Alpine for You (2 page)

"What's the holdup?" Lars Bakke asked every time the elevator arrived at the lobby and went up again without releasing its passengers. Lars was a tall stringbean of a man who owned and operated a grain elevator just outside Windsor City, so he knew the skinny on elevators.

"You gotta open the door yourself!" Bernice Zwerg yelled at the shaft. "It's not automatic." Decades earlier Bernice had worked as a photographic model for
Iowa Living
magazine, but age and hard times had taken their toll. Her hourglass figure had disappeared, leaving her with a body like a rubber chicken and a dowager's hump that ruined the hang of her clothes. She had hair like a wire whisk, a voice like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, and a bank account that was running on empty. The only highlight in her life these days was that she was the undefeated champion of the five-yard dash in the annual Senior Olympics at the mall, a title the other contestants argued was undeserved due to the fact that she removed her hearing aid for the event and couldn't hear the starting gun go off, so she always got a head start.

"This place needs a bigger elevator," Solvay Bakke complained to her husband. "How many people does that one hold?"

"Three," I said, having seen the trio who'd squeezed in earlier.

Solvay shook her head in disgust. "Who's in there now?"

I knew that too. "Dick Teig, Dick Stolee, and Dick Rassmuson." The three men had attended grammar school together, lived in the same subdivision in Windsor City, and always vacationed together with their wives, though if they had their druthers, they might have opted to leave the wives at home. They enjoyed being referred to as the three amigos. I referred to them as the three Dicks.

Lars Bakke took control of the situation. "Those guys have been joyriding long enough. When that elevator gets down here again, someone yank the damn door open and get those Dicks outta there!"

I guess Lars wasn't fond of calling them the three amigos either.

Forty-five minutes later, Nana and I stood before our room in a high-ceilinged corridor whose only illumination was an occasional motion light. Our key looked like a brass Sugar Daddy attached to a square of leather that was stamped in gold with the number 3310. Nana measured its weight in her palm before handing it to me. "Your grampa coulda used this as a sinker. Don't drop it. You'll break your foot."

I inserted the brass part into a slot in the front face of the doorknob, then turned the knob to the left. "Wally said to keep turnin' until we hear a click," Nana advised. So I turned, and turned, and turned.

"Did you hear a click?" I asked.

"Nope. But my hearin's not so good anymore. You hear anything?"

"No." So I turned, and turned. I was glad Nana had asked me to accompany her on the tour. How did management expect old people to get into their rooms when young people couldn't even figure it out? This was worse than wrestling with the childproof cap on the toilet bowl cleaner. Two weeks from now I envisioned thirty elderly people from Iowa walking around with wrist braces and full-blown cases of carpal tunnel syndrome. The litigation alone would be enough to close the hotel down.

I glanced up and down the corridor and wondered why none of the other people on the tour were outside their doors, rotating their knobs. Obviously, Nana and I were the only guests from the tour in this wing.

"Shall I try, dear?"

I stepped aside and made a sweeping gesture toward the knob. "Be my guest. But don't fuss with it too long. You're seventy-eight years old. Your bones are fragile. I'll see if I can find a maid to--"

CLICK.

All right. So there would be one frizzy-haired twenty-nine-year-old from Iowa in a wrist brace. "How did you do that?" I asked as she pushed the door open.

"It's like a one-armed bandit. I'm pretty good with slot machines. My bone density's improved since I been hittin' the casino circuit."

I tried not to knock her down in my haste to see what a deluxe room in a four-star Swiss hotel looked like. Recalling the elegance of the front lobby, I envisioned a four-poster bed, flowered settee, marble fireplace, panoramic view of Lake Lucerne. Maybe a chocolate mint on my pillow.

Nana stopped dead in her tracks and looked left and right. "Well, would you look at that. It's just like your college dormitory room, Emily."

With one exception. My dorm room had been bigger. "No, this can't be right." I noted the twin beds nestled lengthwise against the wall, the exposed pipe and hangers that served as a closet, the narrow desk and chair that sat below the shelf where the television perched. Bare walls. Brown carpet. White drapes. No chocolate mints. "We're paying three thousand dollars apiece for this room?"

