So the fact that this new guest arrived in a fur coat gave Richard pause.
An ancient white Cadillac pulled up, polished and gleaming as if it had just come off the showroom floor. A large set of silver antlers ornamented the hood. The driver – a tall, skinny woman with white-blonde hair in a tight-fitting black pants suit – strode around the car and stood by the right rear door. She surveyed the surroundings with a studied casualness, but anxiety betrayed itself in the set of her mouth, the quick dart of her eyes. After a few seconds she bent awkwardly and opened the door.
An elderly man slipped out of the car, his head dropping low over the pavement. Richard thought he might be infirm, but, although he appeared bowed, there was something of a muscular crouch in his posture. And once he was fully out of the car, the man suddenly went electrically erect.
He was enveloped in a voluminous, thick fur coat. Richard didn’t recognize the species of the pelt. It was a reddish brown, but with highlights of silver, yellow, and black.
The woman opened the hotel door with one hand. Jacob hadn’t been paying attention, and jumped away from the rapidly swinging door as it hit the great bumpers protecting the wall. Richard stared. The hydraulics weren’t fixed yet. She’d shown no strain at all.
Richard opened up the registry as they approached the desk. He made himself smile. That was the hardest part of the job – faking friendly. The elderly man stopped and stared at him, his eyes wide and pinkish beneath bushy eyebrows. Deep creases runneled his face, leaving long, rough pouches of flesh between the lines. Every few seconds a portion of skin would twitch, and there would be a generalized shiver across the face, as of something barely controlled. And then the man’s face would pale, as if chilled. His hair was a rusty brown, streaked with gray, and very thick.
“I’m not accustomed to signing.” His voice was old, yet unusually strong, like a Shakespearean actor’s.
Richard closed the book. “We don’t require it. Jacob says…”
“I will pay you when I decide to terminate my stay. I require a key,” the man said.
“Of course.” Richard retrieved a key from the ‘good’ row, the one Jacob had identified as being for ‘impressive’ guests. He was pretty sure this guest fit the category.
The woman helped the man remove his fur coat. He wore a three-piece black suit underneath. Wool. Some two feet of thick, luxurious hair billowed out over his shoulders when she pulled the coat away. As it unfurled, layers of hair were revealed, redder and redder, to a dazzling, crimson-copper sheen.
The man stretched his arms, his shoulders straining under the tight seams of his suit. His head fell back slightly; he sniffed the Deadfall air with a narrow-bridged nose that broadened as his nostrils expanded.
Once the woman took the key, the pair moved quickly toward the stairs. The old man’s stride did not falter as they headed up.
“I see Arthur is back with us again.” Jacob came around the corner and leaned on the desk. It startled Richard – he realized then that Jacob had disappeared during the checkin, perhaps wanting to see if Richard could handle it on his own.
“He didn’t want to sign his name. I take it he’s been here before?”
“Oh yes, Arthur’s a regular guest. Arthur Lovelace. He’s been coming here more years than you would believe.” He paused. “He has a new driver. You will find that he never has the same driver two years in a row. They are always women. Tall ones.” Another pause. Then, abruptly, “Did he say how long he was staying?”
“No, just that he’d pay me when he decides to leave.”
Jacob gave a little snort. Then his voice became soft, almost sad. “Keep Serena away from him, Richard.”
Richard touched the old caretaker’s sleeve. “Why? What’s wrong here, Jacob?”
Jacob studied his hands. “Just do as I ask. Nothing to be concerned about, really. You just have to be careful sometimes, running this hotel. I have told you that before. Please, just keep Serena away from him.”
“If she’s going to be in danger then he’ll have to leave!”
Jacob looked at him sharply. “You know that is not an option. We do not turn guests away from the Deadfall. There are very few exceptions. Besides, I did not say she was in danger. She is safe; we are all safe, as long as we remain cautious. And most of our guests understand the protocols involved in staying here. With a few, such as Arthur Lovelace, I like to be a bit more careful. More circumspect. More because he is getting old than because of what he is. Sometimes, as they grow older, they become less predictable. We all have elderly relatives who are less – thoughtful, let us say – than they once were, do we not? Less predictable in their behavior? Trust me, Richard. Just keep Serena away from him. She is… on her way to womanhood.”
