by Holly Weiss
“Saw that bathin’ suit ya bought. Ever goin’ in the water in it?” Bessie asked snidely. Dorothy avoided the confrontation by singing while she brushed her hair.
Gracie raised an eyebrow. “I resent you looting around in my drawer.” she said, thankful her spare money was secured in the hotel safe.
“Drawers. Ya took half the bottom one too, plus most of the closet with those fancy clothes of yers. Slammin’ Jack, Dorothy, yer drivin’ me crazy with that off-key singin’, and couldya take it easy with that perfume yer always sprayin’ all over. It makes me sick to my stomach.”
“You should go see the herbalist in the guest services room. I’m sure he has something good for nausea,” Dorothy said sweetly.
Bessie climbed up into her bed in a huff. “Ya know Mae was a much nicer roommate than you two,” she said to the ceiling.
The next morning, Dorothy and Gracie rolled their eyes when she whined about getting dizzy when she got down from her bunk.
****
What a quandary. Gracie was meeting one man for church, but couldn’t get the one she had spent last evening with out of her head.
PT seemed more at ease around her now. He had even come in when the waitresses were having their late supper to invite her to the staff lounge. When she arrived, he got up from the piano and ushered her over to a corner table for a private game of cards. Two years after she originally asked him, he told her under his breath why he had left home.
It must have been terrible for him to deal with an abusive father.
Eric offered to pick her up in his car this morning. How silly, she had said. After all, he would have to drive all the way over town from his house right next to the church. Besides, she enjoyed walking alone. Truth be told, she planned to get there long before the morning service to play undisturbed through some sheet music and the song PT had written for her.
“I see you’ve got your glad rags on,” Eric said when they stepped off the church steps, holding his arms out as if inviting her to dance.
“I sewed it in one day. Your mother helped. I call it my peach sack.” Gracie mentally smacked herself. Surely he would find her habit of naming her clothes childish.
“That’s great. I love it,” Eric hooted with delight, “but it hardly looks like a sack. May I escort you home?”
“Sure.” Gracie started to turn right past the Sweet Shoppe.
“Walking isn’t exactly what I have in mind.” Eric said, cupping his hand around her left elbow. He led her down to the Edgemere dock. Some people from church sat on little red bench seats in a huge green rowboat with a tan canvas roof tied on with rope. “Each week,” he explained, “a group from church makes reservations for Sunday dinner at a different hotel in town. This week we are going to the Crestmont and the boat is the easiest way to get to there.”
Gracie hung back, paralyzed by visions of the boat tipping, dresses swirling in the water and her going under unless someone pulled her to shore. When she came back to reality, Eric was apologizing that he would have to pass on dinner. They could still have fun on the boat on their way over the lake, but one of the bellhops got sick. He had to fill in.
Gracie didn’t mind. She couldn’t wait to start her new book before waitressing supper. Eric got in the boat, turned and extended his hand to her. Handing him her satchel of music, she grabbed his other hand and stepped in.
Two men in their sixties each grabbed an oar and rowed side by side. Their wives fussed over their grandchildren, trying to keep them in their seats. Eric guided her up to the bow of the boat so they would have a good view.
The morning sun reflected off the water onto the pine boughs that hung over the edge. The gleam crept up the branches like water flowing upstream and glistened on the needles. Gracie peered up at the imposing water tower, the highest point in town behind the Crestmont Inn. From this perspective, the big house looked like it was safeguarding the lake.
A mother duck protectively herded a trail of ducklings up onto the land when the boat approached. Little waves lapped against the shore. Eric pointed out a dark brown bird with a white head, beating his wings while clutching a chipmunk in his talons.
He stood and pointed. “Bald eagle with dinner for the family,” he grinned. “Do you know how the lake got its name?”
Gracie shook her head, gingerly standing up so she could hear him over the grandchildren’s chatter.
