by Sol Stein
Clete knew George Whittaker had it in for him ever since Clete had knocked on the door of George’s room and opened it too soon to find George furtively stashing something away in his desk. He’s getting at me, thought Clete, by giving Charlotte a hard time about her little bit of AWOL. He’s locked her up, which is like punishing me.
This time he waited till George said, “Come in.”
“Hi, boss,” Clete said. “Guess what? That kid at the gas station has got another one. I told you it paid to pay attention to the kid. Will you give him an interview?”
“Mr. Clifford says they have to be twenty-one.”
“There’s one favor you could do for me,” Clete said.
“Like?”
“How about letting Charlotte go? She won’t do it again.”
Whittaker glared scornfully at Clete. “You’ve got nerve asking favors with Henry Brown on the loose.”
“What about Charlotte? You can’t leave her locked in her room like she was one of them.”
“I can do anything I please in Cliffhaven,” Whittaker said.
Clete stared straight at the lower right drawer of Whittaker’s desk. He knew Whittaker was smart enough to get the message.
“Well,” Clete said after a moment, “if you can do anything, I’d just as soon you let her out because you’re punishing me, too, and I haven’t done a thing. Mr. Clifford likes me real special, you know that. He wouldn’t want me being punished for some little thing she did.” What he wanted to do was get Charlotte into the privacy of his room, beat her for trying to get to that San Diego dude, then fuck her, then beat her, then fuck her again, that’s what.
“You let your new couple get away,” Whittaker said.
“I was distracted by those goons hanging onto Charlotte. You’d have been upset, boss, if it was your girl they were manhandling.”
George Whittaker felt the sting. Nobody before Clete had ever dared refer to the fact that he didn’t have a girl at Cliffhaven or anywhere else. He’d just have to have Clete killed accidentally. That was it.
“Okay, Clete,” he said. “I’ll let her out. But you talk to her the way I know you can so she won’t ever try that again, right?”
“I sure will, boss,” Clete said.
“Now get your ass down to the gas station. And don’t lose this one, you hear?”
Getting onto his scooter, Clete was very pleased with himself for having sneaked into Whittaker’s room to see what he was embarrassed about in that lower right-hand drawer. He had copied some of the pages from the diary and read them to Mr. Clifford over the phone. Mr. Clifford had seemed very grateful.
“Clete,” he had said, “you are one of the most loyal people I have ever met. Some day you might have a much more important job at Cliffhaven. In the meantime, watch out for George these next few days just in case he suspects. He’s an awfully vengeful man.”
*
There comes a time, thought Henry, trudging up the road with Margaret ahead of the six trusties, when one must take a chance with life. He remembered that January, years ago, when the boy had fallen through the ice at Echo Lake. Four men had seen the accident. Two had hung back for fear of falling through themselves. Henry and the other, much younger man had run out over the ice, slipping, stumbling. The boy’s head was still above water, and he remembered thinking Risk a life to save a life just as the other man yelled, “You stay here!” and plunged into the icy water and, swimming, pushed the boy toward Henry till he could grab the trembling arms and pull the boy onto the ice. The other man lifted himself out on his strong arms and said to him, who had done nothing, “Thanks, mister. Sorry I yelled. I thought you were going to dive in, too, and there’da been nobody to haul the kid in.” The man, he learned later from the newspaper report, was a volunteer fireman, used to reacting fast in emergencies. Why hadn’t he told the other man to stay put and dived in for the boy? Was it cowardice? What of the two men who had remained on the shore? Would they have watched the boy drown from a distance, afraid for their own safety? Or had they merely hesitated on seeing two others rush to the boy’s aid? There were those who would never risk their lives, a decision carried through life like armorplate against the possible touch of love. And at the other extreme all those volunteer firemen all over America, welcoming the danger of being at risk for strangers on a moment’s notice, like boys, thinking themselves immune from death, playing at war. And in between? Everyone else, calculating the odds, as he was doing now, thinking of the six trusties behind him, each armed with a club. Yes, he would fight any one of them bare-handed, try to twist the club out of his hands. He would have beaten the man with his own club, anything to be free of this place. But six of them were not odds, they were certain defeat. Was there not a value in resisting anyway, showing these cretins who worked for the enemy that a Jew can fight back? Or was it authority and government ordering him to obey, the face of the state trooper calling him kike, that had sapped from him the necessary iota of insane will needed to lunge into battle against a half dozen adversaries in the hope of somehow getting away?
