Weekend

by Tania Grossinger

  Charlotte had sounded groggy on the phone when he called, so Bruce knocked loud and hard on the door. When she opened it, she looked like a woman coming off a drunk, seemingly dazed and without perspective. She rubbed her right cheek with her fist. Creases from the linen were imprinted on her face. She stepped back and Bruce entered. He closed the door.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” she said, somewhat slowly. “Oh Jesus.” She lost her balance and stumbled backward. Bruce reached out and took her by the arm. He led her to a chair.

  “Relax a minute,” he said. “You’re still suffering from the effects of the sedative.” He got her a glass of water.

  “What about Fern?” she said.

  “We took her to the hospital.”

  “I know that. But what’s wrong with her? Is she going to be all right?”

  “She’s going to be fine” he said with such assurance he almost convinced himself. Charlotte began to relax.

  ‘What happened to her?”

  “Listen to me,” he said, taking her hand. “This might be a little hard to digest when you’re not feeling very well, but I think its time you knew the truth. Do you feel up to it?” She looked at him quizzically and nodded.

  “I didn’t come up to the Congress for a vacation like I told you last night. My cousin is the doctor who takes care of guests up here. About two days ago one of the guys on staff came down with a disease called cholera. Sid, the cousin I mentioned, asked me to come up and help him out. Things came to a head this morning.”

  He paused, wondering if it was wise to tell her everthing else but decided it was better she hear it from him than piecemeal from any of the guests. “It began with David Oberman,” he said hesitantly.

  “David? What do you mean it began with him? What began with him?” She was beginning to think the unthinkable. She struggled to get up from her chair and when that didn’t work, slumped back.

  “I called him after he didn’t show for breakfast. He was sick… There’s no point going into all the details.”

  She could tell by his face. “He’s dead. David’s dead, isn’t he? He died of cholera.” Bruce nodded. Tears started streaming down her face. “Oh my God.” She brought her fingers up to her mouth and bit down.

  “I can’t believe it. Last night he was so happy and now … so fast … it’s almost like a time bomb going off when you least expect it.”

  “Yes, in a curious way it is like a bomb. But in this case you don’t even know where it’s located. To go on, an elderly woman passed away shortly after that. She was on the way to the hospital. We had some scattered cases later in the morning and then Fern…”

  “Fern has cholera, too?” He stared at the carpet. “She’s dead,” Charlotte screamed, “SHE’S DEAD! You lied to me. You said she was going to be all right. But she’s not. She’s dead. Just like David.”

  “No, no,” Bruce said, grabbing her by the shoulders. “I promise you. We got her to the hospital in time. She’s going to be all right.”

  “I DON’T BELIEVE YOU!” she shouted, mustering all her strength so she could stand. She went at Bruce with her fingernails.

  “Charlotte!” He slapped her face on both sides, and she started to cry. He sat her down again. “It’s all right, believe me when I tell you. Fern’s going to be all right. I’m telling you the truth.” She calmed down and leaned against him for support as he took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from her cheek. Her sobbing gradually subsided.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, blowing her nose and coughing.

  “It’s all right. I understand how you feel. I felt the same way when I heard. But she really is going to be all right.” He managed to smile for her sake. “The hotel’s been placed under quarantine.”

  “You mean no one can leave?”

  “That’s right. Not for six days. All of the food capable of carrying the organism has been replaced, of course, so chances are you aren’t in any real danger.”

  “But I could be carrying it from something I ate yesterday.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “I mean if Fern has it and David had it …”

  “But I don’t have it, and I had dinner with them too. Right now there doesn’t seem to be much logic as to who comes down with it. There aren’t any predictable patterns. That’s one of the things I’m trying to look into now … but if you feel the slightest bit sick, I want you to call me right away.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “I will.” She sat up straighter. “Actually, other than still being groggy from the pill, I think I’m okay. My stomach feels fine.”

  “That’s good.”

  “When can I see Fern?”

  “I’ll let you know.” He stood up to leave. “I’ll be in touch with you after I speak to her doctor later on. Maybe you should take a short nap to sleep off the rest of the pill and then if you’re up to it, go downstairs and mix with other people. It might do you some good.”

  “But isn’t that dangerous?”

  “No, not at all. I promise.”

  “Okay, if you say so.” She went to look at herself in the mirror and frowned. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Go do what you have to do. I’ll be in touch.”

  “Good girl. I’ll see you later.” He touched her shoulder and walked out.

  Damn, he was good-looking, she thought, and a mensh too. Fern was a lucky girl. Then she thought about David Oberman. The tears started flowing once again. No good, she said to herself, no good. Crying doesn’t do anyone any good. The hell with the nap. She went to the bathroom and started fixing up her face.

  Nick straightened his tie but left his jacket unbuttoned. Jonathan’s secretary once again stopped what she was doing as he came out of his inner office. He nodded at her without speaking and proceeded out to the corridor. When his gaze fell on the elevator, there was no longer a charming softness about his eyes. His expression had totally changed. Even his posture was different. The gracefulness was missing from his gait. He moved with a firm, more intense determination, quite unlike the man who had walked into the hotel the day before as a quiet observer. The Richard Conte smile was gone from his face and indeed, anyone looking at him now would have difficulty imagining such a smile ever having settled there. His fingers were tightened into fists. His body was taut, ready to explode. He poked impatiently at the elevator button, no longer tolerant of delays, however small or reasonable.