"I've stayed in worse," Nana commiserated. "I've lived in worse. At least we got a bathroom with runnin' water...or was that only with the super deluxe rooms?" We exchanged horrified looks. Nana headed for the bathroom. I headed for the window. A spectacular view of Lake Lucerne and Mount Pilatus would go a long way to help me feel that our six thousand dollars hadn't been completely wasted. I threw open the drapes.

Yellow brick straight ahead and to either side. A service area and waste disposal unit below. Tiers of windows all around. I peered at the window across the way to find the drapery open and a man standing in the window recess. He was buck naked and had flattened against the window-pane the most hideously wrinkled body part I'd ever seen. Mr. Nunzio, no doubt. I winced at the sight. Just my luck. I was being mooned by an eighty-year-old.

"Good water pressure," Nana announced from the bathroom, "but I'm not sure about the shower. There's no safety strips in the tub, and the showerhead is in a strange place. And it has a weird dingus on it."

"Don't touch the dingus!" I snapped the drapes shut. Nana would go into cardiac arrest if she looked out the window. "We'll figure it out later."

She rejoined me in the bedroom. "I'm relieved the bathroom's so nice. But there's no washcloths. How do Europeans wash themselves without washcloths?"

"I guess they use their hands." I stood guard by the drapes, ready to concoct the mother of all excuses should Nana want to see the view.

"By the way," Nana said, "there's an elderly gentleman moonin' us from across the way so we'd best keep the drapes drawn for a while."

"How did you know that?"

"There's a window in the bathroom, dear. I got a clear shot of him. I don't know about men these days. Your grampa never woulda stuck his naked bum in a window for all the world to see. But let me tell you, he
coulda.
He had a fine bum, as hard and round as a rump roast, though gravity got to it in later years and it got pretty dimpled." She heaved a nostalgic sigh. "He photocopied it for me once. I wish I could remember what I done with it so's I could show it to you."

I winced again. This was much more than I ever needed to know about Grampa Sippel. "So do you want to keep the room, or should we request a new one?"

"Whatever you want to do, dear. But we're Midwesterners, and Midwesterners usually don't complain."

Right. But I'd lived in New York City for four years, which explained my occasional willingness to bellyache. I picked up the phone and punched a button.

"Front desk," said a curt male voice.

"This is Emily Andrew in thirty-three-ten. There's been a terrible mistake. We're in the wrong place. We paid for a deluxe room and you've given us a standard. When would it be convenient for you to move us to the right room?"

A pause. A clatter of computer keys. "Room thirty-three-ten
is
a deluxe room."

I eyed the narrow beds, the bare walls, the eleven-inch television screen. "You've got to be kidding."

"I'm Swiss, Madame. I never kid. Is there anything else?"

"How much would it cost us to upgrade to a super deluxe room?"

"There are no super deluxe rooms available at this time."

"Then place my name on a waiting list, and when one comes available, call me." I hung up the phone and shook my head. "I don't know, Nana. It doesn't sound too promising. We could be stuck here for a while."

"That'd be fine with me, dear. The room's not so bad once the shock wears off. It has a cozy feel to it. Kinda puts me in mind of your grampa's little ice shanty." She looked left and right. "Only your grampa had room for a La-Z-Boy recliner...and his TV was bigger."

I
n the midst of a dead sleep, I felt a light tap on my shoulder and heard Nana's voice close to my ear. "Emily, dear, it's a quarter to five. Can you be dressed for dinner in fifteen minutes? Remember, Wally said to meet in the lobby at six o'clock sharp."

I opened one eye. I felt as if I'd been hit with a sledge-hammer. "How long have I been asleep?" I mumbled.

"Five hours."

"FIVE HOURS?! But...but how could I sleep that long? I wasn't tired. I slept on the plane. I was only taking a catnap."

"Must be jet lag. I seen on
Dateline NBC
that crossin' the Atlantic by plane can really disrupt your circadian rhythm. Throws your sleep pattern way outta whack. You sleep when you should be awake and you're awake when you should be asleep. They done a study."