Henry, he chastised himself, you think too much and do too little.
He looked at Margaret, just ahead of him to the right, her hips moving in the upward climb. She reminded him, strangely, of seeing a locomotive moving slowly out of a station, its wheels and levers moving its weight mechanically. She must be terribly tired, as he was, from the long scramble through the brush. Neither of them was used to this kind of physical test. From time to rare time he had thought of Margaret as a physical being. Beneath her skin, the sensitive and lovely envelope, were strong muscles on a skeleton, an alimentary tract puckered at each end, functional, similar to other bodies, except in this case belonging to the totality called Margaret and imbued with the mind and character and charm that individuated her and brought to her physical being his love for all of her. She had borne not only Stanley and Ruth but him in the comfort of her arms during a quarter of a century of nights, this other person who was half of whatever they constituted together. He had never stopped loving her.
Right now that thought was subverting his attention. He needed to concentrate on breaking away. If escape was possible, was it possible for them both, or did it mean that he might stand a better chance if he escaped alone? He would, of course, come back with help to release her and the others, but would these Cliffhaven people in the meantime revenge themselves against her? Or would they refrain because as a Gentile she was not the object of their special venom? Or would they attack her with zeal because she was a defector married to a Jew?
You see, Henry thought, I am thinking Jewish thoughts—on the one hand, on the other hand—when I should be acting, as a Gentile would, as a sabra would.
He heard the motor scooter before he saw its single light come around the bend, recognized Clete, who slowed down, extended his legs from the sides to balance himself as the scooter stopped. What a fool to expect a smile of friendly recognition from Clete, who merely nodded at him and at Margaret as if their capture was foredoomed. Clete exchanged a word with one of the trusties, then twisting the accelerator on the handlebar, went sailing behind his headlight down the road they had just exhausted themselves climbing.
*
Frank Fowler’s assembled family had overheard his phone call to Clete. As he passed through the dining room, he saw them look up from their meal with what he took to be interest. None of them had the guts to do what he did.
“Don’t get yourself in trouble, Frank,” his mother said.
Frank stopped. “With who?”
“You hush your smartass mouth,” his father said. “Our family’s been here near on fifty years. Whatever those new resort people do is none of our business.”
“Bullshit,” Frank said.
“Who are you saying bullshit to?” his father said, standing.
“Not to no one, just to what was said about our business. Ain’t our sales way up since Cliffhaven started? I gotta go.”
“Finish yo
ur dinner,” his mother said, motioning her husband to sit back down.
Frank went outside. What a bunch of liars his family was. Long before Cliffhaven was up there they’d talked about the L.A. Jews, and the Frisco Jews, and the New York Jews. They knew. They just had no guts to do anything about anything.
“Here’s your card, mister,” he said to Fetterman. “I called Cliffhaven for you, and they said they could put you up.”
“You mean the place just here?” Fetterman asked, glancing at the Cliffhaven sign past the gas station.
“Yeah, it’s real neat.”
“Expensive?” asked Fetterman.
What’s a rich Yid worried about that for? “I guess they’ll take your credit card,” Frank said.
“But is it expensive?” Fetterman asked. He saw Frank glance at his Mercedes. “I know what you’re thinking,” said Fetterman with a smile. “It’s my old man’s.”
Sure. How many’s he got?
“My old man’s in the hospital,” Fetterman went on, trying to be friendly. “Cancer. He lets me use the car.”
Frank was relieved to hear the motor scooter and a moment later see its headlight turn off the Cliffhaven road. “Hi Clete,” he yelled eagerly.
