Weekend

by Tania Grossinger

  “What’s up?”

  “You can’t go in.”

  “Whaddya mean I can’t go in? I have a repair order for a couple of pay phones in the coffee shop,” he said, shaking some papers at him.

  “Not today.” The tall highway patrolman had a stern, military demeanor and the repairman wondered what he was doing there.

  “What ’dya mean, not today?”

  “The hotel grounds have been closed off. Those are our orders.”

  “You’re kiddin’?” He looked at the other policeman but he offered no encouragement. “Jesus,” he said, “they sure as hell ain’t gonna believe this back at the office.”

  He slammed his shift into reverse and backed the truck out. The policemen watched him go in silence. A few moments later, a light blue Chevy four-door turned into the entrance and came to a stop. There were two nurses in the front seat and three others in the back. The driver flashed some identification to the officer.

  “Looks like you have your work cut out for you,” he said.

  “That’s what they tell us” the nurse who was driving said. They drove on into the grounds, winding slowly down the driveway toward the main house.

  “The place seems quiet enough now,” one of the patrolmen said.

  “I guess the people don’t know about it yet.”

  “When they find out, all hell’s gonna break loose.”

  “You better believe it. The sheriff’s department’s supposed to send more cars as backup in case we run into trouble.”

  “Helluva thing, turning a resort into a prison.”

  “Hey,” the hotel security man said stepping out of his booth. “What happens to me?”

  “Happens?”

  “I’m off duty in about twenty minutes. Do I just leave?”

  “Hell, no,” the taller patrolman said. “You turn your ass around and go right back into the hotel. You had lunch in there today.”

  “So what? I got a home in town to go to.”

  “Maybe so, but until you get authorization, you have to stay inside the grounds just like everybody else. Sorry.”

  The security guard stared at them for a moment and then slammed his clipboard down on the small table inside the booth. He sat on his chair and sulked.

  In the distance they could hear the siren of yet another ambulance. It had a sobering effect. Even the birds in the woods across the way seemed to have retreated deeper into the shadows.

  Ellen’s office resembled the Pentagon war room. Two large portable blackboards borrowed from the hotel’s day camp were wheeled in and set up on the left. On one, a basic outline of the hotel complex had been drawn with all the exits and entrances circled in red. This was the guide to setting up barriers so that no unauthorized persons would be able to enter or exit without being checked. Rafferty, the security chief, was going over it inch by inch, marking off breaks in the fence and crossing out the areas with x’s where forest rather than fencing bordered the grounds. Sheriff Balbera stood to one side and studied the map. He had come to the hotel directly from a speaking engagement at the Concord where a contingent of law enforcement agents had gathered for the weekend. He was a tall, hard-looking man with a lean ruddy face and strong jaw, a man one would imagine more at home in a checkered shirt and jeans sitting on top of a horse somewhere than stuffed into the business suit he had on.

  “Once the guests get the full story, we’ll have to expect a few of them might take to those woods there,” he said, pointing to one of the Xed out areas.

  “With luggage?”

  “People in a panic will do anything,” he said. He spoke with the quiet authority that automatically begets respect. Rafferty nodded. “We’ll need some men in that area patroling.”

  “I’ve got my hands full with the main building already and I’m understaffed at that,” the hotel chief muttered.

  “Lieutenant Fielding from the Ferndale State Police barracks should be here any minute. We’ll see if we can borrow some manpower from him.” He turned and looked at Bruce Solomon, who was seated to the right of Ellen’s desk. Bruce was taking notes as the sheriff spoke. Sid Bronstein, already exhausted and haggard, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat, his tie loosened and hair disheveled, sat behind the desk talking to his office. He was telling his receptionist to cancel all appointments and post a notice stating there would be no office hours for the rest of the weekend.

