The Resort (26 page)

She hated the idea of being unprepared for any sort of questioning. She could refuse to answer. Once, standing at the curb, she had seen an elderly woman get off a bus, right leg first, and step into a three-inch hole in the pavement, snapping her brittle limb just above the ankle. A citizen can choose to be a good Samaritan, but a doctor has no choice. Margaret saw what the injury was almost immediately, kept people from moving the woman before the ambulance attendant could apply splints. What she hadn’t expected was that her name would be taken and that the old lady would sue the city of White Plains, and that she would be called as a witness. A lawyer friend of Henry’s named Harold Arnold had cautioned her. She was a witness not only to the diagnosis but, more importantly, to the accident. She had seen the elderly woman actually step down into the hole. Was she exercising sufficient caution, looking where she was going? Was the bus driver at fault, stopping so near a deep hole, or could he not see it? Or care? The plaintiff’s lawyer would try to twist Margaret’s testimony one way, the attorney for the city of White Plains another. The best thing for a witness to do under almost all circumstances, Harold Arnold maintained, was to say the least. “I don’t know.” “Yes.” “No.” “I don’t remember.” These Cliffhaven people who would be questioning her, thought Margaret, would get nothing out of her. She would stonewall them.

Charlotte had said she would be interrogated in the nude. That would make her more vulnerable only if she was unprepared. What if they beat her? What if they tried to molest her? These people would dare anything.

Margaret thought
I should not have showered. Why should I look clean for them? I am showering for myself. The main point is to get through this somehow and come out alive at the other end.

Toweling herself dry, she examined herself in the full-length mirror. There were the slight stretch marks that had never gone away. The veins on the underside of her left knee that she thought about whenever she donned a bathing suit. She would never subject herself to an operation purely for cosmetic reasons. Her hips were good. The skin of her thighs was unblemished. Her breasts were okay.
What did it matter? Why think about things like this? Stay alive.

She wondered if Henry thought of her body differently than she did.
Where was he at this very moment?
She was not used to not knowing where he was.

She would make it as difficult for them as she could. Margaret put on panty hose, and then slacks over them, a brassiere, and then a shirt that buttoned all the way and tight cuffs that buttoned at the wrist. Every inch of clothing would be fought for.

Margaret sat in the armchair looking at the door. She heard it unlock. Charlotte’s expression was
a
mask of ice, frozen to protect herself.

“Let’s go,” Charlotte said.

“Go where?”

“To Mr. Clifford’s residence.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Margaret said, still sitting.

Charlotte went immediately to the phone. “This is Charlotte in room 20. Would you send up two of the fellows from security and help me get a resident to Mr. Clifford’s quarters. I’ve got cuffs.”

When she hung up, Margaret was standing.
She had to resist with her mind, not her body. She needed to conserve energy.
“I’ll go,” she said.

Charlotte picked up the phone, a slight smile on her face. “Cancel that request. The resident has agreed to go peacefully.”

*

In the living room of Mr. Clifford’s house, Margaret’s eyes went immediately to the faces of the four men she had not seen before. Clete’s face she would remember. She had to be sure she remembered the others well enough to identify them later.

“My name is Clifford, Dr. Brown. This
is
George Whittaker, manager of Cliffhaven, Daniel Pitz, Oliver Robinson, Allen Trask. Clete you know.”

Nobody moved to shake hands. Had she expected them to?

“Charlotte,” Mr. Clifford continued, “would you please get Dr. Brown ready?”

“Ready for what?” Margaret said, flinging the words.

“Charlotte,” Mr. Clifford said, “hasn’t Dr. Brown been briefed about the purpose of our visit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have some questions to ask you, Dr. Brown. You’d better have some illuminating answers for us.”

“I don’t wish to speak to you, any of you,” Margaret said.

“Your wishes are not relevant,” Mr. Clifford replied. “Charlotte, get her ready.”

