Summer Accommodations: A Novel (9 page)

“I thought you were going to be a lawyer, not a doctor.”

“Why can't you admit that I'm right? It's nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone goes through it at one time or another. Just hope that you didn't make her pregnant.”

“Well, I couldn't have done that. I never got inside her.”

“Uh oh. Feeling this bad and still a virgin? This maybe worse than I thought.” He scratched his head, grabbed a book from under his bed and riffled through its pages as if in search of something that he knew would be in there. “Ahh, yes, here it is. ‘Coitus Failurus Afterus: The subject is feeling degraded and disgusted as much for the failure to penetrate as for the choice of object with whom he has struckout. The remedy for this requires that the subject quickly identify and acquire access to a more attractive and desirable object.' Well Mel, I guess it's time for Diana.”

I grabbed the book out of Ron's hand and then laughed when I saw what it was, “Love Without Fear” by Dr. Eustace Chesser, the marital sex manual of its day.

“Do you really think this Diana will go out with me?” All at once I was feeling much better.

“Oh yes. Leave it to me. She's a number, but I think she'll go for you.”

“What do you mean by a number?”

“Patience Melvin. Recover from Rosie first. Don't get greedy on me.”

5.

The tapping woke us before the alarm clocks went off in the quarters. Ron groaned but Harlan sat bolt upright and stared at the door. The metallic tapping, as if with a coin not a knuckle, resumed and was accompanied by the muffled sound of Harlan's name being uttered against the panel of the door. Harlan pulled his covers aside and jumped out of bed. I heard Ron sit up in the bunk below me. Moving quickly and quietly Harlan went to the door, opened it a crack then slipped through the doorway into the hall pulling the door closed behind him as he talked to his visitor.

“What the fuck is that?” Ron said. We could hear their voices and though I couldn't make out what they were saying the visitor sounded more distressed and seemed to be pressing Harlan for something. When the door opened again Harlan backed into the room saying, “I'll take care of it, don't worry, I'll make good on it.”

“Yeah, but I want it on Sunday when you get your tips, not later than Sunday, Harlan, I need it.”

The door closed and Harlan, sighing, a frown on his face, walked back to his bed and flopped down. I recognized the voice as Artie Stein's, Ivan Goldman's busboy, and so did Ron.

“What did you do now, Hawthorne, rob poor little pimply Artie?”

“What a pain. He won some money from me at cards and you'd think his life depended on getting that thirty dollars.”

“No, maybe he just knows who it is that owes him the cash and how hard it will be to collect.”

“On what basis do you say a thing like that, Ron, on what grounds?” He sat up tense and irate.

“You don't know about your reputation around here I suppose.”

“What reputation?” I said.

“You don't have to defend Harlan, Melvin, he's a big boy and he can take care of himself.”

“Yeah, but what reputation,” I asked again.

“Ummm, great lover, charmer, intellectual snob?” Harlan offered with relaxed amusement.

“Charmer, yes, but also cheat, chick chaser, chicken-hearted, and charlatan,” Ron said.

“Really? Well, try chivalrous and charismatic, you churlish chump.”

“Hey, what did you two do, rob Sammy's dictionaries?”

“You can make all the jokes you like, Harlan, but people are on to you. You're not charming you're slick. People don't walk right behind you because they're afraid they'll slip and fall on the slime you leave in your tracks.”

“Brilliant, Ron, really brilliant. I am cut to the quick.” With the back of his hand at his brow Harlan sighed and swooned backwards on to his cot. “I am undone,” he groaned.

“And I am going to the shower,” I said, jumping down from my bunk trying to sound playful but upset by their exchange. From my first day Ron had made it obvious he had bad feelings about Harlan. Maybe he was jealous about something I didn't know of. You rarely know the real reasons for people's attitudes. I had already decided to study Harlan and learn from him and I'd seen no reason to mistrust him so I wouldn't allow myself to be influenced by Ron.

“Yeah, go to the showers, Jackass, you're out of the game. You're also out of your league but you're too green to know it.” Ron's words bit at my pride.

Later that morning at breakfast, Sammy called for a meeting after the cleanup.

“This will take just a few minutes so don't grumble so much. Ben Braverman is concerned there's a thief around the hotel. He's not saying who, or where but he knows something's up. Guests have had their jewelry taken, some cash has disappeared, cigarette lighters, every kind of valuable. So, to calm his guests down a little bit he's having his daughter, Heidi, circulate in the dining room at lunch. And I don't want any of you playing any tricks or making any cracks to her. That's it. That's all I have to say. Except it better not be one of you boys who's the thief.”

