasionally and more often than
not to such excess that he was cured of the bottle for a good week and a half.
His was a life that lacked for nothing, save perhaps affection, which could
almost always be had just for the hunting down of it. There was his own
heritage of administration: the creation of a family atmosphere among the
staff. Things were good for Daddy B, and he was good enough to appreciate them.
Now there was
Tom. He was young. Always wore a tie. Serious too, and you could tell from looking
at him that he came from a good family. All of which were fine attributes and
counted in a good employee. But Daddy B didn't give a hoot about any of them
except for one: Tom was young.
“Good
evening, Hotel Jefferson, may I help you?”
A giggly
girl's voice asked for Captain Green in room 442.
“Just a
moment, I'll connect you.”
As Tom pulled
the plugs out of the switchboard, he couldn't help but feel a little sorry for
Daddy B. Tom was not without heart and it wasn't even that well guarded, but he
was not the least bit enthused about whatever it was that Daddy B might have in
mind. Tom enjoyed Daddy B immensely, but he was starting to see that he would
have to be on the defensive or something he wouldn't like to happen, was likely
to happen.
“Thank you Tom.
I just had to go and when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.”
Marilyn came
in, the shoulder bag swaying heavily with its concealed weight. Oh, she did
feel better now, and if Fritz would just not get on another jealous jag, she'd
be set for the rest of the evening.
“Let me get
this call, and then I'll hand it all over to you.”
“Good
evening, Hotel Jefferson, may I help you?”
“Yeah. Is old
man Beauchamp around?”
“Whom may I
say is calling?”
“Just tell
him it's Raoul.”
“Now there's
a name,” Tom thought, as he rang the cashier.
“Daddy B,
there's a certain Raoul on the phone for you.”
“Well, put
him through son, put him through.”
“Hello, is
that Daddy B?”
“Raoul, you
ole scoun'rel! What have you been into this time?”
“Never mind
that, I'll tell you when I get to the Hotel.”
“Where are
you?”
“At the
Greyhound bus station. Can you spring me a cab?”
“I'm not busy
son. I'll come down and get you.”
“I'll be out
front.”
Daddy B put
the receiver down. “Raoul's back and Lord only knows what troubles he's gotten
himself into now. More than he can handle, no question about that, and I'll bet
you he hasn't got a dime to his name. Lost a job, that much is sure, or didn't
pay his rent, or most likely got kicked out by his roommates. Or his roommate,
if he just lost him as well. That is, if he only had one. Well, the best thing
to do is just go fetch him before he gets the chance to get himself into any
more troubles.” Daddy B jingled his hand into his pocket for the car keys.
“Tom, son,
I'm goin' down to the bus station to get a friend. Won't be more than half an
hour, if anybody calls. You be all right here, all by your lonesome?”
“Don't worry
about me. I'll be fine.”
Soon after
Daddy B left, Walter came down to smoke a cigarette after finishing up in the
dining room. Walter was a great guy: hard working, industrious, putting himself
through college in fashion, and just as nice as the day is long to
boot. He came from the mountains in the southwest of Virginia, and had
homespun, easy-going manners under a veneer of sophistication that couldn't
disguise his undying faith in the human race, which was screwing him over
continuously. For you see, Walter was, as they used to say, a rather dark
mulatto.
“Hayeu Tom?
How you be?”
“Fine Walter,
just fine. How're tips this evening?”
“Honey chile,
I don't know who you think knows what a tip is in this dump. More like pitching
pennies against a plate.”
“Oh well,
want a cigarette?”
“Thanks, I
got my Salems. Where'd Daddy B run off too?”
“Somebody
called about ten minutes ago and as soon as he hung up, Daddy B took off like
lightning. Said he'd be back soon.”
“Wasn't
Raoul, was it?”
“Yeah, that's
exactly who it was.”
“Well, chile
(Walter snapped his fingers), you're off the hook with Daddy B for a while.”
“Walter, what
are you talking about?”
“You know
durn straight what I'm talking about. Daddy B's been courting you like a bunny
in the springtime.”
“Oh Walter,
go on. Why do you even think that?”
“Well, to
start with, all you’ve had to do is ask for something and it just flies right into
your hand.”
Tom had run
across different things, old cigar boxes, broken pieces of sculpture, unused
furniture. Looked like they might get thrown away, so he'd asked Daddy B if he
could have them. Daddy B'd told him to go on and take them home, but not to
tell anybody. Tom hadn't even given it half a thought.
“So?”
“So, don't
you know nothing leaves this Hotel? Unless it's stolen or Daddy B is on fire
for the front desk clerk. I'll just bet you it isn't that long before he gives
you something of his own.”
