Summer Accommodations: A Novel (23 page)

“The tarry smell comes right through the medicinal smell. Your breath smells like a doctor's office where the driveway's just been repaved.” I switched to all the mentholated brands, one at a time, Salem, Spring, Kool, it didn't matter one bit. The menthol did not disguise my tarry breath. Quite unexpectedly, it was her greeting one day that ended the hunt.

It was one of those humid August days when the sky suddenly fills with clouds the color of charcoal and the air is so heavy and saturated with moisture you think the mere spray of your sneeze might bring down a torrent of rain. I had played some basketball and was having a Coke with Ron in the bleachers when she hailed me from the ball field. Watching her face as she approached from across the softball field, her luminous smile so warm it seemed to melt her eyebrows at their edges making them swoon over the corners of her eyes while the center of her mouth puckered itself softly inside her smile and her head reached towards me tilted slightly to the right as if poised to receive my kiss, well, what else could I do? Where her words had failed her very being triumphed and I succumbed, more to her than to her will. I loped across the field to meet her.

“Hi!” she said, reaching for my hand.

“I'm going to quit,” I announced with determination.

“You're quitting your job?” she said with a worried look.

“Cigarettes. I'm quitting smoking. I can't stand not kissing you the way I want to.” She beamed and hugged me.

“Got any gum?” she said with a wink, “or a mint, Listerine, 7–Up, Coke or a piece of pineapple will do.” She pushed me away and then, still holding my hand, she pulled me back reeling me in to her, as if in a dance, and kissing me into an oblivion there on the pitcher's mound of the softball field.

After that kiss I didn't smoke again for a time. Our nightly rendezvous at the shed became more passionate and intense. There was no need to post a sign demanding privacy; somehow word had spread quickly that the shack was off limits to all but Sarah and me, but just to be safe we secured the doors by placing the metal pole through the handles of the double doors. Then we'd spread a blanket, turn on soft music, hug each other close and begin to kiss there on the floor. In our hungry embrace we rolled around on the blanket stroking and touching, pressing hard against one another to the point of breathlessness, sometimes coming to a climax just from the friction of our bodies. Then one night quite unexpectedly, just as we began to kiss she suddenly went limp.

“Do you ever worry about the bomb?” Her question startled me. It was a question I had asked of girls in the past, my face looking earnest and serious in the hope that the thought of that nuclear Damocletian sword hanging over us might spur them to gather their rosebuds with me in the back seat of my father's black 1953 Buick Special, but now it was as though Sarah was pointing us in the opposite direction.

“Not when I'm holding you in my arms,” I said, trying to kiss her again and recapture the mood. When she turned her face away I rolled over on my back and said, “I mean that, Sarah, really I do. I love you.” Those words came spilling out, words never before spoken by me, words I had always imagined as almost unutterable.

“I know you do. You're such a decent guy,” she said, stroking the side of my face. I waited for her inevitable “but” the damning faint praise that had interrupted my efforts with so many other girls, only it didn't come. She was simply expressing her feelings such as they were at that moment. We lay still, side by side, holding hands. My mouth became dry and my stomach churned. I could not hear her breathing and her body was as still as sand.

“Why did you ask me that?”

“Because I think about it all the time. Because it frightens me and I can't see the point of thinking about the future and of love. Why bring children into a world which threatens to blow them to pieces or incinerate them to atoms?” I said nothing while time passed over and through us in a sickening crawl. Our palms grew moist. “Did you ever read “Hiroshima' by John Hersey?”

“No, I've been meaning to though.”

“I didn't eat or sleep for days after I read that book, it was so horrible. I can't get it out of my mind.”

“Well, with that recommendation who could pass it up?” I joked, hoping to rescue her mood. I understood that sex was done for the night but pulling Sarah out of the depths was just as important to me, no, more important to me at that moment. I heard her laugh weakly. “Was that a chuckle? Did I hear a sense of humor stick in your throat? May I try for a belly laugh?”

“It's not funny,” she said petulantly, but she snuggled into me her face against mine. Her cheek was wet with tears.

“So how do we do this, Sarah? How do we take any pleasure in a world that may end at any second? You know if we let it affect us like this we might as well be dead and I know that I am not dead. Let's see if Sarah is dead,” and I slid my fingers along her ribs and began to tickle her. Her laughter came slowly, and then burst out in paroxysms. I stopped tickling her, cradled her in my arms, her small frame fitting neatly against me, and said, “You mustn't let yourself worry about it.” Hardly a profound statement, banal in fact, but the helplessness and dread one feels at those moments can provoke one to wriggle, to try to escape the sight of the black pit that has just opened up in front of you. “Want to take a walk?” She mumbled something inaudible and twisted languidly in my embrace like a small child. “Is that a yes?”

