Wally didn't say anything. He just took the keys. As we walked into the lobby, Mr. Forney the manager was standing there, as though he was waiting for us.
"Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, I need a word. Over by the desk."
It was the absence of
please.
Usually the guy pleased all over the place.
Please, sir, your messages. Please, sir, your dinner reservation is confirmed. Please step this way, sir, please.
Just the way Wally had run out of yessirs.
I saw Mrs. Grayson's spine snap to. She looked over
at Mr. Grayson, but he stood, still with a pleasant smile on his face, not moving.
"How about right here?" he asked.
Joe moved closer, flanking Mr. Grayson. "Is there a problem?"
"You received a telephone message this evening," the
manager said. "From a Mrs...." he cleared his throat
"...Garfinkle." He said the name like a wet tissue he was holding by a corner. "She requested that you call home. Something about a wire transfer of funds." He paused. "The lady in question claimed to be your mother."
Mr. Grayson took the message slip out of the manager's hand and turned away. "Thank you.”
“I have to ask ..."
Mr. Grayson whipped around so fast Mr. Forney had to step back. "Do you? Do you have to ask?"
"If, in fact, this lady is your mother."
"Last time I checked," Mr. Grayson said.
"Tom," Mrs. Grayson murmured. She touched his sleeve.
"I'm sorry, we do have a strict policy," the manager said.
"And that is?"
"Mr. Grayson, we trusted that you and your wife were
Gentiles. But from speaking to your mother, we believe this is not the case.”
“You didn't ask."
"It is an established Palm Beach custom. I understand that your people are happier down in the Miami area. I'll send a bellhop up for your luggage."
Mr. Grayson's face flushed. "Are you kicking me out of this hotel?"
"We find that your booking was open-ended, and we have a large number of guests arriving soon."
"That's bull," Joe said.
"We here at Le Mirage strive for the comfort of all our guests, and they have a right to expect —"
"Tom." Mrs. Grayson tugged on his arm. "Let's go."
"Not tonight. I'm not driving out tonight and looking for a hotel in the dark."
"I'm sure I can recommend some motels."
Mr. Grayson stared Mr. Forney down. "We'll be gone before breakfast."
The manager held his gaze for a moment. Then he inclined his head slightly. "I think that will be acceptable." He walked away stiffly, as if he was the one with the right to be angry.
For a minute nobody said anything.
"Let's go, Tom," Mrs. Grayson said.
"You're not going to say it?" he answered dully. "You're not going to tell me that you were right?"
"Sweetheart," she murmured. There was so much lovely warmth in that word, it was a wonder he didn't turn to her, but he didn't, he just kept staring ahead.
"Tom," Joe said. "Is there anything we can do?"
Tom's mouth twisted. "Like help me pack?"
"This is terrible," Mom said. "I ..."
But this moment was for the Graysons. Nobody else. Mrs. Grayson looked at Mom with a "butt out" look that even I could read.
So we just stood there and watched them push the elevator button. Watched them wait. Watched them get on. We didn't move a muscle.
Ugly. Once in the schoolyard Herbie Connell threw a rock and it hit me in the back. This felt like that, ugly hitting me in the back.
"Whew," Mom said as soon as the door to our suite closed behind us. "That crummy little pipsqueak manager. I should have stuffed that stupid bow tie down his throat."
"I can't believe this is happening to me," Joe said. "We're signing tomorrow. This is going to blow everything."
"How do you mean?" Mom asked. "They're getting kicked out of the hotel, not Florida. Why won't he sign the deal?"
"Did you see their faces? Don't you get it?" Joe said angrily. "The deal is off! Christ, Bev, can't you get anything?"
"It's not my fault," Mom said. "You get that, Joe? Everything is not my fault!"
Joe paced to the bed and back. "I've got to think."
"What's to think about? You'll talk to Tom tomorrow and get it straightened out."
"You think we can buy this hotel now, the two of us? Now that they know?"
"So buy another hotel! It doesn't have to be in Palm Beach. Who needs it, anyway?"
"And you weren't any help. Why did Arlene sour on you that way? Couldn't you help me out? What happened with her, anyway?"