“What does that have to do with it?” He thought of sexual predators, and all the cautions he had instilled in her over the years regarding strangers.
Jacob shook his head. “I will watch him, Richard. Nothing untoward will occur. I am quite fond of the child. And I am a careful man.”
Richard wanted more – he was always wanting more from Jacob – but Jacob ended the conversation by walking away.
He could hear Serena playing right outside the front door. He’d have to watch her. He’d keep her inside all day, have her sit right next to him, if it came to it. He stared at the Cadillac through the window. The glare of sun obscured its lines, so that all he could really see was the grill, sharp-edged and shining.
“Jacob! Jacob, come back here!” He couldn’t stop himself. “This can’t be right! How can you be so calm about this? Hell, how can I be so calm? Do you hear me? This isn’t making any sense!”
Jacob stepped out of the shadows. “I am listening, Richard.”
“This is all pretty bizarre, don’t you think? How am I supposed to take all this in stride? How can we live like this? Things could go terribly wrong at any moment. You take a wrong turn in the hall and your life changes forever! How can I accept that?”
Jacob made a vague, sad gesture. “I had a friend at one time, with cancer. End stage, a terrible thing. He could not understand his own body anymore. He became convinced it was not his own body anymore, that someone had stolen his body, taken his brain, transplanted it. He did not understand how he could live that way.”
“How did you help him with that?”
“I didn’t. I was useless. I told him what I would tell you. ‘That is what we have,’ I said. ‘That is what we have.’”
“So get used to it, right? Stop complaining and get used to it.”
“No, Richard, learn to treasure it.”
RICHARD AND SERENA sat out in the front lobby that night, talking, reading to each other. Serena would ask him to read her an article in one of the news magazines he’d been perusing, and in return she’d read him a passage from C.S. Lewis or E.B. White. He knew it made her feel grown up, and he usually enjoyed it immensely, although sometimes it went on too long for his tastes – some nights, Serena’s tolerance for these readings seemed boundless.
Richard glanced at the staircase, where a shadow slipped down the carpeted steps.
“Serena, it’s bedtime.”
“Daddy.”
The shadow rose and shook its head.
“Serena, it’s time to go to bed.”
“Daddy! It’s only eight o’clock!”
“Serena.”
She stood up and flounced away to their quarters behind the desk. Arthur Lovelace eased off the last two stairs, stepped silently across the floor, and entered the enclosed circle of furniture.“A lovely child,” he said with a slight rasp.
Richard stiffened. The old man stepped up into one of the soft upholstered chairs, then sank slowly into the seat, curling his legs beneath him. Light from the wall sconces filtered through his hair, casting reddish shadows across the skin pouches hiding his cheekbones. His eyes were dark pits. “Thank you,” Richard murmured.
“The young ones break your heart, do they not? I suppose it is
because you know they cannot remain young. All too soon they – mature, would be the word, I suppose. They change, into young men, young women. Their bodies become unfamiliar things to you, and to themselves. The boy transitions into manhood. And even more mysteriously, a tide of blood erases a young girl’s face, and a woman’s features are suddenly detectable beneath the coagulation.”
Richard was reluctant to make any sudden movements in the man’s – he searched for the right word, settling on ‘deadly’ – presence. Richard sensed a burning in the man’s shadowed face as he spoke, a layer of pain just beneath the surface. Pinkish gums and a redder lining of the mouth, and an even redder tongue, as Lovelace stretched his lips too wide in the articulation of each word, so that Richard was seeing far too much for comfort of the man’s oral workings.
“A lovely child, a lovely child,” the red mouth said.
“Yes, yes she is. Thank you very much.” Richard was giddy with anxiety.
