Weekend

by Tania Grossinger

  “Then what is it a question of?”

  “There’s got to be more in the world than just sex. What about love, for instance?”

  “What about it?”

  “To be with a man just because he’s got a you-know-what between his legs is ridiculous,” Fern went on. “I’d rather be by myself. Then, at least, I know I’m not being used.”

  Charlotte quickly dropped the conversation, but was not at all pleased at having burdened herself with a dud. “As if I don’t have enough difficulty meeting someone as it is,” she mused.

  “We might as well get something to eat,” she suggested as she made her way through the crowd to the serving tables. Fern followed reluctantly just as Bruce, trying to balance two plates and a drink, turned around awkwardly and nearly knocked Charlotte off her feet.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” he said, his face almost as red as the nearby tablecloths.

  “No harm done,” Charlotte said, holding on to his shoulder for support. “How’s the food?”

  “The best I ever tasted. Those little liver things, I think they’re called knishes, are delicious.”

  “How marvelous,” she said, lifting two from his plate and popping them simultaneously into her mouth. “I just love little liver things.”

  He was about to respond when his eyes were drawn to Fern standing uncomfortably at her side. “I think someone’s trying to get through.”

  “Oh, that’s just Fern. Fern,” she said, grabbing her roommate brusquely by the arm, “I want you to meet—”

  “Bruce. Bruce Solomon.”

  “Hi,” Fern said, barely lifting her head. He felt a surge of pity for the obviously unhappy young lady.

  “And you must be the hotel’s hostess, huh?” he asked, turning his attention back to Charlotte.

  “Me? Goodness no,” she said. “I’m just a virgin in distress.”

  “In distress? Why?”

  “Because I’m a virgin.”

  Fat chance, Bruce thought.

  “For Godsakes, Charlotte,” Fern said.

  “So your name’s Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte’s the name and fun’s the game,” she said, assuming a dramatic pose, “but first things first. Are you up here by yourself or is there a wife in the background shooting evil darts at me for talking to you?”

  “No wife, not even a girlfriend. I’m afraid I’m as stag as I’ll ever be.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence,” she said, taking him possessively by the arm, “so are we.”

  Flo Goldberg excused herself from the group of chattering women and walked to the oak bar where Manny was gathered with his cronies. He was talking with a cigar in his mouth again, rolling it around lasciviously with his teeth while spots of brown saliva drooled over the top of his lower lip. It was thoroughly disgusting and for a moment she had to swallow hard to keep down the little cocktail franks. Finally she took a deep breath and pulled him away.

  “What is it, for crissakes? Everything’s got to be a mystery, a secret?”

  “Relax, will you. I’m not going to keep you from your dirty stories. I’m just going up to fix my makeup. If I’m not back before the party ends, I’ll meet you in the dining room.”

  “Your makeup looks good enough to me.”

  “Shows how much you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay, I’ll meet you in the dining room.” Suddenly he remembered something. “Listen, I left a package of cigars in the little suitcase. Bring ’em back with you when you come down.”

  “You know you can’t smoke in the dining room on Friday, Manny. They keep Shabbes up here.”

  “Don’t worry about it, huh? Just bring ’em.”

  He turned back to the group of men, said something quickly with a gesture toward her and joined them in a raucous laugh. She paid no attention, by now she was used to him, and hurried out of the room. When she stepped into the lobby she checked to see there was no one there she knew and, satisfied, walked in the direction of the service desk. Billy Marcus came out from the little office behind, buttoning his three-quarter blue bellhop’s jacket from bottom to top. Having caught her attention, he looked around nervously, then came out from behind the counter.

  “Good evening,” Flo said smiling.

  “Mrs. Goldberg. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you think,” she said, taking her room key out of her purse, “you could go up to my room and get a package of cigars from the small suitcase under the bed?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Many thanks,” she said, handing him the key. As he walked to the elevator, she went over to the information desk, pretending to check for messages. Then she quickly followed him to her room. She had only to knock once.

  “Hello again, Mrs. Goldberg,” Billy grinned.