Earlier in
the week, Daddy B had given Tom a white shirt that he said didn't fit him. As
Tom started to add things up, plus the little gobbler story, he decided it
would be best to gloss over everything and see what could be done not to remedy
a non-existent situation in the finest bourgeois tradition of the Virginia
family.
“Well,...”
“And it won't
be long before he starts to invite you up to his room for drinks. But now
there's Raoul to keep him busy.”
“Who's this
Raoul anyway?”
“Daddy B's
best boy. Comes down to see him when he's run out of cash. And Raoul is really
something.”
“Well, what's
he like?”
“A real party
girl. Raoul likes to have good time. And he does. He lives up in DC and works
as a waiter or something like that until he gets fired. Used to work here on
the Mezzanine. That's when him and Daddy B met. He'd cry on Daddy B's shoulder
about this and that, and they became, well, more than just friends.”
“You don't
mean...”
“That's
exactly what I mean. But don't you fret none. Raoul can't stay but so long in
this town, and then Daddy B'll have all the time in the world to dedicate to
you. He'll get around to you sooner or later. He gets around to just about
everyone.”
“You mean. .
.”
“That's just
what I mean. Uhhm, hunh.”
Raoul was
leaning up against the sky blue tiles of the Greyhound bus station, taking in
all the goings-on of Broad Street riff-raff on a warm summer night. Mainly
though, he was thinking about how to get his evening organized. First there was
the little matter of drinking Daddy B under the table, but not before managing
to weasel the car keys and a twenty out of the old man first so that Raoul
could go dancing. He looked down at the numbers scribbled on the scraps of
paper in his wallet, correlating poorly spelt names to dark memories.
“Maybe it
would be better to do a little scouting on my own first, provided that I get
that twenty bucks out of Daddy B. It's Friday night after all. Time to find a
husband for the weekend.”
What Raoul
lacked for in glamour and corporeal beauty, he more than amply compensated for
with broad smiles and absolute directness. His complete lack of any discretion
whatsoever guaranteed Raoul could have a good time anywhere, and he did.
Now, if he
could only get the twenty out of Daddy B or even ten if he could only get more
than enough to drink before Daddy B passed out.
Daddy B was
cruising down the sultry streets, just as happy as a lark, whistling tunes from
Showboat in his long robin's egg blue
Chevrolet.
“Baby's back.
Yes, he's back and needin' some lovin' and affection. And I'm going to give it
to him. Just what he needs. And who knows, maybe I can get him to come to
church with me on Sunday morning.”
Of course,
nothing could have been further from Raoul's mind. Although one of these days,
he might just go. Maybe.
Just as Daddy
B pulled up in front of the bus station, two lanky young Mormons, all soap and
water and spotless, high-waisted briefs, accosted Raoul, asking him how to get
to Colonial Heights.
“Come on son.
If we don't hurry, the liquor store'll close on us and we don't want that, now
do we? Who're your friends?”'
“Daddy B, you
are a sight for sore eyes. These two guys are trying to get to Colonial Heights
tonight.”
“Thay ain't
no more buses until tomorrow morning. Now come on son.”
“Uh, sir,
could you recommend a place to stay? We’re from North Carolina and we don't
know where to sleep.”
“Boys, all I
can say is, hold tight to your luggage and prop yourselves up in the waiting
room in there for the night. Now come on Raoul, let's go.”
Raoul turned
to the Mormons and winked.
“I'll see if
I can't come by later, if I find y'all a place to sleep.”
The wide-eyed
Mormon boys credulously smiled as their faith in the human race was reinforced.
“Well son,
let's stop and get us a bottle and then, well, I bet you ain't had a thing to
eat but for a hamburger in the last twenty-four hours. We'll get you some
chow.”
“I'm with you
Daddy B. How's everything at the Hotel?”
“Fine son,
just fine. And now what in tarnation have you got yourself into this time?”
“Oh, nothin'
much. Just a little problem here and there.”
“Lose your
job?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Lose your
apartment?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And what
else?”
“Here's the
liquor store Daddy B. Aren't you going to get us a bottle so we can sit down
and talk?”
“You didn't
answer my question son. What else?”
“It's
eight-forty. If you don't get in there, they'll close the doors on you and
you'll have to pay for drinks in some restaurant.”
“You know one
more trick than the devil do. Just sit tight here and I'll go get us something
cool and brown. Ready to change your luck?”
“It'd take
something brown and pretty damn hot for me to change my luck. Now go on. Don't
worry. I won't drive off with the car.”
