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"Well, there's quite a bit of turmoil. She insisted Mr. Dorfman ask all the guests to leave and close the hotel. Naturally, he didn't want to take on all this responsibility, so he phoned me, and I told him I would phone you to confirm the next stage of action," Mr. Updike explained.
"What do you suggest we do, Mr. Updike?" I asked.
"Mrs. Cutler wouldn't have closed the hotel," he said plainly. "To her it was like show business—the show must go on."
"Then close it," I insisted, not caring what that horrid old woman would have done. "The guests will understand, and it's the decent thing to do. Jimmy and I will start home immediately. When is the funeral?"
"Your mother wanted it to be tomorrow, but the minister has talked her into waiting until the day after. A number of people will want to attend," he said. "Philip and Clara Sue are already home," he added.
"Very well," I said. "How tragic," I repeated, and I cradled the receiver slowly. I gave Jimmy all the details.
"I told my mother how serious it was; I warned her," I said, "but she just didn't care. His own children didn't care!"
"You did what you could, Dawn. Don't start blaming yourself," Jimmy warned.
"I know. How horrible," I thought aloud. "Poor Randolph." I felt the tears sting behind my eyes. "She reaches back from the grave and destroys people," I said. A worried frown drew his eyebrows together.
"Don't talk like that. Soon you will believe it yourself," he said.
"But why is it, Jimmy, that evil things linger longer than good things, that the stench of something rotten lasts longer than the aroma of something sweet?" I asked.
"That's not true, Dawn. It just seems so, but it's not," he insisted. "Our good memories live with us, don't they?"
I shook my head. "Yes, but the bad ones cut into us and scar us, and those scars stay with us forever and ever. Somehow I've got to find a way to shut that dreadful old woman out of our lives," I said, my eyes narrowed in determination.
"When you talk like that," Jimmy said, "you scare me. Your whole face changes, and I don't know who you are, for the Dawn I knew wouldn't be worried about revenge," he said.
"It's not revenge I'm worried about, Jimmy. It's survival," I replied.
He swung his eyes away sadly.
I was sorry to have said those things, but I couldn't help believing that somehow Grandmother Cutler was reaching back from the dead and finding ways to ruin everyone's happiness, especially mine.
The motel manager helped us make emergency travel arrangements. In order to leave immediately we had to take a small airplane to Boston, and in Boston catch a bigger airplane to Virginia Beach. The hotel car was waiting for us when we arrived a little after nine in the evening. Julius Barker, the driver, stood at the doorway to the baggage area, his hat in his hands, his eyes drooping with sorrow.
Most everyone at the hotel had been fond of Randolph. Despite his ineffectiveness as a hotel administrator and his drifting into madness after his mother's death, he was a gentle, kind soul, the epitome of Southern geniality and grace. Before his depression he always wore a smile and had a nice word for anyone he met, be it a chambermaid or a rich hotel guest. The staff, as well as frequent guests, had been saddened by his physical and mental degeneration. It seemed that only the people who were supposed to care the most for him were not upset and concerned.
Julius rushed forward to get our bags.
"I'm sorry you had to come right back, Mrs. Longchamp," he said.
"It's very sad, Julius."
"Yes, ma'am. Everyone's just moping about the hotel, talking low and sniffling back tears. Mr. Dorfman made us cut back most of the lights," he added, and when we drove up we saw why he had mentioned it.
There was a funereal pall over the building and grounds. An overcast sky had begun to drop a cold rain through the darkness, making the air gray and chilly. The hotel loomed like a big, deserted house, its windows vacant and dark. The great porch looked as if a black shroud had been draped over it. It was very strange to enter the big lobby and find it empty and dim. Only one receptionist, Mrs. Bradly, was behind the counter to cover the telephones. Robert Garwood, one of the older bellhops, rushed forward to take our luggage and carry it up to our suite.
"I'll go see what's been shut down and what hasn't," Jimmy said. He went off with Julius, and I followed Robert to the family section. My mother's door was shut tight as usual, but as I started down the corridor Philip opened the door to his room and stepped out to greet me.
"I didn't think you would come back," he said. He was dressed in a blue velvet robe with the Cutler insignia, a large gold C, on the breast pocket, but his hair was brushed neatly, and he looked quite rested and relaxed. He smiled and then stepped forward close enough to kiss my cheek. His hand lingered on my shoulder.
"Of course I had to come back. Why wouldn't I come back?" I said, not hiding my indignation and shaking his hand off my shoulder.
"Well, he's not really your father, and you were on your honeymoon," Philip said. "Weren't you enjoying yourself?" he asked, his grin small and tight, amused. How could he be so lighthearted only a short time after his father had died so sadly? I wondered. I couldn't help feeling disgust for that otherwise handsome and beguiling smile.
"Really, Philip, don't you have respect for anything, even your own father's memory?" I snapped. My sharpness wiped the leer from his face as quickly as my slapping him would.
"I'm upset. Of course I'm upset," he said defensively. "I had to rush back from college, didn't I?" he pointed out.