“The legend is that there is a Native American burial ground under the lake. It was defiled by an Indian chief from another tribe. While the tribe slept, the Great Spirit cried tears of forgiveness for the chief’s stupidity. The eagles cried with him. Supposedly all those tears created rain that filled the lake and washed away the evil that had been done. So they named the lake Eagles Tears, or Eagles Mere.” He shrugged. “Could be true. God works in mysterious ways.”
A large steamer with a life preserver painted next to the words “Hardly Able” overtook them, leaving large waves in its wake. The people on the steamer waved. The men stopped rowing, allowing the boat to roll with the waves. Gracie fearfully grabbed the ropes that secured the canvas on the top of the boat and sat down.
“The only powerboat allowed on the lake. It’s a ferry that drops people off from one hotel dock to another.”
“How do you know all this?” Gracie asked.
“I grew up here. I’ll bet you’ve never been down on the lake at six in the morning with the sun burning away the mist. Find a nice rock near the shore and do it, but go by yourself. You won’t ever forget it.”
The rowers secured the boat to the Crestmont dock. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asked after they were out of the boat.
She dropped her satchel and sheet music scattered on the back lawn. Laughing, they collected it. “How did you know I was afraid of the water?” she asked when they reached the back porch.
“Male intuition.” Over Eric’s shoulder Gracie saw PT turn on his heel to go inside.
****
Phyllis Rice from Bennington, Vermont, sat at table seven with her husband Wilmer and their daughters Edna, eight, and Louise, ten. Her ample bosom was stuffed into a lace covered blouse, draped with several long strings of pearls. Her blonde hair was tied with a matching lace ribbon and lay in a fat braid over one shoulder. Peering over her reading spectacles to scrutinize the dining room occupants, she quickly surmised that her family was the most educated at the Crestmont.
Gracie set glasses of ice water on the table and was told that ice gave little Louise a headache and that Mrs. Rice preferred lemon in her water.
Principal of the Bennington Price Secondary School, Mrs. Rice spent her after-school hours teaching her daughters elocution and monitoring their private music and ballet classes.
After substituting the waters to suit, Gracie said “May I take your orders? Our special tonight is pork cassoulet.”
Mrs. Rice removed her glasses and dangled them over the menu. “Is the cassoulet a French recipe?” she inquired, indicating that her daughters studied the language.
“I’m not certain, but I would be happy to ask the chef.” Mrs. Rice handed a fork back to Gracie tine side down, complaining that it was dirty. She ordered the broiled chicken for her daughters, the cassoulet for herself, and suggested the roast beef to her husband, Wilmer. Examining Gracie’s left hand, she asked her age.
“I’m twenty-three.”
“And unmarried,” Mrs. Rice whispered to her husband from behind her napkin, adding that Gracie didn’t appear to be the college type either.
“No, I’m not in college. I’ll put those orders right in for you.”
Edna, who had had tiny eyes and worry lines between her eyebrows, was reciting a poem to her mother when Gracie returned with their dinners. Mrs. Rice lectured her daughter on the importance of emphasizing key words and twisted her torso away stiffly when Gracie set her cassoulet at her place, warning her that the dish was hot.
“I know that poem. It’s Robert Frost.” Gracie said to little Edna,
who promptly sought a response from her mother. Gracie was told that Edna and Louise memorized Yeats and Tennyson and warned not to speak of things about which she had no knowledge. She returned to the kitchen for their side dishes, remembering what Dorothy had said about the people at her tables making her day brighter.
Carrying the tray expertly on two fingers and her thumb, Gracie set it down and placed buttered beets and potatoes au gratin on the table. When she served the asparagus tips, Mrs. Rice pulled on Gracie’s sleeve, indicating she would like to see the chef.
A hush came over the dining room when Isaiah entered. People watched as he strode calmly across to table seven and planted his big legs firmly next to Mrs. Rice. His black cheeks mottled in shades of purple and red as she spoke, waving her fork contemptuously back and forth over his cassoulet.
