The Pink Hotel (7 page)

Panic carried Mary suddenly into the hall, down an intricate maze of corridors. She had been lost then: one strip of red carpeting looking like another, leading nowhere. Blundering into an enclosed fire escape, she sat down abruptly on the first step. The concrete was very cold, and the wind went
Oh-ohohohoh-e-e-e-e-e-ee. Eee-ohohohoh-oh-e-e-e-ee.
Darlene
had found her there as gray daylight began to mix with the hard incandescence of a naked light bulb on the landing. The rain was slackening now, but the wind still went
Oh-ohohoh-oh-e-e-e-ee. Eee-ohohohohoh-ee-e-e. . . .

Mary was aware of scraps of talk. Julie Templar. The Lyric Women. Pallas Athene Smith. Firing poor old Mr. Tilney. Chiang, again, “—receipt of your esteemed letter
comma
and beg to advise that three adjoining suites will be held pending your anticipated arrival—” Mary’s hands moved lightly, in swift co-ordination with her stenographer’s notebook.
What she wouldn’t give to be back home right now, never see Mr. Wenton again.

Darlene had been lucky, she decided. Mary had been a mail clerk and Darlene had had a job in Accounting. That was before Miss Williams had her nervous breakdown. If Mr. Purcell hadn’t told Mr. Wenton about her, how fast she was, she’d probably still be a mail clerk.
Gee, he was nice.

Anyhow, Darlene had met Ralph Strawbridge who played the electric guitar in the Fontainebleau Room, and it had been
the real thing.
They had been married within two weeks. Ralph was a nice boy and he seemed to be just crazy about Darlene. Darlene was maybe getting up about now, taking an aspirin, smoking a cigarette like she’d never get one again, drinking black coffee, walking around without a stitch the way she did.

Purcell closed the door discreetly and headed for the bar, the double Scotch he had promised himself. He was just about the best-looking thing this side of . . . But Mary couldn’t really think of anyone with whom to compare Mr. Purcell.

“Mary, you dull bitch,” Mr. Wenton said suddenly. “How many days till Christmas?” Little Street’s heart pounded. Her mouth went dry. She was afflicted with a sort of paralysis.
If
Mr. Wenton asked me my name now, I couldn’t tell him.

“Don’t you ever listen when I’m talking to you, Miss Mucus?” the Old Man asked with dangerous politeness. “Get out of here, you midden! Be back in five minutes!” he roared.

311-12

“Dear—” Mr. E. J. Westbury said.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. E. J. Westbury.

“I’m. going to get some golf again, dear.”

“Out with the boys, dear?”

“Yes, dear,” E. J. said and sighed.

Mrs. E. J. sighed too, pulled the sheet over her head, turned and went back to her dream. The dream had been very pleasant,
it
had indicated Mrs. Westbury’s social acceptability.

Mrs. Tewksberry—
the
Mrs. Tewksberry—had invited her to see her garden. Mrs. Tewksberry had called Mrs. Westbury
Nona
and Mrs. Westbury had called Mrs. Tewksberry
Jane.
“Call me plain Jane,” Mrs. Tewksberry had said and then she had removed her pink transformation and taken off out of the garden with the transformation clamped to her breast
like water wings. Mrs. Westbury was left alone in the garden, and as the familiar sensation returned, she awoke.

It was reassuring to have dreamed of Mrs. Tewksberry, but privately, Mrs. Westbury did not approve of her, and it was disturbing. Mrs. Westbury considered Mrs. Tewksberry
fast
and
common
but there was no disputing her
position.
She did not even find Mrs. Tewksberry amusing, because Mrs. Westbury was all grave purpose and there was no room for amusement in her.

Mrs. Westbury would have liked to go to the bathroom but Mom had always told her that the best time to go was right after breakfast. In death, Mrs. Westbury referred to Mom, now happily sanctified, as
Maume.
Mom had been a wonderful woman, she reflected, and called Room Service.

But the trouble was that with
Maume
dead, Nona Westbury didn’t know any more whom to like, what to do. Mom had always told her things like that. Maume was, now, a presentable shade, a marble mother with blind eyes, eyes blind now to calculation, to the sensible bettering of one’s
self.

Mrs. Tewksberry wasn’t even
refined,
Mrs. Westbury thought. Mrs. Tewksberry was fat and wore that awful pink hair and told dirty stories about
everybody
but she was
terribly important.
Her sly barbs and her great, booming laugh were considered formidable indictments among people who
counted.
Mrs. Westbury felt that she
ought
to like Mrs. Tewksberry, with her own island and that armful of bracelets and her yacht—not that it was such a very big one.

Mom could have told her what to do in a minute. Mom had had the instinct. Mom used to tell Nona whether or not to like the most impossible little girls, with no more to go on than the quality of their hair ribbons.

