The Lady in Residence

by Allison Pittman

  Safe within my room, I undressed, thankful to breathe deeply after such a satisfying meal, and unclipped my hair, letting it fall to its full length, just past my shoulders. Other women gave their hair full range to their waists and even lower, but such always smacked of a country hovel pioneer. I brushed and braided it loosely and ran a wet washcloth across my face and under my arms before donning a freshly laundered nightgown.

  San Antonio, I’d soon learn, was not known for its harsh winters. That night was the first with a true chill about it—one that I felt along the edges of the room. This, and the fact that my nerves were still on edge from attempting to appear enthralled throughout the evening, took me to the small cabinet next to my washbasin where, tucked away from the chambermaid’s prying eyes, I kept a decent-sized bottle of very good brandy from my late husband’s cellar. I’d given precious trunk space to two bottles, from which I imbibed judiciously, just one glass a night, and not every night to be sure. But tonight I fancied a generous pour.

  I didn’t hear the scratching at my door. Not at first. Or perhaps I did but dismissed it, thinking even an establishment as fine as the Menger was prone to have a mouse. Or two.

  But then again. And unquestionably at my door. Not a knock but a scratch. A series of three. Somebody wanting in but not wanting to be heard.

  “So,” I said out loud, hoping my voice would quell my misgiving, “it’s not a mouse so much as a rat.”

  I’d been so careful, so very, very careful, not to give any of my suitors even a hint they would be welcome to my room. I never told them my number, or even which of the two floors I occupied, thus avoiding Mr. Sylvan’s wrath and preserving my person. I know more than most the consequences of letting a man assume liberties you have no intention of granting. I will admit to being an unrepentant flirt—a woman in my circumstances never had any other means of survival. I may have laid a trail of bread crumbs to the lobby door, but I never dropped so much as a grain in front of this one where the scratching continued.

  I took another sip of my drink and had decided to ignore the rat-like plea, but his persistence unnerved me. Intermittent assaults upon my door: scratch, scratch, scratch. Then a pause before trying again: scr–scratch, scratch, sc–scratch. So purposeful, so unrelenting. Soon, I feared, one of my neighbors would hear and be bound by curiosity to investigate.

  Taking careful steps across the room, I stood at the corner of my bed and stared through the slatted vent at the bottom of the door. Where normally I would see the spit-shined shoes of one of the bellboys (or, in this case, the ill-fitting brown monstrosities with my escort’s fat ankles spilling over), I saw only the pattern of the carpet in the hallway. This detail shook me, robbed me of my balance, and I gripped the footboard for support, breathing deeply until I felt my balance return.

  One step, and I pressed myself against the door to hiss through the narrow crack. “Stop that. Do you hear me? Go now, or I shall call down to the desk and have someone sent to remove you.”

  Why I hadn’t thought to do that in the first place I don’t know, other than the fact that it would bring an unwelcome blot to my unblemished residency.

  I held my breath, hoping to hear his. It had been loud enough at dinner—wet and wheezing in between listings of his properties. But nothing. It occurred to me to open the door wide enough to glimpse him in retreat never occurring to me that he might be holding his breath too. Waiting for my moment of weakness to push his way through. Instead, I said, “Do you hear me?” with more authority than I felt.

  Silence.

  More silence.

  Until… “Something for you, Hedda Krause.”

  Even now, all these years later, I cannot forget, nor can I easily convey, that voice. It was at once like someone speaking from the bottom of a tureen, while simultaneously like a creature nestled in my collarbone, hands cupped against my ear. Tinged with echo, the words sounded like they were dragged across a dry streambed, each syllable caught on a pebble. It struck me like a splash of icy water, taking my breath as if I’d plunged below a frozen surface. My lungs burned with it and, in weakness, I fell against the door spluttering, “Who is this?” with considerably less strength than I’d had when I shooed away my suitor.

  Nothing for what seemed an eternity but was likely only a few moments before it repeated.

  “Something for you, Hedda Krause.”