  “We’ve got about fifteen minutes,” she replied tersely, throwing her pocketbook on the nearest chaise. In a matter of seconds she had unzipped her cocktail dress, the underside of her upper arms jiggling unceremoniously as she pushed it down over her hips and clumsily wriggled out.

  “Congress quickie, eh?” Billy said.

  Flo didn’t bother to reply. She was all business. Instead of working her girdle off, she unsnapped her stockings and folded the elastic material up over her abdomen so she could remove it at the same time she did her panties.

  He just stood and watched. A curiously built twenty-two-year-old with a football player’s shoulders and a matador’s hips and ass, Marcus was a good six inches taller than Flo. His shiny blond hair had a thickly rich texture that gave testimony to his good health and virility. His tanned freckled face reminded her of a young Van Johnson.

  Women had no difficulty molding Billy into their fantasies and Flo was certainly no different. Her favorite was to run her fingers up and down his erect prick, imagining at the same time that she was being seen on the new cinemascopic screens, so flesh-toned and life-like in 3-D that men in the audience had orgasms in their seats just at the sight of her.

  It was time for Billy to get started. Methodically, he proceeded to kneel so he could play with her nipples. He closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in his own fantasy. Often while making love to one woman, he thought of making love to another. And then there were the times when he had to force himself to think about other things, just so he’d have the lasting power. Like last week when he made love to that pimply faced twenty-year-old daughter of a VIP. The whole time he replayed the last game of the 1956 World Series. But Flo was having none of it. She rushed him along.

  “Christ, is this safe? I mean—”

  “It’s safe. Of course it’s safe.” She was tugging at his belt. “Manny’s at the bar and he’s going to meet me in the dining room in fifteen minutes.”

  “Hold on,” he said. He had at least wanted to take off his uniform and get his pants neatly folded. But it was obviously too late. Dropping to her knees, she clawed down his jockey shorts and embraced his legs so savagely he nearly toppled backward on the bed.

  “Hey, take it—”

  “God yes,” she moaned, mistaking the words for a request. She nearly choked on her enthusiasm. As her lips tightened, she thought she could feel the movement of blood through the tiny veins in the stem of his penis. It had hardened against her tongue. The realization made her dizzy. She released him and pressed her cheeks against his balls, inhaling the musty odor. Then she reacted to the vaginal wetness soaking through the crotch of her panties.

  Impatiently, she pulled them off, dropping them like a flag of surrender.

  “Quickly,” she begged. “I can’t wait.”

  Billy straightened up and then fell on top of her body. Her legs dangled clumsily over the edge of the bed. He set out to tease her, threatening entrance, then pulling away pretending disinterest. She was having none of it. She wanted him NOW, completely, totally, fully.

  “Hurry up,” she cried, “this is no time for games. I’ve got to be there before they serve the soup.”

  “Yes ma’am,”
he replied as if on cue. “At your service.”

  He entered her quickly, her arms pounding him lightly on the shoulder at first, then somewhat harder with a rhythm akin to the cha-cha—in, out, cha, cha, cha. One, two, one–two–three.

  “Careful,” he said between grunts. “Don’t mess up my jacket. I just had it cleaned and pressed.”

  Afterward she tried to work the flush out of her face with cold water and fresh makeup. He was gone when she came back from the bathroom. She checked herself in the mirror, straightened up the bed, and left. When she reached the lobby, she saw people still going into the dining room. “Good,” she thought, “I’m not late.”

  Suddenly she heard her name. She turned with a shock as Billy Marcus strode toward her, clutching something awkwardly in his fist.

  “What is it?” she said breathlessly, her hands pressed tightly, almost protectively, against her hips. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your husband’s cigars,” he said, holding out the package. He leaned forward. “I thought you might have been joking but I decided to check the suitcase anyway.”

  “Thank God,” she said with a sigh of relief. “It’s a good thing you did. Thank you,” she went on, loud enough for the elderly couple on the sofa to hear. “And this is for you.”

  She pressed something deep into his hand. Her fingers squeezed his for a moment, then, suddenly ravenous, she went off to join her husband.

