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"All right, Mr. Dorfman," I said. "Carry on with this the way we have in the past."
He nodded and lifted the phone receiver. He had the ambulance come to the side entrance of the hotel. Some guests would see them take Mr. Parker out, of course, but it wouldn't be as big an event as it would if the ambulance was right in front and the attendants wheeled Mr. Parker through the lobby. Mr. Updike came by to make sure it all went according to plan.
Somehow it seemed appropriate that it continued to be a gray day with intermittent downpours of rain, yet I couldn't help but feel devious and underhanded when they wheeled the old man on a gurney through the hallways with an oxygen mask over his face. I especially felt this way when guests asked me what had happened and I told them Mr. Parker wasn't feeling well and we thought it best he be taken to the hospital for examination.
"They're only going to ask about him later on," I told Mr. Updike. "And of course, they will learn that he has died."
"Yes," he said, "but somehow the impact of his death is lessened when it occurs at a hospital rather than right here." He patted me on the shoulder. "You did very well, my dear." I could see it was on the tip of his tongue to say, "Mrs. Cutler would be very proud of you," but he saw the glint of anger in my eyes and simply muttered, "Very well."
The events surrounding Mr. Parker's death and removal had taken my mind off Jimmy's being gone, but when I finally returned to my office after it was all over I regretted that he wasn't at my side during the crisis. I realized how much I leaned on him, needed his strength and reassurance. I was tempted to try to reach him in Texas to tell him what had happened, but I thought it wouldn't be fair. Looking at the clock, I realized he must have just arrived and was involved with meeting his new brother. My problems could wait until later.
By late afternoon I sat back in my chair. A feeling of exhaustion washed over me. All of the mental turmoil had taken its toll. I felt drained. I was sure I would sleep well tonight, despite myself. Christie had returned from school, taken her piano lesson and gone to be with the twins. She asked to eat her dinner with them, and I agreed. I wasn't very hungry myself and thought I would just have some tea and toast later. I began to close up my books and reports to leave the office mild return to the house so I could dress to greet the guests at dinner. Tonight, because of what had occurred, that seemed to be more important than usual to do.
But just as I stood up I heard a gentle rapping at the door and called for whoever it was to enter. It was Betty Ann.
Betty Ann had gained weight with her pregnancy, of course, but it had filled her out and, I thought, made her more attractive. She hadn't lost much since giving birth. I thought she was still quite happy living at the hotel. She often had old college friends visit and had made friends with some of the more affluent members of Cutler's Cove, mainly because of the dinners Mother staged. In any case, what with caring for her twins, the work she did at the hotel and her social life, she appeared quite occupied and content. So I was surprised when she came in, closed the door softly behind her and proceeded to burst into tears.
This seems to be a day for sadness, I thought. It was as if the dreary sky, the rain and the gray world without had managed to seep into our lives through every crack and cranny in our walls of happiness. Every dark thought, every sorrowful and unhappy moment in our pasts was resurrected to bloom in this soil of depression. Melancholy would have its day today.
"What's wrong, Betty Ann?" I cried, coming to her quickly. She answered with louder and harder sobs. I guided her to the sofa and helped her to sit down. She had made her face puffy with so much crying.
"Oh, Dawn," she moaned through her sobs, "I can't stand it anymore. I've got to tell someone. I'm sorry."
"That's all right. There's no need to apologize. We're sisters," I said. "I don't mind your telling me your troubles. What happened? Is it something to do with the twins?" I asked.
"Oh, no, they're fine, thank goodness."
"Something with your family?" I pursued, already understanding how her socialite mother might be giving her trouble about her life at the hotel. On more than one occasion Betty Ann had remarked to me that her mother thought it was beneath her to greet guests and work as a hostess.
"No," she said. She took a deep breath and then blurted, "It's Philip."
"Philip? What about him?" I sat back. He was telling her things about me, I thought fearfully.
"Every night for the last week he's insisted on sleeping in another room. I don't know why. I haven't done anything to him. We haven't had an argument; he just . . . gets up and leaves."
"Gets up and leaves? You mean he gets into bed with you and then—"
"Yes," she said, wiping her eyes and breathing in deeply again, "he just gets up and disappears. At first I thought . . . he was seeing someone else . . . going someplace to meet some nasty chambermaid or someone like that. I was too frightened to move, to do anything, even to ask him where he had gone."
"I can't see Philip going to meet any of our chambermaids," I said.
"No, he's not doing anything like that." She brought the handkerchief she had been holding tightly in her hands to her nose and blew into it. "I got up and followed him last night. He's just . . . just going to another room."
"Another room? What other room?" I asked.
"Your old suite," she replied. It was as if someone had tossed a pail full of ice water over my head. I felt the chilling streaks run over my shoulders, down the back of my neck and over my spine.
"My old suite?"
"Yes. Oh, Dawn, does this mean he can't stand being beside me for any length of time? Is this the way a divorce begins?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"No, I don't think . . . Didn't you ask him why he's doing this?" I inquired.
"I did. This morning. He said he just gets restless and has to move around. He told me not to make a big deal over it and forbade me to tell anyone, but I can't get it out of my mind, and I knew you wouldn't tell him I told. But what should I do? It isn't normal, is it? Nothing like this has happened between you and Jimmy, has it?"
I shook my head.
"You're just going to have to tell him how much it upsets you," I said. "Discuss it quietly and make him understand."