I scrubbed my face with my hands and eyed Nana through my fingers. "Have you been asleep, too?"

"I slept for twenty minutes, 'til the bags arrived. Then I unpacked, and showered, and set up my laptop, and sent an E-mail to your parents to tell 'em we got here okay. I checked Hometown temperature and would you believe it's warmer in Iowa today than it is in Lucerne? Back home it's seventy-five degrees. It's only fifty in Lucerne. I'm headin' down to supper now so's I won't be late. You come when you can."

"But supper isn't until six. It's only quarter of five. You have an hour and fifteen minutes."

"So I'll be right on time. I'll leave the key on the desk for you, dear. Don't forget to bring it."

Iowans were always punctual. Insanely punctual. If they were an hour early, they thought themselves "on time." If they arrived at the appointed time, they considered themselves late. Even though Nana wasn't a native Iowan, she still had the compulsion. I guess it came from growing up in a bordering state. After my stint in New York, I'd schooled myself to become less compulsive about time. These days, I could remain calm and in control even if I was a few minutes late.

I stumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. I stared at the bathtub, wondering why the shower apparatus was attached to the wall directly in front of me rather than the end wall. Nana said she'd taken a shower, but the showerhead looked too complicated for a person suffering from a disruption in her circadian rhythm to figure out. Besides, I didn't want to get my hair wet, so I'd be better off taking a bath. I turned on the faucet.

"YEEEOOOOOOOWWWW!" Cold water blasted me in the face. It needled into my eyes. Shot up my nose. I leaped out of the way. Cold water pounded onto the tiled floor and formed rivers in the grouting. I stared in amazement. Nana had been right. The water pressure was great.

I grappled with the faucet to turn it off then stood for a moment in abject shock, assessing the damage. The floor had become a tidal pool. My feet were soaked, my hair was drenched, my dry-clean only silk turtleneck was plastered to my Click Miracle bra. I glared at the showerhead knowing exactly what had caused the disaster.

Nana had touched the dingus.

I stepped out of my wet leather skirt and mopped up the floor on my hands and knees, then realizing I'd used our entire supply of clean towels in the endeavor, I unpacked my blow-dryer and blew myself and my turtleneck dry. My turtleneck ended up stretched to my thighs, with a splotch like a six-headed amoeba tattooed on the front. And it had been my favorite! Berry. To match my nails. I'd bought it in a little boutique in Ames because it had spoken to me. I love clothes. They speak to me a lot. But considering the size of my bank account, I wish they would speak to me in a language I didn't understand, like Latin or Croatian.

I checked the time. The crystal on my wristwatch was fogged up and I could see tiny droplets of water clinging to the inside. "Aaaarghhhh!" I whipped off my watch and punched on the power to the television. Local time was 17:59. Terrific. It was 5:59 and I was going to be late. REALLY late.

I hopped into a pair of champagne-and-black python print slacks and a glazed-linen blouse, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, jammed my feet into my funky new black platforms, grabbed the key, locked the door, then raced down the corridor to the elevator. I heard movement inside the shaft. A light appeared through the glass above the floor indicator. The car stopped. I heard male voices inside. I waited for the door to open. I waited some more.

The car started to descend. "Wait!" I yelled at the door. "You need to open the door from the inside! It's not automatic!" I let out a silent scream. Okay. Time to execute alternate plan B. The stairs. There were a lot of them, and they were really close together. Just the kind of stairs you want to walk down on platform heels when you're in a hurry. Good thing I'd begun wearing heels at age twelve. I'd had lots of years to practice.

I clung steadfastly to the railing and clunked down all three flights with slow, guarded steps. I was glad my wristwatch was waterlogged. I didn't want to know what time it was.

