“Dr. Bronstein, can you hold please. I have Mr. Lawrence on the line.”
“It’s about time,” he said, immediately regretting his tone. He was standing in the corridor near the emergency room of the Community General Hospital. Some interns and nurses were carrying on a conversation at the nurses’ station and the emergency room doctor stood by a patient strapped down to a rolling bed. Bronstein looked behind himself instinctively. No one appeared to be paying him the slightest attention. Even so, he huddled closer to the phone.
“Doc? Sorry it took so long for me to return your call. It’s been a bitch of a day.”
“For all of us.” Bronstein gazed up at the IBM wall clock and noted he was an hour late for dinner. “Look, Jonathan, I can’t talk to you from here. We’ve got a major problem. Can you meet me at my office in fifteen minutes?”
“It’s going to be hard. You won’t believe what’s going on up here. I’ve got a million things to do before the weekend. Can you come over to the hotel instead?”
“Impossible,” the doctor said. “My office, fifteen minutes.” He hung up abruptly and started down the hall.
The general manager was waiting in front of the doctor’s office when he arrived a quarter of an hour later. “I only have a short time so you better make it fast,” he said. “It’s like a madhouse up there, trying to get everything ready for tomorrow’s mass incursion.”
Jonathan stood a good inch and a half shorter than the M.D. but his stiff appearance made him seem almost taller and stronger. The wind wouldn’t dare muss a hair of his prematurely gray trim. The knot in his tie was always just right, the crease in his pants too perfect. He never removed his jacket, indoors or out. It was rumored he ironed his shorts.
He was a muscular well-proportioned man with hard sharp features that all too well reflected his abrupt personality. In dealing with people he maintained an arrogant coolness that usually annoyed subordinates and increasingly bothered guests, especially the old-timers used to the warm familylike atmosphere the Goldens had established at the Congress over the past fifty years. It was difficult to pry personal facts from him, not that many were tempted to try. His tight-lipped businesslike approach was ascribed by some as a side effect of a proper New England upbringing. Others considered his snobbishness downright anti-Semitic, an irony not lost on his colleagues at one of the Catskills’ largest “Borscht Belt” hotels.
“Are you aware that your personnel director sent a man named Tony Wong down here an hour ago and I’ve had to have him hospitalized?” Bronstein walked into his office and offered Jonathan a seat.
“Tony who?”
“Wong. One of your custodial people. He works in the kitchen.”
“Is that what you brought me down here to …”
Sid had wanted to build up to it dramatically, to explain his theory step by step, but it was obvious the general manager was in no mood to mince words.
“I’m almost certain Wong has cholera,” he blurted out. For a moment he felt relieved. He wouldn’t have to carry the burden alone. He looked expectantly at the manager, hoping for a reaction that indicated he might be as horrified as the doctor.
Jonathan sat like a sphinx. It was as if he had just heard that a file clerk had stubbed her toe. “You’re crazy,” he said evenly. “Cholera went out with the Middle Ages … or at least it doesn’t happen here. It’s not an American disease.”
“That doesn’t mean it can’t be brought in,” Bronstein explained. “You know as well as I that a lot of summer transients hired for menial labor come from employment agencies in Chinatown that send up illegal aliens. Usually they’ve been smuggled in from the Far East on cargo ships where the living conditions are anything but sanitary. Any one of them can be a carrier. We really have no time to waste.”
“What makes you so sure that’s what it is?”
“I’m almost positive that what I saw under the dark field microscope were cholera vibrios. I’ve seen them before when I was stationed in the Philippines. He also has all the superficial symptoms, intense diarrhea, dehydration, vomiting, pain and thirst.”
“Go on.”
“What complicates the matter in Tony’s case is that sunken eyes, wrinkled skin and certain other facial characteristics symptomatic of the disease are also common among elderly Asiatics. It’s possible, but doubtful, he just might have severe food poisoning or bacillary dysentery. I can’t make a positive diagnosis without a specific antiserum.”
“What’s that?”
“A drop of serum from a rabbit that has been immunized specifically against cholera. If he were in better shape, I’d rush him to a New York hospital by ambulance, but as things stand now, I’m afraid to risk it. And it’ll be a couple of days at least before I can get the necessary diagnostic material delivered.”
“I presume you didn’t discuss this with anyone at the hospital.”
“No. I had him admitted with a preliminary diagnosis of intestinal infection. I didn’t see any point in creating a turmoil until something was actually confirmed.”
“Which it may never be.”
“Which I hope it will never be,” Sid said. “But it’s vital you understand the significance of what I’m saying. Cholera is dangerous. It kills. And because of this there are certain precautions that should be taken. If it’s what Tony really has, an epidemic could break out at any time and God only knows how many people could be affected.”
Jonathan calmly took out his pipe and scooped some tobacco from his leather pouch. “You’re dealing in ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes.’ I’m trained to deal in facts, the bottom line. Why don’t we wait until we have a definite diagnosis?”
