“Arthur Midland. The name sounds like the president of a big bank or insurance company. Very goyish. What’s he doing at the Alpine?” Bess asked Muriel.
“Supposedly he’s half-Jewish,” Muriel replied. “But I think he comes here to be a big fish in a little pond. He makes money playing cards with the ordinary husbands and likes being ogled by their wives, who think he’s the most romantic and dashing thing they’ve ever seen outside of the flicks. He’s famous for having affairs with one or another woman whose husband only comes up on weekends. Very safe for him and no commitment.”
“You don’t seem to think much of him.”
“I don’t.”
Bess didn’t stay around to hear more and shrugged off Muriel’s comments. Muriel had taken on the role of big sister, for which Bess was usually very grateful. But this time, no. She didn’t want anyone ruining her excitement. It’s like having Jack around, she thought resentfully. Then suddenly she felt oddly forlorn that he wasn’t around, and that if he were, he wouldn’t have time for Bess anyway.
Arthur Midland spent most of his first two weeks not noticing Bess at all, and it didn’t take her long to understand why. The staff grapevine let her know exactly which devoted young wife and mother he was comforting, whose husband slaved away Monday through Friday in the city. She was a petite blonde (in itself enough to irritate Bess) and had a pretty-ish face with pencil line eyebrows and a mouth that was made to look sexy-mean with the careful application of lipstick above her thin natural lip line. She was clearly looking for it, Bess thought resentfully. Oh, yeah? Well, what about you? What are you looking for? She was torn between humiliation that she herself was invisible to this desirable man and relief that she was not in his line of sight. It did dawn on her that if you are nineteen and really just beginning to fish, perhaps you’d best not hook a shark. Still, the sense of danger was fascinating.
She found that Arthur Midland was becoming something of a constant companion in her head. She imagined him eyeing her appreciatively from a card table and fancied his flirtatious complaint that her presence was so distracting that she put him off his game. Or, alternatively, that he asked her to stand close to him and bring him luck. She envisioned him watching her while she worked in the office and imagined him gracefully slouched in a corner of her cabin, legs crossed, arms folded, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, watching her take off her clothes. She told herself she was a fool, letting him continually insinuate himself into her consciousness, but this did not stop her from going out of her way to be in his line of vision and standing taller, moving more gracefully and sensuously even when he was nowhere around. All her movements and poses were more consciously come-hither.
If Arthur Midland was smitten with her in her fantasies, she was still taken aback when he actually asked her to dance one night. Bess cautioned herself that he was probably using her as a cover, since it was the weekend and the devoted wife was dancing with her husband. She was immensely pleased, however. After all, he had asked her, Bess, and not some other woman to provide this service for him.
“I understand you’re an aspiring artist—a painter? I’m surprised you aren’t installed in a quaint bohemian studio in Greenwich Village, instead of idling away your time up here in Max’s cultural desert. Husband hunting?” His tone was light.
“I’m not idling away my time. I work here, if you haven’t noticed. And I’m not looking for a husband. Besides, studios cost a lot.”
“With your figure you could be an artist’s model. All those artsy type guys would be lining up to paint you. I certainly would, if I had any talent.”
“And how many artist’s models do you know who can afford charming studios in Greenwich Village?” She was surprised at her own sharp retort. Perhaps it was because she was nervous. “Besides, that’s not what modeling is about,” she began more gently, but broke off at his teasing smile, flattered in spite of herself.
His attentions increased over the next week. More dances, a squeeze of the hand, gentle, casual caresses of her shoulder, her arm, a touch at the small of her back. Nothing obvious that would jeopardize his affair. But the devoted wife was leaving on Sunday; and he would still be here. What would happen then? Bess wished she could talk to Muriel about this, but Muriel didn’t like Arthur and remained discreetly silent. Just as well, probably, since Muriel would have nothing to say that Bess really wanted to hear. She wanted only to be encouraged in this adventure. Pushed off the diving board, so to speak.
The next couple of weeks were like the continuation of her fantasy, except that Artie, as he asked her to call him, wasn’t as ubiquitous as he was in her daydreams. In fact, he didn’t spend all that much time at the hotel after the devoted wife departed, and he frequently drove off to town in the afternoons and absented himself in the evenings. But when he was there, he was very attentive, indeed. He took her for strolls on her hours off, danced with her, bought her drinks from the bar, even drove her to the fabled lake (alas, no canoe). He had all the attributes she dreamed of in an accomplished lover, and she was aroused and greatly pleased by his kisses and knowing gentle caresses. He wanted her, that was obvious, but he seemed to be in no hurry, as if he were at leisure to contemplate and enjoy his seduction of her. If only he would just shut up and sweep her off her feet.
Unbidden as this thought was, that was the problem. In fantasy your dream man says exactly what you want him to. In reality, the more Artie said, the less she approved of him. The first time he told a bartender, “The lady will have one of your very dry martinis” without asking her first, he seemed elegant and masterful. The next time, she raised her eyebrows a little. Not being stupid, he was quick to notice.
“You don’t mind my ordering for you, do you? It’s just that I know this place, and I want you to have the best experience here.” He treated her to his charming smile.