I arrived at the entrance of the chandeliered dining room and skulked into the room, looking for Nana's face among the tables of diners. People looked up at me as I passed, set their silverware down, and regarded watches that were still working. They obviously hadn't tried out their showers yet. Eyebrows lifted. Brows furrowed. I could hear damning whispers above the clink of china. "My watch," I explained to Bernice Zwerg as I squeezed behind her chair. "It stopped." But that wasn't going to cut it. I'd committed the Eighth Deadly Sin. The one they'd accidentally omitted from my grade-school catechism. The sin that was worse than gluttony or sloth to any Iowan.

I'd committed tardiness.

"Being on holiday is no excuse for being late," Lars Bakke grumbled when I passed.

"Are we going to have to wait for her if she's late for the bus in the morning?" Solvay Bakke asked.

I found Nana seated at a table for four with three other ladies. She glanced at her watch. "You're late, dear."

"How late?" My heart was pounding. I was breathing hard. I guessed I was hyperventilating. Okay, I'd work on the calm and in control thing.

"It's 6:04." She shook her head. "You've very nearly missed dinner, Emily."

I looked around at the empty place settings. "But they haven't even served yet!"

"Excuse me, Madame." A waiter with slicked-back hair and a five o'clock shadow circled around me. He set a plateful of food in front of Nana and one of her companions.

"You better find a place to sit," Nana said. "There's an empty chair over at that table with the Dicks." She gestured toward the wall.

I located the table and rolled my eyes. The table was set for eight. Seated around it were Dick Teig and his wife, Dick Rassmuson and his wife, but no Dick Stolee and Grace. I wondered what the scoop was there. The Dicks
always
sat together. Hmm. Filling out the rest of the table were our local pharamacist at the Pills Etcetera store in Windsor City, a blonde lady I'd never seen before, and Andrew Simon. And wouldn't you know. The only empty chair was beside Mr. Casanova himself. I gritted my teeth. I'd eat fast.

"Is anyone sitting here?" I stood behind the empty chair that separated Andrew Simon from Jane Hanson, the pharmacist. Helen Teig flipped open the cover of her pendant watch.

"It's 6:05. Didn't you hear Wally say dinner was at six?" Helen was a squat, roly-poly woman with no sense of humor and no eyebrows. She'd lost them when a gas grill blew up in her face on her fiftieth birthday, but she remedied the situation by drawing them on with a black grease pencil. Today, one eyebrow slashed over her eye like a hyphen while the other shot upward in an arch. It made her look as if one side of her face was permanently surprised.

"Sit down, Emily," Dick Teig invited. Poor Dick was half a foot shorter than his wife, with a head like a helium balloon. The upside of this was, his head was so big, no one ever noticed he was shorter than Helen. Earlier in the year he'd addressed his problem of male pattern baldness by having hair plugs implanted from his crown to his forehead. He bragged that the new growth made him look like Gregory Peck. No one had the heart to tell him it made him look more like a Chia Pet. "Hell, I don't see food on the table yet," Dick reasoned. "Late is when you come to dinner after the food is served."

That was nice of him to say. Maybe I needed to rethink the Dicks. By Iowa standards, they were far too brash and boisterous when they were together, but maybe this vacation would bring out their kinder, gentler selves.

"I like your slacks, Emily." Jane Hanson helped slide the chair back for me. "We have scarves at the drugstore in that same reptile print. You should have a look at them when you're back home. They're in aisle four, next to the exotic pet food."

Jane Hanson was five years away from retirement and devoted to her job at the pharmacy. She'd worn her limp salt-and-pepper hair in the same Dutch boy cut for the last twenty years, always wore sensible shoes, and never wore lipstick. I chalked it up to defective shoe and makeup genes. But I liked Jane. She always included a free sample of Oil of Olay Refreshing Eye Makeup Remover when I filled a prescription.

I smiled at her as I sat down. "I hardly recognize you without your lab coat."

She primped the lace collar of her sweatshirt with barely restrained excitement. "To be honest, I'm feeling a little naked without it. But we're actually in Switzerland. Can you believe it?"