If it hadn’t been for Mom, Nona didn’t suppose she would ever even have married E. J., but Mom had recognized his possibilities while he was still in knickers and time had proved her right. Nona had set herself to liking E. J., since it was the thing to do, and it hadn’t been very long before he was taking quite a lot of notice of her. When E. J. was fourteen, he had been fattish and his nose had run a lot, but now it simply
frightened
Nona to think of his income tax.

Ernie, the room-service waiter, wheeled in Mrs. Westbury’s breakfast.

Mom had seen her married to E. J. and then, her mission complete, had died. In a way, it was probably better that Mom
had
died. She wouldn’t have fitted in with the kind of people that E. J. knew now, but it would have been wonderful to have been able to go and see Mom sometimes, all by herself, and have Mom tell her what to do.

Mrs. Westbury picked at her avocado. “Nasty, greasy, tasteless thing,” she said, but she supposed that she
had
to eat it. Everyone who counted
raved
about avocado so she supposed that probably it was pretty good. It was just that she couldn’t learn to like it. She thought some more about her dream. She could like Mrs. Tewksberry better, she decided, if only she could manage to see a little more of her. They had met twice and that had been that.

And she had thought that she was going to have such a good time down here. She had some really wonderful clothes. She wore them, of course, but what good was that if no one saw them who really
mattered.
Mrs. Westbury finished her avocado resolutely and went to the bathroom with considerable satisfaction. Mom had been a wonderful woman.

After Mrs. Westbury made up her face, she felt pretty lonely again, discouraged. It was terrible, trying to think up things to do, get through the day. At home, where she could talk to the children or go to the movies or give detailed instructions to the maid and the man, it was bad enough.

She could go to the movies here but that wasn’t what she had come South for. She had thought that here, in Florida, she would finally meet people who really
counted.
Back home in Grosse Pointe she had seen herself the center of a gay, laughing group of the elect, but the nearest that she had come to gay, laughing groups had been in the bar, and they had all been at other tables.

E. J. certainly wasn’t any fun, not that he ever had been.
Although she supposed that he was having a good enough time in his own way. E. J. got up early and played golf all day and got back to the hotel just in time to dress for dinner. After that, he drank double bourbons until bedtime. Mrs. Westbury sighed. She wished that E. J. would drink Scotch instead of that old bourbon. Everyone who really
belonged
seemed to drink Scotch but she couldn’t get E. J. to change. He just said he didn’t like the damned stuff.

Mrs. Westbury decided finally that she would go down and have a swim. She looked out over the ocean. It wouldn’t be much fun all by herself but she had a new, black bathing suit, pure silk, and maybe the dream had meant that something was going to happen. She couldn’t stand it here all winter if it didn’t. They would just have to give up and go back home.

It was pleasant on the beach—far pleasanter than the hotel pool. The sun was hot and strong and a soft, warm breeze caressed her breast and legs. She watched the alternate advance and retreat of the sand tits, and rollers broke over her feet in a series of ecstatic little green explosions. Mrs. Westbury swam adequately, if not well, and she started for the sand bar. She could see it, a long, white ribbon wavering through the blue water ahead.

She swam easily, enjoying the motion, the salty breeze, the playful little swells. A well-muscled man in his early thirties caught her eye, smiled, and swam toward her. Fresh thing! Mrs. Westbury thought.

“There’s a hole along in here,” he shouted. “If you aren’t a good swimmer, you’d better go back. Want any help?”

Men!
Mrs. Westbury thought, and exerted herself to reach the sand bar. They only thought about one thing,
always after you.
It was bad enough to have to put up with E. J.

“Go away!” she said. The man turned and was hidden quickly behind a wave and Mrs. Westbury continued, unmolested, through the blue water. All that she could see was blue water. There wasn’t, she thought exultantly, a man in sight.

A cramp bit into Mrs. Westbury without warning. She
struggled, but in sudden, incredulous panic she felt herself going down. She went down so far that she didn’t think she’d ever come up again but she did, slowly, gasping and fighting. The second time was even worse.

“Help! Help! Hel-pp!” she cried strangling, arms and legs flailing, but no one came to help. All that she could see was blue water. Mrs. Westbury was alone in a salty void that choked and used her.

Her effort became now fiercer, more strained, she was intent only upon one more breath, the quick, gurgling gasp that was never enough. The sky distilled to a stronger blue, a chalkier white, and there came, with her failing strength, a quick moment of clarity as she went under.

It was all nonsense, the things that were said about drowning. Drowning
wasn’t
pleasant and easy, and the events of her past
hadn’t
progressed in review like a bad movie. Now that she really
was
drowning, it was awful. “God, help me. God, I’ll do anything You say. I’ll never do anything wrong again. You’ll see, God. I don’t want to die. I’m not ready. Mom, make God help me. Mom . . .”

She’d give up E. J. and the house in Grosse Pointe, the children, do her own housework, anything, for another breath. “Oh God! Mom!” Mrs. Westbury had been treading water furiously, trying to gain on this final, slippery element, seize this last, manifest moment of simple being, when she had seen the end approaching.

