Weekend

by Tania Grossinger

  Sandi studied his face for a moment. “They’re just trying to have a good time. What’s wrong with that?” He didn’t bother to respond, just stuck his hands in his pockets and continued walking toward the tree. Alison shook her head.

  “I think he’s a little crazy. Maybe we shouldn’t be hanging around with him.”

  “He’s not crazy, he’s just got some problems, that’s all,” Sandi said. She suddenly turned on Alison, her eyes ablaze. “Not everybody’s got it as lucky as you do … with a mother and father and everything. …” She turned and started after Grant.

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Sandi? Sandi?” Alison rushed to catch up with her.

  Sandi couldn’t say what she meant or really understand why she had turned so angrily on her friend. All she knew was that she felt a strange kinship to this weird, new boy who walked around the hotel with a continuous scowl on his face, ridiculed everything that was going on, and resented just about everyone he met. She recognized the anger in him but in a curious way, she felt she understood. Being at the Congress made Grant feel like a nonperson. It was obvious even his mother didn’t want him around. Sandi was luckier. She knew her mother loved her, but even she wasn’t quite sure what kind of person she was at the Congress. Being the daughter of the owner affected the image everyone had of her, including her own. School was the worst.

  She hadn’t planned it that way but she did have more facilities at her disposal than the average kid could even contemplate. Not only that, she met celebrities with the same frequency her friends met each other. She had letters and autographed pictures, and almost every day she came across tidbits of information gossip columnists would give their eye teeth to have. But whenever she mentioned these to her friends at school, not out of a desire to brag but from a need to share her everyday life, she was accused of name dropping and met with envy that often bordered on downright hostility.

  By the same token, these same so-called friends would vie for her favor in subtle and not so subtle ways. Who would she invite to the hotel this weekend? Who would be able to swim in the indoor pool in the middle of winter? Who would get to eat in the hotel dining room? Who would be lucky enough to spend an afternoon in the hotel’s Teen Room? But there was no one around to answer her own question. Who could she trust to like her for herself and not for what she had to give?

  As a result, not surprisingly, she began to resent the hotel and talked against it to anyone at school who would listen. She complained about the lack of a real home life, bitched about the guests and wished out loud she had a normal childhood like everybody else. When she discovered the kids were laughing behind her back, she began to withdraw.

  Only recently Ellen had been warned about her daughter’s changing personality. “It’s not terribly serious right now, Mrs. Golden,” Keith Spier, the guidance counselor at the local school, began during the informal hour after parents’ night, “but a number of teachers have remarked about Sandi’s way of relating, or not relating, to the other students. She doesn’t seem to be able to trust anyone, to get close. She’s become more of a loner than we think is healthy for a youngster of her age. It’s a bit strange, considering she’s exposed to so many people at the hotel.”

  Ellen was very disturbed that she didn’t noticed it earlier. At the Congress, as far as she could see, Sandi had no trouble adjusting and seemed to have friends. When she repeated the conversation to Phil he nodded, tucked in his lower lip and promised to direct more attention to her. But it was like so many other promises, heartfelt though they may be, destined never to be kept.

  Grant sat back with his back against the tree and began pulling out clumps of grass. Sandi lowered herself to sit beside him. Alison remained standing, staring off across the hotel’s lawn. The parking lot was located just across the road and they all turned as a carhop spun the wheels of a guest’s car, spitting up gravel and burning the rubber so hard they could smell it from where they were.

  “I bought the book,” Sandi said. Alison had a question mark on her face. Grant began chewing on a blade of grass. She took it out of the back pocket of her jeans. It was wrapped in brown bag paper so no one could see the title. Grant made a grab for it and pulled the paper off.

  “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.“ He looked up at Alison. “I think my mother wrote this book.” Sandi and he laughed but Alison, feeling very left out, turned away, shaking her head. “These the pages, where you got the corners turned down?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “‘And she held the penis soft in her hand,’” he began.

  Alison began to blush. “Stop that,” she said. “You’re not supposed to read that kind of stuff out loud.”