Daddy B
laughed and got out of the car. Raoul scanned the drivers in the cars that
passed while Daddy B hobbled sprightly into the ABC store.
The liquor
store clerk sized up the bald man at a fifth of Virginia Gentleman bourbon.
This was precisely what Daddy B had in mind and wanted to get, until the couple
in front of him started looking for money to pay for their half gallon of
Vodka. They had driven all the way from the comfortable West End, where they
were having ten of their closest friends over for a drinks after dinner, when
they realized that they were well supplied with lemons and tonic, but nary a
drop of potato juice. The Broad Street Store was the only liquor store open
until nine on that side of the river, so they bravely ventured forth among the
long shining white cars of Friday evening to provide for their peer group. They
were both just as nervous as whores in church, but equally determined to make
their purchase with dignity and hightail it out of there. But it turned out
that the husband had left his wallet in one of his other pairs of khaki pants,
so the wife had to dig down into her Aigner bag, lusciously maroon, to pay for
the vodka. While she rummaged around in the depths of that greatest of all
female mysteries, a handkerchief inadvertently fell out and she was far too
edgy to notice it. With completely automatic gentlemanliness, Daddy B reached
down, groaning on the way, to pick it up and proffer her the overlooked snotrag
with nonchalant chivalry.
But as his
glasses slid down his nose, his eye was caught by a martini appliquéd above the
olive green scalloped edge of her handkerchief. And there it was: a snippet of
red silk that stood for pimento.
Pimento....
“An olive
without a pimento is like a martini without an olive. So why even bother to put
vermouth into a martini if you can't enjoy the festive little salute of the
pimento? You might as well drink the stuff straight from the bottle. Warm.”
“You cain't
be serious.”
“Do I look
like some frivolous hussy who'd drink beer from the bottle? Do I? Well, then go
get me some olives with cheery, smiling pimentos, or I'm going back to DC since
we can't go out drinking in this state.”
“Now, Peg.”
“Now Dunne.
What's done is Dunne.”
So
thirty-some years earlier amidst sailors and hookers, an only slightly balding
Dunne Beauchamp had gone in search of pimentoed olives at Virginia Beach. Returning
from a colored grocery store an hour later, there sat Peg on the balcony
waiting for her Dunne. The ice had all melted once already, and there on top of
the second batch of ice sat a shining shaker and two martini glasses upended
and frosted over. Thirty-two degrees was being rigorously maintained. Two
things could be said about the thirtyish Margaret Baldwin. She knew how to make
a proper martini, and she was every inch a lady. The seal on the gin bottle was
intact.
As Daddy B
straightened up, the decades flashed forward to the present just as he handed
the handkerchief back to its 1978 owner.
“Why thank
you! I hadn't even noticed.”
“Oh Ma'am.
It's no trouble. You just be careful when you walk back onto Broad Street this
time of the might. I'd keep your pretty little bag between you and your
husband.”
Aubergine
gloss lips smiled back at Daddy B while the clerk said “What'll it be? White or
dark?” To their mutual surprise, Daddy B asked for a pint of Beefeater’s Gin.
“We don't
sell nothing by the pint no more, 'less you want some grain.”
“Just give me
the closest to.”
When Raoul
pulled the frosted bottle out of the brown bag, he was visibly pleased.
“Gin? Well,
I'm glad to see you're coming up in the world. Changing your luck's gotten old.
Let's catch some tonic on the way home and I'll fix you a G&T that'll knock
your socks off before you know you're not wearing your shoes no more.”
“No son. I’ve
got a better idea. We'll just requisition a bottle of vermouth from the
kitchen, and I shall teach you the mystery, the eternal mystery of the
martini.”
“But I don't
like olives.”
“I'll suck
the pimentos out for you and you'll be just fine.”
No one saw
Daddy B re-enter except for Gladys Hall, the phantom of the Mezzanine. As soon
as Miz Hall's stooped silhouette came into view, Daddy B herded Raoul up the
side staircase. Gladys couldn't have told anyone anyway. Saunders was the only
person who listened to her, and besides, most people in the hotel already knew
everything that was going on; but if Daddy B had marched Raoul through the
lobby, they would have been offended. If you can't maintain appearances, well
you can't lay claim to your dignity. Raoul was the only person in the hotel who
didn't care about his dignity.
“The place
hasn't changed much Daddy B. The cockroaches look a little bit healthier
though. Kinda fat. Don't seem to be able to scurry across the bathroom floor
quite as quick as they used to.”
“Air you
complainin' already? You know very well that...”