“Fair enough,” she replied, treating him to hers.
She’d noticed that Artie didn’t eat many meals at the Alpine, even though the well-prepared and abundant cuisine was a main attraction to most of the guests, many of whom seemed to live for the next meal. He soon enlightened her.
“Have you ever eaten pork? Wait, wait—don’t tell me—you eat pork and shrimp, but only in Chinese restaurants, and you wouldn’t dream of eating bacon, ham, and shellfish anywhere else.”
Bess’s experience of any restaurant was pretty meager, but he didn’t have to know that. “If you’re so sure of my answer why did you ask me?”
“Now, now, don’t get huffy. I’m simply thinking of rescuing you from Max’s kosher swill by taking you out for pork ribs, Kansas City style, of which there is nothing finer.”
“You know, I don’t really understand why you stay here. You say it’s a cultural desert and that the food is swill. Yet you come back here. It’s not your first season or your second, is it?”
“Truth is, I’d rather be in the Adirondacks or at some elegant hotel in Palm Beach, but I’m not a millionaire yet, and with all its faults, Max’s place is comfortable and convenient for me. Besides, I’d never have met you in one of those fine resorts. They don’t take kindly to Jews.”
“And you would consider staying at one of those anti-Semitic palaces? You’re part Jewish, yourself, I understand. If that’s your idea of a joke it isn’t very funny!”
“Sweetheart, calm down! I’m only trying in my not very clever way to get you to come out and have ribs with me.”
She agreed to go out with him for a late dinner on her Saturday night off, but as soon as he was out of sight, she began to regret it. No part of their last conversation had pleased her. It took her some effort to cast aside the negatives about him. She was determined that he would be her first lover. He was good-looking, intelligent, and clearly sexually experienced. She didn’t have to marry him, did she? And he’d be leaving the hotel soon enough. Surely, everything would be easier after her first time. Her life, her art, would gain a passionate, a sensual depth. And after all, she couldn’t wa
it around forever for her romantic ideal. What if she were hit by a car? Who wanted to die a virgin?
He made it quite clear that he wasn’t going to wait around forever either, when he suggested that they stay at a guesthouse adjoining the restaurant. That way, they could relax, have a few drinks, privacy. He promised to get her back early in plenty of time for the check-out, check-in rush. Bess had to respect him for that; no surprises, unlike Alphie Pie. But still, she had to be frank.
“You know, Artie, I’ve never. . . .”
“Not to worry, sweetie, I know you’re a babe in the woods—it’s part of your charm. I’ll take care of everything. No slip-ups. I promise.”
He was sparing her embarrassment and worry, which was nice. It was a relief to feel good about him again.
The restaurant looked like a roadhouse, a little run down, but there were plenty of people there, some of them quite well-dressed. They had a long wait for a table, so they sat at the bar, where a quite interesting looking bartender managed to mix drinks and serve them very efficiently while pleasantly fielding customers’ jokes and bantering. He had these terrific hazel eyes with slightly drooping lids—very sexy! A couple of women were busier flirting with him than drinking, and Bess had to stop herself from paying too much attention to this. Not a great start for this big evening. Artie suggested she have a beer, since that was what they would want with their meal. He didn’t think she was up to a boilermaker yet. She had no idea what that was, but she noticed that he ordered a scotch on the rocks for himself.
“Double?” the bartender asked, impassive.
“Right. You know your man.”
When he ordered a refill, she noticed that the bartender diluted his drink. It had crossed her mind that Artie drank a lot, but what did she know? She came from a family that drank alcohol only as ritual wine, with maybe a glass of schnapps for the men at celebrations. What seemed excessive to her was probably just more than she was accustomed to. Besides, he never seemed adversely affected by it. Still, it was clear by the time they got a table and started on a pitcher of draft that he was having too much. He was losing his gloss, becoming touchy and impatient about the long wait for service. And suddenly, things began to fall into place for Bess. He did his drinking here. The bartender knew him, didn’t he? He drank here and at other places like this. That was why he was away from the hotel so often—to drink and probably to gamble. She began to be very sorry she was here with him, sorry and scared.
Lost in thought, she hadn’t paid attention to what Artie was ordering and only noticed the dozen oysters on the half shell when they were placed on the table. Artie was determined that she try them as an appetizer. “Like this,” he instructed her. He squeezed lemon on an oyster and expertly slid the whole creature into his mouth. She found it impossible to follow suit. She found them revolting.
“Oh, God. I’m sorry! I simply can’t eat this,” she managed to apologize. “I know you think that’s silly, but I can’t!”
“Oh, now, don’t be such a drag, sweetie. They get these babies from Cape Cod, the best damn oysters on the Eastern Seaboard.” He was keeping his disapproval in check, she could see, sure that his persuasive charm would carry all before it. He leaned toward her intimately. “They are sex on the half shell.”
Yeah, for you, maybe, she thought. All she could manage was, “No, I can’t.”
“Then why did you let me order them? They’re not cheap, you know!” His irritation was showing, but then, catching himself, he switched tactics. “Come on. sweetheart, try one—just for me!”