  Gerson Kaplow, the local public health officer, sat on the couch seemingly detached from the events taking place around him. In fact, he was anything but. It was an open secret that medicine was not his primary interest and that the Wall Street Journal was infinitely more important to him than any issue of the Journal of the American Medical Association. Kaplow was a speculator in real estate, having sunk most of his income into syndicates that bought up Catskill acreage for resale to hotel and motel chains and land and housing developers. With the possibility of gambling coming to the area, he considered it a good risk and in the last few years his medical practice had dwindled in almost direct proportion to his business activity.

  He was the laughing stock of the medical community and more than once they had tried to get him ousted as public health officer. “He’s so damn stupid that if we ever had a real emergency it would turn into a tragedy, simply because he was in control.” “C’mon, fellows,” the county supervisor countered, “when’s the last time we had a real health emergency up here? Besides, he’s politically connected and there’s no way I can oust him from the board.” So he stayed.

  When Bronstein had called him to the office earlier, he tried desperately to extricate himself from the involvement. First, he knew that for him it was going to mean economic suicide. Second, he wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to do in a situation like this. Cholera? He hadn’t even thought of the word for the past thirty years. Fortunately, the story had already broken at the hospital and arrangements for special facilities made. Also, the public health nurses had been contacted and the sheriff’s office informed. Ellen, in a quick, deliberate action, had contacted the police herself. She had an instinctive understanding that law and order would be serious considerations in the hours and days to follow.

  There was no point in trying to fake it. The situation was too serious. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “First you have to contact the state authorities.” Sid found it hard to hide the contempt in his voice. “Then you formally have to place the hotel in quarantine.”

  Quarantine. The word stuck in his throat. The word he had buried in his mind. The word he didn’t want to hear. Sweat started to pour from his face. All his investments, his entire economic future, going to hell with one brisk directive.

  “You’ve got to do it,” Bronstein repeated. “You’ve got the authority.”

  Authority, shit, Gerson thought. I’ve got nothing.

  So now he sat half an hour later still in Ellen Golden’s office, a man watching events over which he had no control, caught in a violent downstream there was no way to fight. All he could do was be carried along like everybody else.

  “I don’t consider it the source of the problem,” Bruce said, looking up from his papers, “but just to be sure, you are running a thorough analysis of the water, aren’t you?”

  “Samples are being taken from every major outlet,” Kaplow said, almost by rote.

  “Good. Jonathan Lawrence, the general manager, was supposed to have sent some out for analysis, but the way he’s screwed up everything else…”

  “When’s Ellen going to announce all this?” Sheriff Balbera asked as Sid hung up the phone.

  “She’s in the process of gathering the executive staff together right now. When she’s finished with them, she’ll start working on the guests.”

  “What about the food for dinner?”

  “It’s all been ordered fresh,” Bruce said, “and to be on the safe side we’re getting it from different sources.”

  “Are you so sure the people who died picked it up from the f
ood?” Kaplow asked. He realized he knew nothing about cholera at all.

  “We’re not sure about anything at this point, but we’ve got to get at the bottom of this somehow. All we know right now is that in the first instance the janitor was in his room all the time, and yet guests who had no association with him have come down with it, too.

  “What about those people Jonathan sent into the city?” Bronstein asked.

  “I talked to Halloran,” Rafferty volunteered. “Jonathan mentioned the Hotel Coolidge to him and I was able to locate the two Puerto Rican dishwashers. They’ve been sent to a New York hospital for tests.”

  “And Margret Thomas?”

  “She never checked into the hotel. The guys don’t know a thing about her.”

  “It’s damn important that we find her,” Bruce said, looking at the sheriff. “She cleaned up the Chinese guy’s room and maybe …”

  “We’ll contact the New York police immediately.”

  Bruce nodded. There was a short moment of silence. Then he got up and walked over to the blank blackboard.

  “What I want to start doing,” he said, picking up a piece of chalk, “is see if I can determine any coincidence, no matter how farfetched, tying the people we know to have been contaminated together.” He wrote Wong’s name on the board and then added Oberman and Bluestone.

