Weekend

by Tania Grossinger

  Nick wasn’t sure what the status of the quarantine was now that the fire had broken out, but he didn’t plan to stick around to find out. His plan was to get off the ancillary road to the main highway, hitch a ride to the nearest bus depot and go on to New York. Hell, if he had to, he’d hire a cab to get him back to the city. What did he care as long as he got there? Later on he’d send someone back for his car. There was no point in looking for it in that massive parking lot now. Besides, the keys had been left at the main desk, and they probably were burned into molten metal by now.

  He tried to walk even faster but a sudden pain shot up from his abdomen. It was so sharp it took his breath away. He stopped, held his hands on his stomach and took some deep breaths. It made him feel better, but not much. He began walking again, but slower this time. The taste of the liquor took on an acid quality. He began to spit it up. Every once in a while, he turned back to be sure no one had noticed him. The traffic cop still had his back to him. The only problem now was going to be getting past the patrol car up ahead.

  Why did it look so much further away than it had just a few moments before? He shook his head and wiped his eyes hard with the bottom of his palms. Damn, the booze was beginning to make him feel nauseous. Why the hell had he had to have that drink?

  The pain started again, this time growing more intense. He had to stop and waited for the rush to pass. It didn’t. In fact, it seemed worse. His stomach contracted. Even his kidneys ached. He had to bend over just to catch his breath. This was ridiculous. He would be spotted in a second carrying on like this. He looked to the side where there was a cluster of bushes and decided to rest there for a moment.

  In the distance, the sound of sirens signaled the approach of still more fire equipment. Two ambulances zoomed by. A fire chief’s patrol car, shrieking and blaring, flew past. Nick squatted by the bushes, leaning further into the darkness as the vehicles and their headlights went past him. He spit up again and again. The ugly, rancid taste remained in his mouth. His stomach felt as though it were coming apart. He pressed his fingers against it, finding slight relief with the pressure and then suddenly there was an uncontrollable evacuation of heavy warm stool water. It trickled down the side of his legs, soaking through his pants and leaking into his shoes. He couldn’t believe what was happening and then began to scream as what felt like a corkscrew began to rip up the inside of his intestines. He fell over, semi-conscious.

  A few minutes later his head started to clear and the realization came over him. Then the panic. CHOLERA! Fucking, fucking son of a bitch! He had the fucking cholera! How the hell could it be happening to him? Why weren’t there any signals before? Why now? He recalled some of the things Dr. Bronstein had said at the meeting earlier in the afternoon. The fact that there was an incubation period. That was one of the reasons people were quarantined in the first place. So they could be helped if they got sick. Help. That’s what he had to do. He had to get some help.

  He waited for the flow of the bowel liquid to stop but it just seemed to go on endlessly. He might die, he realized, he could die right here and now. All those ambulances rushing by. They could save him. They’d have to! If only he could flag one down!

  He struggled with great difficulty to get to his feet. The pain fought him all the way. His stomach was pushing everything up now and the spitting turned into foul smelling vomit.

  There was the sound of another siren. Thank God, he thought. It was coming down the main highway, around the corner and toward the hotel. In a matter of seconds it would be close enough so he could get it to stop. He’d get them to turn around. Once they saw his condition they’d forget about all the people in the fire and concentrate on getting him to the hospital. They had to. His life was at stake.

  He took a few steps forward, each one bringing on more and more agony, more and more nausea. It was all he could do to keep his head up. The headlights appeared a quarter of a mile away. The siren got louder. His plan was to get out in the middle of the road and wave his hands till they saw him and stopped, but the pain became so intense, that he doubled up again. The vehicle was getting closer and closer. If he was ever going to do it, he had to do it now. Now was the time to move.

  Using the little strength he had left, he emerged slowly from the bushes. He forced his legs to carry him out into the center of the road but when he looked up, it wasn’t an ambulance after all. It was another huge red fire truck, charging directly toward him. He tried to move back but he couldn’t. Christ, he thought and raised his hands in a vain effort to push it away.

  It came as a complete surprise to the excited driver. He and the two firemen beside him had devoted most of their attention to the great blaze in the distance. It hadn’t occurred to them that someone might be staggering out on the road. The sight of Nick Martin falling into their path was unreal. There wasn’t even time for a reflexive turn of the wheel.

  The truck smacked his body with such force it splintered his skeleton; joints separated on impact. His spine and neck snapped and his arms waved and twisted as if they belonged to someone else. The crash sent him sprawling more than a hundred feet. His skull splattered and crunched as it bounced over the road. Blood poured out of every orifice, even from behind his bulging eyes. Contorted, his body finally settled in the bushes as the fire truck came to a halt more than a hundred feet beyond.

  In the good book, it was called retribution.

  epilogue

  The nurse kept the door open behind her.

  “You can go in now,” she said, smiling more warmly than usual.

  “Thank you,” Bruce said. He walked past her and into Fern’s room.

  The bed had been tilted up, and although she still had an IV attached to her arm, she had regained some of her color. Because she knew Bruce was coming, she had even put on some makeup and fixed up her hair.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  He took her free hand and bent down to kiss her on the cheek. She squeezed his fingers tightly.

  “On the road to recovery.” He reached back and pulled the chair closer to the bed.

  “That’s what they tell me. But I still feel so weak.”

  “You’ll bounce out of here before you know it.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Fern’s lower lip began to quiver.

  “Hey … c’mon.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Charlotte,” she said. He nodded. “Her mother called me this morning and wanted me to tell her everything we had done every minute up to the point of my getting sick. It was eerie.”