  A new burning set itself loose, one fueled by anger rather than fear. Mr. Sylvan, of course. The night manager must have phoned him, told him about my late arrival on the unsteady arm of a would-be flesh profiteer. Mr. Sylvan with his filthy mind and prudish demeanor. He who sent missives to my room at all irregular hours. Notes about my rent, about my accumulated restaurant bill, messages from callers, accounts of how many cups of coffee I’d consumed in the lobby and how many brandies I’d sipped in the empty bar. Here, almost midnight, and he’d sent some poor, sick boy with a note.

  “Just a moment, please.” I made no attempt to disguise my irritation. I tugged on my dressing gown and cinched the belt before sliding the chain lock into its groove. The chain allowed little more than three inches, but enough to give some pubescent boy the sight of an attractive older woman in dishabille. I had barely enough room to snake my hand outside and say, “Give it here,” before noticing there was no one on the other side of the door.

  I snatched my hand back inside, slammed the door, and leaned against it—chained and all. And then—

  “Something for you, Hedda Kraus.”

  Of course. My own unspoken thoughts sounded shaky even to the sole audience of my own mind. Of course, he would step aside, knowing the lateness of the hour. Knowing I might be undressed. And I’d reached my hand out empty. These boys. Merciless pursuit of gratuity.

  My hand shook as I reached into the dish on the large dresser and took out a dime. Two, in fact. Then opened the door.

  “Here, take this.” I clutched the money between my thumb and first finger, peering out, waiting for the sight of an open hand. I held back an irrational sob, though a small whimper escaped, because more and more it seemed there was no one there. Nobody to have scratched. Nobody to have summoned. My hand remained alone, suspended, until something brushed against it. Weightless, like a breath. A feather touch. From my angle behind the door, I saw nothing, only felt, and the feeling lingered long after, like sparks of cotton crawling up my skin. In the shock of it, I dropped the dimes, pulled my hand back through the door, and slammed it. What game was this? If Mr. Sylvan had enlisted his night staff to frighten me, he had more than accomplished the task. Tears burned at the back of my throat, not only at the immediate circumstances, but at the shame of my movements being so cruelly scrutinized.

  Throwing caution to the wind, and eager to put this incident behind me, I unchained the lock, threw open the door, and peered out to see—nothing. Only the emptiness of the hall, dimly lit by strategically placed sconces.

  I looked down, and my dimes had disappeared.

  I spent most of the night sleepless, pacing the room, a damp cloth on my hand, red with a rash that traveled up past my sleeve. I’d taken down the last of my brandy in three great tumblers, and perhaps this is what finally allowed me to succumb to slumber. I awoke far later than my usual hour, mouth dry, skin slack, and my housecoat still bound haphazardly around me. At some point, I had moved from the chair to my bed, the sheets so entangled that I experienced a moment’s panic trying to free myself from them.

  I brushed my hair, pinned it in a simple fashion, and dressed in my most serviceable day dress. I could do little about the puffiness of my eyes without an hour’s treatment of a cold washrag. No matter. I wanted Mr. Sylvan to see the toll his reckless prank had taken on my natural person.

  I descended the stairs, took a fortifying pause where they turned, and strode straight for the desk, my eyes trained on the irregularly shaped bald patch on the top of Mr. Sylvan’s head as he bent over some paperwork. Not until I cleared my throat and rapped on the wood did he
favor me with his attention.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Krause.” He granted me a supercilious smirk.

  “That is a matter of opinion, Mr. Sylvan.”

  “You seem agitated.”

  “Do I? I suppose I am, given the circumstances of last night.”

  The smirk disappeared as one eyebrow lifted. “Last night?”

  “Your prank.”

  “My…prank?” He whispered the word, as if speaking of something vile.

  “I don’t know what else you would call it, sending a message to my room in the middle of the night.” I’d dropped my voice to a hissing whisper too, but seeing the postman at the end of the desk, resumed a normal volume to add, “And, there I was, a poor widow, all alone, scared nearly to death.”

