by Claryn Vaile
Rebecca documented each step of the installation with photos snapped from multiple angles over several hours. Lochlan offered to take a few views looking down from the skylight as he worked the winch in the center of the steel support grid beneath the stained glass. He cranked it up incrementally over the course of the full-day process. Guests often asked how the behemoth was put up, and the pictures would be worth the proverbial thousand words.
The chandelier was a joint venture of The Keep and the Denver Symphony Snow Ball committee. Since 1950, the Snow Ball had been the biggest annual event hosted by the hotel. Because it was traditionally held right before Christmas, the committee dictated the decorations and colors. They were not known for moderation, as the chandelier demonstrated. Its glitter alone weighed more than 500 pounds. Dripping with LED lights and suspended directly above the hotel’s 20-foot crystal Christmas tree next to the Griffin Fountain, it evoked a stalactite-stalagmite effect.
“It looks like a giant squid,” Rebecca declared to Lochlan.
“Some people say a spider,” he said, studying the completed contraption hoisted into its final position between the third- and fifth-floor levels of the atrium. “I imagine it as a sort of carnival ride.”
Every Keep associate had his or her own opinion of the holiday focal point.
“Absolutely beautiful.”
“Gaud-awful.”
“Something out of a fairytale.”
“Tacky as hell.”
“Magical!”
“An insult to the architecture.”
Revered or reviled, the chandelier dominated the heart of the hotel throughout the holidays. TITHE management loved the thing, and even temporarily removed the lobby papier mache griffins to maximize its impact.
“I still say it looks like it should be hovering over Devil’s Tower,” Mo declared the next time she visited Rebecca at The Keep, alluding to the alien Mother Ship in Close Encounters.
The holidays found the new management in over their heads. Because they knew nothing of Griffins Keep traditions and the hotel’s role in the larger Denver community, they were caught completely off guard by the huge demand for Thanksgiving dinners, holiday teas and holiday parties. Temporary staff on loan from other TITHE properties had no idea what they were doing. The “alien overlords” – so dubbed by the few remaining veteran Keep employees – had yet to realize that the Griffins Keep was unlike any other hotel.
The Snow Ball was a debacle. TITHE, with no concept of the privileged patrons’ expectations for the event, disappointed and dismayed the entitled elite at every turn. Insufficient staffing. AV equipment malfunctions. Mediocre food on chipped china. The society scions, who had always demanded perfection in every detail, discovered that under a TITHE regime, perfection was no longer anywbere to be found. Ball organizers and guests alike vowed never to return to the Griffins Keep and resolved to take their lucrative soiree elsewhere in future.
Management shrugged off the failure as if it were nothing. “We’ve got the Extreme Skateboarding Con coming next month,” Branson bragged. “Who needs Denver’s ‘old money’?”
Margaret and Molly the mediums met Rebecca in the lobby when they came for Holiday Tea the first Saturday in December. They were both stunning in fabulous hats, but Margaret was livid.
“We made these reservations last January,” she said, “And now we’re told they’ve run out of scones and tea sandwiches and are discontinuing service for the rest of the day – and it’s not even 2:30!”
Molly shook her head and added, “They offered us a beer and fish-and-chips in the Pirates Pub as a consolation. I ask you, do we look dressed for fish-and-chips?”
“It’s not so bad for us,” Margaret relented, surveying the disconcerted queue, “We’re flexible. But look at all these disappointed little girls in their fancy Christmas dresses. Look at the older ladies with their walkers and their wheelchairs, who’ve probably come here with family or friends every year for decades. We’re all just out of luck today.”
Rebecca was not about to defend the mismanagement, but she tried to make the ladies feel better. “Shutting down Tea early is a terrible shame. I’ve never heard of it happening before. Confidentially though, you might have been unimpressed if you had been served. All The Keep’s pastry chefs have been let go. The fresh-baked scones, pastries, cakes, and breads for which the hotel has always been renowned have been replaced by day-old goods from outside cut-rate vendors. We’ve gotten lots of complaints.”
The mediums looked at each other, then back at Rebecca. “No wonder the old spirits are so distraught,” Molly said.
“We sensed it right away when we came in,” Margaret explained. “Harrison Griffin, Edward Brookings, and countless spirits from the hotel’s uncompromising early years – employees and guests – are terribly upset by recent developments. I keep hearing the phrase ‘erosion of excellence.’’
“The spirits aren’t alone in their concern,” Rebecca told them sadly. “The special, thoughtful touches that have always defined the Griffins Keep as exceptional are disappearing at an alarming rate. And, not surprisingly, so are a great many longtime devoted patrons, sometimes angered and sometimes broken-hearted by the changes TITHE cuts had wrought.”
“The spiritual and the corporeal planes co-exist closely in this place,” Molly reminded her.”The distress you and your fellow employees are feeling is reflected in the hotel’s spiritual realm, and vice versa. This is very worrisome. A shortage of tea items only hints at the larger dilemmas soon to unfold.” She glanced up at the seventh-floor corner above the concierge desk, “The Keep’s essence is in very real jeopardy, and The Keep’s ghosts are preparing to push back.”