  Billy rubbed one palm against the other, then looked down to see what she had left. Would you believe it, he muttered with disgust, a lousy fifty cents. For all his effort, a goddamn lousy fifty cents!

  Melinda caught Nick Martin’s eye as he stood waiting patiently in the lobby. With the assurance of one who knows what she wants, she walked across the plush carpet never once breaking stride or taking her attention from his face. She knew a good find when she had one.

  “I’m not late.”

  “No.” She was one of the most striking women he had ever laid eyes on. “Shall we indulge?”

  “In everything,” she said, taking his arm and leading him past the nightclub toward the party.

  Jonathan watched them enter the Gold room, checked to see that Ellen was where he could find her and went over to greet the two of them. Neither seemed happy at the intrusion.

  “Good evening,” he said, holding his hand out to Nick. “Glad you could make it.” He turned to the lady at his side. “And good evening to you too, Miss—”

  “This is Melinda Kaplan,” Nick interrupted. “Melinda, this is Jonathan Lawrence, general manager of the Congress.”

  Melinda was both impressed and curious. Here Nick had only been at the hotel a few hours and already he knew the general manager. Mr. Lawrence had a reputation for avoiding guests at all costs. Whenever there were personal problems or complaints, he was known to leave the patching up to Mrs. Golden or Magda. “How did you ever get into the hospitality business, Mr. Lawrence? I understand you really don’t like people very much.” Melinda was nothing if not direct.

  Jonathan felt his Adam’s apple begin to throb, the way it used to when he was a kid and his stepmother discovered he had wet his bed again. “Not exactly, Miss Kaplan.”

  “It’s Mrs. I’m divorced.”

  “I’m sorry. Mrs. Well, Mrs. Kaplan, it’s not that I don’t like people. Rest assured that I do. It’s just that I have more important things to do than run around like a social butterfly. Hotels don’t operate by themselves,” he added pompously. “They need someone to control things behind the scenes, to make them work smoothly and efficiently so that people like you get the feeling the establishment runs itself.” He had not been aware he had raised his voice and now as the music stopped he found himself, much to his embarrassment, the center of attraction. He cleared his throat quickly and turned to Nick.

  “Mrs. Golden is across the room. Would you like me to introduce you?”

  Nick looked in the direction Jonathan indicated, looked back at the nervous general manager, and shook his head. “No, I think not. This is no atmosphere for a serious conversation.” His attitude toward Jonathan was distinctly peremptory. “I’m not interested in thirty-second cocktail chitchat.”

  “Um, yes, of course,” Jonathan stuttered defensively. “You’re quite right. We’ll make it another time.” Before he could finish his sentence, Nick and Melinda had already made off toward the bar.

  Damn it, he muttered to himself, gulping down a glass of champagne. What the hell is happening to my control? Of all the times to …

  “Hey,” he said, spotting one of the bellhops at the entrance leaning against the wall, his jacket unbuttoned and hanging lopsided on his chest. He was talking to a teenage girl. “What do you think this is, a pool hall? Straighten up your uniform and find something to do.” The girl gave Jonathan an icy stare. He moved on, feeling for the moment relieved.

  “Excuse me one minute,” Charlotte said, giving Bruce’s forearm a little pinch. “I’ve got to go to the little girl’s room.” As she giggled and walked away, Fern had an immediate sense of panic. Charlotte had dominated the conversation until now and suddenly she had no idea what to say.

  Bruce rubbed his arm and moved to her side. “Your friend’s quite a character. Is she always this lively?”

  “I don’t really know. We don’t hang around together all that much. It’s our parents who are friends.”

  “I see.” Bruce nodded slowly. “Is this your first trip to the Catskills?”

  “Yes. I’ve never been to a place like this before.” She sipped nervously at her drink.

  “Me neither,” he said, lighting toasting her champagne glass with his. Fern felt herself relax. This guy wasn’t at all as pushy as she had come to expect. There was something very unassuming about him, something quite natural and easy.

