A Hitch at the Fairmont Page 3

  “A coconut cream,” he said. His shoulders sagged a little. When she sent him to Blum’s, Jack bought her the variety boxes that didn’t contain them. Aunt Edith detested coconut creams, so naturally that’s the chocolate she chose for him. But when Muffin flowed down her arm and drooled all over the chocolate, it was unfit for anyone.

  “No, thanks,” Jack said. He pressed his hands to his stomach. He didn’t want to give Aunt Edith the satisfaction of hearing it growl.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. She dropped the coconut cream onto the pile of chocolates in the designated crystal bowl on her nightstand. When she had a taste for a specific flavor, Aunt Edith would bite into chocolate after chocolate, spitting them out if they weren’t what she wanted. Now the bowl was nearly full with yesterday’s rejects, covered in spit and pink lipstick that matched Aunt Edith’s nails.

  “You’ll need to clean that out soon,” she said. It was Jack’s job to empty it, along with any other cleaning in his aunt’s bedroom. She wouldn’t let the hotel maids in. “They’ll steal from me,” she said.

  The coconut cream disposed of, Aunt Edith wiped her fingers on the elegant white napkin she had tucked beneath her chins. But the napkin came away clean. Chocolate never melted in Aunt Edith’s hands. Whether it was bad circulation or a lack of human warmth, Jack wasn’t sure.

  “You know, boy, an orphan like you should be more grateful for the things he is offered. Right now you could be in an orphanage, eating gruel and stale bread. The matrons would thump you awake in the morning and thrash you to sleep at night. And if you lived long enough, they’d sell you to a steamer ship. You’d be swabbing decks all the way to Shanghai. An orphanage is no place for an orphan. Believe me—I used to run one.”

  She popped two more chocolates into her mouth. “And if any nice couples came looking for a child to adopt, no one would want you. Not after they found out what your mother did. Insanity runs in the family.”

  Jack’s head shot up, and his fierce gaze met Aunt Edith’s. “My mother wasn’t insane.”

  “She purposely drove off a cliff, didn’t she?”

  “No!” said Jack. “Yes . . . I . . . I don’t know.”

  Aunt Edith pointed a sharp pink fingernail in his direction. “Does a sane person drive off a cliff just because she’s a failure?”

  “She wasn’t a failure,” Jack said. “She was a great actress!”

  “Ha! What role did she ever have?”

  “She was Lady Macbeth last year.”

  “For that Bard in the Basement group?” Aunt Edith laughed. “Pfah!”

  “And her agent said he had just landed her a big gig,” Jack said. “Hollywood big!”

  “Then she was crazy to leave, wasn’t she?”

  “Look, she wasn’t—”

  “Enough!” Aunt Edith said. “Just because your mother asked that I be your guardian doesn’t mean I have to do it, do I?” Muffin groomed the fur between his back toes but kept his eyes on Jack.

  “No,” Jack said. He unclenched his fists. He wished he had his father’s courage and could stand up to Aunt Edith. But in his stomach a hollowness not from hunger kept him bowed—a knowledge in his heart that he was all alone.

  “No, what?” Aunt Edith said.

  The words stuck in his mouth like barbed wire. “No, Aunt Edith, dear.”

  Aunt Edith stifled a little yawn. “Now. It’s ten p.m.! Time for my show.” She pointed to the television. “Channel five.”

  Aunt Edith was the only person Jack knew with two televisions, this one an RCA color model. Jack turned the TV’s knob slowly. His hand was shaking, but with each satisfying thunk the knob made, he steadied a bit. The shush of static between the four available channels lulled his anger, a little. When he arrived at the correct station, a creepy but comical waltz came from the speaker. On the screen a simple line drawing outlined a fat man’s silhouette. Jack loved this show. The host, Alfred Hitchcock, talked about things that grown-ups usually wouldn’t discuss: mysteries, murders, and death. Like the story of the man all the doctors thought was dead, until they saw tears in his eyes. Jack stroked the silver charm beneath his shirt. Maybe tonight the host would say what really happened after you die.