Margaret let Charlotte show her the way down the hall because she wanted to get out of that room. She wanted to find a door to run through, a window to break and climb out of.

She had climbed out of one window in Cliffhaven already, and through the woods, to no avail. She must not let defeat settle on her. Henry had escaped. She could too.

*

Mr. Clifford’s Japanese manservant passed Charlotte and Margaret in the hallway as if they did not exist. He handed the elegant attaché case he was carrying to Mr. Clifford.

“Oh thank you, Sen,” Mr. Clifford said. “You were able to find what I asked you to?”

“Yes, sir,” the Japanese said.

“You may go,” Mr. Clifford said. “I expect to stay here until the escapee is found. I’ll let you know when we’ll be driving back.”

“Very good, sir,” the Japanese said. “I’ll check in with the reception desk from time to time as usual.”

*

Charlotte led Margaret up three stairs and into the most elaborate bathroom she had ever seen. The room was huge, with two rectangular excavations, one a square Jacuzzi, one a rectangular bath that could easily hold four or five. Along one wall was an enormous blue-tiled shower. The vanity wall was completely mirrored. From the high ceiling dangled something Margaret had never seen in a bathroom before, not even in the great hotels of Europe: a crystal chandelier.

“Undress,” Charlotte said.

Margaret turned to face the girl and walked to within three feet of her. “I will not,” she said, locking onto Charlotte’s eyes.

“Dr. Brown,” Charlotte said, “you’re not the first woman to be interrogated here. They always undress, sooner or later. Later means after we’ve had to try one of the things we’ve been taught.”

“Do you realize you’re committing a crime?”

“That’s outside. What I do here is follow the rules of Cliffhaven. Now undress.”

“I will not.”

Charlotte opened the door of the bathroom and called out, “Clete.”

In an instant, Clete was there.

Charlotte said, “Your Dr. Brown isn’t being cooperative.”

“Oh I do wish you’d cooperate,” Clete said as Charlotte got a pair of handcuffs out of her jeans and handed them to Clete.

Margaret saw how the game went. Clete stood behind her. If she turned to face Clete, Charlotte was behind her. The thing to avoid now is the handcuffs, therefore face Clete. When she turned, Clete threw the handcuffs to Charlotte. Margaret spun around. Clete immediately grabbed both of her arms and with the forearms of a gymnast yanked Margaret’s hands together behind her back. Charlotte came around to snap the cuffs on.

“Now all that dancing around wasn’t worth it, was it?” Charlotte asked. “Thanks, Clete.”

Clete left the room.

“Now,” Charlotte said, “with those handcuffs on, I’ll have to undress you.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Okay,” Charlotte said, “have it your way.” She lit a cigarette, dragged hard on it to get the end lit well. Then, holding the cigarette pointing forward in her left hand, she approached Margaret.

Margaret backed away.

“Careful, dear,” Charlotte said, “you’ll fall into the Jacuzzi.”

Margaret turned to look behind her and immediately Charlotte was upon her, her right hand grabbing Margaret’s shirt above the first button and with one tremendous rip tearing it straight down the front

“You’re an animal!” Margaret said.

“You’re the one who married a Jew. Who’s the animal?” Charlotte said.

There was a knock on the door.

“We’re wasting time in there,” Mr. Clifford said. “Need the boys to help you?”

“Are you going to let me take the rest of it off,” Charlotte asked, “or are you going to fight?”

Fighting is pointless. If she can’t remove my clothes, they will. The point is to resist their questions. Let them see me naked. What do I care? Or is this how they whittle your resistance down?

“Well?” Mr. Clifford’s voice said.

“I think she’ll cooperate,” Charlotte said.

“Hurry up then,” Mr. Clifford said, and his footsteps retreated.

“Can I put the cigarette out?” Charlotte asked.

Margaret nodded.

Charlotte went over to the toilet, lifted the lid, and dropped the cigarette in. It sizzled once. Charlotte flushed the toilet.

“Need to use this, dear?” Charlotte asked.