  “I suppose it’s still one of the best vacation values around, considering you don’t have to pay extra for meals and entertainment,” she said. “What was it you said you do?”

  “Medical research. Lab work.”

  “That’s a lot more interesting than what I do … bookkeeping.”

  “It may sound like it is, but most of the time it’s like everything else—routines, filing, paperwork.” He took a better look at this girl. She had such an attractive face, almost Levantine in structure. If only she wasn’t so afraid of calling attention to it. Her lack of confidence was so obvious his heart went out to her. He felt an urge to hug her in his arms. If only someone could wake her up. He caught himself. He was at the Congress on business, not to play Pygmalion. “Would you like another?”

  “Oh my,” Fern said, looking down at her empty glass. “I think I’m drinking this stuff too fast.”

  “Don’t fret. It’ll help you loosen up. First experiences are always unnerving.”

  So he understood the way she felt, she thought, almost giddily. How lovely. “How can people eat so much,” she asked, pointing to the couples going back for refill after refill, “with a full course meal waiting for them right around the corner?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Beats me. I guess they’re making sure they get their money’s worth. So,” he went on, “where exactly do you live in the city?”

  She answered and he asked another question. She began to talk more openly, about how she hated it when she lived with her parents, how she loved to listen to WOR’s “Metropolitan Opera of the Air” on Saturday afternoons, and how much she liked Chinese food. They walked aimlessly around the Gold room, watching the people flirt and listening to the Latin music. It suddenly occurred to her that Charlotte was spending an awfully long time in the bathroom. She was glad.

  Charlotte, in fact, was upstairs in the dining room trying to chase down the maitre d’. One of the headwaiters had gone in the kitchen to get him as she stood cooling her heels and watching the staff prepare for the invasion that would take place in a matter of minutes. The room was enormous, but thanks to a strategic placement of mirrors and balconies, it gave off an undisputed feelin
g of warmth and intimacy. The china and crystal glistened in the candlelight as the busboys and porters continued to make last minute gestures, polishing the silver, filling the relish and bread trays, putting the fresh flowers in vases, and setting up the coffee and tea service. The captains continued to see that the stations were in order and finally the elegant Mr. Pat, uncharacteristically harassed, hurried down the middle aisle. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said as he took Charlotte’s hand in his and brushed it up to his lips. “We had a little confusion in the kitchen. A couple of dishwashers forgot to show up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll only keep you a moment. Actually, I’m here for a favor. My girlfriend and I just met an old friend at the cocktail party whom we didn’t know was going to be here. I was wondering if you could arrange for him to be seated at our table.”

  “Let me see,” Mr. Pat said, looking at the chart on the top of his desk. “You are—”

  “Charlotte Fein. And my friend is Fern Rosen.”

  The maitre d’ perused the chart slightly longer than he needed. He knew the girls were already slated to sit in Siberia, the area furthest away from the kitchen and serviced by the least experienced help. He also knew they would not complain.

  Seating arrangements at a Catskill resort were never left to chance and after many years Mr. Pat of the Congress had it down to a science. Most couples and families preferred to dine with each other, not too close to the entrance and not too far from the kitchen. Old timers were happiest right in the center or on the first balcony where they could oversee all that was going on. Older people preferred tables with younger folk, a desire not reciprocated by the younger ones. Singles only wanted to be with each other, even in Siberia, and if the chemistry at the table was right, they didn’t mind if the service was slow. It gave them more time to get to know each other. Also, and not a matter to be taken lightly, they knew they would be able to get away with tipping less than their counterparts in the more distinguished areas.

  Mr. Pat had a unique method for making the arrangements. Some time ago he had built a large peg board with large circles that represented the location of tables in the dining room. Using different colored pegs—blue for unattached males, pink for females, and yellow for couples, he would work up his strategy every Friday afternoon after getting copies of the check-in slips, balancing sexes, marital statuses, sometimes even geographical backgrounds to set up tables. He was firmly convinced that as many romances, affairs and marriages were due to the placement of his colored pegs as they were to Magda, the hostess’s introductions.