"Did I hear the word 'naked'?" Andy Simon interrupted. "My favorite word. Is someone offering?" He cupped his hands over his mouth to cover a deep, bronchial cough. He wore glasses this evening--gold wire rims to blend in with his mane of surfer hair. Normally, he was too vain to wear glasses, so I figured his eyes must really be bothering him. Maybe the glasses had bifocals so that when he looked in a mirror next time, he could see his fake tan was all streaky at his hairline. He could definitely use a touch-up. When he coughed again, I leaned away from him and closer to Jane.

"What's wrong with your eyes?" Dick Rassmuson barked at him in a voice that was sandpaper harsh from too many years of booze and cigars. Dick was another of the "sixtysomething" crowd. He'd produced pesticide for most of his life and had recently turned the company over to his son. "Did you catch a bug on the way over? A bug. Get it?" Dick's company motto had been,
We get rid of what's bugging you,
so vermin had always played a big part in his life.

"Where are you hiding the Stolees?" I asked, when Andy stopped coughing.

"Over there." Helen Teig pointed to a table somewhere behind me. "We were saving seats for them"--she leveled accusing eyes at the blonde interloper sitting beside Andy "--but it didn't work out."

Okay. I was getting the picture. No one had bothered to tell the woman that two places were being saved. That would have been rude. So they'd let one seat go but were quietly stewing about it. And not making the woman feel very welcome. Shame on them.

I made eye contact with the blonde and flashed her a smile. "Hi. I'm Emily."

"I'm Shirley Angowski. From Rhode Island. I'm part of the East Coast contingent on the tour."

East Coast contingent? We were sharing our Golden Swiss Triangle Tour with a group of Easterners? No one had said anything about that.

"What do you mean East Coast contingent?" Lucille Rassmuson asked. Lucille had a flawless ivory complexion, short permed hair that was the color of the froth on a frozen peach Margarita, and no lips. Her mother had no lips either. The condition was probably a genetic thing that had to do with her being Irish and had nothing to do with the fact that Lucille had attended Helen Teig's fiftieth birthday party and was standing near the gas grill when it exploded.

"Since there were so few of you people, the Triangle tour agents recruited twenty-five of us from the New England area to fill up the rest of the bus. You all seem to know each other. Are you from the same place?"

"Iowa," said Lucille, tucking in her lips with displeasure at the idea of sharing her bus with strangers. Bad move. Now she had no mouth.

"Iowa." Shirley Angowski looked pensive. "I know where Iowa is. It's west of Rhode Island, isn't it?"

"You bet," Dick Teig said with a wink. He smoothed back his Chiahair. "Right between East Dakota and West Dakota."

Shirley nodded. "I think I might have relatives in East Dakota."

I studied Shirley Angowski for a moment. She was probably just shy of sixty, and sported big hair, big eyeglasses, and big breasts. I envied the breasts. She looked as if she could put the Click Miracle bra people out of business.

"Are you working or retired?" Helen Teig asked Shirley in a smug tone. She was probably hoping Shirley would claim to have a degree in geography from Stanford so she could jump up and say, "Liar, liar, pants on fire." Helen wasn't a native Iowan, which explained her penchant for liking to confront people.

Shirley held up her hands and wiggled her fingers for us. Her fingernails were like stilettos and were painted a color that looked like Pepto-Bismol. "You see this color? It's called
Baby Flamingo
and I named it. I make up all the names for the nail and lip products at Revlon."

I used Revlon products. I glanced at my fingernails. "I'm wearing
Crystal Berry.
Did you make that one up?"

"I sure did. That was part of the Summer Berry collection, along with
Raspberry Souffle
and
Boysenberry Sherbet."

"We carry Revlon products," Jane added helpfully. "Aisle one. Along the wall. Just like Walgreen's."

My impression of Shirley Angowski skyrocketed. So what if she didn't know the exact location of Iowa? Her value to womankind was unimpeachable. How else could we distinguish between subtle shades of nail polish if the Shirley Angowskis of the world didn't provide really cool names for them?

"What about you?" Shirley inquired politely of Helen. "Working or retired?"

"We're retired now, but Dick owned a professional dry-cleaning and dye business."

Shirley looked exuberant. "You dyed things? That's SO exciting. Were you able to create a lot of exotic colors?"