Weekend (3 page)

“Look, Jonathan, I understand what you’re saying and I’m trying not to go off half-cocked. I just want to do what’s right for all of us.” He stood and walked across to the window. How ideal, he remembered thinking in medical school, to be able to work in a vacuum. And how impossible, he realized, once he had set up practice and started a family. There were always political, economic and personal situations to consider. He turned back to the general manager.

“As a physician, I’ve got to be sure that this thing hasn’t spread. If we can determine that even if it is cholera it’s an isolated case …”

“If it wasn’t, someone else would have come down with it by now, wouldn’t they?”

“Not necessarily. There’s an incubation period. Tony was sick for four days. That gives us two or more to be concerned with.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “I have a suggestion. Let me call my cousin, Bruce Solomon. He’s a researcher at Mt. Sinai and he’s had experience with tropical and exotic diseases. I’ll see if I can get him to come up for a couple of days until we get a definitive diagnosis. He can trace Tony’s steps, do a little detective work, find out who he’s been in touch with and who else, if God forbid I’m right, might be a carrier. We’ll fix it up so no one on your staff will have to know.”

“Sounds good to me,” Jonathan agreed.

“But if he finds any evidence of—”

“One step at a time doc, okay? Incidentally,” he said, refilling his pipe, “you didn’t call Ellen Golden about this, did you?”

Bronstein stared at him for a moment without speaking. “No,” he said softly. “No. I didn’t have the heart. With Phil’s recent death and her having to kick off the summer season without him, she’s under so much pressure I didn’t want to add to it. But you’re right. She’s going to have to know.”

“I’ll take care of it as soon as I get back. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

“Make sure she understands exactly what we’re doing and why. No matter what the final decision is, we both know the ultimate responsibility is on her head, so it’s important. And if she wants to call me,” he continued quietly, “tell her … anytime.”

Jonathan caught the sad look on Bronstein’s face. “Still blaming yourself, huh, doc?”

“Not blaming, exactly. I just keep wondering if there was something I should have caught. Phil had a complete physical here the month before. I’d hate to think I might have overlooked …” He shook his head. “Just proves how important it is not to take things for granted.”

“We’re not taking anything for granted, Sid. We’re just not getting hysterical when there may not be a reason.” He took the pipe from his mouth and tapped the ashes out in the bowl as he stood up. “I’ll stay in touch.” Almost on cue, the phone rang.

“We’re up to dessert, Sidney. I thought you’d like to know.”

“Believe me, Sylvia, I just got back to the office. I was up at the hospital. There was this janitor from the Congress—”

“A janitor? she shrieked. “A lousy janitor? Couldn’t you have gotten Julius to take the case for you? He appreciates any nibble you send his way.”

“It wasn’t quite that simple.”

“With you nothing is simple. Anyway, are you coming over here or not?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said, wishing somehow that everything could be different.

He remembered the look on Tony Wong’s face and went back to his private desk to look up his cousin’s New York number, frightened in the deepest recesses of his soul that he had only postponed, not eliminated, disaster.

It was a glorious Friday morning, one that made Magda, the forty-seven-year-old Hungarian beauty who served as hostess for the Congress, thank God she was alive to enjoy it. If she were superstitious, she might have considered it an omen, that such a dazzling day could only be a forecast of a magnificent weekend and season to come.

Taking the scenic route from her cottage to the old farmhouse a half mile away, she walked past the first tee of the newly designed golf course, so expertly manicured and nurtured that it looked like something created artificially in the hotel’s stagecraft basement. Surely the technicians came out at night while the guests slept and rearranged those little divots and sand traps. She chuckled at the thought and took in a few deep breaths of the crisp fresh country air, made even sweeter by the hundreds of colorful dahlias, marigolds, daisies and peonies that dotted the flagstone pathway. She marveled at the beauty of the monarch and tiger-tailed butterflies that fluttered above and smiled as she passed the sign Sandi had put up near one of the gardens when she was eight years old. “Please do not pick us. We bloom for your pleasure. Thank you. The flowers.” Even though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, the sun felt as if it was at full strength and she welcomed the shade the tall oaks and elms provided as she continued on her way.