“What good will Heidi walking around the dining room do?” one of the waiters called out.

“It'll make the waiters and busboys happier,” someone else called out.

“Maybe Judge Crater ran out of money and had to find a way to make ends meet?” someone else offered to the applause of a few waiters.

“Enough, enough. Comedians. It's his way of hearing the gossip, the stories, the rumors, the worries, you never know what you find out this way. Anyway, be nice to Heidi and, AANNDD,” he shouted to quiet the chattering group, “if you hear anything that you think could help tell me first, not your buddies or your girlfriends. Personally I don't think it's one of you. You all make too much money to be so stupid to go stealing from the guests, but if it is one of you …” and he just shook his finger at the assembly.

I looked over at Ron. He was craning his neck trying to locate someone at the rear of the huddle of staff.

“Who're you looking for?”

“I want to see the look on Harlan's face.”

“Why, because Heidi will be spending her lunch hour in here?”

“Because I think if there's one crook in the dining room it's him.” I shook my head.

“Boy, when you have it in for someone he can't do anything right.”

“No, not Harlan. I spotted it the minute he walked into my room, the way his eyes scanned my things while he put his hand out to shake mine. It felt like an insurance appraisal or something. He's not to be trusted, I've told you that but you're going to have to learn the hard way.”

I shrugged. It made no sense to continue the conversation because it would only lead to the same dead end. There was no budging Ron once he took a stand. Well, at least Heidi's presence during lunch would be a pleasant distraction, I thought, and maybe she could get to know me and set me up with one of the counselors in the day camp. I looked around for Harlan to see if he was happy Heidi would be circulating at lunch. He was talking with Ivan and when he saw me approach he beckoned me into their conversation.

“Ivan and I were just saying that it's likely it's one of the bell hops who's doing the thievery because they get to size up the merchandise, so to speak, on arrival. You know, the kind of car the guest is driving, the quality of the luggage, the jewelry the women wear even when they're dressed casually for the trip up, a lot of little clues if you care to pay attention.” Ivan was staring at Harlan with great concentration.

“You know, Harlan, that wasn't
we
who were saying that, it was all you. You seem pretty aware of what a thief looks for in a target.”

“Ha, ha, yeah, well I read a lot of crime novels—Mickey Spillane, Raymond Chandler, they tell you how it's done. Why, you think I'm the thief, Ivan?” Once again Harlan's honesty was being challenged and I was angry about it. I was sure that Ron had led Ivan down this path.

“Why would Harlan …?

“I can speak for myself, Jack, don't jump in here. Are you saying I'm the thief, Ivan?” Harlan suddenly stood straighter and taller as if readying himself to square off with Ivan Goldman who was easily three inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. But, as often happens when someone plants his feet and stands up for himself, his accuser backed down.

“No, no, Harlan, I was just saying that you should get all the credit for those ideas, that's all. I wasn't trying to accuse you of anything, okay? I'm going to shoot some foul shots before lunch.” He gave me an affectionate punch in the shoulder and left.

“Jack, I appreciate your interest and concern but don't get involved in matters pertaining to me, all right? I can see it's going to be an uphill fight for respect in this place and I'll tell you if I need your help, okay?” Embarrassed, I nodded. “You know he wasn't trying to give me credit for figuring out who the thief might be, don't you? He was making an accusation. That really pisses me off. Mr. All American misjudging me really pisses me off.” And then, as quickly as he had become angry, he was in a happy frame of mind. “So, I get to see my Heidi at lunch time every day, pretty good, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, “pretty damn good.”

By lunchtime that same day Heidi was in the dining room. She was totally unlike any other girl I had seen at the hotel and so unlike all the other Bravermans in looks and manner that I wondered whether she might have been adopted. She was very beautiful, looking uncannily like the actress Susan Strassberg, and as graceful and nimble as a dancer. She walked on the balls of her feet, like someone unaware that the high heels had come off her shoes, and her long, straight hair was pulled back in a magnificent ponytail that flowed out behind her and seemed to do a dance of its own as she walked. Her manner was soft and self-assured, her voice musical, her disposition cheerful. She bore her gifts gracefully and graciously as though oblivious to the effects of her allure. I was emptying my dirty dishes in the kitchen when she came up beside me and began to speak.

“Are you interested in meeting a nice girl, Jack?” she asked, adopting my adopted name.

“Sure,” I said. Actually, I was more interested in meeting a not so nice girl, but there was always room in my life for love.

“Well, I think I may have someone for you but I'll have to feel her out. She's really cute. How do you like working for Sammy?”

