“I think it’s kind of fabulous,” Michael said, and shimmied to the background music.
“We are here because the Golden Hotel is a very special place,” Brian said. “And if it’s going to be turned into something else entirely, we should know what that thing is.”
“Apparently it’s a place for emphysema patients.” Roger pointed at the row of oxygen tanks attached to wheelchairs. “And considering how musty it is in here, I’m not sure this is the best place for them.”
“Nobody cares about your medical opinion,” Aimee said, and everyone jumped. Aimee wasn’t a gratuitously mean person. Quite the opposite, really. So if she was treating Roger this way, he must have done something pretty awful. An affair. It was the most obvious explanation for the chill between them. Peter couldn’t imagine anyone cheating on Aimee Goldman. If he had ever had the chance to be with her, his fidelity would have been that of a sworn knight.
“Well, what do we think?” Amos asked, looking around in a daze. The flashing lights from a nearby slot machine were reflecting off his bald head. Peter tried to put himself in his father’s shoes. Amos and Benny had built the hotel from the ground up; there wasn’t a nail or a piece of plywood they couldn’t tell you a story about. This wasn’t like Peter’s work at all. He dealt in paper. He served clients whose faces he sometimes didn’t see in person. He didn’t create anything. So he couldn’t really understand what it was like to watch something you’d poured blood, sweat, and tears into (“BST,” he and Brian would call it, because they needed a shorthand for how often they’d heard Amos say the phrase) go up in smoke.
An air of desperation hung in the casino. Lonely people sitting at slots, loading coins in the machines and pulling the levers on autopilot. There was no natural light, but an abundance of neon. It could have been 10 a.m. or midnight. Peter supposed that was the point. There was something inherently unsettling about a place that made more money the more its clients lost.
“I think it’s not really a place where family memories will be made,” Greta said. She was holding her handbag tightly to her chest, as if some in-over-his-head gambler would snatch it. Her observation was indisputable. It wasn’t like a multigenerational family would come to the casino for vacation and then later reminisce . . . Remember when Uncle Jack lost ten grand at the poker table? or Remember when Grandma Sally fell asleep at the slot machines?
Greta fanned her nose for the dozenth time. The smell of the recirculated air really was unpleasant. “But I guess that guy looks happy,” she said, pointing to a man with tattoo sleeves doing a silly touchdown dance.
“He’s just drunk, Mom,” Phoebe said. “I saw him pounding shots like two minutes ago. Speaking of, alcohol, anyone?”
“Yes, please,” Zach said, and Michael moved to follow them. He was still underage, and Peter and Greta exchanged a quick glance but subliminally decided to let the bartender sort that one out.
“The one thing I do like about this place is that more people have motorized scooters than don’t,” Fanny said. “I usually feel so small. Now you guys just look giant.” There was a very large percentage of the elderly and wheelchair-bound at the casino, undoubtedly due to the coach buses they’d seen upon arrival depositing nursing home residents.
“That just feels wrong,” Zach had said when they’d seen the white hairs getting unloaded. “Can we make sure Diamond Enterprises doesn’t do that kind of thing?”
“Afraid not,” Peter had said. He had firsthand experience with these kinds of transactions. He specialized in private equity deals and had been down this road before. Business owners would sell and then have to watch their precious enterprise entirely rebuilt or sold off for parts. “It just doesn’t work that way, kid.”
“Fanny, care to scoot off with me to the blackjack table?” Amos asked. “I’ve set a two-hundred-dollar limit on myself, and I could use you for luck. Lord knows I can barely see the cards with my eyes.”
“I was twenty-one when we got married,” she said, squeezing Amos’s arm. “That’s got to be a good sign.”
They set off together, and Peter took notice of how his father kept expert pace with the wheelchair. They were so naturally in sync. He studied Greta with gratitude. He owed this woman so much. If the measure of a woman was the children she’d raised, his wife was outstanding. She was looking better and better each day as she healed from whatever battery of procedures she’d subjected herself to. The purple bruises were fading to yellow, and she’d shed at least half of her bandages. Peter reached now for her hand.