“Do you suppose I might have something to drink, this evening?” Lovelace said, almost coquettishly. “Perhaps some sherry? My tongue becomes rather dry in spring. The climate, I suppose.”
“Of course. I’ll bring you some sherry.”
“No water for me, thank you. It seems to irritate my throat.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Makes me a bit irritable, as well.” Lovelace chuckled dryly. Richard decided he’d get the sherry right away, to wet that dry chuckle. Starting for the bar by the dining room, he staggered slightly as if exhausted or drunk.
“Such a good child,” Lovelace called after him.
Richard could see the old man’s eyes now, suddenly pushed out of the shadows. As if on wheels, he thought crazily. The eyes looked almost too human, exaggerated, like a manikin’s eyes.
“Such a good child,” the mouth said again.
Richard almost ran to get the man’s sherry, feeling crazed and sick with himself. Abby would have known what to do. She’d always known how to take care of things.
RICHARD WAS SURPRISED to encounter Jacob trotting rapidly down the second floor hallway with a wheelbarrow full of books. Jacob, red-faced, stopped as soon as he saw him. Several dusty hardbound volumes tumbled out of the front of the wheelbarrow onto the scarlet carpet.
Richard began picking them up: A History of Czarist Russia, The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, Beginning English Composition. “These are from the library?”
“I thought I would set up Serena’s classroom today. We always have more than enough empty rooms, and she needs her own space for lessons and study. I’ve already moved two desks in, and a blackboard. I would not want her to fall behind in her studies.” Jacob still did not look directly at him.
“Two desks?”
“One is for the tutor.”
“Oh, of course. Miss Dandridge. I’m anxious to meet her. Is she starting next week? I’d probably better prepare Serena – I’m afraid she’s beginning to think that since we’re in a hotel, she must be on vacation.”
“Yes, well, I’m afraid Miss Dandridge is unable to help us out this year.”
Richard frowned. “This is an important school year for Serena. I trust you’ve found a competent replacement?”
Jacob straightened, looking at him directly now. “I will be Serena’s tutor. At least for the year.”
It was Richard’s turn to drop his eyes and stare at the books in the wheelbarrow: old volumes of math and social studies, a newer geography, Huckleberry Finn, On the Road. “Well, you’re obviously a very intelligent man.” He looked up shyly. “I mean, obviously. But have you ever taught anyone before?”
“Three years in Belgium, in fact. A year in Switzerland. I may be a bit rusty, Richard, but I will do a good job. I would not risk your daughter’s education, if I were not confident in this.”
“Of course. I’m sure. I was just caught off guard.”
“As was I,” Jacob replied, picking up the long handles of the wheelbarrow again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best get these books onto the shelves.”
The next morning, Richard donned his Deadfall Recreation Director’s headwear and went out to the tennis courts. Jacob had presented the cap to him with an uncharacteristically broad smile: a baseball-style cap, crimson with black script lettering, the brim too large and too soft to be stylish. The sweatband was cracked and stained, according to Jacob, “with the sweat from every proprietor of the hotel since the early forties.” Richard didn’t want to appear ungracious, but when he slipped it on he could feel his neck muscles contract involuntarily. But it proved to be remarkably comfortable – he expected to wear it a great deal over the coming months.
The accompanying T-shirt – bearing the same lettering style and similar, although not precisely identical, color scheme – had been Jacob’s innovation when he’d been in charge. Thankfully, he hadn’t insisted that Richard wear his hand-me-down, but had a little shop in one of the local hamlets make up a new one.
Two old women, draped like unused furniture in dark cloth, swatted at a shuttlecock out on a close-clipped grass court. Black silk scarves hooded their heads so that Richard couldn’t see their faces. He stood by the edge of the court and watched them for a while, his arms folded across his chest. He felt silly in his gaudy T-shirt and sports cap in the presence of these dark-clothed, grim players. They didn’t so much play, actually, as participate in a predefined ritual. He’d seen them out here before – apparently they were the closest thing the Deadfall had to permanent residents. Jacob said they had moved in sometime before his tenure. They were amazingly accurate in their volley, never missing over the short distance that separated them. They stood stock-still, monk-like, the tilt of their heads following the flight of the shuttlecock.