“Great. The money's been terrific. How's camp going?” There was an awkwardness to these polite exchanges. I was also aware that Rudy was watching us from his worktable with an intense curiosity. He and Harlan had been very chummy and he probably was wondering why Heidi had come to talk to me.

“I love it. The kids are great, especially the littlest ones.”

“How come you came into the kitchen to talk to me, what's wrong with the dining room?” I said, returning Rudy's stare and trying to reach Heidi on more direct terms.

“Oh, those guys in there are very immature. I don't appreciate their wisecracks and sexual innuendoes.” I knew what she meant. Beautiful women tend to bring out the worst in most young men. Like small boys who have just learned to whistle, they are compulsively driven to prideful displays of themselves and their new talent even if for a totally disinterested audience. Then, too, it occurred to me I was being auditioned and she didn't want to be distracted by them.

“Well, if this girl is available I am too. Tell her I won't tell any dirty jokes if you think that will help.” Heidi laughed her lilting laugh but I felt embarrassed because I had made such a pointless and stupid joke. That's what can happen when you try too hard to be witty and sophisticated, you sometimes end up sounding like an ass. “Harlan asked you to set me up didn't he,” I said, trying to find a firmer footing with her.

“He mentioned that you were interested in meeting someone but I just thought that this might be a good match. I remember your brothers and if you're as nice as they are, well, we'll see.”

“Actually, I'm much nicer than they are so don't hold back, you won't regret it.”

“Really, well if you get cocky I just might regret it.”

“Hey, I was only teasing, Heidi, I didn't mean to put you off.” I was scrambling to recover my poise and her interest. “I've not met a nice girl in the weeks I've been here and really want to meet somebody I can date.”

“Well, I think the girl I have in mind is someone you'll like but I don't know if she's available right now. Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I don't think the boy she's dating is right for her and I think she's on the verge of figuring that out for herself. Be patient, Jack, I'll let you know when it's time.”

T
he next day it rained. I worked breakfast as usual which is to say I worked and Sammy schmoozed. People arrived in dribs and drabs, one or two at a time so it was easy for Sammy to stand around telling stories and nodding at me whenever a guest asked for something to eat. A Catskill breakfast was a small banquet. There were three or four different fruit juices, melons, grapefruits, orange sections and of course stewed prunes, the latter often accompanied by a cup of hot water with a wedge of fresh lemon a concoction reputed to stir the slumbering bowel. Before the dining room opened I had already placed breads, rolls, bagels, pastries, jam and butter on each table. I kept a pot of coffee at my serving stand and periodically refilled it when I went to the kitchen to refill a water pitcher. All the various kinds of herring, lox served with sliced Bermuda onion and tomatoes and capers, and the sardines and white fish which the Lions had snubbed during their Catskill adventure were feasted upon by the Braverman regulars who, like a starving army, consumed them quickly and voluminously. There were three different hot cereals and cold cereals beyond counting which the guests could partake of with any fruit available, bananas and berries to tangelos and Valencia oranges. And partake they did, course after course, from juice to pastries. People could have eggs anyway they wanted from one minute soft-boiled eggs to poached eggs on toast and who was to say they couldn't have them both if that's what they wanted, thank you very much. Then, of course, there were the pancakes and the French toast offered with “your choice” of maple syrup, jam, confectioner's sugar, honey, or what the hell, take them all you're paying for it. As if from a giant cornucopia breakfast seemed to spill endlessly from seven-fifteen until ten o'clock every morning but amidst all these toothsome choices, there were no meats. While the kitchen wasn't kosher there was an effort to recreate breakfast as it had been cooked by your old Jewish grandmother so there could be no “traif”—no bacon, ham or sausage. There had been a brief flirtation with a bacon substitute called “Beef Crisp” but it was cancelled from the menu when an actual Jewish grandmother who caught a whiff of its baconlike scent fainted dead away over her Cream of Wheat.

Food wrapped in paper napkins left the dining room with every guest that morning. Rainy days seemed to make people do that. If they couldn't sun themselves or play Simon Says or shuffleboard they could at least have a snack. It seemed greedy and gluttonous to me until Ron pointed out that many of these vacationers had saved money week by week for their two weeks in the country and that was all the time off they'd get for the entire year. Rain, like a thief, was stealing their holiday so the food was taken as if in compensation. They would not be deprived.