“Roulette? Play with me?”
The surprise that registered on Greta’s face when he asked for her company told him everything he needed to know about the magnitude of his neglect. He marveled at her shocked expression—the pinched forehead, the quizzical purse of her lips. It was a miraculous thing, considering how much Botox she’d had. He didn’t know exactly how often Greta went, only that charges from Dr. Nussbaum appeared regularly on their credit card.
“I would love that,” she said.
“How are you feeling about the hotel sale now that we’re back here?” she asked him when they were alone, having left Brian, Aimee, and Roger in an awkward isosceles triangle, Roger positioned so far from Aimee that it looked like he was part of another group.
“Conflicted. I love the place, but we’re hemorrhaging cash. It’s hard to justify staying in business without any hopes of turning things around.”
“Apparently Phoebe and Zach came up with a whole list of ways to make the place hip. Some of them are pretty out there.”
“I heard. Whatever happens, it’s nice that we’re all here together. You, me, the kids.” She leaned into him, and the weight of her head on his shoulder compounded the warm and fuzzy déjà vu he’d been experiencing in spades since being back in the Catskills.
For the next hour, he and Greta moved from roulette wheels to craps tables to slots, and then back for more roulette. They were down about three hundred bucks, but Peter couldn’t remember feeling so up.
“You guys good?” Brian asked, approaching with a beer in his hand. He looked slightly more relaxed than he had when the day had started, but not by much. “I think we should pack it in soon. I have the call with Howard, and I want to take it back at the hotel. We got a sense of this place. Depressing, cheesy, but not gonna kill anybody. Agreed? At least they make the smokers stand outside.”
“Agreed,” Peter said. “Hey, listen, do you want me in on the call? No pressure either way.” The last thing he wanted was to make his brother feel that he doubted his competence. Brian was just fragile in that way. Peter only wanted to be of use. Sure, he was a Johnny-come-lately, but he had valuable business skills to offer. And whatever decision was ultimately reached, somebody was going to be unhappy. Why should Brian shoulder all that on his own?
Brian seemed to consider his offer for a beat too long, but said, “Sure. That would be great.”
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Weingold boys, together again.”
They spun around to find Horace Fielding, owner of the general store in Windsor, holding a bucket of chips.
“Hi, Horace,” they responded in unison. Was Brian also thinking about their brief fixation with shoplifting in the summer between sixth and seventh grades? Horace had caught them, but instead of ratting them out to their parents, he’d made them scrub his toilets and floors until they gleamed.
“Peter, I can’t remember seeing you in these parts in ages,” Horace said. “I guess the rumors of a sale are true.”
Peter felt heat rising to his cheeks. He was embarrassed to be called out for his abandonment of the hotel. He perceived the accusation as though he’d left his offspring in a bassinet on the steps of a firehouse.
“It’s good to be back,” he said simply. “How are things at the store?”
Horace scratched at his white beard.
“
Oh, you know, folks sure do seem to like Amazon. But we’re surviving for now. Hey, it’s amazing what people are doing for the Golden. That must feel real good.”
“What do you mean?” Brian asked.
The scratchy reverberation of a loudspeaker announcement cut the conversation short.
“Attention, all Resort’s World guests. For the next thirty minutes we are lowering the table limits on all poker tables to five dollars. Good luck!” The announcement sent gamblers off on a mad dash from all directions.
“Gotta go!” Horace said, rushing to join the others.
www.GOFUNDME.org
For: The Golden Hotel in Windsor, New York
Organized by: The 5B (Bring Back the Borscht Belt, Baby!)
Goal: $1,000,000
Raised So Far: $95,618
Update #1: Friends—The beloved Golden Hotel in Windsor, New York is struggling to survive. For those of you who have stayed at this magical resort, or have had friends or family stay there, you know how special this place is. It is believed that the hotel owners might need to sell the property to a casino operator. It would be a crime for a place so steeped in tradition, where families have bonded and romances have bloomed and children have been raised, to turn into a gambling establishment.
