The Resort

by Sol Stein

  Henry went over to the young man.

  “Anything wrong?” Henry asked.

  The driver shook his head. “The usual. If I cut my hair, they wouldn’t stop me. They stop Chicanos, Blacks, longhairs, and—for different reasons—cute blondes.”

  “Why the gun?”

  “They always do that. At least he didn’t put the cuffs on me while he looked in the van.”

  “What was he looking for?”

  “Grass. Anything. Trouble.”

  “Were you speeding?”

  “Nah.” The young man looked at Henry. “Where you from?” he asked. “East?”

  “New York,” Henry said.

  “Well,” the driver said, getting back into his camper, “this is California, mister.”

  *

  “You should have stayed in the car,” Margaret said. “It could have been dangerous.”

  “I thought I might help.”

  “Who? The police or the driver?”

  *

  They arrived in the Big Sur area, content but tired, glad they had reserved a room. Within minutes they spotted the huge orange-and-blue sign off the road on the left: CLIFFHAVEN, RESERVATIONS ONLY. A double chain hung from posts blocked the dirt road leading upward. What Henry thought of as a sentry box, also in orange and blue, opened the moment they drove up, and a fair-haired young man of twenty-six or -seven with a clipboard under his arm bounded out, his hand reaching for Henry’s as he opened the door. “Welcome to Cliffhaven,” he said. “You’re Mr. and Mrs…?”

  “Brown,” Henry said. “Mr. and Dr. Brown. We reserved from San Francisco.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the young man, checking his clipboard. “The Dr. threw me. I guess I assumed you were two men. My name is Steve Clete, and I’m your guide. How do you do, Dr. Brown,” he said, coming around to Margaret’s side of the car and shaking her hand through the open window.

  Well, they’re friendly here, aren’t they? thought Henry. Out loud he said, “I guess it’s a good thing we reserved. You don’t take people who just wander by, like a motel?”

  “Well, we’d like to, of course,” said Steve, “but we really can’t, sir. We’re pretty full up with reservations since we opened six months ago—word gets around, you know—and if we didn’t have the sign and the chain, people would drive in. It’s a good fifteen minutes getting up to the place, three S-curves on the way, and it’s pretty much one way except in a few spots. They’d get angry being turned away after the drive up, and we wouldn’t know they were coming so we’d have cars going up against cars coming down, awful. Let me buzz them that we’re on the way.”

  The young man went back inside the sentry box and into the wall phone said, “On the way.” Henry saw the books on the rocker inside the sentry box.

  “I see you have something to read while you wait,” he said.

  “Oh yeah,” the young man said, “it’s great. Gives me a chance to catch up on all those books I was supposed to have read in college, you know, Spengler, Joyce.”

  “What school’d you go to, Steve?” Henry asked, feeling the necessity of reciprocating the effusion of hospitality.

  “Call me Clete,” the young man said. “Everyone does.”

  Clete latched and locked the sentry-box door.

  “Mind if I ride in the back with you?”

  Henry thought Clete was a very nice, California-looking young man, down to the blue jeans and orange T-shirt saying “Cliffhaven.”

  Clete unhooked the chain, waited for the car to pass, and put the chain back up, then clambered into the back seat of the Ford.

  “Nice car,” he said.

  “Rented,” Henry said.

  “That’s good,” Clete said.

  Why good?

  Henry drove up the dirt road slowly in order not to stir up too much dust.

  “You’ll probably find it easier in low gear,” Clete said. “Don’t worry about the blind curves. They’ll hold any car coming down until we get there. Who recommended Cliffhaven to you, Mr. Brown?”

  Henry told him.

  “That’s good,” Clete said.

  Henry kept his eyes on the rock-strewn, curving road.

  “Oh look,” Margaret said, “there’s a baby redwood.”

  “Right you are, Dr. Brown. Actually, if you want to stop a minute here, it’s worth looking. The redwoods go down almost as far as they go up.”