Then one of the women let the shuttlecock fall to the court, and they left together, the long-stemmed rackets held delicately upright, as they had every other time Richard had watched them. The fallen shuttlecock was forgotten – they used a new one each day. Richard wondered where they got them; they’d never asked him for one. In fact, like most of the guests, they made him feel fairly useless.
He turned his back on the court, watching their smooth, unlabored progress up the slope toward the hotel. He heard a quick flap of wings, and discovered that the shuttlecock was gone.
Few who came here were at all interested in recreation, at least of the sort the hotel sponsored in any official capacity. There was the occasional jogger, sometimes a swimmer, and once an old, hunchbacked man who shot baskets most of every afternoon. But none who really needed any sort of director.
Jacob once told him that they used to have large tennis tournaments here, but that the ‘uncomfortable’ charge in the atmosphere as hotel guests watched locals and locals stared in return made things so uncomfortable that the local people stopped coming, and the tournament died.
The branches hanging just over the courts stirred, birds flew, something dropped at the far end of the manicured grass and burst through the underbrush, and was soon moving aggressively through the trees beyond.
Richard jogged to the side of the courts and circled around the trees. In the distant green pasture bordering the hotel grounds on the north a figure was running, break-neck, charging. A long banner of red-brown hair flew behind the runner’s shoulders.
SOMETHING CAME INTO his dreams: faster than thought, swift and full of rage. Once again, he’d been dreaming of Abby, but the thing swallowed her whole, his memories of her divided again and again until only a fine, red mist remained. Something slipped through the dark corridors of the Deadfall Hotel, which had become the secret passages through Richard’s dreams, and, although it could not be seen, it could be felt. It made the dark air electric. It left the belly ill. It made the nerves and muscles dance. Richard tried to shout in his dream, tried to cry warning, but the thing had already stolen his breath away. He had become empty and hopelessly inadequate. A fool.
The thing’s swift dance through his dream became playful. A light chu
ckle left behind in its passing.
SERENA’S PARTY WAS to be held in the gazebo – just the right size for a small, intimate affair. Jacob had been busy washing down the structure and making small repairs since early that morning. Right after lunch, Richard found him up on the gazebo roof.
“You’re going to have a heart attack, working so hard!” Richard called. Jacob snorted. Richard knew full well that the old man was much healthier than he was. It touched him that Jacob would expend such effort on Serena’s behalf.
“I can’t remember the last time this Gazebo was used,” Jacob said. “A marriage in the early eighties, I believe.”
“What kind of shape is it in?”
“It was in terrible shape! I had to replace half of the floor supports – that floor wouldn’t have held for a five-year-old, and certainly not Serena and her guests.”
Richard nodded, walking around the bright white and red perimeter. Everything was freshly-painted. Jacob had worked a miracle – the gazebo didn’t appear illused in the least. There remained but a trace of the off-centeredness, the lean, and a faint scent of decay beneath the renewed colors.
The gazebo had been one of the first things Richard noticed when he moved into the Deadfall, after the suicide cascade of tree limbs. Its awkward proportions drew the eye, the pointed gray roof too high for the diameter of its base, and the side-rails too high up on its eight support members. The boards had been warped, cracking with age and damp.
Richard walked around and around the gazebo self-consciously as Jacob worked. He knew he was really looking for flaws, some excuse for Serena not to have her party here, even though that was what she wanted so badly. And Jacob would recognize exactly what he was doing.
“Have you read the paper lately?” Jacob leaned over the railing so far that Richard was startled.
“Which paper?” The question surprised him. Jacob would know that Richard hadn’t bought a paper since moving into the Deadfall.
Deadfall Hotel Page 5