“I’m not sure we can afford to be so casual. By rights, I should have already reported my suspicions to the health authorities, but because I’m the hotel physician I thought I’d give you the courtesy of—”
Jonathan interrupted him angrily “Let me tell you how I see it, Bronstein. We’re booked solid, capacity, the first time this year. You know how many weeks we had less than two hundred people in that place. I don’t have to describe the ugly financial situation the Congress is in. You’re not an outsider.” His face reddened as he became more excited.
“A rumor about something like cholera could not only destroy our season, but possibly our entire future. Can you imagine anyone wanting to come up to the Congress if they heard that someone on the staff came down with a deadly communicable disease … even if it wasn’t true?”
“It might not be a rumor.”
“And it might not be a fact.” He shook his head. “Listen,” he continued, “you admit it could be something else. There is that possibility.”
“Yes,” Sid said, “I think it’s remote, but there is that possibility.”
“Then let’s take it one step at a time. There’s no point in going to the authorities until you know for sure. There’re two things you’ve got to remember. First, if you told them you thought one of our janitors had cholera and you were wrong, you’d be the laughing stock of the profession up here. Second, forget about the Congress for a moment. Look at the bigger picture. If word of a public health investigation got out before it was really necessary, you’d devastate the reputation of the whole resort area for years to come. Do you realize that just about every person living in Sullivan County, including yourself, is in some way dependent on the hotel industry? Organized labor, other employees, the suppliers, supportive services, the professions, banks, the construction industry? Look at the mortgage note your father-in-law holds on the Congress. What do you think would happen to his investment if the place went under?” Jonathan paused to let his words sink in. At the same time a picture of Sylvia’s angry face flashed through the doctor’s mind. “It was as if you were putting a gun to these people’s heads and pulling the trigger.”
“Look, Jonathan, I understand what you’re saying and I’m trying not to go off half-cocked. I just want to do what’s right for all of us.” He stood and walked across to the windo
w. How ideal, he remembered thinking in medical school, to be able to work in a vacuum. And how impossible, he realized, once he had set up practice and started a family. There were always political, economic and personal situations to consider. He turned back to the general manager.
“As a physician, I’ve got to be sure that this thing hasn’t spread. If we can determine that even if it is cholera it’s an isolated case …”
“If it wasn’t, someone else would have come down with it by now, wouldn’t they?”
“Not necessarily. There’s an incubation period. Tony was sick for four days. That gives us two or more to be concerned with.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “I have a suggestion. Let me call my cousin, Bruce Solomon. He’s a researcher at Mt. Sinai and he’s had experience with tropical and exotic diseases. I’ll see if I can get him to come up for a couple of days until we get a definitive diagnosis. He can trace Tony’s steps, do a little detective work, find out who he’s been in touch with and who else, if God forbid I’m right, might be a carrier. We’ll fix it up so no one on your staff will have to know.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jonathan agreed.
“But if he finds any evidence of—”
“One step at a time doc, okay? Incidentally,” he said, refilling his pipe, “you didn’t call Ellen Golden about this, did you?”
Bronstein stared at him for a moment without speaking. “No,” he said softly. “No. I didn’t have the heart. With Phil’s recent death and her having to kick off the summer season without him, she’s under so much pressure I didn’t want to add to it. But you’re right. She’s going to have to know.”
“I’ll take care of it as soon as I get back. You’ve got enough to worry about.”
“Make sure she understands exactly what we’re doing and why. No matter what the final decision is, we both know the ultimate responsibility is on her head, so it’s important. And if she wants to call me,” he continued quietly, “tell her … anytime.”
Jonathan caught the sad look on Bronstein’s face. “Still blaming yourself, huh, doc?”
“Not blaming, exactly. I just keep wondering if there was something I should have caught. Phil had a complete physical here the month before. I’d hate to think I might have overlooked …” He shook his head. “Just proves how important it is not to take things for granted.”
“We’re not taking anything for granted, Sid. We’re just not getting hysterical when there may not be a reason.” He took the pipe from his mouth and tapped the ashes out in the bowl as he stood up. “I’ll stay in touch.” Almost on cue, the phone rang.
“We’re up to dessert, Sidney. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Believe me, Sylvia, I just got back to the office. I was up at the hospital. There was this janitor from the Congress—”
“A janitor? she shrieked. “A lousy janitor? Couldn’t you have gotten Julius to take the case for you? He appreciates any nibble you send his way.”
“It wasn’t quite that simple.”
“With you nothing is simple. Anyway, are you coming over here or not?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said, wishing somehow that everything could be different.
He remembered the look on Tony Wong’s face and went back to his private desk to look up his cousin’s New York number, frightened in the deepest recesses of his soul that he had only postponed, not eliminated, disaster.
two
It was a glorious Friday morning, one that made Magda, the forty-seven-year-old Hungarian beauty who served as hostess for the Congress, thank God she was alive to enjoy it. If she were superstitious, she might have considered it an omen, that such a dazzling day could only be a forecast of a magnificent weekend and season to come.
