On his way home that day he realized he didn’t really know if his parents were alive or dead. He could not remember at all.
When he got home he sat out on the front porch awhile. He realized he had been paying little attention to his own block of late. The house across the street was boarded up, weeds covering the sidewalk, the flower beds, most of a tricycle. The house just north of his had its shades pulled, several windows broken, and a few weeks’ worth of mail spilling out of the mailbox. All up and down the street: dark and grey houses, empty driveways, a few cars abandoned on the street, their sides rusting, lights broken, windshields spiderwebbed with cracks. Trash and leaves covered the shallow curbs.
He wondered if it were possible. If he could be the last person living on his block.
He couldn’t sleep that night. After dark he’d gone inside and sat on the couch, turning the radio up loud. He had things to do, he knew, but he could not remember what they were. He could not remember the names of his missing neighbors. He could not remember what was on TV that night. He could not remember if the mail had come. He could not remember if he had eaten. He repeated his own name over and over to himself, silently, his lips moving slightly. It made him feel better.
When he looked out his front window he thought he could see the tattered shadows on his porch, looking in on him, their eyes but slightly lighter in color than their soiled clothing. Varied shades of grey. But perhaps it was an effect of the lighting. He couldn’t be sure, and he would not check.
The bright sun through his window woke him up early the next day. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling slightly startled by the morning. Everything seemed much too bright somehow, full of glare. But it made him feel better this morning than he had in some time. As if there were energy in the brightness that he could use.
He drove to work and noticed that even the neighborhood seemed brighter somehow, full of sun, and full of promise despite the condition of the streets and buildings. There were no derelicts in sight. They did not stare out at him from street corners as they usually did.
Their absence made him vaguely uneasy, but he forced a smile. He wasn’t going to let them spoil this bright morning.
In the parking lot outside the insurance building was a welcoming committee to greet him. Bright and shiny faces, arms outstretched to shake his hand, pull him into the crowd. Hundreds of them. He searched their faces for deceit, but he found none there.
They waved at him with their torn fingers and tattered clothes, smiled with their unshaven, greasy jowls. The women with dark eyes beckoned, the stoic men with their oily hair and heavy smell gestured invitingly. He recognized the lady who lived across the street from him, the man from two houses down.
He thought he saw his parents near the center of the crowd and slowly pushed into the mass of bodies, seeking them, wanting to talk to them. It had been a long time. He wanted to tell them how he was doing, share his thoughts, ask for advice. He needed them now.
The mass of bodies moved rhythmically as he pushed to its center, seeing his father’s face here, the back of his mother’s head over there, just out of reach. He was feeling better now, more satisfied. He felt certain he would get his own street corner. Surely they owed him that.
Aquarium
In the orphanage they’d had an aquarium. A wooden model of the ancient, sprawling orphanage itself, open at the top, had served as a frame for the ordinary glass aquarium inside.
The orphanage was always receiving unusual gifts like that—giant gingerbread men, dolls with some president’s face, doll houses modelled after some famous building. There’d be an article in the paper each time with a picture of the donor and his gift, surrounded by dozens of children with practiced smiles.
Other benefactors hosted special events. The Seaharp used to throw parties for the children of the orphanage every year, parties that sometimes lasted for days, with the children sleeping in the hotel. Michael knew he had attended several of the Seaharp parties, but he had been so young at the time—not more than four or five—he really couldn’t remember them.
The aquarium had had a little brass plaque: “Gift of Martin O’Brien”. Michael had heard that the fellow had been some sort of fisherman, and himself an orphan. Many of the gifts were supposedly from former residents of the orphanage. But Michael never actually believed that there was such a thing as a former resident; the place marked you forever. Sometimes he would wonder what he would give to the orphanage when he got old and successful.