The Monday morning announcement from Mickey Branson was chillingly officious:
Please be informed that effective tomorrow, Surf’s Up Safety and Security Services will assume all of the hotel’s security functions.
By outsourcing our security efforts, we will be able to enhance guest and associate safety, accountability and emergency response through state-of-the-art technology from a trusted firm long associated with the TITHE family of companies.
The hotel is grateful for the service the current security team has provided to our community.
By the time Rebecca saw the email blast, the changeover was already a fete accompli. “Did you have any warning that this was coming?” she asked Amy when she encountered her in the coffee shop.
The engineering assistant shook her head. “None. The Security layoffs blindsided everybody.”
“So Salma’s gone? Chuck? Franklin?”
“Kevin was the only one kept on.”
“What about Max?”
“That was the worst,” Amy confided. “Max looked like they’d just unplugged his life support. He was actually crying when the new guys escorted him out. The Keep has been everything to him for 54 years – especially since his wife passed away. His job here is the only reason he has to get out of bed in the morning. It was so sad. I can’t imagine what he’ll do now.”
“You’d think they could find something for him to do here, just part time,” said the barista. “He’s like a living history of this place.”
“You’re right about that. Could I get his home contact info from you?” Rebecca asked Amy. “I could invite him to come visit me to share his Keep memories and stories. Do you think that might make him feel better? Knowing he’s leaving a sort of legacy?”
“I think it’s a really nice idea. I’ll email you his home number as soon as I get back to my desk. I just hope he’s going to be OK.”
Max Barnes sounded okay when he finally responded to Rebecca’s three voice messages five days later.
“Punk kids marched me outta there like some kinda criminal. Company’s got a helluva way of showing their great ‘appreciation’ to long-time loyal staff.” His tone, more bitter than sad, reassured the historian that Max was still full of vinegar.
“It was a rotten way to break the news to you,”
she said, “and I’m so sorry it was such a rude surprise. Like when they took over the archives. I think I understand, at least a little, how you must feel.”
“Yeah, maybe you’ll get it after you’ve been there 54 years.”
Rebecca hurried on. “Max, you know how we talked before about my doing a sort of oral history interview with you, so we could record all the things you remember for future Keep histories? I’m really hoping you’ll still consider that. Nobody else has all your personal knowledge about the old days at the hotel.”
After a pregnant pause, Max said, “Yeah, well, maybe I could do that, if you think what I have to say is worth anything.”
“Oh, absolutely!” Rebecca assured him, then couldn’t help but tease, “Of course, I’ll be using my bullshit detector on your more colorful recollections, as always.”
She could almost hear him smile on the other end of the phone. “All right. Sure. So when do you want me to come do this thing?”
The historian had already given the question some thought. It was bound to be awkward if he returned to The Keep too soon. “Let’s wait a few weeks and then talk again about a good time. Things are really hectic in the hotel right now with Chad Tagawa and all the TITHE big wigs hanging around and stressing everybody out.”
“Tagawa’s there, huh?”
“Through next Friday, I think.”
“Hmmph. Branson, too?”
“Of course. They always seem to be in meetings, cooking up something, along with Chad’s uncle and the other TITHE guys.”
“Next Friday,” Max repeated before falling silent for several moments.
“So I’ll call you again in a couple weeks,” Rebecca said. “We’ll figure out an interview date then. Thanks so much for agreeing to let me pick your brain. I’m sure you have a lot of valuable info and insider insights to share for posterity.”
“Yeah, OK. Whatever you say. Hey, promise you’ll guard our secret stash in the tunnel, no matter what.”
“Of course I promise. Max. Talk to you soon, and take care.” Rebecca hung up with the self-satisfaction that she had set something good in motion.
The huge man shambled into the busy Pirates Pub at 12:37 PM the following Friday. He plucked a napkin from a table and draped it over one crooked arm, old-fashioned waiter style, as he headed directly for the corner spot occupied by the hotel owner and the managing director. With a sweeping gesture of his other arm, he bowed grandly before them.
“Messrs. Tagawa and Branson,” he pronounced loudly and clearly. “Damn you, gentlemen. Damn you both to hell.”
All conversation ceased.
“Should I call Security?” the hostess whispered to a server, who simply shrugged.
“I was serving this hotel before either of you was born, and I will not be dismissed,” he declared calmly. “I’m gonna haunt you sonsabitches to the enda time.”
Before anyone could react, he withdrew the small revolver from inside his jacket and raised it to his temple. With a squeeze of the trigger, Max Barnes went down in Griffins Keep history.
Chapter 17
“I blame myself,” Rebecca confessed to Lochlan the morning after Max’s suicide. “If I hadn’t told him Tagawa and Branson were going to be here together, if I hadn’t made him feel like his story was over…”
“Don’t be absurd,” Lochlan said, gently but sternly. “You sound like the characters on a soap opera who all think their actions alone led to the Tragedy. It’s pointless to dwell on ‘what-ifs.’ Max is gone. The people truly culpable for his drama were those to whom he played his final scene. Safe to say it will be some time before either of those gentlemen dine in the Pub again, let alone get a good night’s sleep.”