  “Those two children from the day camp either have mild cases,” Bronstein said, “or nothing at all. It’s not unusual for me to see kids with nervous stomachs on holiday weekends. Usually comes from too much excitement. Right now they’re resting comfortably in their rooms so I’m going to give them a little more time. No point in scaring the hell out of their parents.”

  “Sandi said the little girl’s name is Myers. And the boy is …”

  “Feigen. I think his parents are friends of Ellen.”

  Bruce added their names and put a question mark next to each. Kaplow shook his head. The sheriff bit down on his lower lip and stared at the names as if straining to see beyond them. Just then the public health nurses arrived. The sight of them encouraged them all. Allies had joined in the fight. They wore everyday clothing but carried their uniforms in small bags, having been asked to arrive incognito in order not to alarm anyone. Lillian Sokofsky, a short, blonde woman in her early forties was recognized as the titular head of the group. She had a sympathetic, motherly face, the kind any patient could trust, but the moment the door closed behind her she was all business.

  “Okay, let’s have it,” she said. “Tell us where to start and when.”

  Sid and Bruce looked at each other and breathed a collective sigh of relief. These no-nonsense medical Wacs were just what the doctor ordered.

  Ellen Golden sat at her bedroom vanity table in the old farmhouse and looked out the window. From that particular perspective she had a panoramic view of the outdoor tennis courts and the last two cottages. All of the courts were in use and a number of guests were waiting nearby, watching the action, anxious to get their turn. On the far court the tennis pro was demonstrating the correct way to hold a racket. He had the attention of a half dozen people. For a moment it appeared totally ridiculous to her. For anyone to be worrying about such nonsense in light of the situation exploding all around seemed almost insane. On the other hand, she reminded herself, there was no way they could know. The explosions that had already occurred were silent and only slightly noted.

  She had come back to the farmhouse to think. It wasn’t that she was running away from responsibilities and decisions—there was hardly the time for such luxury—but she needed to surround herself with things familiar, to have some privacy, to cry if need be, to finger mementoes and look at Phil’s picture in hopes it would give her the courage she needed to go back and take charge.

  It was at the farmhouse that she had made the major decisions of her married life and it was here that Phil and she had done their most intimate and significant talking. The house itself was an anachronism. Surrounded by the most modern of resort facilities, the turn-of-the-century structure looked like the home of a reluctant old-world tenant who refused to give in to progress. Guests who came to the Congress for the first time found it an object of curiosity. When told it was the private home of the Goldens they became even more curious. Why would a family who owned such a big resort have such a dilapidated old house? Surely they didn’t really live in it. They must maintain a penthouse apartment at the top of the main building.

  Turning around in her swivel chair, Ellen couldn’t help wondering what Phil would be doing if he were in her place. Beyond a question, his first concern would be the safety of the guests and staff. He had a certain resiliency about material things. “They can all be replaced.” And as far as money was concerned he was convinced that what the hotel lost one year, it would regain the next. In this instance it was likely he’d have been proven wrong, but …

  The irony that everything the Goldens had created and everything her husband had worked for and probably died for was on the brink of collapse due to events beyond anyone’s control was not lost on her. All along, from the moment she had had to take the symbolic reins, the one thing she was most afraid of was that she, herself, would do something that would bring the hotel to ruin. That was why she began with a soft voice and a gentle hand, why she leaned on her staff so much, and why she maintained her dependence on Jonathan despite her instinctive dislike for the man. And now … her grandmother would probably have called it beshert. Fate. The only word Ellen could think of was sad.

  The one emotion curiously missing from her reaction was self-pity. Pity for the people who were sick, definitely. Pity for those whose financial future might be at stake, of course. Pity for those who had given so much of themselves to the Congress only to see it all possibly fall apart, yes. But for herself, no. She was comparatively young, healthy, please God, and no matter what, she and Sandi would make a life for themselves. Of that she was sure. But she wasn’t yet ready to give up on the Congress.

