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I ran back upstairs and flung myself on the bed, where I cried and cried like a hysterical schoolgirl. Mrs. Boston heard me and came to knock on the door.
"Are you all right, Dawn?" she asked.
"Yes, Mrs. Boston," I said, sitting up. "It's all right." I wiped my cheeks. "Don't worry."
"If you want anything, let me know," she said, her voice full of concern.
What I wanted, she couldn't provide, I thought. I wanted to heal the scars of years and years of painful living. I wanted to bury the sad and bitter memories still clinging tenaciously to the walls of my mind, clinging like spiteful bats, eager to take advantage of every dark moment to fly about and torment me. I wanted to gain new courage, to be able to face all of the ghosts and drive them back into the shadows where they belonged.
Jimmy had been so strong; his love for me was so great that he could overcome these old feelings and fears. I had seen the deep disappointment in his eyes when he gazed at me just before he left. In my heart I felt the ache that had made a home in his, and I knew I was dissatisfying him in a serious way, but it was as if there were invisible chains binding me to my fears and weaknesses. I needed a little more time to break them, just a little more, I thought.
I decided the only thing to do now was to bury myself in work so I could keep my mind off the sadness I felt with Jimmy gone. I filled my eyes with words and numbers to prevent them from seeing Jimmy's dark, sad eyes again and again. Every time I finished something, I leapt to find something else to do, no matter how minor or how unimportant. At times I thought I resembled poor Randolph, who had become obsessed with insignificant details. Now I could understand why that had happened to him, I thought. He was only trying to keep himself from facing ugly realities.
Unfortunately, however, before the morning was over I could stop looking for things to do in order to occupy myself. Something serious came my way, and Philip had gone to Virginia teach on business, so he couldn't be of any assistance. Mr. Stanley, who was in charge of the chambermaids, came knocking on my office door. He looked terribly flustered when he entered.
"What's wrong, Mr. Stanley?" I asked before he reached my desk.
"Mrs. Longchamp, something dreadful," he replied. "Mary White, one of our chambermaids, came to tell me that one of our guests has passed away in his room . . . Mr. Parker."
"Mr. Parker?" I knew him well. He was an elderly gentleman who had been coming to the hotel for twenty years at least. He was a very kind and distinguished man, a widower. Last year he had given Christie a hundred dollars f
or her birthday. "Are you sure he's—"
"I went up to the room myself and found him slumped in his chair by the window. I'm afraid it's true," Mr. Stanley said, fidgeting with his shirt collar.
"I see. All right. Keep the room closed, of course. Go speak with Mr. Dorfman and see how such things were handled in the past."
"I'm sorry," Mr. Stanley said, as if this was all somehow his fault. "I did tell Mary to keep it to herself for now," he added.
"Fine." I rose from my chair and walked out with him. "I'll be in my office," he said. I went directly to Mr. Dorfman's.
"How unfortunate," he said when I told him what Mr. Stanley had discovered. "However, it has happened before. When you cater to older people—"
"What do we do in situations like this?" I asked quickly.
"Well, I'll call for an ambulance, of course. It's best the other guests not know that he's actually passed away. I'll speak to the ambulance attendants myself when they arrive. They'll understand and cooperate. This is a resort community."
"Understand? Cooperate?" I shook my head in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"They will wheel him out with an oxygen mask on his face, and we'll say that he's having some trouble breathing and is being taken to the hospital," Mr. Dorfman explained.
"What? Why would we do that?"
"It's the way Mrs. Cutler handled similar situations in the past," he replied. "That way . . . the impact of his death doesn't lie like a shadow over the hotel and the other guests."
"I don't know," I said. "It seems very deceitful."
"I can only tell you what Mrs. Cutler has done in the past. I think if she were here," Mr. Dorfman said softly, "she would tell you poor Mr. Parker wouldn't mind. You do have a house full of guests, many of them elderly.
"Something like this can get them thinking—wrongly, of course—that they should examine every morsel of their food, where their rooms are located, what kind of ventilation they have . . . believe me, it can create a host of problems. All of a sudden every ache and pain, every skipped heartbeat will signal serious illness, and the doctors will be running in and out, not to mention Julius carting people over to the hospital for checkups.
"I hate to put it so coldly," he concluded, "but it's not good for the hotel's image. This is a place where people relax, enjoy, have only good times and bring out only good memories." He paused and took a deep breath. "I think I'm giving you Mrs. Cutler's speech verbatim," he added, amazed himself.
"Naturally," he continued, "I'll give Mr. Updike a call and keep him apprised of the situation. There are always legal considerations."
He sat there staring at me, just waiting for me to give him the go-ahead. Part of me wanted to be rebellious and contrary, just because we were handling it the way Grandmother Cutler would have handled it. I wanted to order him to call the mortician and have a hearse drawn up in front of the hotel. Somehow it would be like slapping Grandmother Cutler across her arrogant face.
But another part of me—the part that had been growing and developing—realized how immature and silly that would be. I would only hurt myself and the people I loved.
