“Yes, sir,” I answered and then immediately regretted it as I could feel Essie’s stare beating down on me.
“But we have been traveling for hours!” she interrupted.
The manager stopped shuffling papers and looked at Essie inquisitively. And then, as if it all made sense, he nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, I see what you’re saying. Of course. The shift managers will give you your uniforms, so don’t worry about those wrinkled clothes. You can wash and iron them out later.”
“Excuse m—” Essie began to push.
I placed my hand around Essie’s elbow to calm her. She jerked her arm away, but let the comment drop nonetheless.
“They’re prisoners, you know, but it’s our job to run this place just like they’re any other guests,” he continued. “Leave the politics to the military, I say. It’s much easier for everyone that way.” He returned to his papers, readjusting his wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Any other questions before we head off?”
“Yes,” Essie answered. “The soldiers. Are we to treat them as guests as well?”
“Of course. You are to accommodate their needs, but … word of warning, miss.” The thin man rose from behind the desk and walked around to the front, taking a seat on its edge. He removed his glasses and stared hard at Essie. “Don’t let them get too used to your accommodations. They do have a tendency to take advantage of the services here. And other things.” He paused as he turned to face me. “Well, let’s just say this crew should count themselves lucky that they’re spending the war at a resort. Most boys their age are out serving our country in foreign lands.”
I rose, picked up my suitcase, and exaggerated my limp as we walked toward the door. Essie followed closely behind. Have you ever felt like everyone was staring at you, like every single pair of eyes in a twenty-mile radius was on you, but when you glanced to check your suspicion, you realized absolutely no one was looking? That’s how walking through the Grove Park Inn’s lobby felt—probably still feels. It was as if my bones were crumbling under the weight of an imperceptible gaze.
After brief tours of our respective dormitories (spartan, dank, and lifeless), the thin man led us back to the main entrance of the inn. Waiting, arms folded, were a short, stout woman in an ill-fitting navy suit and a large burly man in khaki coveralls. Jet black wires sprouted from her pale chin. Her lips naturally curved downward in direct opposition to her eyebrows, which seemed frozen in constant disbelief or surprise. She held a clipboard in front of her rounded stomach and only glanced up from it when the thin man spoke. The burly man, in contrast, eyed us both from the moment we came into sight. He also withheld any hint of a smile, but his eyes rested on us in such a way to convince me that he was never surprised. Not ever.
“This is Miss Ulana Parks and Mr. Iliam Jenkins.”
“Call me Lee,” the burly man interrupted, thrusting out his hand to shake mine. I was relieved that Lee seemed welcoming, humble even. I worried that Essie was not likely to be greeted with the same kindness by her new shift manager. Ulana Parks’s demeanor was distinctly unwelcoming.
“Pleased to meet you, Lee. Thanks for taking me on.”
“Your good work will be thanks enough. Let’s go ahead and I’ll show you around and introduce you to the rest of the crew.”
Essie nodded to me with reassurance that she was perfectly fine on her own and then turned to Ulana Parks with surprising readiness. As Lee and I walked off, I could hear only pieces of their introductions.
“Pleased to meet … Miss Parks …”
“Mrs…. Are we clear?”
I looked back to read Essie’s face and watched as the confidence I had seen earlier fell away. I tried to share a smile with her, but her eyes were locked on Mrs. Parks. She didn’t appear scared or intimidated, exactly. It was as if she was newly poised, her core countenance bared. We were both starting a new life, one that demanded we forfeit certainty for opportunity. We had a chance to do everything new and fresh and start our lives away from the suffocating safety of the familiar. I saw in her what I hoped was in me—the courage to step into one’s true self, whoever that might be.
Chapter Six
I didn’t see Essie again for the rest of the day. I worried I probably wouldn’t see her again for most of the summer since my work would be outside and we likely would rarely see the sun touch any of the women’s faces except for the diplomats’ wives and daughters lounging on the back patio as they sipped lemonade.
Lee was by no means chatty, but hints of Scots-Irish heritage twisted anything he told me into the most incredible story of Grove Park survival.