  He looked up at her and then turned to Sandi, who now wore a wry smile on her face.

  “What’s with Alison Tits?”

  “CUT THAT OUT!” Alison stamped her foot. Sandi looked up, fighting to subdue her laughter. Grant continued to read.

  “‘And she quickly kissed the soft penis. …’”

  Alison was disgusted and trotted off, heading back to her parents in the main building. She moved awkwardly over the lawn, the small heels of her shoes sinking too deeply into the sod, causing her legs to wobble. Grant laughed very loudly.

  “She’ll never talk to me again,” Sandi said.

  “No loss.”

  “And she’ll tell her mother, who will go and tell my mother.”

  “Big deal.”

  “I’m beginning to think she’s right. You’re nothing but a juvenile delinquent.”

  “So? Why don’t you run off too?”

  She wasn’t sure. She found herself staring at him, both thrilled and frightened by his anger. Part of her wanted to go, but a stronger part of her, the part stimulated by the words in the book, by the mysterious urges in her young body, wanted to stay. Before she could reply, they heard a strange sound coming from behind them, in the parking lot. They turned to see what it was.

  One of the gardeners had his hand braced against the side of an automobile as he leaned over. He was retching up his guts. It had the deep, hollow sound of a clogged sink drain.

  “Ugh.” Sandi stood up. Grant laughed again.

  “Too bad Alison had to miss this.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Sandi said, starting away. “C’mon.” Grant watched the gardener a moment more, fascinated with his misery. Then he closed the book and stood up. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed her.

  It took David Oberman an extraordinarily long time to come to the door of his room. Bruce was conscious of the fact that he was practically pounding on it. An elderly man and woman down the corridor stopped and looked his way. He tried to relax, reminding himself that he had a responsibility to keep calm. The moment Oberman opened the door, Bruce knew they were in trouble.

  The chunky man’s face was so pale his lips had practically lost all hue. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot and it obviously took great effort to keep them open. The lids hung as if ready to spring shut at any moment. He was dressed in a very faded white tee shirt and an obviously hastily put on pair of pants—the zipper undone, no shoes or socks. His hair was disheveled, strands of it sticking out like porcupine quills. He backed away from the entrance, swaying slightly as he did. Bruce stepped in quickly and closed the door.

  “I … guess I … fell asleep since you called.”

  “Since I called? I just called!” Bruce reached out and took his arm. “C’mon, you’d better get back to bed. How many times have you thrown up?”

  “Five, six, I’ve lost track. But now nothing comes up, it’s just dry heaves. Ohhhh … my stomach…” He made an attempt to rub it and he stumbled. Bruce kept him steady, guided him to the bed, and helped him lie back. Then he went to the phone.

  “This is Bruce Solomon. I’m in Mr. David Oberman’s room. I want you to get hold of Dr. Bronstein and have him call me at this extension immediately. If you can’t reach him, call me back and let me know.” He spoke so quickly, Rosie didn’t have
a chance to deliver her messages. Finally he paused for a breath.

  “Mr. Solomon, Dr. Bronstein has been trying to reach you too. We paged you only a few moments ago.”

  “Well, call him back.”

  “I can’t. He said he was on the way from his office to the hotel to see a guest.”

  “A guest? What guest? Who?”

  “What guest? Just an ordinary—”

  “Who?”

  “I’m looking at the message, Mr. Solomon. Yes, here it is, a Mrs. Bluestone, room three fifteen.”

  He hung up before she could continue and just as quickly, the phone jingled again.

  “Mr. Solomon?” Rosie asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You hung up before I could give you the other message.”

  “Other message? What other message?”

  “The one from New York. I don’t know what it means but someone named Burt from your lab called long distance, no last name, just Burt, and he simply said to give you one word.”

  “What word?”

  “Positive.” There was a moment’s silence. “Mr. Solomon? I’m sorry, but that’s the whole message. Positive. I did ask him twice if there was anything else, but …”

  “No, no, that’s all right. Unfortunately, it’s enough.” This time he lowered the receiver more slowly, staring ahead at David Oberman who lay back on his bed, his eyes closed, clutching his stomach and moaning.

