Chapter Ten
Lucille's Big Weekend
Lucille's Big Weekend
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.”