Arriving at the farmhouse a few minutes later, she tapped lightly on the outer screen door. “Good morning. Anybody up?” Ellen Golden leaned out of the window directly above. The two-story residence still bore the same wooden shingles and black shutters Pop Golden had hammered on forty years ago.

“I thought we were going to meet in the coffee shop.”

“It was such a nice day, I thought I’d get some fresh air before the crowd arrives. I offer myself as your personal escort,” Magda said, bowing with a flourish from the waist.

The farmhouse was characteristic of so many of the old buildings constructed in the Catskills at the turn of the century—two-level, multi-roomed wooden structures with numerous architectural after-thoughts added on as the original farmers started to take in boarders. This one still had the cast iron grillwork that took hours to clean properly.

Ellen opened the screen door and pushed back a few strands of her light brunette hair. Even though it was outdated by over a decade, she still wore it in the same pageboy style Lauren Bacall had popularized in the forties. Phil had liked it that way. “You’ve got her sexy voice and the body that goes with it. Bogart is one celebrity I’ll make sure we don’t invite up here.” Right now, even though she was only thirty-eight years old, she sure as hell didn’t feel sexy. She looked wistfully back into the house.

“Maybe I should wake Sandi and say good-bye before I leave.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. She’ll know where you are. Besides, she was up pretty late last night. I saw her in the Flamingo Room close to midnight last night ogling Bobby Grant.”

“I’m afraid I’m leaving her alone more than I should.”

“She probably loves it,” Magda said, taking her friend by the arm. “When I was her age, I loved to feel independent. So did you.”

“Girls her age need guidance, especially when they’ve just lost their father.”

“I’ll keep an eye on her for the next couple of days.”

Ellen nodded and then closed the door silently behind them. They started slowly down the stairs, each wooden step reacting with a familiar squeak.

For Ellen, stepping off that porch was like descending into another world. A city block ahead of her stood the grand main building, towering and impressive in its architectural simplicity, baked in a reddish pink stucco that reminded travelers of Marrakech at sunset. In contrast, ribbons of iron fire escapes criss-crossed the sides, black dull metal that seemed reluctantly slapped on to satisfy various safety codes.

It was a tall building, seventeen floors high, one of the largest in the rural Catskill world where even a twelve-story skyscraper looked gigantic. The view from the penthouse was breathtaking. On a clear evening, one could easily see sixty miles around. One guest even swore he saw the Empire State Building from his terrace, a claim Ellen and Phil laughingly chalked up to a full moon and the effects of an equally full bottle of Scotch.

There, to the left, were the half dozen clay tennis courts, already in use by the early risers. The quick snap of a serve, the sound of the ball slapping across the court, the squeak of sneakers turning and twisting, all of it was audible as the two women made their way from the farmhouse.

As they continued on the central pathway to the main building, watching the grounds keepers and gardeners already at work mowing and scything the lawns and hedges, Ellen nudged Magda and pointed to the clusters of small cottages on their right. They were primarily private bungalows, each with its own patch of grass and flowers, mostly sought after by honeymooners and illicit lovers.

It was strange to have to admit, but after nearly fifteen years, the hotel, all 650 rolling acres of it, still had the power to hypnotize her. Phil used to say it was the world’s most demanding mistress. It had a presence and personality of its own; it often took more than it gave but in the long run was worth it and it would probably still be there long after they were gone. Today, unfortunately, as she looked around at the land she loved so dearly, Ellen wasn’t quite as sure.

Despite the fact that they were one of the Catskills’ few year-round resorts, they were still heavily dependent on a strong summer season. The ten weeks between July 4th and Labor Day were crucial because winter facilities notwithstanding, there were still weeks during the spring and fall when they were lucky to break even. On top of that, in the midst of her untimely transition into power, she was confronted by the phenomenon of a changing vacation world; a world, in 1958, of jet airplanes, prepackaged tours, and the lure of Miami and the Caribbean. And then there was Jonathan.