“And over yonder’s the tool shed.” My head spun to follow each point of his finger, causing me to become both dizzy and disoriented.
“Supper’s served in the mess hall at eighteen hundred hours for military and at 8 p.m. for staff,” Lee continued. “Guests eat in the dining room at 7 p.m. Go ahead and change into your coveralls. There’s a couple pairs on your bunk. We’ll start bustin’ up some wood when you get dressed. Guests fancy a fire after dinner.” Even with his drawn-out speech, the information flew at me with ungraspable speed.
My coveralls were made for a man twice my size. I rolled up the pants cuffs so as not to wear holes in the hems. Even the Sunday trousers Lishie sewed by hand for me frayed on the left cuff from the unavoidable drag of my foot. Somehow I had to make two pairs of coveralls last all summer, weeks and weeks of outdoor labor. I wouldn’t be able to afford mending, much less another pair, if it came to it. Lee warned me not to leave the grounds with any Grove Park property, which I assumed included uniforms for Lishie to mend during a weekend visit home.
I could tell from the number of disheveled beds that at least five other civilian men would be working on the property. All the beds were made, but some were military-grade smooth. I knew I could never achieve that, and from the look of the dorms, I was not alone. I imagined at least a couple men would be working inside maintenance, a few more in the kitchen and, judging by the muddy boot tracks, it looked like Lee and I’d have some company outside.
Though the dorm couldn’t have housed workers for more than a couple of months, it smelled of acidic metal and earthen sweat as if decades of men had laid their heads on the matted down pillows and tossed beneath the rough, woolen blankets, metal bedrails, and dangling pendant light fixtures sweating right along with them.
It was relatively clean, though. I was glad of that. At least I wouldn’t have to pick up after Bud or worry about supper for him. I just had to worry about myself and that was plenty for now.
“Cowney? Son, you coming?” Lee called to me through an open window. “Don’t have time for a housewarming party.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry. I’m coming. Just … are we staying in here with the soldiers?”
“Yep. This whole thing is temporary—rushed, really. Ain’t got time for formalities.”
Back outside, I found that another man had joined Lee. He too was large, with broad shoulders and thighs as thick as my torso. He smelled of minted tobacco, which was also evidenced in his few remaining teeth.
“This here’s Solomon,” Lee nodded at the foul-faced man.
“Glad to meet you. I’m Cowney.” I extended my hand, to the apparent displeasure of Solomon.
“Mmm hmm,” he replied.
Lee snorted. “Sol’s a man of few words.” He glanced in his direction. “He warms eventually … not sure you’ll want him too, though.”
I nodded, unsure whether to smile and please Lee, or smile and further annoy Sol.
“Come on, boys. Already getting a late start. Let’s kick this pig.”
Sol and I followed Lee to the edge of the property. I quickly found that Sol consumed more than his share of the talking space. The warming had begun.
“Where you from?” Sol asked after about five minutes into our work.
“Cherokee.” And then I waited.
He hefted the ax onto his shoulder and eyed me. “Wagon-burner, huh?”
“No,” I said, and turned away. “Cherokee.”
The ax fell. “Thought all y’all supposed to be out west now. Or dead.”
I spoke over my shoulder, refusing to face him again. “Some are. My people survived the Removal. Hid out for the most part until they could make a deal—”
“You know I really don’t give a shit, right? Don’t need a history lesson,” Sol interrupted. “You’re a young fella. Why you not overseas? You get shot or something? Noticed the limp.”
Lee was right. I now wished Sol had never found his comfort level.
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, it’s because of the leg, but I wasn’t injured. Born this way.”
Sol looked at me as if I was lying, as if in a moment of pure teenage dumbassness, I had injured myself.
As odd as it may sound, I was grateful. Usually, I received pity. “Poor fella” comments and sad headshakes that included infuriating tongue clicking. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. In some ways, I wish it had been my fault. I wish I had been on some reckless adventure or attempted a grand feat of heroism. Pity just made me more protective of my mother because, in essence, if I were the object of pity, she must consequentially become the cause of my unjust fate. At least that was what the tongue clicking seemed to translate to in the dialect of the sanctimonious.
