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"Explained what?" I demanded.
Mr. Dorfman fidgeted for a few moments and then looked firmly and directly at me for the first time since I had arrived.
"Mr. Randolph," he said calmly, "is quite incapable of any real responsibility and has been for some time, even before Mrs. Cutler's passing. Why, you already know much more than he does about the hotel," he added, astounding me.
"What? I know he behaves strangely sometimes, doing things that don't seem very important, but surely . . ."
"Mrs. Cutler never gave her son any real responsibilities, Dawn. Why . . . he never so much as made a bank deposit," Mr. Dorfman revealed, and then he started flipping through a folder.
I sat back and shook my head. I had been hoping to depend on Randolph and really let him do most of the running of the hotel while I concentrated on caring for Christie. The packet of papers in my lap suddenly took on more weight. I couldn't do this. My inheritance wasn't a blessing; it was a burden. I would feel just terrible if I somehow messed things up and all these people working here lost their jobs.
"Mr. Dorfman, I . . ."
"I can tell you that you have some very fine, very qualified people working for you, Dawn," Mr. Dorfman said quickly. "Everyone's very efficient. Mrs. Cutler did run a tight ship in that respect. If she didn't make a big profit one year, it was because of the economy, and not because of her business practices or the practices of her subordinates. It was a waste not, want not philosophy. My job is to help you keep to it," he concluded. And then, as if to add a challenge, he sat back and said, "Why, when Mrs. Cutler married Mr. Cutler and became an executive in this hotel, she wasn't much older than you are."
"Yes, but she had Mr. Cutler," I fired back. He shook his head and twisted his fingers around his pen nervously.
"I don't think I'm speaking ill of the dead when I tell you your father, Randolph's father, was not much of a hotel administrator. My father was the comptroller here then, so I speak from firsthand knowledge. This hotel didn't really become anything significant until Mrs. Cutler became actively involved.
"So," he said, eager to leave the topic, "I'll always be available to you. If I'm not here and you need me for anything, anything at all, you have my home phone number at the top of the packet of papers I just gave you."
I rose from my chair in a daze, thanked Mr. Dorfman and slowly walked out, moving like a somnambulist down the corridor. Where was I going? It suddenly occurred to me that it was time for me to take over Grandmother Cutler's office.
I paused before her doorway almost as if I had to knock. Then I opened it slowly and stood just inside for a long moment, my heart pounding as if I anticipated her miraculous resurrection. I could almost see her standing firm and tall with her steel-blue hair cut and styled to perfection. She was standing behind her desk as always, her shoulders pulled back firmly in the bright blue cotton jacket she wore over her frilly blouse. She turned her cold gray eyes on me, and in my imagination I even heard her chastisement: "What are you doing here? How dare you enter my office without knocking first?"
I gazed around. The dark-paneled office still had its lilac scent, everything about it still suggesting Grandmother Cutler, reflecting her austere personality, from the hardwood floors to the tightly woven dark blue oval rug in front of the aqua chintz settee. Her dark oak desk was just the way she had last left it: the pens in their holders, papers neatly piled to one side, a small bowl of hard candies in one corner and the black telephone in another. Her memo pad was open at the center of the desk.
Firm and resolute, I finally stepped forward and went to the partially opened curtains and pulled the cord to open them wide. Sunlight burst into the office, washing away the shadows that covered her high-back, blood-red, nail-head leather chair, the bookcases and standing lamp. Particles of dust danced in the air. Then I stepped back and looked up at the portrait of Grandfather Cutler, the man who I had learned was my true father.
It appeared the portrait had been painted in this very office with him at this very desk. Right now he seemed to be leering down at me, his head slightly tilted forward, his light blue eyes fixed on me. As I crossed to the other side of the room the portrait gave the illusion of his gaze
following me. I thought that even though the artist might have been instructed to capture a strong, authoritative and distinguished look, he had also managed to replicate some lightness and charm in the way he had drawn and painted my father's lips.
What sort of a man could he have been? I wondered. How could my father have been a conniver, deceitful and lustful? What had made him decide to rape my mother, if it was indeed a rape? What sort of morality did he have if he could make love to his son's wife? Obviously he had had some pangs of conscience, for he had tried to atone for his act by giving me this inheritance and making a full confession after his death. And he had been compassionate enough to worry about how it would all affect Grandmother Cutler and so left instructions for none of it to be revealed until she had passed away, too.
As I gazed into my father's eyes—eyes strikingly like my own—I wondered what, if anything—beside some physical attributes—I had inherited from this man. Would I now become as ambitious as he was? Would I live up to the responsibilities placed on my shoulders and develop into a good administrator? Did I have his charm when it came to pleasing guests? Had he been fair with the help and liked by them, and would I be? I realized I had developed a great hunger for knowledge about him and hoped I could get those members of the staff who had worked under him and were still here to talk to me about him. I certainly didn't expect Mother to tell me anything worthwhile, and as for Randolph . . . well, from what I understood and saw, Randolph couldn't be counted upon for anything these days.
I went around the desk and sat in Grandmother Cutler's chair. Looking over the large desk from this point of view, I began to see things in a more natural and realistic perspective. It was as if sitting in her chair and taking her position imbued me with the confidence I would need to carry on. The office wasn't as large as it had always seemed to be to me. I could do a great deal to brighten it up, I thought. I would replace the rug and the furniture. Then I would hang up some bright paintings.
I sat back. I could almost feel Grandmother Cutler seething behind me and grinding her teeth. Maybe I can do this, I thought. Maybe I can.
Then I realized what time it was and jumped up to see about Christie. But as I was passing through the lobby Patty, one of the older chambermaids, stopped me.
"I think you had better go down to the laundry," she advised, and she nodded as if she were slipping me some secret.
"Something broken?" It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to see Mr. Dorfman, but she shook her head vigorously.
"Someone ought to go down there," she repeated, and she left me standing in confusion. I asked Mrs. Boston to go up and see about Christie while I went downstairs to the basement of the hotel, where the laundry was situated.
At first I thought no one was there, but when I turned into the room where all the washing machines were housed I spotted Randolph off in a corner by a table used for the folding of linen and towels. He had dozens of measuring cups lined up on each side of the table, and he was using a measuring spoon—the kind used to measure flour or sugar in a kitchen—only he was using it to scoop soap powder into the cups. He had two different brands of soap powder in big vats beside him.
"Randolph," I said, approaching, "what are you doing?" He didn't turn around. He kept scooping the soap powder carefully.
"Randolph?" I put my hand on his arm, and he looked at me, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
"I'm right about this," he said. "I suspected it, and I'm right." He turned back to the soap powder.
"Right about what, Randolph?" I asked.