She twisted about again and pushing me away suddenly she jumped astride me, pointed a finger in my face and said, “So what's it gonna be, Mel or Jack? Choose one so I know which guy I'm with, Mel or Jack?”

“You choose for me.”

“Uh uhhh,” she grunted, “it's your name, you choose,” and in her straddle she began to post as if I was her mount. “Choose!”

“Not now.”

“Now!” she said, posting more intensely and slapping my thigh with a crisp, stinging smack, “Choose!”

“Sarah, stop.” Her posting grew more and more feverish and then she changed abruptly to a more stay-in-the-saddle Western style of riding, her legs gripping me tightly and her pudenda rubbing back and forth against me with every stride.

“Choose, choose, choose …” Her voice choked, her face flushed, “choooooossssse!” she sighed as she climaxed. Even with her eyes closed her tears found their way out and streamed down her face. I lay beneath her in silence strangely unaroused.

“Oh God, what did I do? That's terrible what just happened …”

“It's O.K. you didn't do anything wrong.

“Oh … God …”

“Shhhhh,” I comforted, wiping the rivers of tears from her face.

“I'm so sorry.”

“It's O.K. Sarah. I love you,” I said, as though that would make all of her pain and shame, all of her fear and dread, all of the revulsion for the helplessness that human beings feel when faced with their piteous flailing, as though “I love you” could make all of that just go away.

B
reakfast was the easiest meal to serve, the one which gave you time to talk to your guests and to kibbitz with the other waiters and busboys in the kitchen. The August mornings were chilly and I had given up cold milk for hot coffee, and a piece of stale cake. Sometimes I ate with Ron or Harlan but mostly I ate alone. I never felt especially social first thing in the morning and preferred to wade into the day the way one might wade into the cold water of a lake. There were those who might choose to dive into the cold water but I always took my time. I'd also begun smoking again with my breakfast coffee.

During the meal Mrs. Kimmelman spilled her hot water with lemon on Mr. Gold who graciously assured her he'd never walk again and Mr. Gotlieb—“one T, not two” he'd volunteer to every new person at the table—got a herring bone stuck in his throat which Mrs. Saperstein treated by having him swallow a large piece of bagel coated with cream cheese. It was an otherwise uneventful morning. Harlan collared me during the clean up.

“I can't talk to you right now but save time for me after lunch because I've got something I think you'll be interested in.” I had been asking for him and Heidi to double date with Sarah and me and maybe this was what he was going to offer. I couldn't imagine what else it could be. Harlan disappeared at the morning break but was back at his tables for lunch. It was a sunny, cool, beautiful day. The people were eager to be out of doors and the meal went quickly. When it was finished and my station cleared I hurried back to the waiter's quarters to meet with Harlan and learn what he had to say.

“Get cleaned up and then meet me outside the coffee shop,” he said. “It's about the judge.” I was startled but before I could ask what about the judge, Harlan was gone.

He began speaking with urgency as soon as we met up. “When I was small, I am an only child you see, my father was at home most of the time …” Harlan paused and composed himself. “He almost never went out of the house. He would take my mother and me for rides in the country on Sundays but he never came to school programs or to parent-teacher meetings. I asked him why he didn't go out more when I was in grade school and he told me something vague about working for the government and having to stay out of the public eye and do his work in secret. ‘Don't worry, I have a job, we're okay, it's just that it is a secret job and you have to keep it a secret.' he said. On my own, however, with the logic of a child, I decided that he must be sick with some strange disease and that was why he didn't go outside except in his car. This made it uncomfortable for me to hug him, afraid that I'd catch his disease, but he was not a very affectionate man so I learned to tolerate his rare hugs.” I couldn't understand why Harlan was telling me this story about his father but I was thrilled to be taken into his confidence, whatever the reason. “And I never brought any friends to the house because I didn't want any of them to get sick. He was aware of their absence and one day he asked me who my friends were and why I didn't bring them home. ‘Are you ashamed of them or is it me you are ashamed of Harlan.'” Harlan mimicked his father in a harsh New York accent. “‘No I'm not ashamed, I just don't want them to catch your disease,' I said. He laughed very hard and then he took me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes with a great intensity. Studying me and looking at me up and down, nodding as he appraised me he said, ‘I think you're old enough to understand the whole truth now. Routine, Harlan,' he said, ‘routine is the spine of the average man's day. Wake up, shut off alarm, pee, wash face, brush teeth, shower and shave, get dressed. Eat the same breakfast, take the same walk or bus or train to the same job or office, then home the same way to the same wife and the same newspaper. Day after day after day. Soon the routine is not a supporting spine; soon you find your life is imprisoned, caged, and routine forms the bars of that cage. I couldn't take it any more, I had to escape.'” He flipped a Lucky Strike out of its pack and lit up. “You're looking at me and wondering how I can remember the words that he said to me all those years ago aren't you. Well, imagine if your father told you something so shocking, do you think you'd ever forget it?” The thought of telling him about my father's “engraved his name on my memory” recollection occurred to me but it seemed so trivial by comparison that instead I asked, “Is he still living, and if he is where is he?” The question seemed to freeze Harlan. His lips tensed, his shoulders sank, and the dark circles of sleepless and restless nights appeared suddenly under his eyes as though he had not slept for days. It had been an alarmingly transforming question and I worried that with this inept blunder I had trespassed into a zone too sensitive to be treated so matter-of-factly. Harlan took a drag on his cigarette, crossed his legs and, shading his eyes with his left hand pressed his fingers against his temples.