Catskills lovers—Who doesn’t remember the joy of the blouse man arriving with his goods on Tuesdays? Who doesn’t fondly recall bingo nights, trivia competitions, canoe races, the Gold Rush, the Labor Day bonfire, the Friday evening challah, the comedy shows, and the sing-alongs? Close your eyes and picture the Weingolds and Goldmans waving to the cars on the first day of the season. Smell the mountain air and picture yourself canoeing on Lake Winetka.
Long live the Catskills! Long live the Golden Hotel!
Thank you for your support.
Fondly,
The 5B (Bring Back the Borscht Belt, Baby)
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brian
Howard, Howard. Listen to me. I can assure you that my family and the Goldmans had nothing to do with that GoFundMe campaign. I just learned about it myself a half hour ago.”
Brian hit the mute button and looked at Peter. “He’s pissed. And I don’t blame him.” He unmuted and transferred the call to speakerphone.
“Are you serious sellers, or what? I can’t be having this nostalgia crap creeping into our negotiations, Brian. Don’t waste my time.”
“Howard, hi, this is Peter Weingold. I’m Brian’s brother. I can assure you we have nothing to do with the GoFundMe page. I’m a partner at Minter and Logan in New York City. I’m sure you’re familiar. I’ve just come up to campus to lend my brother a hand because we are very seriously considering your offer. I understand we have until Friday close of business to respond?”
“Well, yes. That is correct. I have shareholders breathing down my neck, and I can’t stand for any funny business. Our fiscal year is about to close. It seems your father and his partner ran more of a handshake business. Y’all know what I mean, figures scrawled on the backs of napkins. Not the way we run things at my shop. Whatever funny business went down over there—and I can assure you there was funny business—our offer stands.”
“Understood, Howard. You will hear from us by Friday. You have my word,” Brian said. He hung up the phone and looked at his brother. Now there were two of them in on this nasty business.
“What was he talking about? Funny business?” Peter was looking at him wide-eyed.
“I was going to tell you,” Brian said. It was the easiest thing to say in the moment, though he hadn’t actually decided what he planned to do with the information. The baby news had eclipsed everything else.
“I’m listening,” Peter said. He was anxiously twirling a Golden Hotel pen between his fingers while his knee bounced up and down. Was this what his brother was like at his law firm, nervous and twitchy? Brian doubted it. Peter wouldn’t have climbed so high up the corporate food chain if he was this on edge. It was something particular about being with family that made everyone a baseline level of anxious.
“Benny was cheating Dad. He was taking out loans against the property without Dad’s knowledge. Who knows what else?”
“Jesus. Are you going to tell Dad?”
“No. Definitely not. It would break him. Do you see how weepy he gets every time he passes that portrait of him and Benny on the stairs?”
“You’re right. And it’s not really fair to assassinate the character of a man who’s not here to defend himself. Louise, Aimee—they would be crushed, too,” Peter said. “But still, it’s awful. What a betrayal. I feel sick.” He dropped the pen, and it rolled across the desk into Brian’s lap and hit the floor. It was hard not to see everything as a sign. A crooked picture in the lobby, a hair in the food, a clogged toilet: They were all signs pointing in the same direction. Sell, sell, sell . . .
“Agreed. But this stays between us,” Brian said. “When I talked to Howard earlier, he said he might pull the offer depending on what he found. We got lucky.”
Peter rolled up his chair closer to the desk. The physical proximity to him made Brian realize how much he’d missed his twin. Spending holidays together and calling on birthdays didn’t pass muster for a real relationship. Not with the person with whom you’d shared a womb, the person who for the first eighteen years of your life you couldn’t go anywhere without and not have people ask, “Where’s your other half?” When Peter cradled his chin in his hands, Brian studied his brother’s grays and receding hairline. Corporate life did that, apparently. Your hair either lost its melanin or fell out—in his brother’s case, both.
