Free The Pink Hotel by Patrick Dennis & Dorothy Erskine Page A

disappeared into, and called her and said that she thought they’d better be going now, but Darlene hadn’t answered and the door had been locked.
    Panic carried Mary suddenly into the hall, down an intricate maze of corridors. She had been lost then: one strip of red carpeting looking like another, leading nowhere. Blundering into an enclosed fire escape, she sat down abruptly on the first step. The concrete was very cold, and the wind went Oh-ohohohoh-e-e-e-e-e-ee. Eee-ohohohoh-oh-e-e-e-ee. Darlene had found her there as gray daylight began to mix with the hard incandescence of a naked light bulb on the landing. The rain was slackening now, but the wind still went Oh-ohohoh-oh-e-e-e-ee. Eee-ohohohohoh-ee-e-e. . . .
    Mary was aware of scraps of talk. Julie Templar. The Lyric Women. Pallas Athene Smith. Firing poor old Mr. Tilney. Chiang, again, “—receipt of your esteemed letter comma and beg to advise that three adjoining suites will be held pending your anticipated arrival—” Mary’s hands moved lightly, in swift co-ordination with her stenographer’s notebook. What she wouldn’t give to be back home right now, never see Mr. Wenton again.
    Darlene had been lucky, she decided. Mary had been a mail clerk and Darlene had had a job in Accounting. That was before Miss Williams had her nervous breakdown. If Mr. Purcell hadn’t told Mr. Wenton about her, how fast she was, she’d probably still be a mail clerk. Gee, he was nice.
    Anyhow, Darlene had met Ralph Strawbridge who played the electric guitar in the Fontainebleau Room, and it had been the real thing. They had been married within two weeks. Ralph was a nice boy and he seemed to be just crazy about Darlene. Darlene was maybe getting up about now, taking an aspirin, smoking a cigarette like she’d never get one again, drinking black coffee, walking around without a stitch the way she did.
    Purcell closed the door discreetly and headed for the bar, the double Scotch he had promised himself. He was just about the best-looking thing this side of . . . But Mary couldn’t really think of anyone with whom to compare Mr. Purcell.
    “Mary, you dull bitch,” Mr. Wenton said suddenly. “How many days till Christmas?” Little Street’s heart pounded. Her mouth went dry. She was afflicted with a sort of paralysis. If Mr. Wenton asked me my name now, I couldn’t tell him.
    “Don’t you ever listen when I’m talking to you, Miss Mucus?” the Old Man asked with dangerous politeness. “Get out of here, you midden! Be back in five minutes!” he roared.
     

311-12
     
    “Dear—” Mr. E. J. Westbury said.
    “Yes, dear,” said Mrs. E. J. Westbury.
    “I’m. going to get some golf again, dear.”
    “Out with the boys, dear?”
    “Yes, dear,” E. J. said and sighed.
    Mrs. E. J. sighed too, pulled the sheet over her head, turned and went back to her dream. The dream had been very pleasant, it had indicated Mrs. Westbury’s social acceptability.
    Mrs. Tewksberry— the Mrs. Tewksberry—had invited her to see her garden. Mrs. Tewksberry had called Mrs. Westbury Nona and Mrs. Westbury had called Mrs. Tewksberry Jane. “Call me plain Jane,” Mrs. Tewksberry had said and then she had removed her pink transformation and taken off out of the garden with the transformation clamped to her breastlike water wings. Mrs. Westbury was left alone in the garden, and as the familiar sensation returned, she awoke.
    It was reassuring to have dreamed of Mrs. Tewksberry, but privately, Mrs. Westbury did not approve of her, and it was disturbing. Mrs. Westbury considered Mrs. Tewksberry fast and common but there was no disputing her position. She did not even find Mrs. Tewksberry amusing, because Mrs. Westbury was all grave purpose and there was no room for amusement in her.
    Mrs. Westbury would have liked to go to the bathroom but Mom had always told her that the best time to go was right after breakfast. In death, Mrs. Westbury referred to Mom, now happily sanctified, as Maume.