  She thought of the men who were waiting for her in her office, probably expecting her to crumple, withdraw, fall apart. She was determined not to let it happen. Yes, she would be afraid, and in the privacy of her bedroom she might even cry, but this was her hotel, hers and Sandi’s, and she would be in on every damn decision that affected it and the people in it. She would be visible everywhere as much as possible. She’d even sleep in the damn lobby if she had to. She was a Golden too and no one was ever going to accuse her of being a coward.

  She was just getting ready to leave when the phone rang. It was Magda.

  “You wanted me to come to the farmhouse?”

  “No,” she said quickly. Originally it had been her intention to ask Magda to come over so they could commiserate together. Magda would pat her on the hand and they would both be dramatically distraught. She had looked forward to the comfort and consolation of that mutual mourning but now there was no time, or need, for such indulgence.

  “What is it?”

  “We have a serious problem. I’d appreciate if you could be in my office in ten minutes.”

  “Billy Marcus told me he saw Sheriff Balbera here. Does he have something to do with it?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you soon,” she said and hung up.

  She went over to check her face in the mirror, brushed some loose strands back over her ear, wiped away a smudge on her cheek, and started to leave.

  She opened the door the exact minute Sandi opened hers.

  “Do I have to stay here?”

  “Yes. At least until we straighten things out.”

  “But you’re going over there.”

  “I’m not exactly excited about the idea, but you know I’ve got to go.”

  “I should be there, too. That’s what daddy would have wanted.”

  “That’s the last thing in the world he’d have wanted, and you know it.” She shook her head. “It’ll be better for both of us if you stay. You’ll have to have dinner here, too.”

  “Oh, mom.”


  “Don’t you understand? I’m not trying to punish you. But they think it may have something to do with the food.”

  “But I heard Mr. Solomon say he was ordering all new food for the dining room.”

  “Even so, there’s no sense in taking any chances. It’s going to be bedlam over there anyway. You’d only get in the way.”

  Sandi slammed the door and Ellen hesitated outside. She was about to ask if she wanted Alison or maybe her new friend Grant sent over but thought better of it. If possible, she didn’t want her near any of the guests. At least until it was safe. By that time, she thought, unfortunately, there probably won’t be any guests hanging around. She tapped lightly on the door.

  “If you want,” she said softly, “call Mike’s Taxi in Ferndale later and have him pick up some Chinese food for you. He can leave it at the gate and I’ll ask one of the guards to bring it over.”

  “I don’t want Chinese food.”

  “Sandi, please, don’t add to my problems. I’m only doing this for your own good.” She picked up her alligator bag and started down the stairs. “I’ll call you in an hour and let you know what’s happening. Whatever you do,” she yelled over her shoulder, “don’t go out and don’t invite anyone from the hotel over here.”

  “Yeah,” Sandi grumbled.

  Ellen decided not to say anything else. There wasn’t time anyway. Instead she hurried out of the house and rushed back to her office.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  “Shit,” Bruce said. He had just realized he was twenty minutes late for his date with Fern. No one in the office had any idea what he was referring to and chalked it up to the frustration they were all feeling. He looked about self-consciously but everyone had gone back to what they were doing. I better call and make some excuse, he thought, but I won’t tell her the real reason until later. He made a mental note to catch up with her before Ellen met with the guests, then picked up the phone and asked the operator to ring her room. When no one answered after a dozen rings, he assumed she had gotten tired of waiting and left.

  In fact, she had gotten such an intense attack of stomach cramps it was all she could do to get her entire body onto her bed. She had been lying like this for nearly fifteen minutes, clutching her abdomen in agony and praying for the pain to subside. It didn’t—and each time she tried to straighten up or stand it intensified. It felt like a workman’s pneumatic drill riveting from within, the tip of it ripping and cutting at the insides of her body. Waves of nausea swept over her and her face grew alternately flushed and dry. Her eyes seemed to want to roll back into her head and whenever she opened them, the room started to spin.