  Somehow, Bruce thought, the world had gone haywire. Suddenly a series of events had occurred, despite the odds and percentages against it being overwhelming; a modern, twentieth-century resort had been thrown back through time, and delivered into the grip of an ancient plague that makes its home in the midst of poverty and degradation—everything the Congress was not. The irony was not lost on him, but he had no time to ponder its meaning.

  ten

  “I’m very worried about her,” Mrs. Teitelbaum said as she came out of the bedroom, her hands clasped tightly and pressed against the bottom of her chin. Her husband looked up from the small cushioned chair. He bit his lower lip gently and nodded. His thick, bright white hair glistened under the light of the standing lamp on his side. Upset though he was, he was still a striking gentleman, one whose age, if anything, had added character to his robust facial features. At seventy-one, he was the patriarch incarnate, fatherly and authoritative; the kind of man who never publicized his wisdom, but whose advice was regularly sought.

  “We’ve already called the doctor. We can’t do much more than wait.”

  She shook her head and sat down on the small couch across from him. In contrast to her husband, she was a study in fragility, petite and delicate where he was sturdy and strong, but in her case, the appearance was deceptive. Although long retired from the leadership of many clubs, organizations and causes, her accomplishments on behalf of the underprivileged were documented at length in Who’s Who and other respected anthologies. Hers was a history of dynamic action, and unlike many of her contemporaries, she refused to let age slow her down.

  “I feel responsible,” she said.

  “That’s nonsense,” he chided. “How could you be responsible?”

  “I was the one who talked her into coming up here in the first place.”

  “You did it as an act of charity. It was the only solution. You saw how enthusiastic Tillie and Harry were when you made the suggestion. If she didn’t get away for a few days she would have driven them crazy. After all, family is family, but,” he lowered his voice, “I’m sure it hasn’t been a bed of roses for them. You know yourself that Martha Bluestone was never easy to live with. Did you forget all the aggravation she gave Gordon, he should rest in peace?”

  She shook her head. “There’s no point in dredging up the past. You think it’s the flu maybe?”

  “How should I know? I’m not a doctor. I never called one to help me try a case in court and no doctor ever called me for advice with a patient.”

  “I’m surprised,” she said, not unkindly. “You have an opinion on just about everthing else.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. Mrs. Teitelbaum looked toward the bedroom.

  “She’s so exhausted from vomiting, poor dear, she can’t even lift her head off the pillow.”

  “So quickly it happened. Yesterday afternoon she was full of vigor, wanting everything her way, as usual—screaming at the bellhop for handling her luggage too roughly, demanding a table in the dining room with the young people. Suddenly—”

  “You think it could be food poisoning?” his wife interrupted.

  “Bite your tongue. That’s all Ellen needs now, someone spreading such a rumor in the hotel.”

  “I’m not spreading a rumor. I’m talking to you. Talking to you is not spreading a rumor,” she said.

  “We all ate the same things,” he said in response.

  “She said it started very early this morning.”

  “So there you are. If it was from the food, the two of us would probably have come down with it by now too.”

  “Then what could it be?”

  “Patience, my dear,” he said. “The doctor will be here soon and he’ll tell us, I’m sure.”

  They heard a moan from the bedroom and looked at each other anxiously. Mrs. Teitelbaum quickly got up and went in to her friend. The old man stood up slowly, wishing there was some way he could alleviate some of her pain. His wife reappeared before he could even prepare to act.

  “She’s messed the bed something awful and has terrible stomach cramps. Call again for the doctor.” He nodded and went to the phone.

  “Good morning. This is Mr. Teitelbaum in room three fifteen. I called earlier for a doctor for Mrs. Bluestone and … good.” He hung up the receiver. “She said Dr. Bronstein is in the hotel and on the way up.”

  When he heard the knock on the door he seized the knob quickly and opened it. Bruce Solomon stood there nervously, dressed in a sweatshirt and slacks. Blanche Teitelbaum stepped forward.