“. . . the
cockroaches are all over the sewers of the city, and there isn't any way to
avoid them coming up. Yeah, you’ve told me that a hundred times. But I'll just
bet there ain't no cockroaches across the street at the Belview.”
“Oh, go on.
Now just sit tight whilst I go down to the kitchen and snatch us a bottle of
vermouth. Or, come to think of it, why don't you get out the ice cubes, rinse
out the shaker, you'll find it in the bottom drawer of the dresser, put the
cubes in the shaker and then put the whole kit and caboodle into the freezer
until I come back. How's about that? Just sling your bags over onto the spare
bed.”
“Daddy B, you
know I can't sleep with you the way you snore at night. Ain't you gonna give me
the key to 147?”
“Well son, if
you behave, I might just acquiesce, as they say. But the first thing I'd better
find is the shaker chilled and chocked with ice, and you a tad washed up. The
towels in the bathroom are clean. I'll see you in about fifteen minutes.”
“Don't forget
to get the olives Daddy B. See if you can't find some without pimentos.”
“Don't
pimento me, you rascal. Now get to work.”
With that,
Daddy B closed the door and waddled on down to the east staircase. The stairs
were still advisable. Taking the elevator meant crossing the Mezzanine where
everyone at the front desk would see him, not to mention Saunders who would
soon be holding evening court on the horsehair couch in front of the elevators.
The side staircase gave directly onto a padlocked door to the kitchen, and
afforded total discretion to whomever wanted to enter the kitchen incognito.
As the key
turned in the lock, the head cook, Mike Green silently rescrewed the top onto
the vodka bottle he was pouring a drink from, slipped the bottle back into the
liquor cabinet, and locked it. Moving toward the meat locker in the darkness,
he popped an old garlic clove into his mouth. He was working over-time on
inventory, don't you know. Daddy B was no better than a belled cat, even though
it was simply a role that he played. Upon entering a darkened room he always
jangled his keys once or twice. It was not his interest this late in life to
see what people were doing since he already had a fairly good idea of what it
might be, and he had decided that it was better to give them the chance to
straighten up or withdraw, as opposed to facing the consequences of guilt
coupled with embarrassment. He now stomped his feet twice, sending squadrons of
mice and cockroaches skittering across the floor for the safety of shelter in
shadow.
He walked
ahead and one poor mouse, oblivious of impending doom, continued to nibble at
the bread crust on the floor. Daddy B mumbled, “Hold still, you rascal,” under
his breath and with a jaunty movement, stomped the rodent's life out with his
foot, dragging the sole of his shoe to clean it of the mouse's squashed cadaver
as he moved closer and closer to the liquor closet. The other mice then
scurried out, fighting over the sweetmeats of their deceased companion.
“Whachoo
doin' down here, Daddy B? You checkin' up on me again?”
“Now Mike, I
might ask you the same.”
“I'se fixin'
a new order for food. We're gettin' low on fish.”
“Oh, just
order some frozen flounder and cans of crabmeat. You know better than to waste
your time on anything else. Good lord Mike, what have you been into? You smell
like some Eye-talian whore. Yikes.”
“Just fixed
me a garlic omelet. You know the cook's gotta eat.”
“Well, just
run 'long now.”
“Let me close
up the meat locker.”
Daddy B
turned and produced the liquor cabinet key from his pocket, opened it up, and
peered inside. There in the back corner was a half bottle of Martini and Rossi
which hadn't been touched since May of last year when a relatively famous
actress had demanded room service martinis by the pitcherful from late morning
to early evening. Daddy B grabbed it, wiped the dust off the neck, and turned
to go.
“Now you tell
me what you're taking, 'coz I have to keep everything stocked, Old Man B.”
“Here. Take
this and close the locker and get out of the kitchen.”
Daddy B
extended the half empty vodka bottle to Mike.
“Beauchamp.
You am a gempmum.”
“Doggarnit,
I'm just as much a fool. You know I know you been nursing on that bottle there.
Now just close up and leave. If the ABC comes in here...”
“They'd get
eaten alive by the cockroaches. Heh, heh, heh.”
“D'int you
hear me? Come on, le’ss go.”
The old white
man limped alongside the young black man half strutting at his side, through
the dim half light of one bare bulb, toward the side stair so that no one could
see them skimming the hotel's liquor.
“ ‘Night,
Mike.”
“ ‘Night,
Beauchamp. Sleep tight, Daddy B.”
Raoul had
finished his shower a good five minutes earlier and could easily have gotten
dressed in the meantime, but he kept the towel around his waist for Daddy B's
benefit. Daddy B was naturally delighted upon entering the room.