“I dread going in there with Jonathan and the accountants next week,” she said, as they continued across the lawn. “Phil mentioned a few months back that we could be headed for serious trouble, but he was always too busy to get into specifics. I just hope I’ll be able to understand what they’re talking about.”

“You’ll learn,” Magda reassured her. “You may not know all the answers but then again,” she asked with a shrug of her shoulders, “who does? All you have to remember is that you’ve had fifteen years of live-in experience and in many areas, probably have a better idea of how things should run than they do.”

“I hope I can convince them of that.”

“Convince yourself. Once you do that, you can convince anybody.”

Ellen gave her friend a smile that did more than express her thanks. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“And I don’t know what I’m going to do if I don’t get some breakfast.” She held her hands to her stomach in mock agony. “Are you ready to hear about our plans for the weekend?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ellen said, feeling a surge of excitement. Magda built her confidence. “Let’s get started.”

Without further conversation, they quickened their pace toward the main building, drawn to it like a magnet by its problems, challenges and demands.

Melinda Kaplan was dragging her son up to the Catskills for the second time in three years, carting him along on a journey his father laughingly referred to as her “Sexual Transfusion.”

“It’s Operation New Man,” he said, “and believe me, your mother plots it out like a military strategist. I feel sorry for the first soldier she captures. He doesn’t stand a chance. I should know.”

He laughed again and went back to his drawing board. It was always like that when Grant made his weekly visits. His father would take off on some topic, his favorite being “your mother, Melinda,” then return his attention to the work at hand, causing Grant to feel more like a piece of the furniture.

“You’re fifteen years old, son,” he had recently told him. “By now you must be learning enough about women to understand what hell I went through living with your mother.”

Then, when he got home, Melinda would begin. “What wonderful things did he have to say about me this time? Were any of his sluts over there, because if they were… What did you talk about? Did he tell you what a horrible woman I am again because if he did …”

Usually it got so bad he would run up to his room and turn on his Chubby Checker records so loud it hurt even his own ears.

“Turn that damn shit down,” his mother would scream but he didn’t care. He’d do anything he could to torment her, the same way she and his father tormented him, always using him as the pawn.

He started setting the fires with the same kind of apathy and nonchalance that characterized most of the other things he did. In fact, that was the biggest and most frequent criticism in all the letters and conferences relating to his school work.

“Grant Kaplan is totally indifferent to his work, completely unconcerned about his productivity.”

“Kaplan doesn’t appear interested in anything, including himself.”

“Grant has little enthusiasm. He pretends to listen but doesn’t hear a thing. He just doesn’t seem to care.”

“I’ll talk to him about it,” Melinda would always say.

He remembered the first morning she had come to his high school. He was thoroughly embarrassed by the way she had sauntered into the building in her low-cut dress and flirted so outrageously in front of everybody with the young dean of students. Christ, did she have to be on the make everywhere, even in his school?

“It’s been so hard for us these past three years,” she told the dean. “I get absolutely no help from his biological father.” She loved to refer to her “ex” now as “biological.” Grant understood the emotional implication, but it still made him feel like the result of some sort of laboratory experiment.

And that’s exactly how he was beginning to feel. Even now, at this crucial meeting, he really didn’t have any feeling. If the dean was having a problem hiding his hard-on, that was his problem, not Grant’s. As usual, the discussion ended with both sides promising to try harder to motivate Grant, neither one knowing or caring that his mind was millions of miles away.

The first fire was so small and insignificant, he actually left right after it was set. It was a shed behind Gerson’s Luncheonette, a few blocks from where he lived in Teaneck, New Jersey. He found the can of gas behind the ’58 Ford in the driveway. He was just wandering home from school, taking a longer route than usual, when he saw the can, the empty shed, and made the connection. For the first time in a long time, he had come up with an idea that interested him.