As for us, the members of the dining room staff, we worked that summer the way people had worked for all the centuries before the twentieth, long hours, day after day, as if our very survival depended upon these efforts. We did not even merit a day off but worked all day everyday. The rhythm of the days expanded into a weekly rhythm but there was no numbing effect of this tedious repetition. The physical labor was not of the bone-wearying kind but it still could be tough. We were on our feet from the time the dining room opened until we returned to our quarters at breaks, and we were always lifting or carrying something somewhere. Most of the guests were decent enough but there was always that population of ball busters you could never please and to them we were no better than lazy wretches robbing them of their pleasure. This brought the staff together in a spirit of cameraderie; the outer-borough New York City Jewish boys, mid-western and southern gentile basketball players shared this plight, but the older professionals like Sammy and Abe seemed much less affected by the belittling disparagements of the malcontents. The decent kind and unpretentious people have vanished from memory, if ever there had been a place for them there. It is as though they left no mark in my mind, though the abrasive, the crass and demanding, linger. In that way our personal histories are like world history, more often populated with villains who seem swollen disproportionately large when compared to the others in our lives. “Bad impressions, alas! engrave themselves as deeply on the memory as the good, and often the latter even are effaced while the others still remain,” wrote the American composer Louis Moreau Gottschalk comparing his reception in neighboring towns in Connecticut after a tour. As Sammy's busboy I met a good number of abrasive guests, people who, wherever they might vacation, would demand to be seated at one of the head waiter's tables. If they were not among his regulars and did not show him the proper deference he pushed them off on to me and this obvious snub caused them to distribute their sense of humiliation throughout the staff, but it was I who ended up getting most of it. No juice that I poured, no dish that I served to them could be eaten without complaint.

“You call this oatmeal!? It's like plaster for Godsakes.” This critique was usually shouted rather than spoken and before I could respond Stuart Stein would be standing at my side. “Take this back and get Mr.Feifelman a fresh bowl of cereal.” It felt demeaning to have Stuart Stein behaving that way but all the waiters and busboys at Braverman's knew that ingratiating himself with the guests at our expense was his way of cadging tips. Still, I didn't think it fair for his tips to be at my expense and materializing the way he did seemed to imply that I, not the kitchen -if indeed anyone at all- was to blame. This kind of officiousness was one of the reasons so many of us enjoyed the scoffing contests in the dining room. It was like giving the finger to a martinet.

But then of course there was Harlan, unique as always, gliding smoothly over the rough spots without so much as a bump. And the guests at Harlan's station were different too. Food was of no consequence to them because they had come in search of love; love was the staple they most eagerly craved.

“Doesn't anybody here ever get to you?” I asked him as we left the shower one evening after a particularly busy dinner meal.

“Get to me how? You mean irritate me? No.” He shook his head for emphasis. “No, everyone is here for a reason. If my reason doesn't get in the way of yours there's no cause for conflict. I'm here to make as much money as I can in a short period of time and the guests, they're here to eat drink and be merry because tomorrow they have to go back to their boring, awful lives. Don't you see, Jack, they come here to dream. These Catskill resorts are basically a dreamland where many dreamers bring their hope to be living in a fairytale. The unmarried secretaries, bookkeepers and shop clerks come in search of love and romance. The salesmen and the accountants come with lust in their loins and fear in their hearts. What if they make someone pregnant? Worse still, what if they have to return to New York with no conquests to boast about to their cronies? So I encourage their dreams and they tip me for my considerateness.” He smiled that open and friendly wonder-rapt smile of his and looked around so that anyone watching him would think he was just having the best time imaginable at whatever he was doing. “I am making a great deal of money, Jack. Don't say anything about this to anyone but I'm doing about $6.50 a head at my station.” His smile never wavered as he recounted this to me, that affable smile that never betrayed the private motives and truths for his presence in the Catskills. “That's what we're here for, the money, isn't it?” I nodded, but I still couldn't, or more truthfully, wouldn't believe that was all he'd come for.

“Here for money, and for love. And how's your love life? Have you met anybody yet?” I didn't want to tell him the details of the Rosie debacle. He had seemed so disapproving of the very idea of Rosie and Diana I just said, “No.”

“Maybe Heidi can fix you up with one of the counselors.”

“Oh, that would be great if she would do that.”

“Okay! That's the spirit, give me a little time. I'll work on it and let you know when things work out. Some of the girls are probably seeing what they've gotten themselves into with their new boyfriends about now and there'll be some break-ups coming. Be patient, things will work out, you'll see.”

I finished dressing and was preparing to go down to the casino to see if there were any girls around when there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, standing in the doorway still dressed in his waiter's outfit was Abe Melman, his face stretched by a broad smile such as I had never seen on him before, and he began to speak immediately.