“Ain't you
clean yet?”
“Just as
clean as the day I was born. Smell.”
Raoul exposed
a blond armpit for inspection. Daddy B ignored this and moved toward the
refrigerator. Dutifully done, there waited a glazed over shaker. Daddy B
glanced sideways and peeked at Raoul's blossoming tummy. He reached over and
grabbed a love handle.
“Stop that!
What do you think I am? Some kind of kook?”
“If we run
out of bacon for breakfast tomorrow morning, I know where we can get a big fat
slice.”
“But I don't
know where we're going to get any olives for the martinis tonight since you
didn't bring none.”
“And tomorrow
night, we'll feast on a nice juicy rump roast!”
Daddy B
snatched the towel off Raoul's flaccid frame. This didn't phase Raoul one bit.
In fact, it was precisely why he hadn't changed back into his slightly sour
jeans. He liked being the floor show. Raoul hiked one hand up onto his hip.
“You can look
just as much as you want, but that still don't bring us no olives.”
“Ohhhhhh,
you're getting just as chubby as a little piglet.”
Daddy B
slapped Raoul's buttocks as he ambled toward the wardrobe.
“The kook
here Daddy B, is you, I'm afraid to say.”
Daddy B
grunted as he crouched down towards the bowels of the wardrobe. There beside a
pair of swimming trunks lay an unopened bottle of cocktail olives, which Daddy
B had been saving for a special occasion. Raoul stood there naked as a jaybird
staring at the long cylindrical bottle Daddy B had unearthed from the bottom of
his armoire.
“Well, let's
fix us some drinks.”
“With those olives?
Where'd you get them? In the Philippines during 'The Big One'?”
“They're
fine. They're all still in one piece, and only one of 'em has lost their
pimento.”
“I guess the
gin'd kill anything dangerous in them. Well, let's get down to business.”
“Don't you
touch nothin'. I'll fix the drinks. Go on and get dressed. I don't want to be
staring at your gobbler while I'm drinking.”
“Well then,
don't look any farther down than my chin, because it's too hot and I'm not
going to get dressed. And you are the one that pulled the towel off in the
first place. I'm going to stay just like this. Oh naturell.”
“No you
ain't. Don't you know it's against Virginia state law to drink martinis if
you're not properly clothed? And that means shoes too. Now git.”
Raoul raised
his brows. Daddy B didn't used to mind the floor show. He wondered what was up,
but not for long, as he pulled his quivering flesh into his cheap cotton
clothing. Daddy B was at work.
Into the
chilled shaker, he poured a rivulet of transparent amber vermouth. As the ice
clattered during the first stirring, Daddy B sent a beaming smile to the
heavens. The chilled vermouth was then strained down into the bathroom sink, a
tiny aperitif for all those cockroaches in the city sewers. The gin bottle
gleefully cracked its seal and its spirits swam down to discover the glamour of
vermouth-clad ice. Swirling and splashing between the cubes, it danced and
married with the cold and the vermouth. The essence of the cocktail, gin at
thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, with no more vermouth than a kiss whispered into
its ear, joyfully rushed down to embrace the expectant olive which cordially
responded by raising its blushing pimento. Thus was the eternal martini reborn
from the hope of the aging hotelier: a comfort to his solitude and a memorial
to the vanished Peg.
“Now that's
what I call a cocktail, Daddy B.”
“Here son.
Drink up. Drink to...”
“Let's drink
to the noble pimento, and the color it brings to our lives.”
“That's not
bad. Not bad at all. To the pimento and the color it brings.”
The pimento
winked up; Daddy B winked down. But before the liquid could reach his lips or
the olive had the chance to roll over and hide the shame of its exposed
pimento, its fragrance, heady and antiseptic, floated up through Daddy B's
nostrils and painted a memory in his brain. The top half of a woman's ear that
smelled of Ivory soap and slightly blonding hairs, straying over the lobe
toward the back of her head. A smooth temple. Peg.
“It's not
bad. Not bad at all.”
“When you
know how to mak'em, thay ain't nothin' more refreshing on a hot summer evening.
There's just something about a martini.”
“You're damn
straight there is. It's called straight gin, and if it don't do the trick, I
don't know what will.”
“Now Raoul,
Tell me what's happened to you.”
“Daddy B, I
don't want to talk about it now.”
“Do you want
me to take you back to the bus station?”
“Nossir. I,
well, I lost my job.”
“And what did
you do to lose your job?”
“Nothing
really. I was just, well, kind of playing around at work one night after we'd
closed up, and the manager came in and caught us, I mean me.”
“Us? you
don't mean to tell me...”