Clete nodded to Frank. Coldly, Frank thought. But Clete gushed at Fetterman.
“Welcome to Cliffhaven, Mr. Fetterman,” he said, extending his hand. “The sign says reservations only, but we have a spare room this evening, and Mr. Fowler here thought you’d welcome a stopping place for the night since you’ve come all the way from L.A.”
Frank liked the “Mr. Fowler.” He forced himself to listen carefully to Clete’s pitch. Maybe he’d get a chance to do that someday.
“Yes, indeed. My name’s Steve Clete and I’m your guide. I’ll just hook up my scooter to your car with this gizmo and we’ll be on the way.”
“Just a moment,” Fetterman said. “How much is it a night?”
I hope he’s not going to make a break for it, thought Frank, after all the trouble I’ve taken.
“Just sixty for a single,” Clete said, “and that includes breakfast. It’s a three-star restaurant, you know. You have a credit card?”
Fetterman nodded.
“No problem. Want me to drive your car up? The road’s kind of tricky at night.”
“All right,” Fetterman said, getting in on the passenger side. “Key’s in the ignition.”
“Hey, Frank,” Clete said, holding the driver’s door open. “Can you get the chain?”
Frank nodded, ran ahead as Clete started the car up. When they got to the gate, Frank had already lowered the chain, and when they passed over it, Frank put it back up. Clete waved to Frank. That boy was okay.
As they started up the winding road, Clete thought it was lucky the trusties and the Browns had gotten a good head start. It’d be a mess to explain if they were all still down here. Brown is a real fuck trying to escape.
“Mr. Fetterman,” Clete said, “you a businessman, in L.A. I mean?”
“Student,” Fetterman said.
“What college you go to?”
“UCLA.”
He sure wasn’t very communicative. Awful lot of Jews go to that UCLA.
“Some people try to make it all the way from L.A. to San Francisco in one ride, but it’s harder’n hell on this road.”
“My girl’s up at Palo Alto.”
“Terrific,” Clete said. “My girl works right here at Cliffhaven, which is convenient. Not too convenient for you, Palo Alto.”
“I guess I could have made it on U.S. 101, but I get sleepy on freeways if I keep going all day. I thought this road might keep me awake.”
“Well,” Clete said, “it’s a mighty pretty road.”
Fetterman said nothing. He seemed preoccupied. Clete thought he’d better keep the conversation going because they were going to pass the others on the road soon.
“Your girl expecting you tonight?”
“She’s not expecting me.”
“That’s good. Will you want to phone her anyway?”
Fetterman seemed a bit embarrassed. “We had a kind of argument on the phone. That’s why I’m driving up. I thought I’d surprise her tomorrow.”
The headlights of the Mercedes caught the backs of several of the trusties trudging up the road. The sticks they were carrying were clearly visible. When they heard the car, they moved to the side of the road, revealing the Browns. Clete honked so Brown would move to the side of the road.
“Kitchen help,” Clete said. “Night shift coming to work.”
“We could give some of them a lift,” Fetterman said, motioning to the rear seat.
“Against the rules,” Clete said, wishing Brown would get his ass out of the way. He was glad he’d thought to keep the car’s air conditioning on and the windows up.
He saw Henry Brown suddenly turn toward the passenger side of the car. He was yelling something.
Brown was shouting now, the stupid bastard. One of the trusties was on him. Clete accelerated up the road, hoping the gizmo would hold. If he lost the scooter, he’d keep going anyway, not take any chances.
“Some of those night workers are real weirdos,” Clete said to Fetterman, who had turned to look out the rear window. “We keep them away from the guest areas, naturally.”
*
Henry Brown realized two things at once. His warning had been useless, and the angry trusty, who had waited till the car was around the bend, was now coming at him with a raised club.
“Watch out!” Margaret yelled.