“I served you last night’s dinner, you say. Let’s see,” his voice rose as he held up the cassoulet dish on his fingertips. “We have here fresh sweet peas, Swiss chard, thyme and sage, all grown on Crestmont grounds. White beans, homemade sausage, new potatoes and morsels of savory pork in an aromatic sauce are all topped with a crust flakier than any other in Sullivan County.”
Dorothy intervened, steering him back toward the kitchen. “Tell Gracie to recommend the broiled salmon tomorrow night,” he muttered “It’s boring, but maybe it’ll be pure enough for her.”
Mrs. Rice accepted the roast beef Gracie offered as an appropriate substitute, sent the rice pudding back when dessert was served indicating that her daughters did not like cooked raisins, and left Gracie no tip for that evening.
****
The teenage staff was down on the tennis courts for a young adult tournament. Taking advantage of the quiet, empty Evergreen Lodge porch, Dorothy sat alone. She no longer felt it necessary to keep track of the girls in the dorm because the new housemother was very effective. Free to concentrate on the dining room, she made an effort to keep one eye on Gracie because it seemed she had some difficult people at her tables. She stood when she saw Mae walking down the drive.
“Oh, my word, I’m so happy you’ve come for a visit.” Dorothy gave her a big hug. “You look happy. How do you feel?”
“I am well. I just started my fourth month so I’m not queasy every morning now.” They talked about the challenges of being an expectant mother. The conversation slipped into subdued comments about Mrs. Woods. “She works so hard making sure things are done properly that she has no energy left to enjoy the guests,” Dorothy said.
Mae listened, but seemed to be elsewhere.
“Tell me all about being married, Mae. How do you like living at the Self Help Lodge?”
“It’s good. We have two rooms on the second floor. They’re really nice people, and at least we don’t have to live with Zeke’s brothers.” A lone tear streaked down her cheek.
“What is it, Mae?” Dorothy leaned forward and took her hands in her own.
“It’s Zeke.”
“I see Zeke every day. He seems happy and he talks about you all the time. I know he loves you.”
“No, we’re fine. It’s his brothers. He comes home from working with them and the horses and he’s exhausted. And he has bruises.”
“Bruises? The horses kick him?”
“That’s what he tells everybody if his clothes don’t hide them, but it’s just a cover. His brothers are mean. He’s the youngest and the smallest and they beat him up for not working hard enough. You know him, Dorothy. He works harder than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Gracie came out of the laundry, carrying clean uniforms on hangers, and broke into a trot as soon as she saw Mae.
“Oh, honestly, we miss you.” She leaned against the railing, wanting to get caught up. Mae and Dorothy were so quiet; she realized she had interrupted something.
Finally, Dorothy broke the silence. “Well, that Mrs. Rice certainly holds herself in high esteem.”
“Thanks for getting Isaiah out of there, Dorothy,” Gracie said. “I was sure he was going to blow his top.”
“Please tell me all about it.” Mae urged. “I miss the excitement of waiting tables.”
Gracie babbled on about Mrs. Rice, Isaiah, and how she didn’t get a tip last night.
“You should tell Mrs. Woods. That’s not right,” said Mae.
“Atta girl, Mae. Look who’s telling her to be assertive,” encouraged Dorothy.
Mae let Gracie feel her bulging abdomen. “Married life seems to agree with you. Twenty years old, married, and a baby on the way. I’m twenty-three and I still haven’t decided what to do with my life.”
“Oh my word, Gracie, you’ll figure it out. I was thirty-seven before I passed the teacher’s exam. Lawrence was a career man in the army, you know. I followed him around for eighteen years before he was shipped overseas. After he died I had to find a way to make a living.”
Mae asked how rooming with Bessie was going. She was still a spitfire, they said, but more sullen and cranky.
“You and Zeke should come to the ice cream slurp. You need a diversion from being down in town every evening. It’s very entertaining,” Dorothy said. “This week Isaiah told the whole staff the Mrs. Rice story. He went on and on about his cassoulet, how he sang over it and everything.”
