A page of crumpled newspaper blew out suddenly from the garbage cans.
This little waking. Thirty-one, the clock in Dukemer’s head repeated. Die
-alone.
Thirty-
one
. All
-alike.
Thirty-
one
. Dearest-
love
.
Dukemer’s knees sagged briefly, but she stiffened herself against the wall until she felt stronger.
Then Dukemer walked out into a world as fair as the first Christmas morning. “Cab, Arch,” she told the doorman. There was a gentle roar of wind and water. A replete sea licked fastidiously at a well-groomed white beach and retreated according to schedule. Two Goodyear zeppelins were lazy silver bubbles overhead and a war surplus B-29, nervous as a dragonfly, smokily lisped the astonishing legend
I. J
.
Fox Furs.
An avenue of royal palms moved their fronds decorously, with a stiff, spinsterish rustle. The sun touched Dukemer delicately, in a bright, blue benignancy. A bank of pink and white and crimson poinsettias nudged her with a blaze of inept color and the Pleasaunce was an improbable dark green. Gulls screamed.
“Thanks, Arch,” Dukemer said as she squirmed heavily into the cab. Little breezes fingered her hot face but Dukemer twisted in her seat, pointed to a red-gold incandescence in the windows of the North wing. “Look,” she said. “Hold it! You think the hotel could be on fire?”
“Na-ah,” the cabbie said. “Na-ah. Prolly just the sun.” He scratched his head. “It reflects, see, off of the water.”
“I guess so.” Dukemer slumped with a kind of furious peace against the cushions of the cab. She sighed. “Who cares, anyhow?”
Mary Street looked out of the coach window at Sandoval and wished that the train would take on its water just a
little
faster. She’d been riding the Illinois Central all her life, practically, and it seemed to her that it had never taken so long before.
Goodness, she was lucky just to be aboard, what with Mother and Dad being so, well so
thick
about understanding that she was going to Chicago to meet the man she was going to marry, that she really wasn’t hungry, didn’t want a turkey dinner; that what she wanted most in all the world was a lift down to the I. C. station before it was too late.
Then it had been almost impossible to explain to them that of course David was the most wonderful man in the world, that he had a perfectly enormous marital bump, the fact that she was getting married had simply slipped her mind and that her cold was much better, thanks.
It hadn’t all been easy and Mother and Dad had insisted on coming along with her for the longest time, but eventually a compromise had been reached and Mary had promised not to do anything rash, but to bring David back to Centralia to meet the family and get married in church.
Both Mother and Dad kept repeating that they just couldn’t understand why Mary hadn’t told them about it; at least mentioned it casually. Mother and Dad were sweet, but Mary supposed all parents were a little, well,
slow.
There was a lurch. The train inched forward and stopped. Then there was another lurch. The train rolled backwards. “Oh, no,
please,”
Mary said. “Forward. Go on forward to Chicago.
Please!”
There was a screech and the train moved shakily, slowly forward again, gaining momentum as it passed the dismal slag heaps of Sandoval.
“Tickets,” the conductor called. “Tickets please. Why, Mary Street! I wouldn’t of recognized you. Lookatcha! Back from Florida an’ brown as an indian! Home to spend Christmas with the folks?”
“Y-yes, that’s right,” Mary said, surrendering her ticket.
“An’ going back already, without you even have Christmas dinner?”
“Oh, no,” Mary said casually—almost grandly. “I’m just going into Chicago to meet my—my husband.” It sounded so comfortable, so customary. As though she were a suburban housewife on her way in to dinner and the theatre. It felt so good she tried it again. “Yes. To meet my
husband.”
Except for half a dozen uniformed airline employees being transported on the cuff, Purcell was the only passenger on the
noon plane from Miami. As such, he was the hostess’s exclusive prey.
“Would you like a magazine to read, Mr. Vursell?” the hostess said, crinkling her nose, dimpling.
“Life? Newsweek? The Post? Sports Illustrated?”
“No, thanks,” Purcell said. He had plenty to occupy his mind, such as what he was going to do in Chicago without a job, without even a topcoat. And what’s more, he didn’t care. He had a hundred bucks, a clean shirt and Mary. They’d live on love, get by somehow—
“Your first trip to Florida, Mr. Vursell?” the hostess said, tossing her long, blonde bob.
“That’s right. My first and my last.”
“Some lovely places in Florida. Beautiful homes. Exclusive clubs. Luxurious hotels . . .”
“Do tell?” Purcell said, wishing she’d go away.
“Oh yes. For example, we are now flying over one of America’s most costly and exclusive hotels. You see that big pink hotel just off the tip of the wing? That is called the—Sssay! That’s funny. All that smoke coming out of it. Why, it almost looks like it’s on fire.”
Purcell looked disinterestedly down, saw smoke pouring from the North wing of the hotel. “A fine idea,” he said.
The stewardess’s magenta mouth flew open. Then she closed it, turned on her smile again and switched on up the aisle.
“Mary,” Purcell said aloud. “My lovely Mary.”
Mr. Wenton lay in his darkened bedroom, a boric acid compress over each eye. The white telephone to his left rang. He snatched it up furiously. “I left distinct instructions that no telephone calls were to be—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wenton,” Daniels said from the Desk. “But this is a matter of life and death. There’s a man here from the Health Department with a . . .”
The golden telephone at Mr. Wenton’s right rang, not with the sweet dulcet tinkle that the operator usually sent chiming
up to the Executive Suite, but with a clangor that nearly
thrust J. Arthur off the bed.
“Hello!” the Old Man bellowed. “I thought I told—”
“Mr. Wenton! Mr. Wenton!” the operator cried. “The
hotel’s
on fire!”
“Oh, my God,” the Old Man croaked.
“This
is the end!”