  It was past his bedtime, but Aunt Edith made Jack sit on the floor, awaiting her orders to adjust the antennae, the volume, or any of the other half dozen knobs that controlled the reception. Right now there was a slight ghost image and a little warp in the picture at the top. But Aunt Edith didn’t seem to notice.

  “Good eee-vening, ladies,” the host began. “Has your husband recently acquired a faraway look in his eyes? In the event something unforeseen happens to you, do all of your worldly goods go to him? Is he at this moment nervously excusing himself from the room? If you answered yes . . .”

  Aunt Edith was calm at last. Calmer than usual, in fact. As the show progressed, her head nodded until she woke with a sudden snort.

  “I’m almost out of chocolates,” she said, though there were several still in the box. “Run down to Blum’s before it closes and get me another box.” Her eyes drooped as she counted out change from the handbag she kept looped over her bedpost.

  Jack stared at the television. The commercial in the middle of the show was just starting. He would miss the rest of the show and not be able to see it until it reran over the summer. The coins rested coldly in his hand.

  “Get moving,” Aunt Edith said. She closed her eyes and sank back into the mattress.

  Since Aunt Edith had claimed him, Jack lived under thick ice. He could see the world above but couldn’t break through. As he walked out the door, he wondered if he had the guts to run past the sweets store and on and on, as fast and as far as he could.

  But, really, where would he go?

  THE ELEVATOR TOOK FOREVER to arrive. Jack punched the call button over and over, until he finally leaned on it to make the elevator hurry. It was just like Aunt Edith to send him away when he wanted to stay. At least she’d stopped talking about his mother. Jack touched his head against the cool elevator door and remembered the last time he’d seen Mom, back in LA.

  Before Jack had drawn the picture of her, when she’d been looking at the proofs for the photos she couldn’t afford, he’d asked why they didn’t have any photographs of his father around.

  “Jack, love,” she’d said, “I really didn’t have very long with your father. I only just met him a few weeks before we married. But I was sure in love with him, and he wanted to get married before shipping out. Seems kind of crazy now, but then the war had been dragging on for years and the whole world seemed crazy. We thought we’d have plenty of time to get to know each other after his service.”

  Jack wondered if that was why Mom did what she did: to finally get acquainted with Dad. He could sympathize with that. A little. Jack clung tightly to the father of his imagination, because he never knew the real thing. How do you let go of something you’ve never really held? Maybe if he’d known his father, letting him go would be easier. . . . But then again, accepting that Mom was gone was a million times harder, so that theory was shot.

  The elevator bell rang. The door slid open. Jack tried to push his way in but was stopped dead by a sea of navy-blue wool. A large, balding man in a dark suit stood in the elevator. He held his wristwatch at eye level, scowling at it, then at Jack.

  “Good eee-vening,” the man said, his voice a low, slow monotone.

  “Hello,” Jack squeaked in reply. But he forgot to move. He was rooted to the spot, awestruck, because the man was impressive in both size and fame.

  “Alfred Hitchcock!” Jack said.

  “The same,” said the man. He raised his chin a bit, and a smile played over his plump lips. Then he noticed his watch, still held high, and the scowl returned.

  Jack stood in the doorway, unmoving.

  “My dear boy,” Hitchcock said, “it is customary for the ocean liner to set sail before the dinghy puts up at her dock.”

  It took Jack a moment or two t
o work out what that meant, but when he did, he took three giant steps backward. The big man glided past him, the air from the elevator swirling in his wake. He opened the door to his suite, next to Aunt Edith’s. Before stepping in, he turned to Jack.

  “Carry on. No need to hold the elevator.” His voice was slow and six feet deep. He gave Jack a little salute.

  Jack raised his hand to his forehead in reply.

  “Going down!” called Shen. Jack jumped in, and the doors slid shut.

  The whole thing had happened so fast, Jack barely had time to react before it was over. Alfred Hitchcock! The famous movie director was staying right next door! Jack was missing his TV show, but seeing him in person was better anyway. Jack had so much to ask him. He hoped he would see him again. Maybe next time he’d be able to do more than just blurt out the director’s name and get in the way, like some overanxious fan.