“Does Bessie come? The only way I got along with her last summer was to stay away from her.”
“Bessie stays clear of most of us,” Dorothy said.
Dorothy wagged a finger at Gracie. “You haven’t been at the slurp for two weeks. What’s going on?”
“It’s a little uncomfortable with both PT and Eric there.”
“Oh?” Mae and Dorothy asked wide-eyed. “Who’s winning?”
“There’s no winning. PT and I are friends, that’s all.”
“Well, what about Eric?”
“He invited me for dinner with his parents. I think I should go.”
“You have such a bad case of the ‘shoulds’ Gracie. I know you’re attracted to him. And you love his parents. Go, if you want to. You don’t have to marry him. Have some fun, for Pete’s sake, and get off this hill for a while.”
****
“Ya hoard all this stuff and we ain’t even got room for our uniforms,” Bessie hissed and stormed out, slamming the door.
Her revenge was to be as messy as possible. Gracie was tempted to take all of Bessie’s clothes and pile them on her top bunk, but she warned herself not to do it. The dirty clothes Bessie hadn’t thrown in the bottom of the closet were strewn under Dorothy’s bed. Her nightgown, half stuffed under her mattress during the day, usually hung down over Gracie’s bunk. Her pillow often fell down and lay on the floor between the beds all day, with dirty intimates sticking out of the pillowcase. After washing the rayon stockings she was so proud of she hung them over the chair at the door, leaving them long after they were dry.
Gracie chided herself for taking over most of the storage. She should have known people would take offense. Even Dorothy was mad last week when she had brought an Operaradio back from home and there was no place to put it because Gracie’s sheet music was scattered all over the table. Their room was small and it would only be right for her to make more space for the others. But her stuff made her life feel more complete.
Well, then, it was time to do some creative magic. She snapped on the radio for inspiration. The harmony of a barbershop quartet filled the room.
The closet was a dual purpose affair, with a hanging bar about two feet wide filled with their uniforms and dresses, and three deep shelves on the right. She had taken over the bottom shelf when she moved in, leaving Dorothy and Bessie to share the middle one. The top one was too high for anyone to reach without a chair.
She wailed “Hard Hearted Hannah” with the vocalist on the radio and removed all of her things from the bottom shelf, temporarily storing them on her bunk. She dragged the chair over, carefully lifted The Ponselle, and wiped the top shelf clean. Making several trips, she stacked her records up th
ere and topped her sheet music with her hat in front of The Ponselle. To show good faith, she’d let Bessie know the bottom shelf was hers if she wanted it. Maybe that would cheer her up.
Removing her pile of books from the table near the door, she put some of them in the red suitcase along with her St. Louis heels, and piled the books she was reading under her bunk. She sweated from the effort. She shut off the radio when she moved it to the shelf under the table because the Irving Berlin tune being broadcast bored her. Now someone could actually play cards on the tabletop.
Time to start on the dresser. Bessie would feel like the cat’s pajamas if given the top drawer, so Gracie switched her things to the bottom. A hymn she loved played itself over and over through her mind:
Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth,
how can I keep from singing?
Singing it aloud lifted her out of the drudgery of rearranging the room. Stacking up garters on her arm like bracelets, she suddenly remembered Rosa Ponselle talking about raising people above their everyday struggles. She set down the garters and pulled out the letter the singer had written when she left. She reread Rosa’s words: “You will touch people the most when you sing what is meaningful to you.”
She stopped fussing about the room and lay down to rest on her bunk. Hopefully, Bessie and Dorothy would appreciate her efforts. Even with the window and the transom open, the lace curtains barely riffled with the faint breeze. As she dozed, Gracie dreamed of Mrs. Cunningham stacking her afghan strips, begging her to stay in Eagles Mere.
That was it.
The reason she never could fulfill her pipe dream of singing on the road was because something greater than herself stopped her. God never intended for her to sing popular songs on the road, but hymns. Right here. She fell asleep, realizing she was home.
****