working.”
We walked to the hotel entrance.
“My feet hurt,” she whispered.
The strains of Anson Weeks’ music wafted from the ballroom as we entered the lobby. The song was “Where the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day.” I held her arm and could feel the beat of her heart.
“I’m so happy,” she said. “I always wanted to come to the Coconut Grove and here I am.”
The headwaiter greeted us and bowed, “Good evening.”
I nodded. “We’d like a table.”
He led us into the big resplendent room with its colored lights and coconut trees. On the dance floor couples glided to the music, and spotlights played colored beams over the walls and ceiling. Our table was on the second tier. We sat down.
“Would you like a cocktail now?” the waiter asked.
Mrs. Brownell was so breathless that she could only nod in assent.
“I’ll have a brandy,” I said.
She put her hand on mine across the table. “I’ll have one too,” she said.
The waiter disappeared. We watched the dancers.
“I can’t dance,” I said. “At least, not very well.”
She squeezed my hand again. “I’ll teach you.”
I started to rise. “Let’s try it.”
“Not now,” she breathed. “Let’s wait a dance or two.”
Then the waiter returned with our drinks. He put my brandy before me and smiled as he served Mrs. Brownell.
“Here you are, mother,” he said.
It cut her like a knife. Her startled eyes fixed me. They seemed guilt stricken, embarrassed, intimidated. She lowered her head and I thought she was going to cry. But she did not cry. She lifted her face and smiled bravely. The embarrassed waiter moved off.
“Drink your brandy,” I urged.
She sipped carefully and our attention went back to the dancers.
What happened thereafter was my effort to make a joke, to cheer her, to make light of the waiter’s gaffe. The band began to play a Strauss waltz. Then I said it.
“Shall we dance, mother dear?”
She looked frightened, biting her lip and staring helplessly at me, her eyes suddenly awash with tears. Crying uncontrollably, she shook the table as she groped to her feet and rushed away toward the lobby. I downed my brandy and hurried after her. She was not in the lobby nor on the staircase, and I stepped outside in time to see a cab pulling out of the driveway with Mrs. Brownell in the back seat. I ran after her calling, but the cab sped away. I walked back to the Grove, paid my bill, and went out to my car.
What a mess. I drove back to the hotel reluctantly. I hated facing her, her tears, but it had to be. I turned the key in her apartment door and walked inside. There was a hiss of water from the shower in the bathroom. Sprawled on the floor, wantonly discarded, was her Joan Crawford suit, as if dropped from her body and kicked aside. Her blouse hung over a chair, her shoes and stockings carelessly discarded.
I undressed down to my shorts, and slipped between the covers of the studio couch, folding my arms behind my head, waiting for her to appear. I had nothing to say. I decided to leave it up to her. She emerged finally, dressedin her nightie, my unexpected presence irritating her. She had washed her hair, washed out her coiffure, and her hair hung in moist strands. Her face was scrubbed and plain and wrinkled.
“Please go,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
She crossed to the window and flung it open. The cool of the night wafted in from the hillside. Without a word she gathered up my clothes, my coat and pants, my shirt, my shoes. At first I thought she was tidying up. Instead she turned to the window and flung everything out into the night. I leaped out of bed and rushed to the window. Below I saw my clothes flung about on the weed-clogged terrain. It was a steep incline. My scattered garments looked like dead bodies. My pants hung from the branch of a tree. I glared at her.
“Satisfied?”
“Not until you leave.”
I started to gather up her garments—the Crawford suit, the blouse, the
We walked to the hotel entrance.
“My feet hurt,” she whispered.
The strains of Anson Weeks’ music wafted from the ballroom as we entered the lobby. The song was “Where the Blue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day.” I held her arm and could feel the beat of her heart.
“I’m so happy,” she said. “I always wanted to come to the Coconut Grove and here I am.”
The headwaiter greeted us and bowed, “Good evening.”
I nodded. “We’d like a table.”
He led us into the big resplendent room with its colored lights and coconut trees. On the dance floor couples glided to the music, and spotlights played colored beams over the walls and ceiling. Our table was on the second tier. We sat down.
“Would you like a cocktail now?” the waiter asked.
Mrs. Brownell was so breathless that she could only nod in assent.
“I’ll have a brandy,” I said.
She put her hand on mine across the table. “I’ll have one too,” she said.
The waiter disappeared. We watched the dancers.
“I can’t dance,” I said. “At least, not very well.”
She squeezed my hand again. “I’ll teach you.”
I started to rise. “Let’s try it.”
“Not now,” she breathed. “Let’s wait a dance or two.”
Then the waiter returned with our drinks. He put my brandy before me and smiled as he served Mrs. Brownell.
“Here you are, mother,” he said.
It cut her like a knife. Her startled eyes fixed me. They seemed guilt stricken, embarrassed, intimidated. She lowered her head and I thought she was going to cry. But she did not cry. She lifted her face and smiled bravely. The embarrassed waiter moved off.
“Drink your brandy,” I urged.
She sipped carefully and our attention went back to the dancers.
What happened thereafter was my effort to make a joke, to cheer her, to make light of the waiter’s gaffe. The band began to play a Strauss waltz. Then I said it.
“Shall we dance, mother dear?”
She looked frightened, biting her lip and staring helplessly at me, her eyes suddenly awash with tears. Crying uncontrollably, she shook the table as she groped to her feet and rushed away toward the lobby. I downed my brandy and hurried after her. She was not in the lobby nor on the staircase, and I stepped outside in time to see a cab pulling out of the driveway with Mrs. Brownell in the back seat. I ran after her calling, but the cab sped away. I walked back to the Grove, paid my bill, and went out to my car.
What a mess. I drove back to the hotel reluctantly. I hated facing her, her tears, but it had to be. I turned the key in her apartment door and walked inside. There was a hiss of water from the shower in the bathroom. Sprawled on the floor, wantonly discarded, was her Joan Crawford suit, as if dropped from her body and kicked aside. Her blouse hung over a chair, her shoes and stockings carelessly discarded.
I undressed down to my shorts, and slipped between the covers of the studio couch, folding my arms behind my head, waiting for her to appear. I had nothing to say. I decided to leave it up to her. She emerged finally, dressedin her nightie, my unexpected presence irritating her. She had washed her hair, washed out her coiffure, and her hair hung in moist strands. Her face was scrubbed and plain and wrinkled.
“Please go,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
She crossed to the window and flung it open. The cool of the night wafted in from the hillside. Without a word she gathered up my clothes, my coat and pants, my shirt, my shoes. At first I thought she was tidying up. Instead she turned to the window and flung everything out into the night. I leaped out of bed and rushed to the window. Below I saw my clothes flung about on the weed-clogged terrain. It was a steep incline. My scattered garments looked like dead bodies. My pants hung from the branch of a tree. I glared at her.
“Satisfied?”
“Not until you leave.”
I started to gather up her garments—the Crawford suit, the blouse, the
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