They sat together outside on a capstone atop the Grand Avenue side of the hotel roof edge, trying to put the unspeakable incident in perspective. The December air was cold and the wind was raw. Lochlan had found a blanket that he wrapped around them both. Rebecca shivered still.
“All the news reported was that a former employee took his own life. Didn’t say he’d been fired from the job that meant everything to him. Didn’t say he cursed the Keep owner and manager with his last breath.”
“That’s why it’s so important for the hotel historian to record and preserve his story – the whole story – in The Keep’s secret sub-basement archives,” Lochlan said. “Someday, maybe decades from now, a hotel employee or a local researcher will come across the true tale of Max Barnes, his selfless efforts to preserve and protect artifacts of The Keep’s past, and his decision to make an unforgettable statement with his exit.’”
Rebecca nodded. “And then, at last, he may be able to rest in peace.”
Pinnacle Church, true to the Protestant work ethic, offered no fewer than six Christmas Eve services, spaced two hours apart, from 1:00 ‘til 11:00 on December 24. Rebecca opted for the first, crossing the street from The Keep right after lunch. Except for weddings and funerals, she had not attended a church service in more than thirty years.
A kind elderly gentleman in a red vest escorted her to a door on the north side of the church and, finding it still locked at 12:30, produced a key to let her in.
“Am I too early?” she asked.
“Oh, no. There are others already here. Welcome, and Merry Christmas to you.”
Not a member of this church, nor of any church in memory, Rebecca felt like an intruder, a stranger to those who greeted her at the sanctuary entrance with a program and a white candle, skirted by a paper drip-guard. Yet it was all so familiar, a ghost from numberless Christmases Past. She settled herself at the end of a center pew, about a dozen rows from the front.
Colossal organ pipes dominated the east wall before her. The familiar chords of Christmas carols conspired to evoke all the nostalgia and all the memories of Christmases growing up in the church. Something buried deep in her subconscious began to flicker. Something tender and hopeful, long suppressed, began to stir. Her eyes welled with tears. What subliminal message, implanted by her religious upbringing, now threatened her composure?
The organ swelled with ancient songs by which she was inexplicably overcome, weeping for no apparent reason. Seeing her red-rimmed eyes, the strangers around her would probably think she’d suffered some recent loss or crisis. The tragic death of Max Barnes was fresh, of course. But was she also crying for her own loss of faith?
Raised in a Christian fundamentalist family, Rebecca had left the church decades ago. After her divorce, she was mad at God for a very long time. Prayer had been futile. In pain and despair, she had turned to His house for refuge and comfort. Instead she found the loving forgiveness espoused by church people often masked judgmental censure, and the Lord Himself, it had seemed, was never home. She didn’t miss the mindless ritual and the thinly veiled hypocrisy of organized religion, she told herself. Why then, was this Christmas service bringing her to tears?
She dabbed at her eyes with a blouse cuff and tried to focus on the preacher stepping up to the pulpit. At that moment, the sun emerged from the clouds outside. Its rays shone through the south-facing little window near the vaulted ceiling, which Charles had pointed out on their tour the month before. Like a blessing from Heaven itself, the beam fell upon the face of the Madonna gracing the baptismal font.
The assembled worshippers seemed to catch their breath as one. Amy had been right. It was magical. Even miraculous, if one chose to interpret it as such.
Rebecca thought of the Freemasons whose knowledge of astronomy and geometry had enabled them to position the high window so perfectly. Their combination of science and belief in a Divine Power was something she could embrace. The Freemasons accepted both knowledge and mystery in a cosmic symbiosis. Rebecca gazed upon the statue’s sunlit features and found she could smile.
The woman further down along the pew rose to come nearer and tipped her lit candle to light the visitor’s. As Rebecca looked around the sanctuary at all the individual flickering lights and joined in the singing of “Silent N
ight,” a strange and surreal peace enveloped her. Rebecca Holcomb Bridger, prodigal daughter of the church, breathed in the wonder of a living, joyous spiritual galaxy that filled the sacred space – and her heart. In that moment, in that place, The Lord truly dwelled.
J. Bryce Bridger was dead. Rebecca’s mother phoned with the news on New Year’s Day. Her prelude had been ominous. “I’m afraid I have some very sad news,” she’d begun after pleasantries about how they’d spent their respective New Year’s eves. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, because it’s not a very pleasant way to start the year.”
Rebecca had been worried that the news would be something terrible about her mother’s health, or a bad turn of events for one of her siblings. The grim pronouncement of Bryce’s demise came as an unexpected relief. But her mother’s tone had been so earnest that Rebecca had dared not confess how little she cared about the development.
It came as a shock nonetheless. Rebecca hadn’t heard from or heard of her ex-husband in decades. He had been only a year older than she. What happened?
“Bernie said it was something about his heart,” her mother explained, referring to the local mortician who had been a family friend forever. “That’s all I know. His obituary is on page 13, section E of yesterday’s Gazette. It says there’s a memorial service for him the day after tomorrow at his late father’s church here in the Springs,” her mother concluded.
Torn, Rebecca stalled responding to her mother’s unspoken question. “I’ll have to think about whether I want to attend or not. It’s all pretty sudden.”