“Is that why you looked spooked earlier? I thought you were going to faint at the casino,” Peter asked.
If only that were it, Brian thought. He took a sip of the bitter coffee on his desk, now cold. If they did implement some of his niece’s suggestions, a coffee bar that served decent java would be chief among them. Even the Catskills fundamentalists would approve of a move away from Sanka and Lipton.
“You can tell me,” Peter said. “It’s not exactly like my life is perfect. My wife’s plastic surgery bills rival Kim Kardashian’s. Michael gave Mom a mini heart attack.”
Brian felt not a shred of schadenfreude at his brother’s family tension. He took a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly through his mouth, buying time. Telling Peter about his night with Aimee would be cruel. Decades had passed since his brother’s crush was at its peak, now they were both married with five children between them, but Peter still wistfully studied Aimee’s sketches hanging around the hotel.
“Brian, it’s okay,” Peter said. “Let it out.”
The baby. That’s what really mattered.
“Angela’s pregnant. My girlfriend. You met her during the shiva for Benny. She works at the hotel. I know, I know, don’t shit where you eat.”
Peter laughed before his face sank back into something more appropriate for Brian’s revelation.
“Trust me, if you worked at my firm, you’d see very few people observe that rule. Is this good news? Phoebe and Michael think the world of you. You’re a terrific uncle, and Greta’s always said it was a shame you weren’t a father.”
“I am excited. I’m also petrified. And in shock. And feeling like if one more big thing happens in my life, I’m going into hibernation. I just don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
“There is literally no way to prepare for parenthood,” Peter said. “You can read all the books and make a schedule and love that little person more than you ever thought possible, but being a parent will still gut you. Your kid will say they hate you, they’ll projectile vomit in your face. They’ll have friends you don’t like, or they won’t have enough friends and you’ll worry. You’ll never be sure if you should push them harder or whether you need to back off. You won’t know whether to follow your instincts or do what everyone else is
doing. You will never be fully relaxed again. All that is to say, I know you’re going to be an incredible father.”
Brian felt a dopey grin spread across his face. He remembered that many moons ago he’d been the only one who could get Phoebe to burp when she took her bottle. The baby nurse, Greta, Peter, they would try all different maneuvers. A little bounce. A gentle rub. A walk. Nothing worked. Finally they would hand over the baby to Brian, and instantly, she’d release the air bubble that everyone had been waiting for. He’d never told anyone his secret—a subtle, barely perceptible shake of his hips. Everyone thought you needed to move the baby up and down, but it was really a side-to-side motion that did the trick. He hadn’t thought about the feel of his niece and nephew’s baby skin for ages, the way they’d fit into the palm of his hand when they were infants. When they were born, the sting of Melinda’s betrayal had still been fresh. Brian had pretty much sworn off love—and definitely marriage—for good. He’d resigned himself to the role of fun uncle, which in many ways suited him better than father. Brian was the type to give whoopee cushions as birthday gifts and to serve cupcakes for breakfast. He wasn’t a rule follower himself and didn’t imagine he’d particularly shine at making them for other people. But now, more than twenty years after resigning himself to the forever-uncle role, Brian was finding the idea of fatherhood exciting.
Yes, fatherhood. He could get behind that.
But what shape his family would take was the great unknown. He liked Angela very much. She was easygoing in so many respects. Choosing a movie, picking a restaurant—the decisions that could devolve into World War III with other women—were seamless with her. But were agreeability and compatibility in bed enough of a reason to get married? Assuming that was what Angela even wanted. He had a sudden, comical image of Angela’s father, Vinny, a man Brian had known since childhood, taking him out back by the garbage dumps with a shotgun and demanding he marry his daughter—except, because he was a waiter, in Brian’s vision, Vinny wielded a baguette.
Last Summer at the Golden Hotel Page 21