Henry raised his left arm to ward off the blow. “There’s no reason for that,” he shouted, as the club came down on his forearm, sending a shock of pain to his shoulder. He went for the man’s throat, which may have been a mistake he realized too late as the man swung his club sideways, hitting him squarely in the side of the head. The flash of pain seemed luminous as he fell.
Margaret knelt at his side as the other trusties formed a half circle, keeping their distance. She put her hand, then her ear, to his chest. There was a small amount of blood oozing from the side of his scalp.
Margaret looked up at the trusty who had hit him. Her glare was ice. “I’m a doctor,” she said as if to explain what she was doing.
It didn’t matter. The trusties closed their semicircle, and two of them picked her up by her armpits and dragged her, resisting, up the road, leaving the trusty who had clubbed Henry to watch his prostrate form. “We’ll send a car down,” one of them said before disappearing from sight.
Henry could feel the throbbing in his head, the ache in his left arm, knew that his feigning unconsciousness had fooled the trusties but not Margaret. She would be worried enough. It amazed him in the midst of his pain how an idea had careered through his mind. He wondered about that trusty. A Jew who had quickly taken a club to another Jew on behalf of these crazies. What kind of man was he? Where was he from? What in his past had made it possible for him to turn into a Kapo capable of violence? He needed a moment or two more. His breathing was still hard. If only the man would come closer.
As if in answer, the trusty came over and then, setting his club down, knelt by Henry’s side. In one continuous motion Henry turned toward the squatting trusty and brought his good right arm around with whatever force he had in his body behind it, smashing the man in the face, knocking him easily off balance, and in a second, Henry, like the animal he felt himself to be, dug his right thumb into the man’s left eye socket hard. The trusty’s scream of pain seemed loud enough to be heard in heaven. Henry put his hands around the man’s throat. His left hand throbbed with pain from the pressure, but he kept both hands locked until he knew the man was unconscious. Alive but unconscious.
He picked up the trusty’s club before fleeing downhill into the woods.
*
Jacob Fetterman proved to be an unusually observant young man. When Clete showed him the room, he was genuinely impressed with its modern splendor. He had never stayed in a place this fancy.
His parents were camping enthusiasts who at every vacation opportunity, even long weekends, took their children and themselves into a reachable wilderness. Once, when Jacob was eleven or twelve, they were caught in a terrible downpour within sight of a motel, but Jacob’s father insisted that they erect their tents and spend the night as they had originally planned, out-of-doors.
“It’s very luxurious,” he said to Clete.
“I’m glad you like it, Mr. Fetterman. Will you be dining with us this evening?”
“It’s kind of late.”
“The kitchen is still open. It’s a three-star restaurant, you know.”
“I’m pretty pooped after all that driving,” Jacob said. “And I had a snack on the road. I think I’ll just turn in. What’s that?”
His eye had caught the small camera at the juncture of the wall and the ceiling. It was the first time in Clete’s experience that someone had seen it right off the bat.
“Oh that,” Clete said. “You won’t be needing that.”
“What is it?” Fetterman insisted.
“We try to have all the newest things, you know, like the Jacuzzi near the swimming pool. Well, some folks like to tape themselves, lovemaking, that kind of stuff. They have a good time here and sort of like to watch reruns back home.”
“That’s a hard place to reach up there.”
“It’s the right angle. We use a small ladder. Anyway, if you’re not going into dinner, I’ll say goodnight unless you have any other questions.”
“Well,” Fetterman said. “You know those creepy-looking people we saw on the road, some of them were carrying what looked like clubs. I mean, is it safe here?”
Clete laughed. “Of course, it’s safe. Those weren’t clubs, they were walking sticks. Most people who walk up that road use walking sticks. It really helps. Now I’ll just park the Mercedes in the lot and leave your key at the front desk.”
“Oh thank you very much,” Fetterman said, taking two singles out of his wallet. “I appreciate your help. I’ll probably get a real early start tomorrow. I’d like to get to Palo Alto as early as possible.”
“Of course. If you need anything, just call the desk and ask for Clete.”