"It didn't take you long. What was it, maybe thirty seconds? I knew you'd come around to blaming this on me. You knew the deal was risky. You knew he was Jewish, didn't you? That's why he needed your name on the deed."
"He was going to be a silent partner. Who would care?"
"They'd care! So maybe he wanted to bust this place wide open — I'm not saying he's wrong — but I'm saying, you shouldn't be surprised that it blew up, that's all. That's what happens when you try to fix things sometimes. Things that the swells like just the way they are."
"So this is my fault."
"No, it's not your fault, Joe." Mom sounded tired. "But it's not mine, either. You never tell me the real deal. You screw up, it's my fault. I want to make my own screwups, thank you."
"Oh, you're plenty good at screwing, dollface," Joe said. "That's clear."
"Stop fighting!" I yelled. But they didn't stop.
"Why'd you marry me, Joe? Why'd you ask me to marry you?"
"I thought different then."
"You didn't trust me then, though, did you? You never did, but I didn't want to see it. I thought it was because you loved me so much. But no, you made sure I had a chap-erone while you were overseas. Your mother, watching me like a hawk. So if I stopped to buy a pack of gum, she'd want to know what I was doing for those five minutes."
"Did you need a chaperone, Bev?"
"Stop it," I begged. "Please, stop it."
"You must have met a lot of fellows, selling ties."
"Stop it!"
I wanted to put my hands over my ears. I was gulping my tears into my mouth. I didn't want to hear any more ugly tonight. So I ran.
Chapter 20
I ran down the streets barefoot, sandals in both hands, hiccupping my misery into the air. Past The Breakers, down a street lined with palm trees, turning again. It was so dark. The moon was behind the clouds. The tall ficus hedges on either side of the road were like giant men in a fairy tale, scary and mean. I ran and ran on the dark silent street. All the houses were shuttered, their owners away until winter, when the island would come alive. What a screwy place, I thought, when you had to wait until December to wake up.
I kept thinking about Tom Grayson's hand squeezing that piece of paper. And the manager's face. He had been waiting to deliver that news. He had been
happy
to do it. That was the ugliest part.
And Joe and Mom. I'd heard them fight, but never like that, where they wanted to say the meanest things they could, the crudest things they could think of.
I needed someone to explain it to me. Someone who would tell me the real deal.
I remembered the blue convertible turning down a street, and that's where I headed. There were no cars anywhere, no lights on in the houses. I walked and walked, down one street, then another. The driveways curved away from the street, and I had to run down each one to look for the car. I pressed my face against garage-door windows.
Finally I noticed a dirt road under a canopy of pines. It was solid dark, too dark to see anything but the outline of a white house shaded by tall trees with twisted roots. The shutters were drawn tightly over the windows. I went alongside the house, down a narrow crushed-shell driveway. It hurt my feet, so I put my shoes back on.
The blue car was pulled up underneath the overhanging branches of a tree. A breeze sent the branches shivering, and a shower of orange petals fell on my head. It seemed like a good omen. I walked into the backyard.
He was sitting outside. Two chairs, chaise lounges, angled toward each other. Peter was sitting on one, in the dark, staring at the swimming pool, empty and clogged with debris. Leaves and grass and sand had collected in the bottom, rotting and brown.
"Checking up on me?" he asked, his back to me. "How considerate."
He didn't sound glad.
I walked closer, and he turned. Whatever expression was on his face was gone in less than a moment. "Well. Hello, you."
Now that I was here, I didn't know what to say. "It's so gloomy. Why don't you turn on a light?"
"They turn off the electricity in the summers. They told me to turn everything on, but I don't want to impose. I told you I was camped out."
"The windows are all boarded up."
"In case of hurricanes. I didn't want to ask the caretaker to take them down. The guy looks about ninety. What's wrong?"
"I just had to see you."
"Don't fret, pussycat. The punch didn't hurt."
"No, I mean, I'm sorry about the punch, but — the Graysons got kicked out of the hotel. Tonight. They're Jewish. The manager just kicked them out, just like that."
