The Hotel New Hampshire (22 page)

“If she hasn’t grown in two years,” Franny said, “I doubt she’s grown in the last two days.” But there were tests that could be run on Lilly, and old Dr. Blaze was apparently trying to figure out what the tests were.

“You don’t eat enough, Lilly,” I said. “Don’t worry about it, but just try to eat a little more.”

“I don’t like to eat,” Lilly said.

And it wouldn’t rain—not a drop! Or when it rained, it was always in the afternoon, or in the evening. I would be sitting in Algebra II, or in the History of Tudor England, or in Beginning Latin, and I would hear the rain fall, and despair. Or I would be in bed, and it was dark—dark in my room and throughout the Hotel New Hampshire, and all of Elliot Park and I would hear it raining and raining, and I’d think:
Tomorrow
! But in the morning, the rain would have turned to snow, or would have petered out; or it would be dry and windy again, and I would run my wind sprints in Elliot Park—Frank passing me en route to the bio lab.

“Nuts, nuts, nuts,” Frank would grumble.

“Who’s nuts?” I asked.

“You’re nuts,” he said. “And Franny’s
always
nuts. And Egg is deaf, and Lilly’s weird,” Frank said.

“And you’re perfectly normal, Frank?” I asked, running in place.

“At least I don’t play with my body as if I were a rubber band,” Frank said. I knew, of course, that Frank played with his body—plenty—but Father had already assured me, in one of his heart-to-heart talks about boys and girls, that everyone masturbated (and
ought
to, from time to time), and so I decided to be friendly to Frank and not tease him about his beating off.

“How’s it coming with stuffing the dog, Frank?” I asked him, and he became immediately serious.

“Well,” he said. “There are a few problems. The
pose
, for example, is very important. I’m still deciding on the best possible pose,” he said. “The actual body has been properly treated, but the pose really worries me.”

“The
pose
?” I said, trying to imagine what poses Sorrow ever had. He seemed to have slept and farted in a variety of casual positions.

“Well,” Frank explained. “There are certain classic poses in taxidermy.”

“I see,” I said.

“There’s the ‘cornered’ pose,” Frank said, and he recoiled from me, suddenly, putting his forepaws up to defend himself and raising his hackles. “You know?” he asked.

“God, Frank,” I said. “I don’t think
that
one would be too appropriate to Sorrow.”

“Well, it’s a classic,” Frank said. “And
this
one,” he said, turning sideways to me, and appearing to sneak along the limb of a tree, snarling over his shoulder. “This is the ‘stalking’ pose,” he said.

“I see,” I said, wondering if in this pose poor Sorrow would be supplied with a branch to stalk on. “You know, he was a
dog
, Frank,” I said, “not a cougar.”

Frank frowned. “Personally,” he said, “I favor the ‘attack’ pose.”

“Don’t show me,” I said. “Surprise me.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You won’t recognize him.”

That is precisely
what
worried me—that no one
would
recognize poor Sorrow. Least of all Franny. I think Frank had forgotten the purpose of what he was doing—he was so carried away with the
project
of it; he was getting three credits of independent study in biology for the task, and Sorrow had taken on the proportions of a term paper for a course. I could not imagine Sorrow, ever, in an “attack” pose.

“Why not just curl Sorrow up in a ball, the way he used to sleep,” I said, “with his tail over his face and his nose in his asshole?”

Frank looked disgusted, as usual, and I was tired of running in place; I did a few more wind sprints across Elliot Park.

I heard Max Urick yell at me from his fourth-floor window in the Hotel New Hampshire. “You goddamn fool!” Max cried across the frozen ground, the dead leaves, and startled squirrels in the park. Off the fire escape, at
her
end of the second floor, a pale green nightgown waved in the gray air: Ronda Ray must have been sleeping in the blue one this morning, or in the black one—or in the shocking-orange one. The pale green one flapped at me like a flag, and I ran a few more wind sprints.

When I went to 3F, Iowa Bob was already up; he was doing his neck bridge routine, down on his back on the oriental rug, a pillow under his head. He was into a high neck bridge—with the barbell, at about 150 pounds, held straight over his head. Old Bob had a neck as big as my thigh.

