Editor’s Note: The Last Hotel: A Novel in Suites by Sonia Pilcer. This is the 18th installment of her tales of the Upper West Side in the 1970s. Look for it every Friday. To read the 17th installment, with links to previous ones, click here.
Basement
Leah took the elevator to B. It was after 6. Her father had already left. She knocked on Henry’s door.
Bessie, wearing a flowered housecoat, answered the door. In the background, she could hear the TV playing.
“Is Henry around?” she asked.
Bessie shook her head.
“I wanted to ask him something.”
“I don’t know where he is. Can I help?”
Leah looked down. Embarrassed somehow. “Someone’s leaving things at my door.”
“What kind of things?”
“Books. Music cassettes. A pair of brown cashmere gloves that were washed.” She smiled slightly, then frowned. “I don’t know who’s behind this.”
At first, Leah had thought maybe they were from Angela. When she called, Angela’s answering machine picked up. “We’re in Istanbul right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when we return.” Leah had slammed the phone down.
Then she had wondered if it could be Kofi. But he didn’t know her apartment. And why would he leave her these things.
“Not Saul?” Bessie asked.
“He wouldn’t leave me Birds of America by Mary McCarthy.”
Bessie smiled. “No one ever leaves me gifts.”
“I just don’t know who’d do that.”
“Maybe you have a secret admirer.”
“Would you tell Henry? I think it’s someone in the building.”
Bessie studied her. “I don’t understand. You want it to stop?”
“Yes,” Leah answered vehemently. “I do.”
Bessie started to speak, then stopped herself. Then she began again. “Have you talked to your father?”
Leah looked down. “No.”
“I don’t usually meddle in people’s business -–“
“Then don’t, Bessie.”
“Your dad ain’t easy. I’ll give you that. But he’s a good man, and I know he asks Henry about you.”
“I’m not ready,” Leah said.
“Not ready. When you going to be ready? It’s not for me to say, but you been living in the hotel a few months. Would it be so terrible to just say hello to your father?”
Leah moved from the doorway. “Please tell Henry, okay?”
“Saul don’t talk about soft things. But this silence between you is not good. Not good for him, not good for you.”
“Bessie, let’s not talk about this now.”
She rang for the elevator. It stopped on the first floor. Fred wheeled in his bicycle, which had several plastic bags of books on the back rack.
Leah looked at the stuff curiously, then at Fred. His acne-scarred face, frizzy graying hair, filthy jeans.
“I left you some things I thought you’d like,” he said, staring down at the floor.
“Why?”
“You look like you like books.”
“Of course, I like books. I love books,” she said. “But it’s such a surprise.”
“There’s so much stuff out there. I always wash the things first. Did the gloves fit?”
She nodded. “They’re nice.”
“New York streets are full of shit. People are so rich, they don’t even notice if they drop their gloves as they step out of a cab.”
“I hate rich people too,” she said.
The elevator stopped at 6.
“Well, thanks.”
“My name is Fred.”
“Leah,” she mumbled.
“I guess, uh, I’ll see you around,” he said, wheeling his bicycle out.
Leah walked to the stairwell, up the stairs to the Penthouse. She unlocked her door. Walked in and fell face first on her bed. She began to weep. Maybe the world wasn’t totally cold and cruel. Maybe Fred thought he could get laid. She wept till she fell asleep, snoring softly.
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Sonia Pilcer is the author of six novels including The Holocaust Kid. The Last Hotel is now available at your favorite bookstore or Amazon.com. Visit Sonia Pilcer’s web site here.