“He's not well. His lungs are very weak.” He took another puff on his Lucky Strike, exhaled, coughed, and scrutinized the cigarette. “His doctor says he smokes too much but I don't believe smoking is all that dangerous. I think it's the pneumonias he gets in the winter that have hurt him.” Then Harlan's demeanor abruptly changed again. His face brightened and he seemed to experience an unburdening release, as though after years of living in total darkness his vision had been miraculously restored.

“How would you like to meet him and have him tell you himself what happened back then?” All at once I realized that Harlan was talking about judge Crater; his certainty the judge was not in the well was because he was Harlan's living father. I almost fell over with the shock of the realization.

“Would he really want to do that?” The question was asked more with wonder than skepticism.

“It would give him a great lift, cheer him up. Yes, that's what we'll do. He doesn't get to tell this story very often, as you can imagine, and it would do him a world of good.”

“Are you really sure the judge would do that just for me?” I snuck my assumption in inconspicuously and he didn't even blink.

“Don't you like to tell your miracle-of-the-broken-leg story? And who enjoys that story more than you do? You really do that for yourself even if you don't know that. Yes, I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you. You know, I've told him all about you, your family, your college plans. He's still asking me why I don't bring my friends around so he'll be delighted to meet you. We'll take my car.”

We drove off the hotel grounds in Harlan's 1951 Buick, a low slung car that looked as much like a Hudson as a Buick, and headed down the State road that circled the lake. Although I had protested going to meet the judge in my soiled sneakers and wrinkled khakis Harlan said it would be best if we just left quickly and used the time for his father's benefit.

“It's already four o'clock. If we leave now we can visit and be back in plenty of time for dinner. If you change your clothes you'll only waste time and bring attention to us. This way if anyone should ask I can say we're just going into town for some things.” My heart was racing. This would be the first famous person I'd actually get to meet and I was giddy with excitement.

“Do I call him ‘judge' or just ‘Mr. Crater'?”

“You'll call him Mr. Hawthorne. He's now Mr. Thomas Hawthorne.” He laughed. “Do you want to know how he chose that name? When he and my mother were driving out of New York City the night that he disappeared, they drove up the West Side Highway, which leads on to the Sawmill River Parkway in Westchester. That highway connects with the Taconic Parkway at a junction called the Hawthorne Circle. My father said ‘What a great name!' and he took it for himself right on the spot.” As easy as spelling Melvin J-A-C-K, I thought. Harlan turned on the radio. The local D.J. was babbling excitedly about a Broadway show he had seen over the weekend in New York City. It was called “My Fair Lady” and starred Rex Harrison and a newcomer named Julie Andrews. The D.J. had bought the original cast album and would be playing songs from it all day but he would begin with the song he loved the most in the show: “On the Street Where You Live.” Since Harlan wasn't much of a baseball fan and although Mickey Mantle was having an outstanding season I couldn't speculate with him about whether Mantle would break Babe Ruth's home-run record that summer or keep his batting average above .350 so we listened to the music and drove on in silence. The earnest lyrics of the love song made me think of Heidi and how sad she'd be if she knew that Harlan had an older woman. It made me sad too. I was so happy to have Sarah in my life I couldn't think of any other girl.

The car pulled up at a small cabin on the far shore of the lake and as soon as Harlan shut the engine off a pretty middle-aged woman came out on to the porch. I recognized her face immediately; it was the woman I had watched from the bulrushes at the shore the night of the Diana debacle.