“So, Melvin, I haven't really taken the time to get to know you but you shouldn't take that personally. So tell me, how do you like working for the famous Sammy?” Taken so completely off guard I was speechless. “You've got nothing to say?” He stood on his tiptoes and peered into the room. “I can come in maybe for just a second?” It sounded like a question but before I could demur he had pushed past me and was already wiping the invisible dust from Harlan's blanket. “I'll just sit for a minute.” He lifted and refolded Harlan's squared blanket and then sat on it. “Sammy is a real character, in case you didn't notice. He has a way with numbers. If he asks you something once he'll tell you it was twice. If he sees three people waiting on line he'll insist there were six. He's a putz. Harmless, but a putz. It's his insecurity that makes him do that. Those kind of exaggerations are his way of trying to make up for his lack of education.” Having avoided being drawn into their feud in the dining room, Abe had brought the feud to me in my quarters. “Still speechless Melvin?”

“Well …”

“It's all right, you don't have to talk if you don't want.” His face had relaxed into its usual state of gloominess. “I would like to get to know you better. You look like a nice boy, Melvin.” His offer held no allure whatsoever for me and I resented being called a boy. I was not yet a man but no longer still a boy either.

“Well, thanks for stopping by Abe but I have to meet somebody down at the casino right now.”

“Yeah, yeah, he said, waving his hand as if to shoo flies, “I'll get out of your way, but some time we should talk.”

I followed him out of my room and left the building. His friendliness had seemed forced, something he was unaccustomed to offering, and the gloomy climate of failure that surrounded him was unnerving. Once you experienced it you treated Abe like someone afflicted with a deadly contagion and fled from him as rapidly as you could. I would probably never know why he was as he was, what had happened to make him give up a decent life, but I knew I didn't want to be infected with Abe's failure. I lit up a Newport and went to the bar at the casino where the usual disappointment of my expectations with girls was likely to be waiting for me.

2.

On Wednesday afternoon I awoke with a start and leapt from my bed in a state of confusion. The room was disorientingly bright and Harlan and Ron were gone. What meal had I missed? I was positive that I was supposed to be in the dining room serving either breakfast or lunch but couldn't understand how I could have overslept. And where was all the light coming from? Powerful feelings of guilt and distress gripped me. I was nothing if not reliable, even if only for a silly and trivial busboy's job. My head was just beginning to clear when Ron barged into the room. “You're not going to believe this one,” he said shaking his head and kneading the fingers of his right hand with his left. “Incredible story, just incredible.” I could tell he was waiting for me to egg him on, but my head was still foggy and his excitement was more jarring than infectious.

“Interested? Hello, anybody home?”

“Sorry, I just woke up and I didn't know what time it was and thought that I had missed lunch or breakfast …”

“It's the middle of the afternoon,” he said impatiently, frustrated with my lack of enthusiasm.

“So what's incredible?” Ron stared at me, frowning, considering whether or not I, having completely deflated him, was worthy of his story. Then he shrugged and began to speak.

“Lenny the handyman says he knows where judge Crater is buried here on the hotel grounds. He says the judge was dumped into a well that they don't use anymore out in back of the waiters' dormitory.” With eyes wide and glowing he smiled and waited for a response.

“Do you think John Steinbeck had this Lenny in mind when he wrote ‘Of Mice and Men' or do you think it's just a coincidence that both Lennys are morons.”

“Hah, but you know they never found Crater. No one knows what happened to him or where he disappeared to, just that he disappeared. Why not here? Isn't he our resident ghost for a reason?”

“Why not in Mexico? Come on Ron, are you going to believe a moron like Lenny?”

“I didn't say that I believed him, but it is a fascinating and curious notion you have to admit, and it certainly makes me curious.” I could tell that Ron was trying to enlist me in the service of satisfying his curiosity and I was reluctant to commit. I flopped down on Harlan's bunk and picked up the Life magazine that was on the floor, looked up at him and said,

“Guess what killed the cat.”

“I was thinking that we could just spend some time talking to good old Lenny and find out where the body is buried. Maybe there's a reward.” I didn't answer. “Just come with me and talk to him. Hear it for yourself and then we can both decide if it's worth taking seriously. C'mon Mel, it's just a crazy possibility that he did die here, and if it's true we'd be the ones to break the story, maybe get on TV who knows?”

“I'm too tired. You do it.”

“Melvin, don't be a pain in the ass. It'll be fun. Come on. I pulled the pages of the magazine taut in determined resistance to his plying.

“The name's Jack.”

“Come on, it'll be a kick,” he crooned, “come on.” I sensed at that moment that Ron's persistent coaxing, gentle but relentless, had probably gotten him where he wanted to go often, usually into some girl's brassiere, occasionally into her pants, and that he would continue to apply the pressure persuasively until my resistance was worn down. “Come on.”