“Don’t call me dear.”

“Do you or don’t you?”

“I don’t.”

Charlotte, behind Margaret, unbuttoned the right cuff of Margaret’s shirt, pulled it gently through the handcuffs. She repeated it with the left cuff, then removed the rest of the shirt. Still behind Margaret, she undid the clasp of the brassiere. It fell from her breasts but was trapped by her handcuffed arms.

Charlotte came around to Margaret’s front.

She’s looking at my breasts.

“I wish you hadn’t worn trousers,” Charlotte said.

“I’ll take them off and my brassiere, too, if you’ll let me out of these handcuffs.”

Charlotte considered. She’d need Clete to put the cuffs back on. They certainly weren’t going to question her without them.

“I think I’d prefer to do it,” Charlotte said. Charlotte wormed the brassiere through the cuffs, then undid the button of Margaret’s pants and unzipped the front. Margaret felt strange. She’d never been undressed by a woman before.

“Damn,” Charlotte said when she discovered the panty hose underneath. With a yank at each hip, she pulled them down sharply, tearing them.

Margaret was afraid of falling over the bundle around her feet. With difficulty she kicked her shoes off and stepped out of the debris.

“Thank you,” Charlotte said, opening the bathroom door and pointing. “You lead the way.”

Margaret
caught a flash
of
her nakedness in the
mirror.
Think of them as naked, too.

“Come on,” Charlotte said, pushing at her back.

Margaret was careful going down the three steps.

She held herself erect, pulled her stomach in as she entered the living room. Mr. Clifford beckoned her to a straight-backed chair around which the men sat in a semicircle of armchairs.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” Mr. Clifford said. “I’ll phone when I need you.”

Margaret wished Charlotte wouldn’t go. The animals were staring at her.

Margaret sat down. When she crossed her legs, Mr. Clifford smiled, as if her modesty were a weakness to be tolerated.

“Well then,” he said, “Dr. Brown, you must be aware that your husband very foolishly has tried to escape from our control.”

Margaret said nothing.

“You needn’t say anything,” Mr. Clifford said, “unless specifically asked. Undoubtedly you and your husband, after your first abortive walk down the road, must have planned what you would do next. How did he plan to get out of Cliffhaven? You may answer now.”

Margaret remained silent.

“I am, of course, expecting you to cooperate. You see, Dr. Brown, you really don’t belong in Cliffhaven except for the unfortunate fact that you, perhaps as a young and unwise woman, married a Jew.”

“Mr. Clifford,” Margaret said, noting how they all immediately perked up when she spoke. “Why do Jews preoccupy you so? They have never preoccupied me.

The man named George Whittaker said, “Dr. Brown, your function here is to answer questions, not ask them.”

“Oh that’s all right, George,” Mr. Clifford said. “This is going to be a basically friendly discussion among Gentiles, isn’t it, Dr. Brown? Well then. You cannot have passed through forty odd years of life in this country without having observed the degree of Jewish influence on the press. If they don’t own all the newspapers, they certainly own and control the most important ones, not to speak of the other media, CBS, NBC, Hollywood. Our cultural exposure, popular and esoteric, is constantly being irradiated by Jewish thought While there has never been an actual Jewish president, Dr. Brown, I am certain you have observed that there has always been a Jew or two at every President’s ear, calling the shots. Roosevelt had one, Truman had one, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Nixon—all of them. We’ve kept pretty close track of them despite all the name- and nose-changing that’s gone on. Now, you may say, what’s wrong with all that influence?”

Was he waiting for her to reply?

“Jews are migrants, Dr. Brown,” he continued. “They do not belong here or any other place anywhere except perhaps that trivial bit of land in the Middle East, yet these transients corrupt our society. They are a secularizing force. They believe in nothing except their techniques of haggling, advising, huckstering, profiteering as nonproductive middlemen. They are exploiters and userers, these alien foreigners who have nothing to do with our America!”