  They got out of the car, and true enough, the redwoods at the side of the road went all the way down into a ravine for fifty or sixty feet. It was an odd sensation looking down and then up to get the full length of the trees.

  “The lay of the land gives us plenty of privacy up there,” Clete said.

  “Yes,” Henry replied.

  “Off we go,” Clete said, clapping his hands.

  Henry wondered whether Stanley would be like that when he was twenty-six or -seven. Well, he wouldn’t be that blond or that California-looking. Stanley was not likely to be working at an inn. At least he hoped he wouldn’t.

  “Be a bit careful on this next turn,” Clete said. “You’ve got a boulder on each side, but you can squeeze by. We get small trucks by them.”

  “It’s a long way,” Margaret said. “Does anyone walk it?”

  “Not usually,” Clete said, a sober tone in his voice. “Especially after dusk. We get some mountain lions in these parts.”

  “You do?” Margaret said.

  “They never attack a car,” Clete said.

  When they finally reached the top of the road and passed another sentry box, Henry was able to pull over and the three of them got out of the car. Cliffhaven was miraculously beautiful.

  The four largest buildings seemed to Henry triangles greatly extended vertically, one side thrusting straight at the sky, and at the apex sloping at a sharp angle almost to the ground. Though the design was stark and modern, the graying redwood used in the construction seemed natural atop the hills overlooking the surf far below. An artist-architect with a nature-defying boldness had implanted new houses atop hills accustomed only to wilderness.

  Henry turned to Margaret. Her eyes were registering astonishment and praise.

  “You folks dig Cliffhaven?” Clete asked.

  “Yes,” Henry said.

  “It’s like I imagined Norway would look like on a sunny day without the snow and ice,” Margaret said. “Or Switzerland.”

  “Terrific, isn’t it?” Clete said.

  Margaret looked at Henry. “How much is this a night?”

  “I think it’s around eighty,” Henry said.

  “It won’t seem high,” Clete said, “when you see your room. It’s not like a motel or a city hotel.”

  They got back in the car, and Henry followed Clete’s instructions, pulling up and around the second triangular edifice to its rear, where a graceful wooden staircase went up to a landing divided into small patios overlooking the redwood forest and, far below, the breakers of the Pacific.

  “If you’ll give me your keys,” Clete said, “I’ll get your bags out of the trunk.”

  “I’ll help,” Henry said.

  “No need.” Clete opened the car trunk. “You’ve only got two small ones. Traveling light?”

  When they reached the landing, Margaret, taking in the view, said, “I wish we were going to be here more than a night.” She looked at Clete, who set down the bags, hoping he would say that they might extend their stay. He looked straight at her but said nothing. Strange young man, she thought. But so many of the young men she’d seen in California looked like that, lean and muscular, bronzed from the sun, walking on sneakers as if they were balancing on a surfboard.

  Clete opened the door of their room with a key. He let them go in first. The wall opposite the entrance was a continuation of the ceiling, an angled line of solid, sloping glass through which they could see the cloudpuffs drifting in the blue sky.

  Clete entered behind them, carrying the bags.

  “Everybody says it’s fantastic. Here. If
you’ll just sign your name on this card and put your home address in, I’ll register you downstairs.”

  “That’s very considerate,” Henry said.

  “One moment,” Margaret said to Clete. “How do you open this huge window?”

  “The room’s air-conditioned, Dr. Brown, and it works perfectly.”

  “I prefer fresh air unless it’s very humid,” Margaret said.

  “I’m afraid it’s part of the architecture,” Clete said.

  “Too bad,” Margaret said. “Well, we’ll live with it, I suppose.”

  Only then did Henry sign the registration card. He handed it to Clete.

  “Will you be paying by cash or credit card?” Clete asked.

  “American Express okay?”

  “Sure thing,” Clete said. “If you’ll let me have your card, the girl at the desk will get you squared away.”