Peter let out
a ppphhhh,
shaking his head. "Palm Beach is restricted. You know that."
"I didn't know. Anyway, you can't just kick someone out like that."
"Of course you can. That's the way it works. I told you that before. They just didn't have a sign outside, but
Arlene and Tom knew what could happen if they tried to pass. What are they going to do?"
"They're leaving in the morning. Peter, you don't understand," I said. "The manager. He
enjoyed
it."
Peter sighed.
"I don't get it!"
"That's a good thing," he said. "A good thing that you don't get it."
"But you do. You get it. So clue me in. Tell me how someone could do that and be happy about it!"
"Baby, I was in a war. Of course I get it. That's where all the bad in the world
comes
from. Guys who like being mean." Peter's face went tight and closed. "I was that guy once. So was Joe. We were all that guy, for at least a minute. We had to be."
I felt the close, hot darkness around me. "Tell me what you did. Tell me," I said, very slowly, because just then I realized it, the whole obvious truth of it right in front of my face, "what you and
Joe
did. Together. What happened? You say I'm good. I don't need good. I need to
know
things. I need to know why Joe drinks so much, and why he hates you. Why he wants to move here. Why he wants to get away."
"Ask him. He's your dad."
"Tell me. Tell
me,
Peter. Tell
someone
and let it be me."
He jerked his face away, looked down at the empty swimming pool.
He looked so wretched that it made me brave. "Tell someone who loves you," I said.
"You don't love me, kiddo," Peter said softly. "You're a lovely little girl with a lovely little crush. You don't know me —"
"I do know you. I know you right down to the ground," I said. "I know that you were nice to Mr. Grayson when he was embarrassed about being 4-F. I know that night I met you that you felt sorry for me, that you knew how stupid I looked in that gown and you danced with me anyway. I know you taught me to drive because you wanted me to have a piece of being an adult. You saw that Mom treated me like a baby, and you showed her that I wasn't. I know that you didn't punch Joe tonight because he was drunk and you would have flattened him. I know that whatever you did, however bad it was, that
you're
not bad."
He stood there, and I saw something change for him. I saw
me
change for him. That dress I thought had changed me in his eyes? It had been nothing. This was it, this was finally it, when I got what I wanted.
He sat down at the edge of the pool, his feet dangling. After a minute I sat next to him.
"In the infantry," he said, "you walk and walk through miles of broken things. Trees snapped in two. Bridges cut in half. Walls of farmhouses blown away so you see chairs and a kitchen table with a cup sitting on it, dusty and perfect. And then there are the things you see that you stop thinking about even while you're walking by them. You've got you and your squad and that's it. You can't even remember home anymore, even though you tell your buddies about it. You get used to lifting stuff from another outfit if you need it. A wrench, a gun, some rations — a Jeep, even. Everybody did it. War turns you into a crook and a liar and a cheat. Except you never cheat your buddies."
Peter put his hands on both sides of his body, as if he wanted to push himself off and leap into the pool. "You remember the story from when you're a kid, about Aladdin's Cave?"
"Sure."
"Well, we found it, Joe and me. After the war. It was a warehouse in Salzburg. Riled with loot. Treasure. And it belonged to nobody. This train, it left Hungary near the end of the war, packed with stuff. The Germans tried to hide it. Only we got our hands on it. It was things that belonged to the Jews. Everything you could imagine. Dishes and rugs and watches and rings and paintings and silverware. You name it. And it was all loaded into this warehouse until they decided what to do with it."
"What happened ..."
"To the Jews? I don't know. Most of them were dead, I'm sure. Sent to the camps. Maybe some of them made it out; it was near the end of the war. Maybe some were DPs, but how were we supposed to trace them?"
DPs. Displaced persons. No home to go back to. No city, no town, no country even.
"Anyway, there were crates and crates of this stuff. And the people who owned it were probably dead. Name after name, they had, the Germans. They kept track of who owned what, down to every last spoon. But so what? Where was it going to go? Joe and I became buddies — he was the property officer, see — and one night we said to each other, Who's going to miss a bit of this, a bit of that?"