  “Floor, please,” Shen said. She was all business. Jack guessed she was used to having important people in her elevator.

  “Lobby. Thank you.” Jack counted the money his aunt had given him, each piece clinking coldly in his hand. He found it was the exact amount needed for her chocolates—$2.95—and not a penny to spare for him to get a little something for himself. Oh, well. Full orphans had to take what they were given, even when it was nothing.

  Shen regarded the money with a disapproving frown. “More chocolates for your aunt?”

  “As usual,” Jack said. The elevator vibrated and jerked as it descended. No wonder Shen ran it so slowly. Jack wondered how he might arrange to see Mr. Hitchcock again.

  “Too many chocolates make you fat,” Shen said.

  Jack raised an eyebrow. Shen never said anything more than was required to deliver people to the proper floor. Was she trying to be friendly?

  “Was she thinner once?” Shen asked.

  A little brass plaque with the elevator’s weight limit was affixed to the wall. Maybe Shen’s interest in Aunt Edith’s size was purely professional. Jack shrugged. “How should I know?” he said.

  “Maybe she has photographs of herself when she was younger. Does she have photos? Maybe in your room somewhere?”

  As a matter of fact, Aunt Edith had taken the picture of Mom in the silver frame and disassembled it, searching for something. After she put the frame back together, she slid a photo of her wedding to Uncle Tim into it, over the picture of Jack’s mother. “He’s the only person I ever loved,” she’d told Jack. “Don’t touch it!” That hadn’t stopped him from slipping Aunt Edith’s photo out every night before bed to look at his mother. Aunt Edith was, in fact, slimmer in her wedding photo, but Jack didn’t see that it was any of Shen’s business.

  The elevator dinged.

  “Lobby,” Jack said before Shen could. He shot out the opening door, heading for the concourse of shops and restaurants across the way. He would miss the end of the Hitchcock show, but if he hurried, he might be able to hang out in the hall, in case the director went for ice or something. The red-and-black carpet blurred beneath Jack’s feet. He was about to push through the pink-lettered door of Blum’s—San Francisco’s Sweetest Confectaurant—when a man grabbed his collar. The abrupt stop nearly knocked Jack off his feet. He felt his silver chain pull noose-tight around his neck, his dad’s dog tags and the little charm digging into his collarbone. The coins he held scattered everywhere.

  “Boy,” said Mr. Sinclair, “we do not run through the Fairmont Hotel like a jackrabbit with its tail on fire. We walk. We make way for adults, and we do not throw coins about as if the lobby were a wishing well.”

  Mr. Sinclair, the head bellman, was a tall, dour man with great bags under his eyes. He grew his hair long on the right side and combed it over his bare head to the left, holding it in place with heavy wax. His mustache hung down below his lower lip, so it flapped in and out when he spoke, like a curtain in the breeze. Jack had had run-ins with him before, and each time the list of rules grew. Besides no running, there was no spinning in the revolving door, no sliding down the mezzanine banister, and no riding the luggage carts. Jack didn’t have time for a long discussion on hotel etiquette.

  “Aunt Edith sent me for chocolates,” he said. “She’s almost finished with the complimentary ones.” Mr. Sinclair was a bully, but he wouldn’t cross Jack’s aunt. There was a pecking order to these things.

  Mr. Sinclair looked confused. “Complimentary?”

  “For the earthquake anniversary,” Jack said. The man’s grip on his collar loosened but didn’t release.

  “But the anniversary isn’t for several days,” the bellman said.

  Jack’s shoulders popped up and down. “Look, the chocolates came today. And sweets don’t take root around Aunt Edith.”

  Mr. Sinclair pushed Jack through the door to Blum’s, his patent leather shoes sweeping two of Jack’s quarters under a heavy planter. Inside, Blum’s décor was like the frosting on a fancy wedding cake, all pink swirls and white curlicues. A glass case with expensive chocolates and pastries in it wrapped around a corner leading to a dining area. Ornate white stools stood around a marble counter for ice cream and sodas. Small tables dotted the store’s white fretwork perimeter. Stacks of gold boxes were piled everywhere. The scent of caramel and chocolate played in Jack’s watering mouth.

