The Hotel New Hampshire (61 page)

“Come on, Franny,” Frank said. “
You
can do it, Franny.”

“You
got
to, honey,” Susie the bear told her softly, putting her friendly paw on Franny’s arm.

“It’s now or never, Franny. Remember?” I whispered to her. “Let’s just get this over with,” I told her, “and then we can all return to the rest of the business—to the rest of our lives.”

“The rest of our lives,” Franny said, pleased. “Okay,” she whispered. “If Lilly can write the script,” Franny said, “I can make the fucking phone call.”

“Then all of you get out of here,” Lilly said. “I’ve got to get to work,” she said, worriedly.

We all went to Frank’s to have a party with Father. “Not a word about this to Father,” Franny said. “Let’s keep Father out of it.”

Father, I knew, was out of it most of the time. But when we arrived at Frank’s, Father had come to a small decision. From the myriad options in front of him, Father had failed to come up with what Iowa Bob would have called a game plan; he still didn’t know what he wanted to
do
. Good fortune was an option unfamiliar to my father. But when we arrived at Frank’s in a party mood, Father had at least accomplished a mini-decision.

“I want one of those Seeing Eye dogs,” Father said.

“But you’ve got us, Pop,” Frank told him.

“There’s always someone around to take you anywhere you want,” I told him.

“It’s not just that,” Father said. “I need an animal around,” he said.

“Oh boy,” Franny said. “Why not hire Susie?”

“Susie’s got to stop being a bear,” Father said. “We shouldn’t keep encouraging her.” We all looked a little guilty, and Susie beamed—of course, Father couldn’t see our faces. “And besides,” Father said, “New York is a terrible place for a bear. I’m afraid the bear days are over,” he sighed. “But a good old Seeing Eye dog,” Father said. “Well, you see,” he said, almost a little embarrassed to admit his loneliness, “it would be someone for me to
talk
to. I mean, you have your own lives—or you
will
have,” Father said. “I’d just like a dog, really. The Seeing Eye part of the dog isn’t really what matters. I’d just like to have a nice dog. Can I?” he asked.

“Sure, Pop,” Frank said.

Franny kissed Father and told him we’d get him a dog for Christmas.

“So soon?” Father asked. “I don’t think you can
rush
getting a Seeing Eye dog,” Father said. “I mean, it would be a problem to get a badly trained one.”

“Anything’s possible, Pop,” Frank said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Frank,” Franny said. “We’ll
all
get him a dog, if you don’t mind.”

“One thing,” Father said. Susie the bear put her paw on my hand, as if even Susie knew what was coming. “Just one thing,” Father said. We were very quiet, waiting for this. “It mustn’t look like Sorrow,” Father said. “And you’ve got the eyes, so
you’ve
got to pick out the dog. Just make sure it in no way resembles Sorrow.”

And Lilly wrote the necessary fairy tale, and we each acted our parts. According to the fairy tale that Lilly wrote, we were perfect. On the last working day before Christmas, 1964, Franny took a deep breath and called Chipper Dove at his “firm.”

“Hi, it’s
me
!” she said to him, brightly. “I absolutely need to have lunch with you, in the
worst
way,” Franny said to Chipper Dove. “Yes; it’s Franny Berry—and you can pick me up, anytime,” Franny said. “Yes, at the Stanhope—Suite
fourteen-oh-one
.”

Then Lilly grabbed the phone away from Franny and said to Franny in a voice as crabby as any crabby nurse’s voice—and plenty loud enough for Chipper Dove to hear—“Who are you making phone calls to
now
? You’re not supposed to make any more phone calls!” Then Lilly hung up the phone and we waited.

Franny went into the bathroom and threw up. She was okay when she came back out. She looked awful, but she was supposed to look awful. The two women from the West Village Workshop had done the makeup job on Franny; those women can work wonders. They took a beautiful woman and they
ravaged
her; they gave Franny a face with the lifelessness of chalk; they gave her a mouth like a gash, they gave my sister needles for eyes. And they dressed her all in white, like a bride. We were worried that Lilly’s script might be too theatrical.

Frank stood looking out the window in his black leotard and lime-green caftan. He had just a little lipstick on.

“I don’t know,” Frank said, worriedly. “What if he doesn’t come?”