A vast green roller wearing a cap of white spray not much larger than Mrs. Tewksberry’s pink transformation was bearing down on her. Mrs. Westbury had known then that she was a goner, almost enjoyed a quiet moment of realized dread, as a wall of green water advanced with a low, menacing roar. The big green roller had come up, hesitated malignly for an instant, taken sure, deliberate aim.

Mrs. Westbury saw, behind the roller, little fish, small marine animals, pieces of sponge and seaweed, a bright, white convoluted shell, a pebble of pink coral, and then the roller had hit her with its full green force, driving her down like a nail—a very little nail, with a very large green hammer.

Mrs. Westbury was just starting to go down again when a hand caught her shoulder strap and a girl’s voice said, “Take it easy, kid.” It was almost as if it were Mom herself. The girl’s voice was gentle and Mrs. Westbury realized limply that she wasn’t done for after all.

“Over on your back,” the girl said easily. “I’ll take you in.” It had been wonderful to obey, to have someone capable in charge again. She surrendered herself entirely to the voice, floating in docilely under its command.

Mrs. Westbury was winded and pretty well shaken when they reached the shore, and she buckled abruptly and sat down. The girl who belonged to the voice thumped her on the back, sat down beside her and tucked an arm around her in an interval devoted to coughing and dripping.

The girl was
beautiful,
Mrs. Westbury decided when she could look up—very brown. Her hair was blonde and curly and her mouth was painted a ripe red. Mrs. Westbury observed the girl’s hair critically; it was darker at the roots, but she smiled anyhow and thanked her, and they were soon talking like old friends.

Mrs. Westbury didn’t know when she’d had such a good time. There was no water except out there, somewhere, only sand and sun, and the girl laughed a lot, seeing funny things that Mrs. Westbury wouldn’t have noticed with anyone else. Out of sun and sand and air, the girl produced a dog-eared package of cigarettes and they smoked in raffish content. And the things the girl said were so funny that Mrs. Westbury couldn’t help laughing too. Out loud!

She’d said that Jane Tewksberry looked like a blimp in a fright wig. She’s said that the hotel was a floating cat house washed ashore. She’s said that Mr. Wenton, the
owner,
braided his toupee.

Mrs. Westbury had laughed immoderately, had giggled and snickered in a way that Mom—
Maume—
would never have approved of; in a way of which Maume would never
have
approved.

Mrs. Westbury was having such a good time that she didn’t know where the hours had flown. Lunchtime had come and gone—not that she had any plans.

“What the hell,” the slim blonde said, “you’d have done the same for me—if you could swim, that is.” Mrs. Westbury laughed again, felt better, sat up straighter, and looked around a little. The girl’s voice was talking away. Something about seeing her again. Mrs. Westbury was aware of a certain familiar
chic
in the blonde girl’s sloping back, her diapered trunks, her studied near-nakedness. She glimpsed a red blob on the blonde girl’s ankle. Probably scraped it on a shell, she told herself.

“Look here,” the girl’s voice was saying suddenly. “Why don’t we have a drink together, kid? You probably need one and I always think
I
do.”

“It would be
fun”
Mrs. Westbury murmured. The girl was a darling, Mrs. Westbury was telling herself in hot gratitude, when she noticed Mrs. Tewksberry observing them from her cabana. She didn’t know anything about the girl, she realized. She might be
anything,
some nobody probably.

“It
would
be fun,” Mrs. Westbury said again with dignity, “but I have another date. I must simply
fly.”

The blonde girl’s level eyes rested on Mrs. Westbury. She smiled a little. “Sorry I bothered you, kid,” she said, and walked away.

Mrs. Tewksberry left her cabana and embraced Mrs. Westbury noisily. “Nona,
darling,”
she said. “I’m so
glad
that you know Maggie Alexandroff. Can’t you bring her to the Island? I’m
dying
to meet her.”

Mrs. Westbury turned a slow scarlet. “Oh, no,” she said softly.
Maggie Alexandroff?
Maggie Alexandroff’s hair was black and straight. The blonde girl didn’t look a bit like Countess Alexandroff.

Mrs. Westbury experienced again the same incredulous panic she had known in the water. The red blob was the De Burke Cabochon, the celebrated Drop of Blood. The illustrated weeklies said that Maggie was never without it, even in her bath.
Maggie Alexandroff.

Maggie Alexandroff was the ultimate and the penultimate,
the darling of a nation. A millionaire’s daughter, she had grown richer and more famous with every husband, surpassing now even herself.
Maggie Alexandroff?
She had seen her, talked to her, been close enough to touch her. Why, Maggie Alexandroff had saved her life!
Maggie Alexandroff.
She was just like anybody, and it would have been so
easy
to like her. Mrs. Westbury was glad that Mom didn’t know about this, couldn’t see her now.

“Oh, yes,” she said to Mrs. Tewksberry. “I’ve known her for years. But I don’t think she’s very—well—
nice.”