Top of the Hill, page 14
After the bellboy had left, Michael went over to one of the windows to see what the view was. The room was at the front of the building and in the light of the lamps that lined the driveway he saw Mrs. Heggener, bundled in her coat, with the dog trotting beside her, walking toward where the Porsche was parked. Mrs. Heggener stopped and peered at the car. The dog lifted his leg and peed against the rear wheel. Mrs. Heggener looked up at the window of Michael’s room. He knew he was outlined against the light of the lamps and he knew she was staring at him. He had the impression that she was smiling.
He stepped back hastily. I hope the damn dog isn’t an omen, he thought. He was sorry Mrs. Heggener had seen him at that moment.
He unpacked, bathed and shaved and put on fresh clothes, then wrote a short note to Antoine giving him the address of the Alpina and asking Antoine to go to the hotel in New York where Michael had left the bulk of his belongings and search for the registration for the Porsche. “All is blessedly peaceful here,” he wrote, finishing the letter. “So far there is no snow, but it is balanced by a distinct absence of pianists and Texans. Au revoir, Michael.” He remembered to scrawl Antoine’s alias on the envelope and the address of the loathsome hotel to which Antoine had fled. Then, carrying an old sheepskin coat that he had had since his days in college, he went down to the desk and gave his key to the nightclerk.
Mrs. Heggener, now dressed for the evening in a long black gown, was sitting in a little sitting room visible from the lobby, the retriever lying on the carpet beside her. She was reading a book, but looked up as Michael stood at the desk and nodded at him and he nodded back. As Michael was waiting for the stamp to put on his letter, a tall, slender, exquisite black girl, very young, dressed as a maid in black, with a small white apron, crossed the lobby carrying a tray with a bottle of white wine and a single glass and went into the room where Mrs. Heggener was sitting. He couldn’t help but stare.
The girl poured the wine into Mrs. Heggener’s glass and Mrs. Heggener raised it in salute to Michael. She was obviously used to the guests of the hotel staring at her beautiful servant. She said something that Michael couldn’t hear to the girl and the girl came over to
Michael and said, “Mr. Storrs, Mrs. Heggener asks if you would like to join her for a glass of wine/’ her voice melodious and shy.
He looked at his watch, decided he could spare five minutes and said, “Thank you very much,” as the waitress went off to fetch another glass.
“It’s very kind of you, madam,” he said, as he threw his coat over the back of a chair.
“Please do sit down,” Mrs. Heggener said. “It’s good of you to join me. This is the time of the year I like best—before the season really begins and I have the place practically to myself. But there are moments when one is grateful for a little company. You are familiar with the town?”
“I spent a winter here many years ago. This hotel wasn’t built then.”
“No, my husband and I are comparative newcomers.” Her tone was even, the words carefully spaced and clear, giving or taking nothing.
“When I was here before, no one dressed for dinner. I’m afraid I left anything fancy back in New York.”
“Oh, this,” Mrs. Heggener said, flipping a fold of her skirt slightly. Her hands, Michael saw, were long and pale, with polished, pointed nails. “I dress as the mood moves me. Our guests are encouraged to do the same. Tonight I happened to feel rather formal.” She studied him frankly. Almost automatically, his hand went up to the open collar of his flannel shirt. Mrs. Heggener smiled. “Don’t worry, you look splendid.”
He put his hand in the pocket of his tweed jacket. Nobody had ever told him he looked splendid.
“Do you plan to stay long?” she asked.
“For the season. At least,” he said, “if all goes well.”
Mrs. Heggener arfched her full, unplucked but shadowed eyebrows, as though surprised. “For the season? Well, we shall have to see that all goes well.”
The waitress came back with a second glass and Mrs. Heggener poured. She lifted her glass. “Prost”
“Prost,” he said.
“For the season,” Mrs. Heggener repeated. “How fortunate for us. There are very few Americans your age who can tear themselves away from their work for a whole winter.”
“I’m one of the lucky ones,” Michael said, drinking. “The wine is delicious.”