Susie’s two friends were there—the wounded women from the West Village Workshop. It had been
men
, Susie had told us, who had wounded them. The black one was named Ruthie: she resembled a near-perfect cloning of Junior Jones. Ruthie wore a sleeveless sheepskin vest, over nothing at all, and a pair of bright green bell-bottoms above which her belly wobbled. She had a long silver nail, almost as thick as a railroad spike, jabbed into her crazy hair. She held a long leather leash in one of her big black hands; at the end of the leash was Susie the bear.

It was a bear suit that was a victory of animal imagination. Especially the mouth, as Frank had pointed out; especially the fangs. Their wet look. And the sad insanity of the eyes. (Susie actually “saw” out of the mouth.)

The claws were a nice touch, too; they were the real thing, Susie proudly pointed out—the whole paws were the real thing. It somehow enhanced the reality of everything that Susie wore a muzzle. We’d bought the muzzle in an accessory shop for Seeing Eye dogs; it was a real muzzle.

We’d turned the thermostat on the heat register up as high as it would go because Franny complained of being cold. Susie said she liked the heat; she felt more like a bear if she sweated a lot, and inside the bear suit, we could tell, she was hot and dripping. “I’ve never felt so much like a bear,” Susie said to us, pacing, down on all fours.

“You’re all bear today, Susie,” I said to her.

“The
bear in you
gets out today, Susie,” Lilly told her.

Franny sat in the bridal dress on the couch, the candle burning in a sickly way on the table beside her. There were candles lit throughout the suite, and all the window shades were drawn. Frank had lit a little incense, so the whole suite smelled truly terrible.

The other woman from the West Village Workshop was a pale, plain-looking, very girlish type with straw-blond hair. She was dressed in the conventional uniform of a hotel maid, the same uniform worn by all the Stanhope maids, and she had a perfectly bored, expressionless gaze that matched her dull employment. Her name was Elizabeth Something, but in the Village she was called Scurvy. She was the best actress ever to graduate from the West Village Workshop—she was the queen of the Washington Square Park performers. She could have taught scream therapy to a whole backyard full of moles; she could have taught the moles how to scream so loud that the worms would leap right out of the ground. She was what Susie called a number one first-class hysteric. “Nobody can do hysteria better than Scurvy,” Susie the bear had told us, and Lilly had written up a number one first-class hysteric role for her. Scurvy just sat in the suite, smoking a cigarette and looking as lifeless as a park bench bum.

I played around with the big barbell in the middle of the living room. Frank and Lilly had greased me all over; I was oily from head to toe and I smelled like a salad, but the oil made my muscles stand out in a special way. I was wearing this skimpy little thing called a singlet—it’s that old-fashioned-looking, one-piece-bathing-suit thing that wrestlers and weight lifters wear.

“Keep warm,” Lilly coached me, “keep lifting just enough to keep the veins standing out. When he walks in here, I want those veins
popping
right up there on the surface of your skin.”

“
If
he walks in here,” Frank fumed.

“He will,” Franny said, softly. “He’s very near,” she said, shutting her eyes. “I know he’s very near,” she repeated.

When the phone rang, everyone in the room jumped—everyone but Franny and the number one first-class hysteric named Scurvy; they didn’t flinch. Franny let the phone ring a little. Lilly came out of the bedroom, all neatly dressed in her nurse’s uniform; she nodded to Franny at about the fourth ring and Franny picked up the phone. She didn’t say anything.

“Hello?” Chipper Dove said. “Franny?” we heard him ask. Franny shivered, but Lilly kept nodding to her.

“Come up right away,” Franny whispered into the phone. “Come up while my nurse is still out!” she hissed. Then she hung up; she gagged, and for a moment I thought she’d have to go throw up in the bathroom again, but she held it in; she was okay.

Lilly adjusted the tight, gray, mousy little bun of a wig she wore. She looked like an old nurse in a home for dwarfs; the women from the West Village Workshop had made up Lilly’s face like a prune. She stepped into the closet that was nearest the main door to the suite and shut the door. When you were in the living room of the suite, it was easy to confuse the closet with the entrance and exit door.

Scurvy put a stack of clean linen on her arm and went outside the suite into the hall. “Between five and seven minutes after he gets inside,” I told her.

“I don’t need reminding,” she said, crossly. “I can listen outside the door for my cue,” she told me contemptuously. “I’m a fucking
pro
, you know.”

The West Village Workshop women had one thing in common, Susie had confided to me. They had all been raped.