  “You’re the doctor?” she asked somewhat incredulously.

  “No, I’m his cousin. I’m meeting him here. My name’s Bruce Solomon. I’m … a lab technician and I thought I might be of some assistance.”

  “Thank you, but the operator just told me the doctor should be here at any moment.”

  “Who’s sick?” Bruce asked, ignoring Mr. Teitelbaum for the moment.

  “Our friend, Mrs. Bluestone.”

  “Stomach trouble?”

  “Yes,” Sam said quickly. He looked at his wife and then back at Bruce. “Why? Are there other people here with the same problem?”

  Before Bruce could reply, he heard the elevator doors open and stepped out to intercept Sid. The moment he saw the expression on Bruce’s face, he knew the worst had happened.

  “I got my call from New York ten minutes ago. You were right about Tony Wong. The lab confirms he died of cholera.” Bronstein nodded without speaking and entered the room.

  “She’s in there, doctor,” Mrs. Teitelbaum said, opening the bedroom door. Bronstein went in quickly without speaking and closed it behind him. Sam sat down restlessly on the couch but Blanche remained standing, staring at Bruce.

  “Is there something going on here we should know?” she asked straightforwardly.

  He motioned for her to sit down, then said quietly, “Very possibly … but we won’t know for sure until Sid finishes his examination.”

  Blanche’s eyes grew narrow. She could smell trouble a mile away. Slowly she moved to the couch and sat next to her husband.

  “We’re all in some danger, aren’t we?” she asked, but without the slightest note of panic in her voice. Bruce was impressed with her control.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice full of sadness, “yes.” They all turned as Bronstein reappeared.

  “Call down for an ambulance,” he said, looking at Bruce and shaking his head sorrowfully.

  “There’s another one in room four twelve,” Bruce said. “His name’s David Oberman.”

  �
�Another what?” Mrs. Teitelbaum interrupted. “Exactly what is going on, Dr. Bronstein? Mrs. Bluestone is our best friend. We brought her up here with us. Certainly we have the right to know.” Bronstein hesitated. “We are also close, longstanding friends of the Golden family, doctor. If there’s food poisoning at the hotel, I can assure you we’re not about to announce it on the public address system.”

  “I’m not sure it’s food poisoning,” Sid finally began. “It might be something worse.” He tried to choose his words with care. “I won’t know until we run some tests. I just received the necessary antisera … but someone on the staff has died of cholera. Your friend’s symptoms, unfortunately, are quite similar to his.”

  Mrs. Teitelbaum brought the palms of her hands to her cheeks. Her husband opened his mouth as if to speak but it occurred to him that, for maybe the first time, he didn’t know what to say.

  “There are two precautions you must take,” Bronstein went on, looking first at Mr. Teitelbaum and then at his wife. First, I want you to go back to your room right away and scrub your hands vigorously. Secondly, and this is very important, we don’t want to do anything that will set off a panic. I’m sure you understand how important that is. I’m asking you, for everybody’s sake, not to say a word about this to anyone until we have a chance to contact the proper authorities. They, in turn, will take whatever actions are appropriate.”

  “But … is it contagious? How widespread … are my wife and I in any danger?”

  “We’re not sure,” Bruce said in all candor, “but we’ll be in constant touch.” He lifted the phone to call the ambulance.

  “I’ll go up to Oberman,” Bronstein said, picking up his bag and moving toward the door.

  “I’ll meet you there. I left the door unlocked. Hello,” he said to the operator, “this is Bruce Solomon. I’m calling for Dr. Bronstein.”

  Sam Teitelbaum reached for his wife’s hand but she quickly pulled it back.

  “I’ve got to wash up.”

  Bruce caught the look of terror in her eyes. He knew it was about to begin.

  As Nick Martin came around the corner of the hall corridor, he reached out and instinctively caught the two-year-old tow-headed youngster just as she was about to fall backward on the carpet. Her giggling stopped the moment his hands braced her forward.