“Austrian,” Mrs. Heggener said. “Have you ever been in Austria?”
“I’ve been in St. Anton, Kitzbiihel, a couple of weeks.”
“You’re a skier, of course.”
“I manage to get down the hill,” Michael said. He had the feeling his credentials were being examined by this cool critical woman, with every movement measured.
Mrs. Heggener sipped at her glass. She had a wide mouth with full, unrouged lips, somehow, Michael thought, not fitting the same face as the cold blue eyes and the fine-downed almost ascetic lines of her cheeks. “My father grows this wine,” she said. “I’ve drunk it since I was a child. One grows attached to the tastes of childhood. Shall I have Rita leave a bottle for you in your room for a nightcap this evening?”
“That would be very nice. Thank you.”
“If you don’t mind a rather mournful empty dining room,” she hesitated, “perhaps you would like to share your dinner with me.”
“That’s very good of you, madam, but I’m dining with the Ellsworths.”
“Of course,” she said. “He’s an old friend of yours, I take it.”
“Old enough.”
“He’s a good friend, too—of my husband’s. He helped build this hotel. My husband found him most straightforward and companionable. You could not be introduced under better auspices. It’s a good breed—mountain men. You’re from New York, aren’t you?”
“Except on weekends and holidays ”
Mrs. Heggener laughed. Michael had the impression that she was a woman who did not laugh often or heartily. It was a pity, he thought, because the cold face softened attractively when she laughed and she had perfect gleaming teeth. “I know what you mean,” she said. “One fortnight there and my nerves are ragged. If I may ask, what do you do between weekends and holidays?”
“I struggle along,” Michael said evasively. He didn’t like being quizzed, judged, categorized by this cool, self-possessed woman.
“The struggle is not without its rewards, I believe,” she said. “I saw your car.”
“I occasionally pamper myself.” Michael put the glass down and stood up. “Thank you for the wine. I’m afraid I must be going.”
“If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask. The service will be worse later—when the crowds come. Enjoy your dinner.”
“I look forward to it.” He took a step toward the door.
“Oh,” Mrs. Heggener said, stopping him, “and forgive Bruno here.” She patted the dog’s great head. “In a way, what he did was a compliment. He . . . ah . . . anoints . . . only the most luxurious of machines.”
Michael laughed. “Good old Bruno.” He bent and patted the dog’s head. The dog panted and wagged his tail lazily.
“He’s a snob about people too,” Mrs. Heggener said, plainly approving of Bruno’s character. “He is very choosy about whom he bestows his friendship on.”
“I’m flattered,” he said.
“I’m sure you’re used to flattery, Mr. Storrs,” she said. “Have a pleasant evening.”
“Goodnight, madam.” She nodded and picked up the book she had been reading and ruffled the pages to find her place.
Glacial, he thought, as he went out of the hotel. Then he shivered and put on his coat and got into the car and drove off.
As he pressed the front door bell of the Ellsworth house, a gray-shingled two-story New England structure to which Ellsworth, Michael noticed, had added a new wing, he remembered the first time he had rung that bell. He had just arrived in town and had seen the sign, room to rent, and he had spent the first two nights in a noisy, unkempt small hotel full of roaring college kids who couldn’t hold their liquor, and the neat gray house had promised comfort and peace. It had given him that and more—prodigious meals and the friendship of the family, although he had only stayed two weeks then, because by the time two weeks had passed he had become involved with several ladies, including the one who was no longer Mrs. Harris and there was no possibility of entertaining the then Mrs. Harris or any of the other ladies in his small bedroom at the back of the house where the church-going and straitlaced family could hear every move he made through the thin wooden walls.
“Come in, come in,” he heard Ellsworth’s voice booming from somewhere in the house. He opened the door and went into the familiar hall as Ellsworth came out of the living room carrying a glass. He was coatless, the collar of his shirt open around his bull neck.
“Minna was beginning to worry,” Ellsworth said, helping Michael off with his coat. “She remembers you like your roast beef rare and she was afraid you were running late and it would be overdone.”