I started lifting the weight. I did some fast lifting to pump the muscles full of blood. Susie the bear curled up at the foot of the couch farthest from Franny and pretended to go to sleep. She hid her paws and her muzzled snout; from the back she looked like a sleeping dog. The black woman named Ruthie—the huge woman who was Junior Jones’s clone—plopped down in the dead center of the couch, right next to Franny. When the hibernating bear began to snore, Frank took off the caftan and hung it on a doorknob—he now wore just the black leotard—and went into Lilly’s bedroom and put the music on. From the living room, you could see the bed through the bedroom’s open door. When the music started, Frank started dancing on the bed. The music had been Frank’s choice. Frank had no trouble making up his mind: he chose the mad scene from Donizetti’s
Lucia
.

I looked at Franny and saw some tears squeeze their way out of the pinholes the makeup women had given her for eyes; the tears made messy tracks through the makeup caked upon her face. Franny knotted her fingers in her lap, and I knocked lightly on the closet door and whispered to Lilly: “A masterpiece, Lilly,” I said. “It’s got all the indications of a masterpiece.”

“Just don’t blow your lines,” Lilly whispered.

When Chipper Dove knocked on the door, my bicepses were standing right up there—the way Lilly wanted them—and the forearms were looking pretty good. I had a little sweat running over the oil, and in the bedroom Lucia was beginning to scream. Frank was so incredibly awkward, leaping on the bed, that I almost couldn’t look at him.

“Come in!” Franny cried to Chipper Dove. When I saw the doorknob turn, I grabbed my side of the door and helped Chipper Dove inside—fast. I guess I snapped the door open a little harder than was necessary because Chipper Dove seemed to be propelled inside the room—on all fours. I hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob and closed the door behind him.

“Well, look who’s here,” Franny said, in her best ice-blue voice.

“Holy cow!” cried Frank, at full height above the bouncing bed.

I rolled the barbell against the door, but Chipper Dove stood up—fairly calmly. He had that smile that wouldn’t die; at least, it hadn’t died
yet
.

“What’s all this, Franny?” he asked her, casually, but Franny had come to the end of her lines. Franny’s part of the script was over with. (“Well, look who’s here.” That was all that was necessary for her to say.)

“We’re going to rape you,” I said to Chipper Dove.

“Hey, look,” Dove said. “That was never exactly what I’d call a
rape
,” he said. “I mean, you really
liked
me, Franny,” he said to her, but Franny wasn’t talking. “I’m sorry about the other guys, Franny,” Dove added, but Franny’s pinhole stare gave him nothing. “Shit!” said Dove, turning to me. “
Who’s
going to rape me?”

“Not me!” Frank screamed from the bedroom, bouncing higher and higher. “I like fucking
mud puddles
, myself. I do it all the time!”

Chipper Dove still managed a smile. “So it’s the one on the couch?” he asked me, slyly. He stared at big Ruthie; he must have been remembering Junior Jones when he looked at her—she just stared back at him—but Chipper Dove even managed to smirk at her. “I have nothing against black women,” Chipper Dove said, dividing his attention between Ruthie and me. “In fact, I like a black woman now and then.” Ruthie raised up one cheek of her enormous ass and farted.

“You ain’t fucking
me
,” she told Chipper Dove.

Dove directed his full attention to me. Almost all of his smile had left him, because I think he was beginning to suspect that
I
was the one appointed to rape him and he wasn’t so fond of this idea.

“No, it’s not
him
, you asshole!” Frank yelled from the bedroom, panting and leaping-higher and higher. “He likes
girls
, like
you
do!” Frank yelled at Dove. “Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting
girls
!” Frank hollered. He fell off the bed, but he was right back up and dancing, fiercely. Lucia was really sounding crazy.

“Are you trying to tell me it’s the
dog
?” Chipper Dove asked me. “Do you think I’ll hold still for a fucking
dog
!” he snapped at me.

“What dog, man?” Ruthie asked Chipper Dove. Ruthie had a smile that was as terrible as Chipper Dove’s.

“That dog right there,” Dove said, pointing to Susie the bear. Susie was curled up in a ball, snoring, her hairy back turned to Dove—her paws tucked in, her head tucked down. Ruthie stuck her big bare foot in Susie’s crotch; she started
kneading
Susie with her foot. Susie started to groan.