“Good morning,” I whispered, and his eyes rolled back, and the barbell tilted, and he hadn’t screwed the little things that hold the weights on tight enough, so that a few of the weights rolled off one end, and then the other, and Coach Bob shut his eyes and cringed as the weights dropped on either side of his head and went rolling off everywhere. I stopped a couple with my feet, but one of them rolled into the closet door, and it opened, of course, and out came a few things: a broom, a sweat shirt, Bob’s running shoes, and a tennis racquet with his sweatband wrapped around the handle.

“Jesus God,” said Father, from downstairs in our family’s kitchen.

“Good morning,” Bob said to me.

“Do you think Ronda Ray is attractive?” I asked him.

“Oh boy,” said Coach Bob.

“No, really,” I said.

“Really?” he said. “Go ask your father. I’m too old. I haven’t looked at girls since I broke my nose—the last time.”

That must have been in the line, at Iowa, I knew, because old Bob’s nose had quite a number of wrinkles in it. He never put his teeth in until breakfast, too, so that his head in the early mornings looked astonishingly bald—like some strange, featherless bird, his empty mouth gaping like the lower half of a bill under his bent nose. Iowa Bob had the head of a gargoyle on the body of a lion.

“Well, do you think she’s
pretty
?” I asked him.

“I don’t think about it,” he said.

“Well, think about it now!” I said.

“Not exactly ‘pretty,’ ” said Iowa Bob. “But she’s sort of appealing.”

“Appealing?” I asked.

“Sexy!” said a voice over Bob’s intercom—Franny’s voice, of course; she had been listening to the squawk boxes at the switchboard, as usual.

“Damn kids,” said Iowa Bob.

“Damn it, Franny!” I said.

“You should ask
me
,” Franny said.

“Oh boy,” said Iowa Bob.

So it was that I came to tell Franny the story of Ronda Ray’s apparent offer on the stairwell, her interest in my hard breathing, and in my beating heart—and the plan for a rainy day.

“So? Do it,” said Franny. “But why wait for the rain?”

“Do you think she’s a whore?” I asked Franny.

“You mean, do I think she charges money?” Franny said.

That thought had not occurred to me—“whore” being a word that was used all too loosely at the Dairy School.

“Money?” I said. “How much do you think she charges?”

“I don’t know
if
she charges,” Franny said, “but if I were you, that’s something I’d want to find out.” At the intercom, we switched to Ronda’s room and listened to her breathing. It was her awake-but-just-lying-there-breathing sound. We listened to her a long while, as if we would understand from what we heard the possible
price
attached to her. Franny finally shrugged.

“I’m going to take a bath,” she said, and she gave a twirl to the room dial, and the intercom listened to the empty rooms. 2A, not a sound; 3A, nothing; 4A, nothing at all; 1B, nothing; 4B, Max Urick and his static. Franny was leaving the switchboard to go draw her bath and I gave the room dial a twirl: to 2C, 3C, 4C, then switching fast to 2E, 3E ...
and there it was
... and on to 4E, where there was nothing.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

“What was
that
?” Franny said.

“Three E, I think,” I said.

“Try it again,” she said. It was the floor above Ronda Ray, and at the opposite end of the hall from her; it was across the hall from Iowa Bob, who was out.

“Do it,” Franny said. We were scared. We had
no
guests in the Hotel New Hampshire, but there had been one hell of a sound from 3E.

It was Sunday afternoon. Frank was in the bio lab and Egg and Lilly were at the movie matinee. Ronda Ray was just sitting in her room, and Iowa Bob was out. Mrs. Urick was in the kitchen, and Max Urick was playing his radio behind the static.

I put on 3E and Franny and I heard it again.

“
Oooooooooo
!” went the woman.

“
Hoo, hoo, hoo
!” went the man.

But the Texan had gone home, long ago, and there was no woman staying in 3E.

“
Yike, yike, yike
!” said the woman.

“
Muff, muff, muff
!” said the man.

It was as if the crazy intercom system had made them up! Franny held my hand, tightly. I tried to switch it off, or move it to another, calmer room, but Franny wouldn’t let me.

“Eeeep!” the woman cried.

“Nup!” said the man. A lamp fell. Then the woman laughed, and the man began to mutter.

“Jesus God,” my father said.

“Another lamp,” Mother said, and went on laughing.