“I was held up by a lady,” Michael said as they went into the living room.
“So soon?” Ellsworth said, but did not sound surprised.
“The owner’s wife,” Michael said. “Madam Heggener.”
“Oh,” Ellsworth said flatly. “That one.”
Michael looked around the living room. It had hardly changed. The same grandfather clock ticking away, the same sofa, with the print a little more faded, the same photograph of Herb and Minna Ellsworth on their wedding day, their faces grave, their bodies rigid, Ellsworth big, but athletically trained down in a lieutenant’s uniform. “I have some great memories of this room,” Michael said softly. “Mostly of me sitting here with my leg up in a cast.” Ellsworth waved his glass in his big rough hand. “I’m drinking whiskey,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“I was drinking white wine. Austrian wine.”
“Ah, yes,” Ellsworth said. “She tell you her father grows it?”
“Right off.” .
“She tell you her father was a count or something in the old country?”
“No.”
“Wait,” said Ellsworth. “She stepped down, marrying a hotelkeeper. Only the hotelkeeper supports the count these days. And his vineyard. I have a bottle of wine in the refrigerator. I’ll go get it.” He went through the dining room into the kitchen.
He might be a friend of the husband, Michael thought, but he’s no friend of the wife. Ellsworth’s dogs had never been snobs.
Michael went over to the mantelpiece, where, next to the wedding picture, there was a photograph of Norma Ellsworth, now Cully, with two small children on skis. She had not been a pretty girl, pale and skinny, and age had not made her any prettier. She stared out of the photograph, an uncertain small smile on her lips. The two boys seemed robust and took after their father. Luckily, Michael thought.
Ellsworth came back into the living room with an open bottle and a glass and poured for Michael. “You don’t mind if it’s not Austrian?”
“Not a bit.” He tasted it. “Not bad.”
“New York State,” Ellsworth said.
Minna Ellsworth bustled into the living room, a plump, hearty, motherly woman in an apron, flushed from the heat in the kitchen.
“Mike,” she said, emotionally. She embraced him and kissed his cheek, her arms solid and strong around him. Too bad, Michael thought, the daughter hadn’t taken after either of her parents. She stepped back and examined him critically. “It’s been too damn long.”
“You’re absolutely right, Minna,” Michael said. “The place is as beautiful as ever. And so are you.”
“Still a liar with the ladies, aren’t you, Mike?” she said indulgently. She looked around the living room, though. “It’s not too bad. Though everything’s turning into an antique. Including the television set and me.” She laughed, a rumbling, deep laugh. “Well, we can continue at the table. Dinner’s ready.” She went back to the kitchen, her wide bottom firm and strong under the sensible dark wool skirt.
“She looks great, Herb,” Michael said to Ellsworth.
“Put on a little weight,” Ellsworth said. “She enjoys her own cooking. Let’s sit down.”
They went into the dining room. There were only three places set on the big heavy oak table.
“Just the three of us?” Michael asked.
“Just us.”
“I thought you said Norma was . . .”
“She said she couldn’t come tonight,” Ellsworth said, without expression.
They were silent for a moment. Michael finished his glass of wine and put it down on the sideboard. “You told her I was coming,” he said, making it a declarative sentence.
“Uhuh.”
“I see.”
“Women,” said Ellsworth. “Let’s sit down.”
“I saw the picture of her on the mantelpiece, with the two kids on skis,” Michael said.
“Good kids.”
“Did Norma keep up with her skiing?”
Ellsworth shook his head. “That was another of her disappointments. Just when it looked as though she was going to go on the circuit she tore her knee apart. Now she skis with her kids and that’s all.”
“Is she happy?”
“She would have been happier, if she’d gotten out of town and made a life for herself somewhere else. I never thought just being a housewife would be enough for her. However—” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “She made her decision. What’s past is past.”