  Three sisters—Opal, Ruby, and Beryl—usually served the customers Coffee Crunch Cake and sold them tins of Almondettes with a sweet smile and a shake of their ample hips. Now Opal walked up to Jack and the bellman. If Jack ever drew her, he’d need the softest pencil lead to depict her cushiony figure. She tucked a stray lock of hair into her hairnet.

  “Hi, sugar,” she said to Jack. Then she nodded to the bellman. “Mr. Sinclair.”

  “The boy says his aunt received her anniversary chocolates early,” the bellman said.

  “Could be.” Opal crossed her arms.

  “And yet the anniversary isn’t until Wednesday,” the bellman said, “which is when the chocolates were to be delivered.”

  Opal nodded to the stacks of gold boxes. “With the hotel full I got nearly four hundred specialty boxes to make and label, all alone. And the space! It can’t be done in one day. Would you rather folks got ’em after the anniversary?”

  Opal gently pried the bellman’s hands from Jack and straightened his shirt. Her index finger pointed little circles around the store. “Blum’s only rents this space,” she said. “The day you sign my paycheck is the day you can complain to me.”

  “Well!” Mr. Sinclair turned on his heel and left.

  “You okay, sugar?” Opal asked.

  “Fine,” Jack said, “but I dropped my money.”

  Opal held the door while Jack collected his coins. He had to stretch to get the ones beneath the planter. Their ridged edges kept tickling his fingers, but he couldn’t get a grip. It was a while before he handed the money to Opal. “The usual,” he said. He looked around while Opal stepped up on a stool to reach the tins of chocolates. “Where are Ruby and Beryl?”

  “Honeymooning.” Opal sighed. “We used to be together ‘in the fog and filthy air,’ but now they both have husbands, so it’s just me. Alone. At least for another week.” She handed Jack the tin. “I’ve been working on those darn anniversary boxes all day. I don’t care if I never see another chocolate.”

  Opal threw the coins into the register without counting them. She placed a fleshy knuckle under Jack’s chin. “You sure you’re okay, hon?”

  Jack shrugged. “I guess I’m not used to living in a hotel,” he said. “The staff is always mad at me.”

  “That’s why I don’t mix with ’em much. They got their back-of-the-house intrigue and political squabbles, and I’d sooner kiss a chicken butt than get involved. But don’t worry about old flaptop,” she said. “He’s mad at the world.”

  “Shen, too?”

  “Shen? Well, she’s okay. Just give her a break.” Opal’s curled finger beckoned Jack closer, and she whispered to him, “I think her daddy’s going a little crazy.�
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  “Crazy?”

  “Shen and her daddy were having tea right over in that booth when all of the sudden he up and starts screaming in Chinese, then calling out ‘The eyes, the eyes’ in English. It was all Shen could do to calm him down. Ask your aunt about it. She saw the whole thing.”

  “I better not. See, Aunt Edith isn’t much for friendly conversation,” said Jack. “She mostly just orders me around.”

  “Oh,” said Opal, “I’m sorry.”

  She pulled two candies out of the glass case. “We have a couple of new flavors here,” she said. She pushed one toward Jack. “This here’s a Mean Ol’ Aunt Meringue. It guarantees that living with sour relatives will soon be sweeter.”

  Jack smiled. “What’s the other one?” he asked.

  “This? This one’s a Need a Man Nougat.” She picked it up. “This one’s for me.”

  “I thought you never wanted to see another chocolate.”

  “So? I’ll close my eyes!” Opal held out her chocolate. “Just don’t tell Ruby.”

  Jack knocked his candy against Opal’s like they were toasting with champagne.

  “I bet your mom named you Opal ’cause you’re such a gem.” The white confection was a wave of sugary almond in his mouth.

  “Well, ain’t you sweet,” Opal said. “Why couldn’t you be ten years older?”

  “I will be,” Jack said, “in about a decade.”

  Opal crumpled up the pleated foil cups and tossed them into the trash. “I guess until then I’ll just be a single gal in the city. Of course, in the meantime I can always enjoy the company of Mr. Wall.”

  “Mr. Wall?