“Don’t worry. I can still pull my own weight,” I offered, immediately regretting it.
“Apparently Uncle Sam doesn’t agree,” Sol shot back, seemingly refocusing on his work. Odd how people were so concerned about me risking my life for a country that wouldn’t even let me vote.
“Load ’er up, boys!” Lee interrupted, motioning to the empty wheelbarrow. “Ought to be able to get it all out in three trips if we stack it right.”
Sol systematically laid the logs beside the first wheelbarrow. In an effort to further prove myself, I doubled my effort, causing the wheelbarrow to rock at times and Lee to shake his head. “I’ll get it,” I announced as the last log was placed. “I’ll take it where it needs to go.”
“Alright,” Lee said. “Take it on around to the rear entrance of the lobby. Only got one cart, so you’ll have to empty it a couple of times. Otherwise you’ll break the handles. Sol and me’s goin’ to grab a sandwich.”
I hadn’t realized that I was volunteering to shoulder the whole morning’s work, but that was Lee’s first lesson of the summer for me. Humility has its place.
They lumbered away in silence as I stood there balancing twice my body weight on a rapidly deflating wheel. A small group of soldiers, looking like human erector sets, marched by me. They were silent except for the rhythmic crunch of their boots on the earth beneath.
I couldn’t help but wonder why neither an upscale resort such as this nor the US Army couldn’t afford a couple more wheelbarrows. By the final load, I began to wonder why the hell the guards weren’t doing this work, saving taxpayers a nickel. Better yet, weren’t these “guests” technically prisoners camped out in resort rooms? Why not have them work for their room and board?
And then I reminded myself that all this was a good thing. Thank God, I at least had a paying job and was out from under Bud’s hand. I dumped the last load on the rock patio veranda outside the rear of the lobby and entered the building through the massive glass doors that stayed open most of the day and on into the early evening to help cool the halls. Guests were milling about, all paying no mind to me. They really seemed to pay each other little mind as well.
Immediately, I realized I had made my second mistake of the day.
“You again!” A voice bellowed from the corner. It was the same soldier who had met Essie and me at the door earlier that day. I kept my head down and walked as quickly as possible toward the front entrance. The guest room halls flanked both sides like a protective ribcage of the massive lobby, the heart of the inn. Its rhythmic echo matched the pounding of my own cardiac pulse.
“Hey, you! I’m talking to you,” he continued, his voice getting closer. I had no other choice but to stop.
“Yes, sir. On my way out.”
“Why are you coming through here?”
“Just delivered some wood out back and thought—”
“That’s your problem. You tried to think. Your kind haven’t had much practice with that.”
“Private, can I help you with something?” I blurted before I could stop myself. And, in fact, I wasn’t certain he was a private. I hoped Essie had been right in her estimation of his rank. Her identification had somehow emboldened me, as if I myself were some sort of officer. I’m not sure I could have reacted the same way if I had not been assured that his superiors weren’t within hollering distance.
He stopped walking immediately. His eyes cut to both sides, as if scanning the room to see if anyone else had heard me. “Just get on your way.”
Once out of sight of the main porch, I picked up speed and headed directly to the dining hall across the lawn, eager to join my fellow workers, even if they had already abandoned me once; being among coveralls seemed far more comforting than uniforms. My adrenaline carried me there, but left me utterly depleted by the time I arrived.
I was out of breath, and sweat beaded my forehead and matted my hair to the temples. The blue-gray of my coveralls (only Lee donned the khaki variety, another distinction of rank, I surmised) turned a deep blue-black down my chest and under my arms as if I were bleeding out. I must have looked like a disoriented jaybird smacking against an overly clean window. I had no idea where to go next and my stomach growled loudly, reminding me that I’d better figure it out soon. The intense smell of burning coffee and cigarette smoke further stunned my senses.