“I wasn't
stealing or nothing like that. I wasn't destroying property.”
“Well then,
what were you doing?”
“Oh nothing,
just a little innocent kissing.”
“I cain't
believe you got fired for kissing.”
“Well, I
wasn't exactly kissing on the mouth.”
“What?”
“It was a
little lower down.”
“I don't want
to hear no more. Don't tell me anything else.”
“When my
roommate heard about it, and well, he kinda threw me out.”
“I'll bet she
did.”
(Raoul chose
not to correct Daddy B's incorrect assumption about gender, just as Daddy B had
pointedly chosen not to use the correct gender.)
“You just
cain't keep on doing things like this son. You just cain't. You’ve got to buckle
down and get serious about things. So what are you going to do now?”
“I don't
know. That's why I came down to Richmond, to see you. You're the only person
that really cares about me. I'm so mixed up and all alone.”
“Have you
tried to call your mother?”
“You know she
won't have nothing to do with me.”
“Have you
tried to call her?”
“She'd hang
up on me.”
At this,
Raoul burst into tears and started to moan about what a mess he was. Daddy B
was unmoved, although he did experience a mixture of embarrassment and
pleasure. He ambled over to the bed, sat down beside Raoul, put his arm around
Raoul's shoulders and started to comfort him.
“Oh come on,
son. Buck up. Ain't nothin' going to happen to you 'long as your Daddy B's
around. Come on now, stop that crying and start to act like a man. (The sobbing
got louder). Stop being such a crybaby.”
Gladys Hall
passed in front of the door, taking silent note of the wails.
“Calm down.
Calm down, calm down. Here, blow your nose.”
Raoul
subsided somewhat and blew into the linen handkerchief that Daddy B held
clamped to his nose. Raoul turned and hugged the elderly man.
“I'm so
lonely.”
“Now, now,
now. Buck up. I'm going to fix you another drink.”
With the
suggestion of another drink, Raoul's little brain turned to the evening’s
escapades. Those two Mormons were sitting at the bus station, ready and
waiting; there was only the matter of inveigling Daddy B to give him twenty
dollars, lend him the keys to the car and 147, and sit patiently while Daddy B.
passed out.
“I'll wait
until you’ve finished your drink Daddy B. But what am I going to do?”
“We'll find
something for you son. Don't worry. You know you can always count on me. That's
why you call me when you're in trouble.”
“You're right
Daddy B. You're right.”
About ten-thirty
that evening, Tom was adding up accounts for the evening shift when out from
the elevators wafted the distinct odor of Brut. Walter was sitting behind the
key locker watching Dallas and snapped his fingers as soon as the wall
of scent invaded his nose. The sheers on the door to the switchboard room
darkened and the glass rattled as the center of the fatal zone of Brut crossed
the threshold and went back behind the desk. Raoul had come to Walter for
information.
Tom chose to
ignore the goings on and Raoul left as quickly and as brashly as he had come.
Tom only caught the back of Raoul's slightly balding head as he rounded the
front desk.
Upstairs,
Daddy B was spread-eagled across the spare bed, still dressed and glasses askew
on his face, snoring through his open mouth. The gin bottle was almost empty
and Daddy B had plunged into the depths of Lethe, undreaming, un-reliving his
romance with Peg, undisturbed about Raoul. Daddy B never had dreamt in his
sleep; least not as he could remember.
Raoul stayed
a week, and for that week Tom was left uncourted. Oh, the old man was still
just as nice as he could be, but his free time was taken up in the evenings
with fussing over Raoul and reprimanding him. Daddy B bought Raoul clothes,
took him out to dinner, and wrangled a new job for him through a hotelier
friend in DC. Raoul rapidly exhausted Richmond's carnal possibilities, and
Daddy B's attentions renewed his faith in mankind. So, Raoul left.
Well, Daddy B
was good and satiated for a month, which suited Tom just fine. Tom never
mentioned Raoul, and Daddy B was left slightly perturbed by Tom's total lack of
curiosity. He knew that Tom wasn't going to ask him anything, for reason one,
Tom was too much the stuffy little prisspot to speak of personal matters, and reason
two, because everyone else that worked behind the front desk had filled Tom in
on whatever details might be worth hearing.
Then it got
hot. The end of July and the entire city felt like the inside of a panting
dog's mouth. Despite its height, lack of windows, and cool floors, the lobby
remained a constant seventy-eight degrees. Working meant standing in front of
the fan wherever you were and moving as little as possible.