“If we were guests,” Father said, “we’d have to pay for it!”

They laughed at this as if Father had said the funniest thing in the world.

“Turn it off!” Franny said. I did.

“It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?” I ventured to say.

“They have to use the hotel,” Franny said, “just to get away from
us
!”

I couldn’t see what she was thinking.

“God!” Franny said. “They really
love
each other—they really
do
!” And I wondered why I had taken such a thing for granted, and why it seemed to surprise my sister so much. Franny dropped my hand and wrapped her arms around herself; she hugged herself, as if she were trying to wake herself up, or get warm. “What am
I
going to do?” she said. “What’s it going to be like? What happens next?” she asked.

But I could never see as far as Franny could see. I was not really looking beyond that moment; I had even forgotten Ronda Ray.

“You were going to take a bath,” I reminded Franny, who seemed in need of reminding—or some other advice.

“What?” she said.

“A bath,” I said. “
That’s
what was going to happen next. You were going to take a bath.”

“Ha!” Franny cried. “The hell with that!” she said. “Fuck the bath!” said Franny, and went on hugging herself, and moving in place, as if she were trying to dance with herself. I couldn’t tell whether she was happy or upset, but when I began to fool with her—to dance with her, and push her, and tickle her under the arms, she pushed and tickled and danced back, and we ran out of the switchboard room and up the stairwell to the second-floor landing.

“Rain, rain, rain!” Franny started yelling, and I became terribly embarrassed; Ronda Ray opened the door to her dayroom, and frowned at us.

“We’re having a rain dance,” Franny told her. “Want to dance with us?”

Ronda smiled. She had on a shocking-orange nightgown. There was a magazine in her hand.

“Not right now,” she said.

“Rain, rain, it’s going to rain!” Franny went off dancing. Ronda shook her head at me—but nicely—and then shut her door.

I chased Franny outside into Elliot Park. We could see Mother and Father at the window by the fire escape in 3E. Mother had opened the window to call to us.

“Go get Egg and Lilly at the movies!” she said.

“What are you doing in
that
room?” I called back.

“Cleaning it!” said Mother.

“Rain, rain, rain!” Franny screamed, and we ran downtown to the matinee.

Egg and Lilly came out of the movies with Junior Jones.

“It’s a
kids
’ movie,” Franny said to Jones. “How come
you
went?”

“I’m just a big kid,” Junior said. He held her hand while we all walked home, and Franny took a stroll with him through the Dairy School grounds; I continued toward home with Egg and Lilly.

“Does Franny love Junior Jones?” Lilly asked, seriously.

“Well, she
likes
him, anyway,” I said.

“He is her friend.”

“What?” said Egg.

It was almost Thanksgiving. Junior was staying with us for Thanksgiving vacation, because his parents didn’t send him enough money to go home. And several of the foreign students at the Dairy School—who lived too far away to go home for Thanksgiving—would be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone liked having Junior around, but the foreign students, whom nobody knew, had been Father’s idea—and Mother had gone along, saying it was the kind of thing Thanksgiving was originally for. Maybe, but we children did not care for the invasion. Guests in the hotel were one thing, and there was one of those staying with us—a famous Finnish doctor, supposedly, who was there to visit his daughter at the Dairy School. She was one of the foreigners coming to dinner. The others included a Japanese whom Frank knew from his taxidermy project; the Japanese had been sworn to secrecy over the stuffing of Sorrow, Frank had told me, but the boy’s English was so bad that he could have blurted out the truth and no one would have understood him. Then there were two Korean girls, whose hands were so pretty and small Lilly would never take her eyes from them—not for the entire dinner. They perhaps kindled an interest in eating that had been absent in Lilly before, however, because they ate lots of things with their little fingers—in such a delicate and beautiful way that Lilly began to play with her food in this fashion, and eventually even ate some. Egg, of course, would spend the day shouting “What?” to the tragically incomprehensible Japanese boy. And Junior Jones would eat, and eat, and eat—making Mrs. Urick nearly detonate with pride.

“Now,
there
is an appetite!” said Mrs. Urick, admiringly.

“If I was as big as that, I’d eat like that, too,” Max said.

“No you wouldn’t,” said Mrs. Urick. “You don’t have it in you.”