“There ye are,” Lee called to me as I stepped through the doorway. “Almost missed lunch.”
Sol looked over his shoulder without turning his body toward me. He shot a smart-ass grin at me and turned back to his meal.
Asshole.
“Grab it and growl, Sequoyah,” Lee called.
“Yes, sir,” I agreed, finally locating a buffet-style cart in the back of the room.
“Hurry up,” Lee continued. He and Sol stuffed the remainders of their sandwiches in their mouths and laughed, spewing bits of moist bread across the table. Sol, seated to my left, slid his empty plate toward me, motioning toward the kitchen. I clearly was not done cleaning up after him, and the day was not just about to get better. Sol’s laugh was a little too hearty for that.
Sol stood, palms on the table, and leaned over so that his mayon naise-dripping lips rested inches from my ear. Lee stared at him, but instead of speaking, stood and took his own plate into the kitchen. He had left me with Sol hovering like a roadside buzzard. “You can take my plate now, son.” He breathed hot, wet spittle into my ear.
Here’s what I wanted to say, what I should have said: I have an idea, son: shove that plate up your ass!
But of course I didn’t. I closed my eyes just briefly enough to see Sol’s face melt into that of Bud’s. How similar their bone structures were; how easily one could transform into the other. I had nineteen years devoted to the practice of echoing; I could do it at least one more day so I wouldn’t lose my job. I tried to stand, but Sol ground his elbow into my shoulder until my knees buckled. The force was so great that I could not fully turn my neck to search his eyes for further instructions.
“Let’s get one thing straight, boy. If the old man wants a new pet to play fetch with, that’s his business, but I don’t plan to share my scraps with any more mongrels than I have to. Do us both a favor and get on home ’fore your momma’s teats dry up.”
“I’m not taking nothin’ from you.” I shook my head.
“Takin’ my air every time you open that trap of yourn.”
“Just here to work.”
“We can handle it. All you do is cause ’em to water down the milk.”
Sol eased back, alleviating the pressure just enough for me to collect my leg strength. I picked up the plates, almost head-butting Sol in the process.
“And hurr
y your ass up,” Sol called after me. “We need to break you in right.” Sol laughed. He laughed as if the whole exchange had been a joke all along, though the bruise congealing just beneath my skin confirmed otherwise. I looked to Lee as he returned to the table. I can’t be certain, but I think he looked slightly remorseful either for what Sol had said or what Sol would say.
Years later I would read about Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. I think these two may have been the prototypes for that character, both just too damn big to keep holed up in one measly body. When I returned to the table, I braced myself for what strange case the two were about to lay before me.
Chapter Seven
Several hours later, I found myself negotiating the hidden rules of the staff dining hall again. The wilting bodies warmed the room almost past the point of tolerable. The sun held strong, the evening breeze had yet to blow the dust and dank from the hall’s wooden floors. I was unsure if it was allowable for me to join Essie at her table, though she sat alone, though other tables of men had little space, though no one attempted to make eye contact with me when I walked in for supper. Of course, that included Essie as well. Was dinner more formal than lunch? There were not Colored or Whites Only signs I had heard tale of being in the city, but perhaps there were unspoken rules. Likely there were unspoken rules.
I went straight to the serving line, filling a tall glass of sweet tea from a pitcher, guzzling until the glass was empty, and refilling it again before I moved on to the food. It was heartening to see—and better yet smell—the richness of the food being served for dinner. While lunch had been cold and sparse, the spread before me was rich with grease, butter, and sugar. I think those are the three real Cherokee Sisters. Corn, beans, and squash would be nothing without them.
Golden-fried chicken overflowed from porcelain blue serving dishes. I could smell the rich tang of buttermilk batter. Mounds of white whipped potatoes, skins and all, were carved by melted butter rivers and piled high in a huge metal bowl. I scooped an oversized serving, barely balancing the glob on the spoon. Then I topped them off with a heap of bright green winter peas. I added candied carrots and sweet corn on the cob and completed my plate with a yeast roll.
Even As We Breathe Page 5