Minna Ellsworth came in with a platter on which a big roast beef steamed, surrounded by browned potatoes. Tacitly, the two men didn’t speak about Norma anymore during the meal.
After dinner, they watched television. There was a professional football game on and the two men watched intently while Minna did some sewing in a rocking chair, looking up occasionally, when the roar of the crowd became louder.
“They sure are wonderful,” Ellsworth said. “But I’m glad I’m not playing these days.” He had played in high school, but had not gone to college as he had to go to work and then into the Army right after graduation. “It’s not a game anymore. It’s men fighting for their lives for money.”
“We all ought to be ashamed we watch it,” Minna said unexpectedly. “Grown men tearing each other apart, their whole futures depending on whether they catch a ball or break their necks. And in skiing, the difference between being rich and famous or poor and a failure is a couple of hundredths of a second. There’s enough competition in this world without burdening children with that kind of strain. And what it does to them later ... It makes you want to cry. Just about every kid in this town who got a picture in the paper because he or she could slide down a hill faster than the other kids has turned out the worse for it. I tell you, I thanked Almighty God when Norma broke her knee.”
Ellsworth turned the television off. “Minna,” he said crossly, “can’t you let us enjoy ourselves for a few minutes?”
She got up out of the rocking chair. “Women’re supposed to be a civilizing influence. I’m going to bed. If you want you can turn on that damn tube after I leave, if you keep the noise down.” She went over to Michael and kissed his forehead. “Goodnight,” she said. “Don’t forget where we live, now.”
“I won’t,” said Michael.
She went out and Ellsworth reached toward the television set, then thought better of it and let his arm drop. “The hell with it,” he said. “We can find out who won in the papers tomorrow. Want a whiskey?”
“No, thanks.”
“Good. Neither do I,” Ellsworth said. “They fix you up all right at the hotel?”
“Couldn’t be better. Tell me, how come an Austrian couple run a hotel in a place like Green Hollow?”
“The way I got it,” Ellsworth said, “Heggener’s family were rich and owned a fancy hotel in Vienna, but the old man didn’t like Hitler and saw the handwriting on the wall and got the family over here before the Anschluss. Heggener must have been ten or eleven, maybe a little older, at the time. They got their money out in time, so they were loaded. The old man put together a string of small hotels in America and Heggener inherited. Did damn well on his own after his father died, too, from all appearances. Met the lady at a reception at the Austrian embassy to the U.N. and reverted to type. She must be at least twenty years younger than Heggener, but it’s better than working, I guess.”
“What’s he in the hospital for?”
“Poor bastard,” Ellsworth said. “He came down with tuberculosis. One of those new strains that they can’t cure with penicillin. We’ll miss him when he’s gone,” Ellsworth said sadly. “He’s very popular in town.”
“And she isn’t?”
“She doesn’t go out of her way to win any popularity contests.” Ellsworth yawned.
Michael stood up. “I’d better be going,” he said. “It’s been a full day. Anyway, thanks to you, I’m not sleeping in the slammer tonight.”
Ellsworth chuckled as he walked Michael to the door. He looked up at the sky and sniffed. “Looks like we’re going to have snow. Not a day too soon. Sleep well, Mike.”
When Michael entered the hotel he saw the nightclerk sleeping with his arms folded on the desk and his head on his arms. Quietly Michael went behind the desk and lifted his key off the hook.
There was a fire going in the fireplace in his room and an opened bottle of wine was in a cooler with two glasses on the table between the two easy chairs. He wondered whom Rita thought he was going to bring back with him for the second glass. He threw off his coat and jacket and put another log on the fire, poured a glass of wine for himself, sat down and leaned back luxuriously, sipping the cold wine, staring into the flames. Snow tomorrow, Ellsworth had predicted. If there was enough coming down between now and morning to make it worthwhile that would make everything perfect. He’d heard that there were some new steep trails cut through the forest and he wanted to explore them.
There was a knock on the door. He looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. Puzzled, he went to the door and opened it. Mrs. Heggener was standing, still dressed in the long, loosely flowing black gown.
