Editor’s Note: The Last Hotel: A Novel in Suites by Sonia Pilcer. This is the eighth installment of her tales of the Upper West Side in the 1970s. Look for it every Friday. To read the seventh installment, click here. Of this work, the author Hilma Wolitzer has observed: “‘The Last Hotel’ is a 20th Century ark filled with survivors of history and gentrification. Sonia Pilcer brings them all vividly to life with gentle wit and a generous heart.”
SUITE 42
“Holla, super man,” said Gittel, as she got on the elevator at the first floor. Her arms were filled with grocery bags from Pioneer. Henry helped her put them down, then pushed number three for her. He was going up to four. Suite 42. Leaky faucet. Ms. Rachel’s suite. Bathroom. Like Mr. E. told him to do. The Hungarian lady got off at 3. Henry stepped out on the next floor.
He knocked on the door of Suite 42. Waited a moment. Then rang the doorbell. Once. Twice. He leaned against the door, his ear pressed against the metal. Finally, when no one stirred, he used the master key.
Without casting a glance, Henry walked straight into the bathroom. Water dripped from the faucet. He tried to turn it all the way, but a trickle of water continued to run. One more try. Guess not. “I’m gonna have to take this sucker apart,” he said aloud. Henry took the wrench from his tool box.
As he walked past the bedroom, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brilliant plumage of color. Wrench in hand, he followed his eyes and entered Ms. Rachel’s bedroom.
First there was the scent. He followed his nose and sniffed fresh lilacs in a crystal vase on the table. Thought of his grandmother’s garden in Sweet Briar, where he had spent his boyhood summers.
He looked around. There were a million things. And things that held things. A royal blue ostrich boa was flung over the vanity. Five white heads with wigs of different styles and colors. A golden hand-held mirror. China figurines. Cups holding brushes of many sizes. Little jars of makeup. Powders and sequins. Necklaces, earrings.
Peeking into her closet, which was open, he spied glittery movie star gowns, hundreds of shoes. And turning to face her bed, he saw that it was covered with red satin sheets!
“Sheeet!” He laughed aloud. “White people.” He shook his head. When he was alone, he liked to talk to himself. One of the perks of the job.
He’d seen everything at the hotel. Like that Dr. T. on the second floor who covered his ceiling with mirrors, then almost flooded the place with his water bed. Miss Amber had klieg lights, a full-length mirror with a camera mounted on a tripod. What was she taking pictures of? He smiled to himself. “I could write a book.”
He sat down on a purple velvet armchair, leaning back comfortably. A midnight blue ostrich boa floated over him. He wrapped it around himself. “So that’s what luxury feels like…” He sighed. As he looked down, he saw a pile of paperback books at his feet. Most had pictures of women with their blouses torn and fiery titles like Her Beloved Lust and By Love Possessed. He was about to pick one up when Henry heard a sound. He looked up. Rachel was standing in the doorway.
He stood up hastily, dropping the boa. “Ms. Rachel, I was, uh, fixing your faucet in the, uh, bathroom sink,” he answered. “I think it should work.”
He walked stealthily away from the chair.
“Want to try it out?”
She seemed to be studying him.
“The faucet.”
Henry followed behind Rachel, unable to avoid noticing the lovely rhythmic sway of her ample hips and ass. She sure was a good looker.
He shook his head. He was too old and too sick for this kind of nonsense. And yet the fire wasn’t done yet —t here were still a few red embers. He chuckled to himself, then thought of Bessie, whom he’d met in Lynchburg and had married over thirty years ago. She was a smart woman with big motherly thighs.
Curiosity got the better of him. He opened his mouth. “Do you wear those wigs?” He pointed to several white heads covered with different colors and styles of hair.
“I have,” she answered.
“The Angela Davis?”
“I thought it was Mod Squad.”
He cracked up, flashing his enormously likeable smile with its many imperfect teeth.
“I once wore it to a Halloween party with Harvey. That was my last husband. He came as Abbie Hoffman, not a stretch ’cause he had that kind of hair. Harvey. I miss him. I really do.”
“How long ago did he die?”
“A couple years ago. But I still think about him. You know, I heard that when people die, they sometimes come back to visit you. That hasn’t happened with Harvey. I keep hoping he’ll come. You think he’s mad at me?” she asked a bewildered Henry. “I don’t know why though. Except maybe he’s not happy that I’ve had lovers.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll ask Bessie, if you like. She talks to dead people all the time.”
Rachel smiled. “You’re a good man, Henry.”
“Did you turn it on?” he asked.
She looked confused.
“It turns on and off now,” he said, bending over to twist the chrome cap. “The faucet. It turns off now.”
“Turn on, turn off, thanks Henry.” She leaned over. “Do you mind?”
He smiled his toothy smile, so full of goodwill.
Rachel planted a kiss on his cheek, then reached into her designer bag to give him a twenty. He sure didn’t mind that.
_______
Sonia Pilcer is the author of six novels including The Holocaust Kid. The Last Hotel will be published in December by Heliotrope Books, available at Amazon.com. Visit Sonia Pilcer’s web site here.