  When it finally arrived and the doors opened, he was grateful for its emptiness. He had no desire to speak to other guests. He could think of only one thing. He hardly blinked as the doors closed. The silence inside served to amplify the voice in his mind. It was as though the phone conversation he had just finished had been taped and was now being played over speakers piped into the elevator.

  Over the last few years he had been just on the brink of making it big, no mean accomplishment for a kid who had started as a “gofer” running errands for nickels and dimes for the right people in the streets of Little Italy. He was bright and observant and it didn’t take him long to figure out that the front men had it better than the goons. They lived well, women flocked around them, and they got what they wanted wherever they went. He wanted the same for himself. He started small, took business courses at night school, worked for nothing just so he could learn how things operated from the “inside” and attracted the attention of all the right people. He took advice gratefully and listened and waited patiently. Soon enough the powers that be began to give him more responsibility. Finally, a few months back, they gave him permission to initiate a project on his own. The Congress was his first time out. It was on this hotel that he had decided to gamble his future with the syndicate. He had studied it, analyzed it and concluded that the risks for making a fortune were small and the potential great. And it would have turned out that way if only … yes, it was a freak situation and yes, it was incredible bad luck, but his bosses weren’t interested in freak situations or bad luck. Somehow he felt Jonathan co
uld have been straighter with him. He knew what he had to do.

  When the elevator doors opened, he paused only a moment. Today’s unfortunate circumstances notwithstanding, the experiences of his past had turned him into a professional, and a professional never telegraphed his intentions. A professional was a man who could create whatever facade was necessary and discard it when it was no longer needed. He took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. When he stepped out of the elevator he looked exactly like the easy-going Nick Martin who had checked in at the main desk twenty-four hours before. This would be the man Jonathan Lawrence would confront when he opened the door to his penthouse suite.

  After his scene with Flo, Manny wandered aimlessly around the hotel grounds, muttering and cursing under his breath. It was just like a woman to take a narrow view of things. Here he was, trying to branch out into a new area, real estate investment. He was sick and tired of the garment business. He wanted to try something else. You’d think she’d congratulate him for having some ambition, taking an initiative but no, all she could do was harp on his losing some money, money he’d quickly make back next time around.

  Her father’s business. What was it when he came into it? A half-assed outfit working from one month’s accounts to the next. Whose idea had it been to move the factory to South Carolina so they didn’t have to hire union help? Who had instigated selling to chain stores? And who thought up the idea of creating an advertising campaign? He had a right to gamble with the money, for crissakes. He was the one responsible for making it in the first place. Her brother, the shlep, just went along for the ride.

  By the time he had snapped out of his resentment he found himself near the back of the hotel. He noticed what was probably the delivery entrance and moved closer to it. On each side of the gate there was a chain spread as far as the eye could see with locks set up at various intervals. He saw the state police car parked on the road and realized that the guest parking lot was located on the other side of the road, away from the hotel. All he’d have to do was somehow get through the chain fence and he’d be home free. His car was parked on the far side of the gate, away from where the police were patrolling.

  When the policemen spotted him, they stopped chatting and stared. He pretended not to see them and continued along the pathway. There didn’t seem to be an end to that damn fence. A mile or so beyond, he realized it ran into an undeveloped wooded area at the north end of the hotel’s property. There was a good four acres of forest there. Eventually the forest led out to another highway that ran into some of the small towns and villages in Sullivan County, but Manny didn’t know this. To his urban eye, the forest seemed endless and wild. He was frightened of the idea that he could enter it and somehow get lost. He might wander about for days without food or water before a search party could locate him. And what about wild animals? He had heard rumors about bears and wildcats, but didn’t know if they were true.

  Nevertheless, to Manny, it looked ominous. As he drew closer to the woods, however, he saw that the link fence was changed into an approximately five-foot-high barbed wire border. It would be easy to lift up the bottom strand and slip under. His spirits lifted. If successful, all he would have to do was turn to the right, cross over the road, and he’d be at the guest parking lot. And because he’d be entering from the rear, the state police would never know he was there.

  The planned escape rejuvenated him. He walked quickly back to the main building. When Flo learned what he was going to do. maybe she’d get off his back and stop nagging him. Maybe she’d even forgive him. He would go back to the city, take care of the money problems on Tuesday, and then make arrangements for another vacation somewhere else, somewhere where people didn’t get sick from crazy diseases.

  She wasn’t in the room when he returned. He found his little carryall and filled it with what he considered his essentials. He wasn’t going to be able to carry a whole suitcase if he was going to sneak under barbed wire. Thoughts about the escape began to excite him. He saw it as an adventure. He would prove he knew how to beat the odds. He picked out his darkest pants and shirt, aware of the importance of not being seen. He looked at his watch. It would be a good two and a half hours until enough darkness would fall.