  Henry rummaged in his left pocket where he kept his singles folded, peeled off three, and gave them to Clete with his Amex card.

  “Oh thank you, sir,” Clete said, as if he hadn’t expected to be tipped. “You’ll find towels in the bathroom. The phone’s by the bed. It rings in reception when you pick up. The beds are firm. I hope you like firm beds. Breakfast is included in the charge. It’s served from seven a.m. in the main building—that’s the flatter one over there. If you need anything, just ask reception for me. I’m your man,” he said. “Take care now.”

  The moment Clete had closed the door behind him, Henry put his arms around Margaret, happy they had discovered a place like this.

  He kicked off his shoes and took in the king-size bed with its inlaid headboard. It looked, like the outside, very Scandinavian modern, but the wood was Californian, like everything else. He stretched out on the bed, clasping his hands behind his head.

  Margaret, her head supported on an elbow, was on the bed beside him, looking at her contented husband. “I wish we weren’t staying just the one night,” she said, “despite the window.”

  “Yes,” Henry said. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  *

  When Henry woke, Margaret’s face was so close to his it blurred in his vision. They must have fallen asleep in each other’s arms. His stirring stirred her. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her gently just to the side of her mouth because Margaret, as a courtesy, always wanted to brush her teeth before being kissed, even if she was waking from a brief nap.

  “Oh Henry,” she said.

  “Oh Henry what?”

  “I love you, and I’m hungry. It must be dinnertime.”

  Henry glanced at his watch. It was still on his wrist. It must have been the drive. He always took it off when sleeping. It was almost seven.

  “Let’s change,” Margaret said, swinging her legs off the bed. “Put your elegant blazer on. We’ll have a drink at the bar—I assume they have something that does for a cocktail lounge.”

  “In this healthy atmosphere, they probably serve only orange juice,” Henry said, checking to see that he had his wallet, his comb, his—then remembered Clete had not returned his car keys.

  “I guess he moved the car to the parking lot. I’ll pick up the car keys at the reception desk. I’ll bet that’s where he left them.”

  He looked on the dresser for the room key. “Margaret, did you see the room key?”

  “Hmmmm,” she said. “It had a triangular orange-and-blue plastic tag on it. I saw it in his hand when he opened the door.”

  “Could he have forgotten to leave it? Check the bathroom, will you?”

  Margaret said, “I didn’t see him go into the bathroom.”

  “Don’t be difficult. Just look.”

  “I’m not being difficult.” From the bathroom Margaret called out, “Come look.”

  She was pointing to a typed index card taped to the bottom of the mirror over the basin.

  California is experiencing a water shortage.

  Please make sure the tap is turned off tight.

  “As long as there isn’t a wine shortage in the dining room,” Henry said cheerfully. “I’ll check at the desk about the room key, too.”

  At the door he said, “Come on now.”

  “Coming.”

  The knob turned, but the door did not open. He tugged at it.

  “That’s odd,” he said.

  “Is it stuck?” Margaret asked.

  Henry tried again, then went to the room phone. Within a second of his picking it up, a woman’s voice with a marked California accent said, “I’ll connect you with Clete.”

  Henry heard a buzz like an intercom, and then Clete’s voice. “Yes, sir.”

  “This is Mr. Brown in room twenty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, this is silly, but I can’t seem to get the door open.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Henry, who believed in patience.

  Clete’s voice changed just the slightest when he said, “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”

  2

  Once when Henry had been asked if he were a practicing Jew he had answered, “Practicing for what?”