Tom had even
abandoned his coat and tie, coming to work in shirtsleeves, as did Daddy B and
the rest of the male staff. Only the old black waiter Eldridge resolutely clung
to his threadbare linen jacket and black silk bow tie, stooping to serve high
on the Mezzanine.
It was
Thursday, Brantley's day off, and Tom was working the morning shift when Daddy
B returned with the mail. He emptied the canvas sack onto the front counter and
Tom started to sort out letters, magazines, and brown paper packages.
“Here's one
for you, Daddy B.”
“The
Marvells, well I'll be.”
Tom continued
to sort the mail, and the sweat began to dribble down his back.
“Well, how
'bout that!”
“What?”
“Little Dunne
has made honor roll for the year.”
“Little
Dunne? You didn't tell me you had a grandson.”
“Well, he's
not exactly mine. He's big Dunne's.”
“Daddy B,
have you run off and gotten married and not told anyone about it? What are you
talking about?”
“Big Dunne
and little Dunne. 'Cept big Dunne used to be my little Dunne 'til he got too
big for his britches and ran off and got married. Right nice gal too. And they
named their first little mistake for me.”
“If you say
so.”
Tom didn't
want to appear nosy, but he knew that this response ensured a complete
explanation.
“They're my
godchildren. One of my war buddies from the Philippines, Alan Marvell. We were
just as close as this during the war.” Daddy B crossed two stubby fingers.
“He wasn't
the one they sent home, was he?”
“Now son,
what do you think I am? Some kind of kook like the waiters in this hotel? No,
we were just good buddies. And when we came back from the war, well, Alan got
married and then named his fifth child for me.”
“Fifth
child!”
“They were
makin'em so fast they didn't have much time to worry about names. And then I
went and visited when number five was in the oven, and well Edith got to like
me 'bout as much as Alan did, and they just up and decided to name the baby
after me if it was a boy.”
“Don't you
ever see them anymore?”
“Well, I run
into Alan sometimes at Pearl Harbor reunions, but they live in Minnesota. I get
around to them every five or six years. Little Dunne was something. Just as
cute as could be. He'd look up at me and laugh. And I'd grab him if he screamed
or fussed and I'd tell him I was a goin' to throw him into the brier patch. And
then I'd tickle him and he'd just giggle and close his eyes and shake his
blonde little head. He was something. Then at night, he'd creep out of his room
where he slept with his brothers and come crawl into bed with me. And half the
time I didn't even realize it. I'd wake up in the morning and there he'd be,
tucked up under my arm with his thumb in his mouth.
“He was a
rascal. Ran off and got married when he was eighteen without anybody's consent.
They came all the way here, to visit me on their honeymoon, and see if I
couldn't patch things up with Alan and Edith, which I did and set them up in
one of the suites for two weeks. They are just the happiest couple you can
imagine. Go to church every Sunday. She made him convert from Catholic to
Baptist too; I sure do miss seeing them.”
“Well, why
don't you go for a visit?”
“Too far
away. And I'm just plain sick of traveling. Plus, I’ve got a plenty of friends
to tend to here.”
Daddy B winked at Tom grinning.
“Beauchamp,
can you come here for a moment?”
“Hold on
there, I'll be right along.”
Tom lit up a
cigarette and sat in front of the fan. Lucille was giving out the recipe for
icebox cake on the phone and the elderly guests were stumbling around the lobby
in the mid-morning heat.
Little by
little Tom was piecing together a paradoxical portrait of Dunne Beauchamp. He
seemed to have no friends, and no relatives. He seldom went out if it wasn't
for Hotel business and no one ever called on him or visited. But he was
familiar with almost everyone. He harbored very little prejudice against blacks
for a man of his education and background. He had of course, only a high school
diploma, but he knew how to run a hotel, keep accounts, and rectify almost any
situation. He knew people: what they were like, what they wanted. Daddy B
feared nothing, and all his anger was mock. He simply accepted everything that
went on around him, and if things didn't work out perfectly, well that was all
right too, because there was always something to do. Daddy B went ahead and did
it. No questions, just another problem solved. The only thing Daddy B did not
understand was that Tom would not accept him as a surrogate father, and that
meant Tom didn't care for him down deep in his heart of hearts, as far as Dunne
Beauchamp was concerned.
The stories
Tom had heard from co-workers were not all flattering. Daddy B was not as
honest as he might appear, and not nearly as ethical. The restaurant manager
Glen Birdsong painted Daddy B as a harmless boob, but the boss. But everyone
that Tom had ever run across in other hotels in Richmond said that he was one
outstanding man. Dependable.
“Look at
those circles under your eyes son! Been playing with your gobbler again?”