Sometimes the fish would swim up to the tiny model windows and look out. One of the older boys said that fish could barely see past their mouths, but they sure looked like they were peering out at you. As if you were a prospective parent and today was visitor’s day. That’s the way the children always looked on visitor’s day, Michael thought: staring wide-eyed out the windows and moving their gills in and out nervously. Trying to look like whoever these prospective parents expected you to look like. Trying to look like you’d fit right in to their family. Sometimes when the light was right in the aquarium room you could see your own reflection in these windows, superimposed over the fish. Looking in, and looking out. Waiting.
In the orphanage Michael used to dream that he had no face. He was waiting for someone to choose a face for him. Until then, he had the open-mouthed, wide-and wet-eyed face of a fish.
Now, in Greystone Bay, Michael got into a green cab that said “Two Crazy Brothers Cab Co.” on the door. Michael wondered if that meant there were two identical cabs, a brother driving each one, or perhaps only one cab with which they alternated shifts—Greystone Bay was, after all, a relatively small place. Or perhaps there were dozens of such cabs, and the brothers didn’t drive anymore, being president and vice-president of the company, or perhaps co-vice-presidents, their mother or father taking the largely honorary presidential post. It was difficult to know exactly who his driver was, and what he expected from him.
“Not many go to the Seaharp this time o’ year,” the driver said.
Michael glanced at the rear-view mirror and fixed on the driver’s eyes. Seeing just the slice of face holding the eyes bothered him. He’d never been able to tell much from eyes—people’s eyes had always seemed somewhat interchangeable. Seeing just that cut-out of someone’s eyes led him to imagine that they were his own eyes, transplanted somehow into someone else’s shadowy face. A social worker at the orphanage had once given him a toy that rearranged slices of faces like that, a chin, a mouth, a nose, eyes, hair, all from different characters mixed and matched. After a while the particular arrangement hadn’t seemed to matter. It was the very act of changing which had been important.
“You must like a quiet holiday,” the cab driver said.
Michael looked at the mirror eyes which might have been his own. He wondered what the driver’s mouth was like, whether it conveyed a message different from that of the eyes. “Why do you say that?”
“Like I said. Before. Nobody much comes to the Seaharp this time of year. Thanksgiving through Christmas, right up ’til the party on New Year’s Eve. Then the whole town turns out. But up ’til then, that’s their dead season. People are home with their families, not in some hotel.”
“Well, I don’t have a family, I’m afraid.”
The driver was silent a moment. Then, “Didn’t think you did.”
Michael held himself stiff, eyes motionless. They always seem to know. How do they always know? Then he forced himself to relax, wondering what it was the cab driver might like to see. What kind of passenger he might like and admire. Just like a good orphan. He could feel the themes of independence and “good business” entering his relaxed facial muscles, his posture.
“Too busy building a career, I guess.” He let slip a self-amused chuckle. “A fellow my age, his career takes up most of his time.”
“Your age?”
“Twenty-five.” He’d lied by twelve years, but he could see in the mirror eyes that the driver believed him, apparently not seeing a
ll the age signs that made that unlikely. People believed a good orphan. “I’m an architect.”
A sudden, new respect in those mirror eyes. “Really? They planning to expand up there at the Seaharp? Maybe they know some things about money coming into the Bay us regular working folk don’t?”
“I really couldn’t say …”
“Or maybe they’re going to remodel. You gonna give that old lady a facelift?”
“Really. I couldn’t.”
“Hey, I get ya. I understand.” One of the mirror eyes half-winked.
The driver offered to carry his bags up the steps to the hotel, but Michael told him that wasn’t necessary. “Travel light in my business.” The driver nodded as if he knew exactly what Michael was talking about. Michael gave him a generous tip anyway; he had to. Walking up the steps he wondered if he had enough expense money left.
In the dark, the Seaharp was magnificent. Its classical lines flowed sweetly into the shadows left and right; its silhouette climbed smoothly out of the porch light with very few of the architectural afterthoughts which spoiled the proportions of so many of its type. Outside lighting had been kept to a minimum, forcing the night-time visitor to focus on the windows—so many windows—exaggerating the width of that first floor.