  “It must be very difficult for her, losing a daughter in the prime of her life. It sort of makes you realize how tentative life really is … how you have to take advantage of all the good things it has to offer and live every minute to the fullest.” He bent down and kissed her once again.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’ll probably hang around a few days more. There’s a lot of paperwork to be done and I promised Ellen Golden and Sid I’d help out wherever I could. Besides, I thought I’d wait until you were ready to be discharged. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  “I’m going to have to feel a lot better than this.”

  “You will.”

  “I didn’t even get the chance to show off my new hairdo.”

  “Sure you did. The people in the emergency room were talking about it all night!”

  She laughed. The sound of it brought them both a sense of renewal. Her eyes regained their light. He took her hand again and they remained there like that for an hour, talking with increased energy, rushing to know each other. Words became increasingly inadequate. More could be said with a smile, with a movement of the eyes. They were impatient. Their need to be drawn together had grown not only from a shared tragic experience, but because they both believed that in their union there indeed existed a true beginning.

  They believed in the words “Once upon a time. …”

  They gathe
red in solemn union on the lawn in front of the old farmhouse. Most of them had been with the hotel for years, but even some of the more recent staff people were present. Behind them, the rubble still smoked. Two volunteer fire truck companies had stationed some men and equipment nearby to wet down the charred remains and keep the sparks from setting fire to the grass.

  Some of the staff members sat on the lawn; some stood by talking quietly in small groups. When the screen door opened and Magda, Sandi and Ellen emerged, everyone stood up and turned in their direction. Ellen stood at the top of the wooden stairs. Magda put her arm around Sandi’s shoulder and they moved to her right. The group was very quiet. In the distance car horns beeped. The Sunday morning sky was spotted here and there with cottonlike cumulus clouds. There was only a slight breeze, but some strands of Ellen’s hair lifted and caressed her cheek.

  “Thank you so much for coming here,” she said. “I know most of you have had little sleep.” She paused. Everyone’s eyes were still on her. It seemed as though she was trying to smile. “I’ve been sitting inside for the past hour looking over papers, gazing at some albums. This place has a very rich history, as all of you know.” She looked over at the old-timers. “Some of you even know more about that than I. At any rate, the Congress had always been something special, even when it consisted of only this farmhouse.”

  She took a deep breath. No one made a sound; not an expression was changed. All waited on her every syllable.

  “I’ve been told so many stories about the way many of you acted; your heroism, your unselfish efforts to reduce the loss of life and the amount of injury. Many people owe their lives to you.

  “We have all lost some very dear and beloved friends,” she went on. Some people looked down and others nodded slightly. Sandi thought about Grant Kaplan and the fact that he had never been found. And about Mr. Halloran. If he hadn’t pulled her away from the office, if she hadn’t led him down through the Teen Room … Tears started streaming down her cheeks. Magda sensed her thoughts and tightened her embrace.

  “Nothing we do now can ever compensate for that loss and our thoughts and sympathies go out to the families.

  “I know many of you are wondering what will happen now. We have given it great thought. It would be easy to walk away at this point and I’d be less than honest if I didn’t tell you the temptation was great. But my daughter and I have come to a conclusion.” She turned and reached out for Sandi. They clasped hands and Ellen pulled her to her side. “The Congress was my husband’s life, and it was the dream of his parents.” She straightened up. “It is our intention to rebuild this place from the bottom up, to use the insurance money to create what will become the New Congress, an innovative modern resort that we hope to make the showcase of the Catskills. It will combine all of the best of the past with the best the future has to offer.”

  She was interrupted by an outburst of applause.

  “Most important, I want every one of you to know there will always be a place for you here if and when you want it. The New Congress may be ultra modern in facilities and design, but above all, it will still value the old-fashioned concepts of loyalty, personal attention and service and staff whom we look to as fulltime partners. You have been and will always continue to be a loved and valued part of our family.” She steadied herself. “We will keep you posted as we progress, so until we meet again, God bless you all. Stay well.”

  She kissed Sandi and there was a great cheer. Then the group broke up, heading away from the farmhouse. Ellen, Magda and Sandi stood watching silently for a moment. Then Ellen and Magda turned to go inside.

  “I’ll be in in a minute,” Sandi said.

  They left her alone with her thoughts. She pressed the side of her face against the porch column. She remembered standing out here like this many times before, crying over one little thing or another. How long ago it all seemed!

  Thank God the farmhouse didn’t burn, she thought. Thank God we can start over again. Suddenly, as if in a revelation, it all became clear to her.

  The hotel was as important to her as it had been to her grandmother and grandfather, her father and her mother.

  The resort and all that it represented was in her blood, too. In this union between her and all that her family had built rested what was truly essential and important. It was part of her heritage. She was part of its tradition. The insight made her feel like a different person. She suddenly understood what responsibility was all about.

  It was as though her father had reached back across time and spoken to her.

  She heard his words unmistakably.

  She would cherish and carry them with her forever.

  Copyright © 1980 by Tania Grossinger and Andrew Neiderman

  All rights reserved. For information write:

  St. Martin’s Press, Inc. 175 Fifth Ave., New York, N.Y. 10010

  Manufactured in the United States of America

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  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Grossinger, Tania and Andrew Neiderman Weekend.

  I. Neiderman, Andrew. II. Title.

  PZ4.G8779We [PS3557.R663] 813′.54 79-26808

  eISBN: 978-1-4668-7703-0