  “I should be hard-pressed to think anything would scare you, Mrs. Krause. But even so, I can assure you, no message was sent to you last night. At least, not to my knowledge. Unlike yourself, I have a home to which I retire every evening at nine o’clock. If you kept decent hours, you would know that.”

  I hardly knew which insult to tackle first, so I simply stood in shock at his temerity. The caterpillar above his lip lay flat, utterly unamused.

  “Well, then.” The courage that fueled me thus far dissipated, exposing a remnant of last night’s fear. I swallowed against the dryness of my throat and began again. “Well, then, I suppose you must have a stern talk to your night clerk, because I was awakened at midnight by a most frightful noise.”

  The caterpillar hitched. “Awakened?”

  I leaned over the counter and stared him down until the moustache was once again supine. But now, something new. A flicker of his eyes, as if they might jump out from behind his lenses and speak a warning if he hadn’t drawn them back in, corralling his gaze with a blink. “For your peace of mind, Mrs. Krause, I shall interview the night staff personally. But I would urge you to put the incident behind you. I’d be happy to send up a complimentary breakfast tray to offset your inconvenience.”

  I shrank back with each word, his kindness nearly as disturbing as last night’s event. “What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing.” He used his cuff to wipe the already gleaming desktop. “Only what I assume to be the outrageous shenanigans of a night staff with nothing better to do.”

  I took an unsteady comfort in his words and acquiesced to eggs Benedict and rye toast accompanied by a grapefruit half and coffee with cream and sugar.

  I spent the day in seclusion, catching up on the night’s lost sleep with lazy catnaps snatched between chapters of my reading. I penned a letter to my late husband’s sons, which upon signing it “Your Father’s Grieving Wife,” I filed away with the others until I could find the courage to post them. I straightened the dresses in my wardrobe, summoned the hotel’s laundress, and entreated her to give some a fresh steam pressing. I sorted my stockings, lined my shoes up in neat pairs. Between bouts of activity, I took stock of my room. The comfort of it. The elegance. Nothing gaudy or ornate, like some of the places I have known, where velvet and brocade were used to create a false sense of class. Here I felt like a guest in a welcoming home. The walls were a cheerful yellow—the color of fresh butter. The ceiling vaulted tall above me—three acrobats could stand feet on shoulders beneath it. A sturdy dresser with enough drawers that my trunk need only hold my most valuable possessions, and a well-stocked desk where I could sit and complete correspondence, if I ever had the opportunity. I had a bed with a headboard and a footboard—and all of it in heavy, polished wood. More than being a guest, I felt as if I could walk out the door and down the hall to my own parlor. The staff knew me by name.

  Something for you, Hedda Krause.

  By evening the growing shadows and enveloping gray unsettled me, and the four walls that had seemed a cocoon during the day loomed like a trap in the night. I changed into a dress suitable for the evening, one with sleeves long enough to cover the raised, red rash that persisted above my wrist. I pawed through my jewels to find a piece with the perfect understatement, but nothing seemed to suit my mood. Finally, I chose my simple pearl earrings and my wedding band. Nothing else. It somehow seemed fitting not to be weighed down by my worth.

  I dined alone, surrounded by empty tables. It was midweek—a slow night in a slow season, and I ate my supper slowly as well, savoring each bite. Biding my time, delaying my return. As I lingered over the last crumbs of cream cake, the staff began clearing the tables and running a sweeper over the carpet. Boisterous laughter came from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of clinking dishes. The waiter assigned to my table, Kenneth, had rolled up his sleeves and loosened his collar but still spoke deferentially when he came to clear my plate and take my glass.

  “Have a good evening, Mrs. Krause.”

  I tuned my ear to see if I detected any of the malevolent tone from the previous night, just as I’d done all evening, but found none.

  “Yourself as well, Kenneth.”

  I left the dining room and walked toward the stairs, my body in gradual rebellion with each step. The whole of the Menger felt cavernous. Silent and dark. I could not will my foot to touch the first stair, could not bear the thought of ascending the next. I glanced at the clock. Not quite ten. Still early enough for a cup of coffee. Or tea, perhaps, to be less jangling to the nerves. And while I could have such sent to my room, I chose the only other option.