“My mother is very worried about my father's condition. I visit her every night to try to cheer her up. Sometimes we dance.” He laughed. “I think we danced to the ‘Theme from Picnic' for an hour one night.”

“Pretty music,” I commented, omitting my voyeuristic escapade and suddenly feeling great relief about Harlan's character.

“You're not to say anything about this to anyone, understand? Not your brothers or your friend Malcolm, no one.” He was very firm and very serious.

“Of course not.”

“That's a promise?” I nodded vigorously. His mother stepped down from the porch and approached the car on the still finely shaped legs of a former chorus girl. Harlan left the car and when he reached her they embraced.

“Mother, I want you to meet my friend Jack White,” he said motioning to me to join them. “Jack, this is my mother Helene Hawthorne.” I extended my hand to her but she didn't take it.

“What reason do you have for bringing this young man here Harlan Hawthorne,” she said sternly. “Your father is not well and we are not receiving company today.” She spoke with the soft and elegant cadences of someone from the south, Virginia I guessed, and she must have been pretty angry to speak so sternly to her only son.

“It's all right mother, Jack is a good friend. No need to put yourself out for him. I wanted him to meet you and dad but we can leave if you'd like,” he offered in contrition. She looked back at me. “I've told Jack everything, mother. I've told him because I'm going to ask him to help me look for the ring.” She looked at Harlan and then again at me.

“I am very pleased to meet you Jack,” she said, extending her hand to me. “I apologize for being so rude. My husband has been ailing and that is very upsetting for me.” Her eyes began to well with tears but taking a deep breath she composed herself and continued. “Please, do come inside.” She scanned the area as if searching for spies in the surrounding woods, and motioned us inside.

The cabin was small. The couch and armchair were of pine and their cushions were covered in a brightly colored plaid fabric. The smell of ashes from a recent fire hung in the humid air. “I apologize for the smell,” she said opening a window, “Mr. Hawthorne gets a chill at night so we always light a fire.” A fit of coughing erupted in another room and then a voice called out, “Is somebody there, Helene?”

“Harlan's here, and he's brought a friend along,” she answered and then lowering her voice she said, “he's not doing that well these last few days, coughing and wheezing something fierce.” “I'll go say hello and ask if he's feeling up to meeting Jack. The company might cheer him up.” She nodded her consent and then turned back to me. “Can I get you something cold to drink Jack? We have lemonade and Coca Cola. I despise that Pepsi stuff,” she said smiling politely.

“Nothing for me, thank you ma ‘am,” I returned equally politely, a southern accent creeping into my voice, Harlan's words, “help me look for the ring” still ringing in my ears. On the fireplace mantle was a photograph of a man wearing a starched white collar and dark tie. His slicked back hair was parted down the middle, the part leading my eyes down to the bridge of a spade shaped nose whose pointed tip directed me to his wide mouth which curled at its corners with just the barest beginning of a smile. Looking back at Helene Hawthorne I saw the finer facial features that Harlan had inherited from her.

“Come on in here Jack,” Harlan called out from the bedroom. His mother smiled, raised her eyebrows and nodded towards the other room.

The bedroom was a small, dimly lit space with curtains drawn across the windows. The smell of stale bedclothes mixed with the pungent odor of Musterole and made the air in the room feel close and unhealthy. In the large bed facing the curtained windows an old man lay under the cover of a wrinkled white sheet and a blue and white quilt. On the night table beside the bed there was a glass pitcher filled with water, an empty glass, a box of tissues and a bottle of aspirin all huddled under the broad shade of the reading lamp. The man, the judge, coughed and choked when he tried to speak to me. He was a big man filling the bed from the headboard almost to the foot. His head seemed disproportionately small for such a large body and his gaunt, pale face appeared different from the one I'd just seen in the photograph. For one thing his hair had turned gray and was much thinner than it had been in the picture, though it was still divided by a central part. And his nose was more bulbous than spade shaped. He pulled a tissue from the box, wiped his face all around with it and then spat into it crumpling it up immediately.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Jack,” he said pulling another tissue from its box and wiping his mouth. “You'll understand if I don't shake your hand. It's not TB but you don't want this muck on your hands.” His false teeth clattered in his mouth as he spoke and when he breathed I could hear the air wheezing through his pipes and disrupting secretions that rumbled and gurgled in protest. Then he had another fit of coughing. He threw the soiled tissues into a pail beside his bed, quickly pulled out two more from the box and wiped and spat again.