  He heard the door opening and looked up at Flo. Her face was still red and her eyes puffed up. When she saw him, she slammed the door behind her.

  “I called Mike,” she said. “He thought I knew everything all along. He’s pretty pissed off at you, Manny.”

  “Big deal. So your idiot brother’s pissed off.”

  “You call him an idiot? Look who’s talking.”

  “Now don’t go getting all worked up again. I’ve got it all figured out.” He waited for her to ask how but when she didn’t, he continued anyway. “I’m going to sneak out of here tonight, before they tighten things up even more.” She didn’t reply. “Honest, I’ve got a plan.”

  “Knowing you,” she said, “it’s bound to fuck up. From what I hear, they’ll enforce this quarantine any way they have to and that might even include shooting someone.”

  “You’re crazy. They’d never …”

  She walked into the bathroom. He stood there for a moment, thinking. They’d never. … He imagined himself getting hit with a bullet in the back of the head. Ridiculous, he thought. Nevertheless it made him tremble.

  Screw it. He was ready to take his chances. He’d get out tonight, hell or high water. He went back to his preparations.

  seventeen

  Jonathan sat in an oversized white velveteen easy chair and felt close to tears. After his aborted escape from the hotel he returned via the same clandestine route he had taken to leave. No one but the security guard at the gate and the state police knew of his attempt, but by now he was sure that the story had spread and many people rejoiced that he hadn’t made it. He sat with his right cheek braced against his closed fist and stared down at the antique white shag carpet. White had always been his favorite color, projecting as it did a sense of simplicity and order.

  His apartment had been decorated, at his own expense, with these thoughts in mind. The long, white couch, was placed at a right angle to the easy chair and the small, matching love seat. The end tables and center round marble table were all evenly spaced from each other and every other piece of furniture. Only the table had anything on it, a small, heavy Steuben glass ashtray, spotlessly clean. What bright color there was in the room came from the large Mondrian on the wall above the couch. It was a print of Composition with Red, Yellow and Blue, chosen, not for its hues, but because its perfect rectangles and large and small squares reinforced the mathematical logic of Jonathan’s mind.

  Sitting there in utter dejection, he thought about his life—all the business opportunities he had passed up, including one as a top level executive with the Holiday Inn chain, in order to get involved with the Congress. God, he’d never forget the first time he had met with Phil Golden over coffee and heard an elderly guest order prune juice and hot water. What was it the waiters called it?—Ex-Lax in a glass. And all that bastardized lingo, those idioms, those Yiddish expressions. He had never even heard the word shmuck until he had come to the Catskills. Sometimes he felt that he needed a translator at his side twenty-four hours a day. But he stayed with it, and he tolerated it, and he smiled and nodded at the appropriate times because he believed that at the end of the rainbow, even if it was a Jewish rainbow, there was the proverbial pot of gold. And now? Now he felt like an American who had learned Swahili to work in Africa, only to be banished from the country. What good was all of his knowledge about the Catskill resort world now?

  He took a deep breath and was stricken by a pain in his side. What was that? Was it just gas or … ? Once again he recalled Bruce Solomon’s warning. “Even you …” He remembered that cholera could pop up any time in the next few days and started to think back about the food he had eaten over the last day and a half. He felt another jab of pain. What if he did get cholera? Would Sid Bronstein even treat him?


  He felt the beads of sweat along the top of his forehead and around the back of his neck. Whenever he perspired, memories of childhood returned. His father, always working late, never home to take him to ball games … his stepmother seeing to it that, no matter what the weather, he carried a warm sweater so he wouldn’t get a chill, telling him he couldn’t play football, he might get hurt, and making him drink warm milk before he went to bed. His stomach churned. Was it nerves? He pressed down on his abdomen. Was he nauseated? Yes, a little. But maybe something else.

  He jumped up in panic. My face, he thought, got to check my face. His reflection in the bathroom mirror was as white as his rug. What was happening? Should he take something? What? Would aspirin antagonize it? Maybe a glass of warm milk? The thought of warm milk make him think of his stepmother once again, and once again sweat started pouring from his body.

  He considered going down to the coffee shop for some tea but then thought about all the questions, the snickers, the looks. Everyone would want to know why he was no longer the general manager. Well, he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  His mind began to race. What would he do about dinner? Actually, it was a moot point, because he had absolutely no appetite. He worried about that too. Wasn’t loss of appetite a symptom? He should have paid more attention to what Bronstein was saying, but. …

  These and other thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knocking at the door. Because it was such a rare occurrence, he sat frozen for a moment. Then he shook his head. Why hadn’t whoever it was phoned up in advance the way he was supposed to? Damn them all!

  “Who is it?” He straightened his tie and walked toward the door. There was no answer. After a moment, the knocking continued. He opened the door. “Oh.”

  “Hello, Jonathan. You weren’t in your office.” Nick’s smile was inscrutable.

  “I’m not feeling too well.”

  “No, no, I don’t imagine you are.” Nick entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. “Nice place you have here. Or should I say ‘had.’”