  The bar.

  It seems unconscionable to be this far in my tale and only now bringing Bert to life, especially given the role he will play in my troubles. And my salvation. I do not want to give the impression that this was my first visit to the bar, nor to imply that my visits were a regular occurrence. Never mind that Theodore Roosevelt himself had been a regular patron. A lady simply didn’t hoist herself on a barstool or lounge in a booth with a drink.

  And yet there had been nights like tonight when there were no prying eyes, no one to pass judgment other than Bert, who proved himself instantly to be a trustworthy friend.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Krause.” He smiled in a way that no other man in this place ever smiled at me—as if he’d been anticipating my arrival and was genuinely glad to see me. “Looks like you can have the seat of your choice.” At this, he gestured expansively, a coded message that I was, indeed, alone. No patrons lurking in the dark corners.

  “Good evening, Bert. This will do.” I took a chair at the table closest to the bar, out of the sight line of the door.

  “Coffee? It’s a cold night. It’s fresh.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Though covered neck to wrist to toes, I felt the chill.

  “I could heat it up for you, if you like.”

  “That sounds even lovelier.” More code. Heating up the coffee had nothing to do with the temperature, only the added ingredient. Whiskey.

  I anticipated the warmth of it even as he walked out from behind the bar, carrying the steaming white cup. He set it down on the table and lingered at my side in a way none of the waiters in the dining room would ever dare.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you, Mrs. Krause?”

  His voice was deep, dark, and smooth—matching the taste I anticipated from my drink, nothing like the rasping, grating speech of the night before.

  “Would you join me, Bert?” The question was out before I could even consider the consequences, but by the time I asked, I found myself desperately wanting him to comply.

  He looked to the door, seeming to gauge the probability that one more lost, chilled patron might arrive. Then, without a word, he strode across the room and locked it. Then back again to lock the street entrance, turning the sign to CLOSED. All of this, wordlessly. Clandestine. Soon he was seated across from me with his own steaming cup. Straight—I watched him pour. A single candle burned in an amber glass between us. I studied his face, boldly. No coquettish glance. He did the same, and I thought, He knows. He knows that despite my demeanor, my speech, my jewels, my person, I’m no better than he. Born no higher—even lower, I would have
wagered at the time.

  Finally dropping my gaze, I sipped my coffee, savoring the burn of it down my throat. When I looked up, he was still watching.

  “Is it to your liking, Mrs. Krause?”

  “It’s perfect.” The resurgent heat kicked. “Strong.”

  “You seem…not quite yourself. Lost, tonight.”

  “And you think this will help me find myself?”

  “I don’t think it can hurt.”

  A companionable silence followed, and I realized how long it had been since I shared such a moment. Before my husband died, in the lingering days of his illness, there had been long stretches of quiet—he in the bed, me sitting beside it. All the time after, with his sons at the table, or in the lawyer’s foyer, the silence had been stifling. Condemning. My survival in San Antonio conditioned itself on conversation. Chattering, stringing one mindless word after another to keep a man’s attention. Here I took the time to study Bert—his handsome face, beautiful almost, clean-shaven with a rounded jaw and soft mouth. His eyes were something close to bronze, his lashes—dark and dense enough to look almost kohl-lined—curled up along the top. I’d spent enough time in the Deep South to recognize the coloring, the close-cropped dark hair. The realization brought a new thrill to the idea of the two of us sharing a dark table in an empty room. It was a thrill that might have been a fear under other circumstances, but I’d had quite enough of fear already.

  “How long have you worked here, Bert?”

  “At the Menger?” He looked up, calculating. “I’d say close to thirty years.”

  I nearly choked on my drink. “Thirty years? But you, you look—”

  He laughed, rich and rolling. “I started when I was a kid, back with the brewery. Not even ten years old. Runnin’ errands and such. I carried bags of barley as soon as I was old enough to lift them, carried blocks of ice as soon as I was strong enough to do that. Worked in the laundry, the kitchen. Pretty much wherever I was needed.”