Tom rolled
his eyes while changing the subject despite Daddy B's insistence. Tom still
couldn't believe that the old man was trying to get him into bed. Daddy B just seemed lonely and looking for
affection, which Tom was predisposed to give. Any time Tom did show the old man
any physical affection, the manager never overstepped the boundaries. He'd just
smile at Tom and his eyes would shine.
Tom pitied him.
When Daddy B
realized this, which took the better part of two years, everything between them
stopped. Oh, of course Tom was a good employee: self reliant, intelligent,
ready to work, and honest, but he was no better than the rest of them. No, he
was actually worse, because for all his dependability, he wasn't really loyal.
Tom was too uppity.
“Daddy B, I
want to work here full time this summer, but I do not intend to work the night
shift or do the audit any more, you know that. After what happened here at
Christmas and Easter, I will not work at night unless there is an armed guard.”
“You a
scaredy cat son? You ain't got no reason to be worried about Smollett. I'll
take care of him.”
“Daddy B, I
am not going to work the night shift. I'll work weekends, double shifts. I like
working here, but I will not work nights.”
It became
apparent to Daddy B that Tom didn't trust him anymore either. Well, not exactly
not trust, more like not have any faith in what he said. This hurt Daddy B
pretty bad. It was all right though. Daddy B didn't want Tom any more. Daddy B
still liked him, but there just wasn't anything that could serve as the basis
for something more than a working relationship.
Then it got
hot again. Tom was sitting down by the phones, smoking a cigarette, and Daddy B
was just bored enough to go and have a chat with him. He didn’t broach the
subject of gobblers with Tom anymore, especially after Tom had caught Daddy B
and the engineer coming back from the parking lot. The engineer was still
zipping his pants up when Tom turned away from the glass doors and walked back
into the Lobby. But Tom was a good front desk clerk, the only one left that
kept the cash drawer on balance, and if Daddy B carefully selected his topics,
Tom would always bend a willing ear in the old man's direction.
“How we
doin', son?”
“Can't
complain. Do wish they’d turn down the air conditioner though. All the sweat in
my shirt's going to freeze right into the fabric. “
“I thought
you said you couldn't complain. I must say you do look fine in that white
shirt.”
“Of course I
look good in it. You gave it to me.”
“I suppose I
did. You know something Tom, you're a fine looking young man. I hope you invite
your poor ole Daddy B to your wedding.”
“Daddy B.,
it’s a little early yet for me to think about marriage.”
“Well son, if
you do remember me, I promise I'll dance at your wedding. I missed the chance
to dance at my own.”
“Did you ever
come that close to tying the knot?”
“Well, pretty
close. Peg. Good ole Peg. Lord knows what happened to her. I was working down
to the William Byrd. Night shift, and in from the rain comes this smart looking
gal. Asks if she cain't sit in the lobby until the storm blows over. And after
a little bit, she invites me to have a cup of coffee with her, so I lock up the
hotel, just the front door you know, and go to the snack bar and fix us a cup
of coffee. That was the start of it; before I knew what was happening, we were
going down to the beach, to the Cavalier for the weekend. Summer and winter.
Didn't have to pay for the room what with ownership agreements, if there was a
free room, I mean no conventions and all. Spend the whole weekend in the hotel
room, goin’ to it. She was something.”
“Well, why
didn't you get married?”
“I didn't
want to. Didn't really need to. I had my life all set up and just plain didn't
need a woman, 'less it was for a weekend in a hotel room every now and then.
Oh, I told her we'd get married, but she saw through that after a few years. I
wonder what happened to her.?”
“Well, would
you marry her now if she walked into the Lobby and offered to buy you a cup of
coffee?”
“No. Well,...
no. Guess not. But you, well you ought to find yourself a smart gal and settle
down. You're the marrying kind. And it'd make you stop playing with your
gobbler.”
“Daddy B, why
don't you save up your gobbler conversation for Raoul’s next visit? I really
don't appreciate it.”
“Now don't
you go badmouthing Raoul. His is a sad story. And he's got problems you will
never even imagine. And if I'm good to Raoul and give him money and buy him
clothes and give you nothing it's only because...”
“I don't need
anything from you Daddy B. I like you just the way you are.”
“Well son,
that's just why I give Raoul things. Because Raoul is one person who needs a
friend. And he needs one mighty, mighty bad.”
The
switchboard lit up and Tom went to answer it since Marilyn was in the ladies’
room, again. Daddy B stared into the vast vacant lobby, blinking. The light
bulb had gone out over the grand piano.
No need to replace it. Nobody ever goes over
there anyway.