  When asked if he were religious, he’d say, “I have the same beliefs as God.” Pressed, he would amplify. “The notion that God is everywhere in nature is bullshit. That’s an idea that confuses the Creator with the creation. Nor is God a plant superintendent, overseeing us all. If you believe that God had a hand in making all this”—Henry’s gesture would encompass the world—“He had to be the most energetic Force around. Please understand, God is not a democrat. In the animal world He distributed his energy unequally, a modicum to the sloth, a lot to frisky puppies. Now, if you look at people you can see how undemocratic He is. The superenergetic who have been great leaders have seemed to others godlike. If you want something done, the saw says, give it to a busy man. If you want to understand God, you have to know the Devil, who keeps road gangs standing around as each man takes turns working a bit, like government workers everywhere. Firemen and policemen start out as energetic types, and the Devil grants them twenty-year retirement. All over the world the Devil is winning out. That doesn’t make me a Republican, it makes me a believer in the source of energy. Call it God, it’s okay with me. If you realize there’s been a battle out there between God and the Devil since the beginning of time, you don’t get so uptight about human nature, you don’t become a zany perfectionist, you take life and other people as you find them.”

  It was Henry’s gentle father who had taught him to respect competence rather than authority. In his business, for instance, Henry made a special point of being able to do almost anything any of his employees could do except reprogram the computer. When they saw him roll up his sleeves to help the foreman get a stuck conveyor belt moving again, his employees fortified their belief that in this company at least authority derived from ability not rank.

  Henry saw to it that his family had enough of the necessities, including love. Other men demanded from their business life always more. Henry did not want to expand, acquire, or make more money. “Unlimited ambition,” he told Margaret, “is for artists or athletes who compete mainly against themselves. In business and in politics, unlimited ambition is dangerous.”

  If, now that Henry had reached fifty, people felt relaxed in his presence, it was because he had learned to relax himself. He was not an optimist or a pessimist, he thought, but a realist poised to consider whatever life would offer.

  *

  Now, whenever a moment of panic presented itself, Henry would think There has to be a net.

  It came from passing a crowd in New York City some years ago, everyone staring upward to the lip of the roof of a six-story tenement, where a stout lady was hanging on perilously. A policeman on the roof was trying to talk her into giving him her hand.

  Faced with the decision to accept or reject the helping hand, the woman suddenly let her grip go and started to tumble through the air. Henry didn’t want to believe what he was so clearly seeing, a fat lady
on her way to momentary death.

  But the firemen were below with their safety net. The six men holding it braced themselves for the impact. The fat lady bounced high, then bounced less, then stayed, safe from the concrete and herself.

  *

  “Let me try that,” Margaret said, turning the doorknob. She pulled on it. Nothing happened. “Some people,” she said, “would get angry about a practical joke like this.”

  There has to be a net. “Give me a moment,” Henry said, as Margaret stepped aside. He bent his knees to peer between the door and the jamb, separated only by a vertical hairline of light. He could see two locks.

  I wish that were true, Henry thought. On his knees in front of the door, he seemed fascinated by the hardware. “The top lock is a deadbolt,” he said, “but Clete locked only the bottom. The bottom’s a spring latch. Watch me,” he said, turning to look up at her.

  Of course, there was anxiety in Margaret’s face. She was unprepared by history. “Don’t be nervous,” he said. “It’ll be all right.”

  Henry was good at fixing things around the house. She thought This isn’t our house.

  “Thank heaven for credit cards,” Henry said. He still had his from the Diners Club. It just fit between the door and the jamb. He moved it carefully until it was under the spring latch, then gently pushed upward, moving the latch back into the door. “That’s why deadbolt locks are safer,” he said over his shoulder to Margaret. “These can be opened by an amateur.”

  As soon as the plastic card was up an inch, he said, “There,” and with his right hand turned the knob and opened the door.

  Clete was standing three feet from the door, his arms folded. Henry felt the blood rise to his face.

  “You’ve passed the first test,” Clete said gaily. “I’ll have to use the deadbolt also from now on, Mr. Brown.”

  “What the hell kind of nonsense is this?” Margaret asked.

  Clete ignored her question. “Dr. Brown,” he said, “you’re not Jewish, are you?”

  *

  Henry remembered when on his second date with Margaret the subject they had avoided on their first date came up.

  “I have an impertinent question,” Margaret had said.

  “Go ahead.”