But then most old buildings looked impressive in the dark. He hoped it lived up to its promise in the less forgiving daylight. That’s when you could tell just how much of the Seaharp’s budget had been allotted to maintenance and repair over the years. By mid-morning he’d be able to spot any dry rot or sagging wood. He could already tell the Seaharp had been fitted with Dutch gutters in spots—the downspouts went right up into the enclosed eaves—a real problem with water damage if they hadn’t been refurbished recently.
Something bothered him about the windows. It was silly, and these little naggings he was prey to now and then made him angry; he didn’t like to think of himself as irrational. Rationality had always meant safety. All the kids he’d grown up with in the orphanage and all their dreams—it had given them nothing but a crib of pain as far as he could see.
And yet he took his few steps up on to the porch and stopped, compelled to examine these windows before entering the Seaharp.
The glass was extraordinarily clean. A good omen. In fact the glass was so clean you’d hardly know it was there. It was an invisible barrier separating what was in—the contents, the atmosphere of the hotel—from what was out. Michael imagined the heavy pressure of that atmosphere—the accumulated breath and spirit of all those visitors over all those years—pushing mightily against that glass which had to be so strong, so finely crafted. Like an aquarium.
He stepped closer to the glass. Inside, the furniture and the carpets were of sea colors, blue and blue-green. The wallpaper a faded blue. The guests moved slowly from setting to setting. As if asleep. Or as if underwater. Their faces, blue and green, pumping the heavy, ancient hotel air. Michael wondered if they could see him outside the glass, peering into their underwater world, seeing his own face in the faces of all these fish.
He walked gingerly to the main door and opened it, took a deep breath. The moist air quickly escaped, pushing over the porch and wetting his face and hair. Stepping inside, he pulled the door tightly, sealing himself in.
He forced himself to remember who he was and the nature of the task he had been hired for.
He was pleased to see that much of the furniture in the lobby and other public areas dated back to the original construction of the hotel; whether it was original to the Seaharp itself, of course, remained to be seen. And there was so much of it. On impulse he crouched as low as possible for a child’s eye view, and peered along the floor at a sea of Victorian furniture legs: rosewood and black walnut with the characteristic cabriole carving and rudimentary feet supporting a Gallic ornateness of leaved, flowered, and fruited moldings and upholsteries. Here and there among the Victorian legs there were the occasional modern, straight-legged anachronisms, or stranger still legs of curly maple and cherry, spirally reeded or acanthus-leaf carved American Empire pieces, or, going back even further, Sheraton mahogany with satinwood. Michael wondered if the original builder—Bolgran he believed was the name—had brought some older, family pieces into the hotel when he moved in.
No one appeared to be watching, so Michael went down to his knees, lowering his head to scan the floor even better. And then he remembered: four years old, and all the legs and furniture had been trees and caves to him, as he raced across the lobby on hands and knees, so fast that Mr. Dobbins, the supervisor that day, had been unable to catch him. Every time Dobbins had got close Michael had hidden under a particularly well-stuffed item, sitting there trying not to giggle while Dobbins called and pleaded with increasing volume. Dobbins’s tightly-panted gabardine legs—old, stiff, a bit crooked—seemed like all those other legs of the forest while he was still, and once he moved it was as if the whole forest of legs moved, and when other adult legs joined the search, it felt like a forest in a hurricane, legs sliding across the floor, crashing to the floor, old voices cracking with alarm. At the time he’d thought about staying in that forest forever, maybe grabbing a few of his friends and living there, but then Dobbins had lifted the chair from over him, there was daylight and thunder overhead, and Michael was lifted skyward.
He stood up, dusted off his pants, and headed towards the desk. Still looking around. No one had noticed. Good. He made himself look professional.