Taking the scenic route from her cottage to the old farmhouse a half mile away, she walked past the first tee of the newly designed golf course, so expertly manicured and nurtured that it looked like something created artificially in the hotel’s stagecraft basement. Surely the technicians came out at night while the guests slept and rearranged those little divots and sand traps. She chuckled at the thought and took in a few deep breaths of the crisp fresh country air, made even sweeter by the hundreds of colorful dahlias, marigolds, daisies and peonies that dotted the flagstone pathway. She marveled at the beauty of the monarch and tiger-tailed butterflies that fluttered above and smiled as she passed the sign Sandi had put up near one of the gardens when she was eight years old. “Please do not pick us. We bloom for your pleasure. Thank you. The flowers.” Even though it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, the sun felt as if it was at full strength and she welcomed the shade the tall oaks and elms provided as she continued on her way.
Arriving at the farmhouse a few minutes later, she tapped lightly on the outer screen door. “Good morning. Anybody up?” Ellen Golden leaned out of the window directly above. The two-story residence still bore the same wooden shingles and black shutters Pop Golden had hammered on forty years ago.
“I thought we were going to meet in the coffee shop.”
“It was such a nice day, I thought I’d get some fresh air before the crowd arrives. I offer myself as your personal escort,” Magda said, bowing with a flourish from the waist.
The farmhouse was characteristic of so many of the old buildings constructed in the Catskills at the turn of the century—two-level, multi-roomed wooden structures with numerous architectural after-thoughts added on as the original farmers started to take in boarders. This one still had the cast iron grillwork that took hours to clean properly.
Ellen opened the screen door and pushed back a few strands of her light brunette hair. Even though it was outdated by over a decade, she still wore it in the same pageboy style Lauren Bacall had popularized in the forties. Phil had liked it that way. “You’ve got her sexy voice and the body that goes with it. Bogart is one celebrity I’ll make sure we don’t invite up here.” Right now, even though she was only thirty-eight years old, she sure as hell didn’t feel sexy. She looked wistfully back into the house.
“Maybe I should wake Sandi and say good-bye before I leave.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. She’ll know where you are. Besides, she was up pretty late last night. I saw her in the Flamingo Room close to midnight last night ogling Bobby Grant.”
“I’m afraid I’m leaving her alone more than I should.”
“She probably loves it,” Magda said, taking her friend by the arm. “When I was her age, I loved to feel independent. So did you.”
“Girls her age need guidance, especially when they’ve just lost their father.”
“I’ll keep an eye on her for the next couple of days.”
Ellen nodded and then closed the door silently behind them. They started slowly down the stairs, each wooden step reacting with a familiar squeak.
For Ellen, stepping off that porch was like descending into another world. A city block ahead of her stood the grand main building, towering and impressive in its architectural simplicity, baked in a reddish pink stucco that reminded travelers of Marrakech at sunset. In contrast, ribbons of iron fire escapes criss-crossed the sides, black dull metal that seemed reluctantly slapped on to satisfy various safety codes.
It was a tall building, seventeen floors high, one of the largest in the rural Catskill world where even a twelve-story skyscraper looked gigantic. The view from the penthouse was breathtaking. On a clear evening, one could easily see sixty miles around. One guest even swore he saw the Empire State Building from his terrace, a claim Ellen and Phil laughingly chalked up to a full moon and the effects of an equally full bottle of Scotch.
There, to the left, were the half dozen clay tennis courts, already in use by the early risers. The quick snap of a serve, the sound of the ball slapping across the court, the squeak of sneakers turning and twisting, all of it was audible as the two women made their way from the farmhouse.
As they continued on the central pathway to the main building, watching the grounds keepers and gardeners
already at work mowing and scything the lawns and hedges, Ellen nudged Magda and pointed to the clusters of small cottages on their right. They were primarily private bungalows, each with its own patch of grass and flowers, mostly sought after by honeymooners and illicit lovers.
It was strange to have to admit, but after nearly fifteen years, the hotel, all 650 rolling acres of it, still had the power to hypnotize her. Phil used to say it was the world’s most demanding mistress. It had a presence and personality of its own; it often took more than it gave but in the long run was worth it and it would probably still be there long after they were gone. Today, unfortunately, as she looked around at the land she loved so dearly, Ellen wasn’t quite as sure.
Despite the fact that they were one of the Catskills’ few year-round resorts, they were still heavily dependent on a strong summer season. The ten weeks between July 4th and Labor Day were crucial because winter facilities notwithstanding, there were still weeks during the spring and fall when they were lucky to break even. On top of that, in the midst of her untimely transition into power, she was confronted by the phenomenon of a changing vacation world; a world, in 1958, of jet airplanes, prepackaged tours, and the lure of Miami and the Caribbean. And then there was Jonathan.
“I dread going in there with Jonathan and the accountants next week,” she said, as they continued across the lawn. “Phil mentioned a few months back that we could be headed for serious trouble, but he was always too busy to get into specifics. I just hope I’ll be able to understand what they’re talking about.”
“You’ll learn,” Magda reassured her. “You may not know all the answers but then again,” she asked with a shrug of her shoulders, “who does? All you have to remember is that you’ve had fifteen years of live-in experience and in many areas, probably have a better idea of how things should run than they do.”
Weekend Page 2