Again, that smile. She was really sore at him now, and it was a relief. Angry at him and disgusted with herself. She really didn’t like this guy at all. Why was she here with him? “Why is it so all-fire important to you that I try one? If I do, I’ll gag, or even worse. Is that what you want?”
“No, I just want you to stop being such a provincial little kike!”
She didn’t plan to throw the beer in his face, she just did it. And probably he didn’t plan to slug her, but he did; and the bartender came over and elbowed him out of the way and asked if she was okay and sent a waitress for some ice for her cheek and a towel for her jerk of an escort.
Artie didn’t wait. “Find your own way back, you stupid bitch!” he hissed at her, slamming the door as he left. It was all over in a minute, it seemed.
The waitress took her to a little room off the kitchen where she could sit down with her ice pack and collect herself. She thought she might throw up, but her nausea passed, and then she thought she might simply drop dead of shame, but that didn’t happen either. After some minutes, she found her way out to the front again to see if there was such a thing as a taxi. There was a lull in the activity of the place, and she saw that it was after eleven. The dinner crowd had thinned out. The bartender greeted her with an iced Coke with a slice of lemon in it.
“Take this, you’ll feel better. And you ought to have something in your stomach. Do you want those ribs your date ordered for you?”
“God, no. I mean, no thank you. Do you think I can find a cab?”
“Not around here. I’m off duty in about a half hour. I’ll drive you back to the Alpine.”
“Really, I can’t let you do that.”
“Yes you can. You can’t walk there can you? And don’t worry. I don’t bite or use my fists, for that matter. Do you know Muriel? She’ll vouch for me.”
“She’s my roommate. How do you know her?”
“Oh, politics, same crowd in the city, and I’ve worked with her boyfriend. How about if I order some eggs for you? You need to eat something.”
“Okay, thanks.” He was being so nice, but what did she know? He could be a Jack the Ripper. Well, she’d have to risk it.
They were both quiet on the way to the hotel. The guy was tired, Bess could see that. As for herself, she felt like bawling, but she resolutely refused to do any such thing. She had disgraced herself enough, thank you. A few minutes from the Alpine, the bartender spoke, stifling a yawn.
“Feeling any better?”
“Yes, except for behaving like an idiot. First a whack with a flashlight and then a beer in the face. Oh, God!”
“You hit him with a flashlight?” He was alert now.
“No, that was another one. Oh, please don’t laugh!” She felt her voice trembling on the edge of tears.
“Sorry.”
He turned the car into a narrow dirt lane used only by the staff that led directly to her cabin (so he really did know Muriel!). He stopped only a few feet from the porch and went around the car to open her door and help her out. He slapped at a mosquito. “Watch out, these buggers are out in force tonight.”
“Tell me about them,” she said with her first genuine smile of the night.
“I’ll leave my headlights on until you’re safely inside so they don’t gang up on you in the cabin.”
At the door he turned her face toward him, and for one sweet second she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he ran his fingers over her bruised cheek.
“I don’t think you’ll have a shiner. It looks like he just grazed your cheekbone. Your boyfriend will never make a prize fighter.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, just an awful mistake. And one that will probably cost me my job.”
“Why?”
“Staff are not supposed to throw mugs of beer at guests—especially free-spending regulars.”
“You didn’t throw any mugs at him, just the beer.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously, you don’t think for one moment he’s going to tell Max about this, do you? He hit you because you humiliated him with that beer. A guy like that, he can’t face it. Also, he figured the night he planned was down the drain, and he was sore about it. It would be even more humiliating to tell anyone about how he didn’t score. Besides, even if he were dumb enough to complain, Max wouldn’t pay any attention. Under all that bluster, your boss is really an okay guy who came up the hard way—he used to be a coo
k—and he knows a grade A bastard when he sees one, if you’ll pardon my French.”
She smiled a little, even though her cheek throbbed. “I noticed that you put water in his drinks but you didn’t do that to anyone else.”
“You are very observant,” he said smiling. “I didn’t know you were paying any attention to what I was doing.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Well, you looked like a nice girl, and I know that guy can be an ugly drunk, though I’ve never seen him slug someone. On the other hand, I’ve never seen anyone throw a beer in his face. You must be a woman of strong convictions. I admit, I enjoyed seeing that, and I have to say I’m curious about why you did it. Maybe you’ll tell me about it sometime. But not tonight. Tonight you need to rest, and keep using a cold compress on your face, on and off, twenty minutes at a time. Here, I brought you some ice.”
Bess smiled and held out her hand. “Well, thanks so much for the ride. I really appreciate it, uh . . . I don’t even know your name.”
He didn’t shake her hand, but held it gently. “Vinny. Vincent Carmine Migliori on my driver’s license. And you?”
She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Bethesda Erlichman. Beth for short.”
“Well, Beth, I’ll call you tomorrow to see how you’re doing. Would that be okay?”
“Okay, sure, thanks,” she babbled. “Oh, and, by the way, some people at the hotel call me Bess,” she added a little lamely.
“Beth, Bess, whatever. Use that ice and then try to get some sleep.”
Bess and Frima Page 6