Numerous secretaries and writing desks lined the far wall of the lobby, including two excellent drop-fronts of the French secrétaire á abattant type, built all in one piece, which must have been brought up from New Orleans at no small expense. He couldn’t wait to open them up and examine the insides.
He continued to the registration desk, his eyes alert for the odd detail, the surprise.
Victor Montgomery sat motionless on the other side of his desk. He seemed strangely out of place, and yet Michael could not imagine this man being anywhere else. Perhaps it was the clothes: all of them a size too large, including the collar. But the knot of the tie was firm and tight, and the suit wasn’t particularly wrinkled from enclosing a body too small for it. It was as if Montgomery had shrunk after putting the suit on. The desk appeared too large for him, as well. As did the black phone, the blotter, the desk lamp with the green glass shade. They seemed huge to Michael. And Victor Montgomery seemed an infant, forcing his small wrinkled head out of the huge collar, his baby face glowing red from the exertion, his small eyes having difficulty focusing.
“There is quite a lot to catalogue,” Montgomery said, his baby eyes straying. “The furniture in all the rooms, the public areas, the storage cellars. As well as all the art and accessory items, of course. You will not be inventorying the family’s private quarters or the attics, however, nor will you be permitted access to a few other odd rooms. But those are locked, in any case. If there is any question, I expect you to ask.”
“I can assure you there will be no problem completing the inventory in the allotted time. Perhaps even sooner.” Michael permitted just a hint of laughter into his voice, thinking it might show enthusiasm.
Montgomery looked like a baby startled by a sudden noise. “I did not expect there would be.”
“No, of course not. I just thought that if you were leaving the family quarters, the attics, or any other areas off my assignment for fear of the time they would take, I should reassure you that they would be no problem as well. I have done a number of these hotel inventories and have become quite efficient, I assure you.”
“Any furniture in those off-limit areas I wanted inventoried has already been moved into rooms 312 and 313. You will evaluate each piece, make recommendations as to which should remain part of the Seaharp collection—whether because of historical interest, rarity, or to illustrate a particular theme, I do not care—and which might be sold at auction. Any marginal items of dubious functionality should be disposed of as quickly and inexpensively as possible. Most important
ly, I want a complete record and evaluation of all items in the hotel. I am quite sure we have been pilfered in the past and am determined to put a stop to it.”
Michael nodded, doodling in his pad as if he had recorded every word. The infant’s head was frighteningly red. “May I start tonight?”
“If you wish. In fact I would suggest that you do much of your work at night. That will avoid distracting the help from their work, not to mention attracting their curiosity.”
“And that would be a problem?”
“I do not want them to think I distrust them. Although, of course, I do. You will be eating Thanksgiving dinner here.”
Michael didn’t know if that was a question or an order. “I had planned on it, if possible.”
“What of your family?”
“I have none. And no other place to go this holiday.”
The infant looked vaguely distressed, as if it had filled its diapers. “I am sorry to hear that. A family is a great source of strength. It is important to belong.” Michael waited for him to say something specific about his own family, but he did not.
“I feel I am a member of the family of man,” Michael lied.
The infant looked confused. “An orphan?”
“Yes, in fact the children of the orphanage came here over a number of years for a kind of holiday. Even I …”
“I was away at school most of those years,” Montgomery said.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“There are no more orphanages, are there? In the United States, I mean?” Montgomery said.
“No, I don’t believe there are.”
“Foster homes and such, I believe. The poor orphans get real families now,” Montgomery said. Michael simply nodded. The infant Montgomery was suddenly struggling to his feet, lost in his clothes, his baby’s head lost in the voluminous collar. The interview was over. “I will make sure the staff prepares a suitable Thanksgiving repast for you tomorrow. After that you will have the hotel essentially to yourself. The staff will be home with their families. We Montgomerys will remain in our quarters for the following two days, at the end of which time I expect to be able to review your full report.”
Absent Company Page 17