The day camp was an inglorious mixture of cherubs of all ages. One of the counselors carried a three-year-old in her arms and pleaded with him to stand on his own two feet. He was having none of it. The minute she lowered him in the earth’s direction he set up such a howl she was forced to lift him back to her level. Grateful and content, he brought the nipple of his juice bottle to his mouth and began to suck.
Most of the children were working industriously on various arts and crafts projects—finger painting, weaving, belt making and clay sculpture. Others were playing games like checkers, Parcheesi, Monopoly or simply reading or coloring under a tree.
Half a dozen counselors circulated among them, most of them teenage girls and boys from town who worked the season for a minimal salary plus whatever tips they could wangle from the parents. Those who were more experienced made it their business early in the summer to find out which kids came from wealthy families so they could seek them out for special attention.
Because there were more children this weekend than expected, the counselors were overwhelmed by the number of children in their charge.
Sandi stood in the arts and crafts section of the rec hall dishing out globs of sticky clay into eagerly awaiting hands. Only an hour before, against her better judgment, she had let Magda cajole her into lending a hand. It was something she hated to do, especially today when she wanted to spend more time with Grant, but it was hard to turn Magda down when she asked a favor.
“It’s not for the entire summer, Sandi. It’s just for a couple of days. You don’t want your mother to have another problem to worry about, do you?”
No, she didn’t. Not after last night’s conversation. She remembered her mother’s words the last time she was asked to pitch in two or three months ago. “A little work won’t kill you now and then, honey. Your father started helping out when he was still in short pants and he doesn’t look any the worse for it, does he? Besides,” she’d added, “it will give you character.”
How the hell working with screaming, nose-dripping, spoiled brats gave her character, Sandi never quite figured out. All it did for her was give her a headache.
Nevertheless when she got to the day camp she saw that Magda had been right. It was like a three-ring circus, the counselors running around in circles surrounded by little armies of noisy, dirty, three-to-eleven-year-olds all demanding immediate attention. Stan Leshner, the director of activities, was overjoyed to see her.
“You’re an angel in disguise,” he said, lifting her off her feet. “I don’t have the time to break in someone new. Let me have your attention everybody,” he shouted, clapping his hands loudly. “Everybody hold it down a minute, okay? Now listen boys and girls. After lunch your counselors are going to take you for a nature hike in the woods behind the staff cottages. Then you’ll come back and change for a swim. After rest hour, there’ll be a puppet show in the rec hall.” There were a lot of oohs and ahs. “So everyone behave and give your counselors your full cooperation, okay?” The children nodded seriously. “Good, I’ll see you all later.”
He withdrew quickly, grateful that at least one situation was under control. Sandi went to her station by the clay and after seeing that her charges were occupied, began to mold something for herself. At first it began as a long, thin scarecrow but gradually it began to look more and more like a long phallus. One of the counselors, Mary Dickson, a bright redhead with a heavily freckled face, stared at the way Sandi was working the clay up and down her hand.
“What is that?” she asked, looking up from the small group of children seated around her. Sandi snapped out of her daze.
“Huh?”
Mary laughed and turned back to her kids. Sandi studied her creation and then crushed it quickly, pounding it with vicious energy. Suddenly she felt a tug on her jeans. She looked down at a four-or five-year-old girl with an expression on her face that told all.
“Shit,” she said, louder than she meant to. Much of the action around her stopped and other children looked up from their work. “Glady, GLADYS,” she screamed at the head counselor who was working with the older kids. The tall, excrutiatingly thin eighteen-year-old turned around impatiently. She had dull brown hair and a plain, homely face.
“What is it?”
“We’ve got a problem here. One of the kids made in her pants.”
“Well, can’t you handle it?”
“Not if I’m not getting paid.” Whether her mother liked it or not, there was a point where she drew the line.
Glady frowned and came across the room, weaving her way in between a maze of little bodies. When she saw who it was she gasped in amazement and put her hands on her hips.
“Not you again, Miriam.”
The little girl nodded softly and began to cry.
“Nice work, Gladys,” Sandi whispered sarcastically. “Now you’ve got her crying too.”
“Well this is the third time I’ve had to take this kid to be changed.”
“My stomach hurts,” the little girl sobbed. Both counselors stared down at her. She really did look terrible.
“Didn’t you tell her mother?”
“I couldn’t find her. I got the room key from the front desk and took her up myself. The first time I just changed her panties and let her come back. The second time I made her put on a different dress. But this time it’s splattered all over …”
“You better find her mother before it’s too late. The kid looks awful. When you see her, don’t forget to remind her that the hotel has a doctor she can call if it gets really bad.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that. Watch my side, will ya?” She started to embrace the child, then thought better of it. Instead, she took her hand and led her once again toward the main house.
It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes later when Mary Dickson let out a scream. The sound of the counselor’s voice was enough to bring the entire camp to silence. She stood up quickly, holding her skirt away from her body. The little boy seated beside her had suddenly, and without apparent warning, begun regurgitating. He was still throwing up and spitting on the floor.
I don’t believe it, Sandi thought. What the hell did I get myself into?
“Everybody get up and go outside while we clean things up in here,” one of the other counselors announced. “Let’s go over and sit under the apple tree and sing some songs,” another one suggested.
The children rose obediently, their faces reflecting curiosity and surprise. They were unusually cooperative and quiet as they filed out of the hall. Mary Dickson, still holding her skirt up and away from her body, yelled out for a rag. The little boy began to cry.
“I’ll take him back to the hotel,” Sandi said, helping him up to his feet. She took his hand in hers and started him out of the building. “It’s all right, little boy, don’t cry,” she said. “You’ll feel better in no time.”
“My stomach hurts,” he replied. She stopped for a moment and looked over at him. He sounded exactly like that little girl Miriam. Odd, she thought, two children in the same morning.
Just outside the steam room, the men’s health club had three rows of lounges on which guests could nap and relax. The walls of the health club were made of a heavy, slick aqua tile. The floors had recently been relaid with an inexpensive indoor-outdoor darker blue carpet. On both sides of the lounge area there were shelves of towels and racks of current newspapers and magazines. Further in, just past the steam room, was the shower section consisting of a dozen stalls. Small cakes of soap could be taken from wall dispensers spaced out evenly along the outside walls. To the left of the showers were two small rooms used for massages. Four men dressed in see-through tee shirts and white pants slapped and stirred the flesh of groggy guests sprawled out like corpses in a pathology lab. Legs juggled and stomachs growled as muscles were stretched and the blood around them stimulated.
Bruce Solomon knelt down beside the end lounge on which the limp and now dampened body of David Oberman had been placed. Marco Romano, the men’s health room attendant, stood beside him looking down. Marco had been a professional wrestler, a fact still testified to by his thick, muscular shoulders and forearms. Only his lower stomach had surrendered to time and lack of exercise. He had almost grotesque facial features with wide separations between his teeth. A piece of his left eyebrow was missing, the result of an old wrestling injury that never healed properly. In his time, he had been a popular performer going under the name Marco the Magnificent. When he worked he wore a centurion costume and carried a spear into the ring with him.
“Sven told me he couldn’t get this guy to move but I didn’t want to use force on him till we contacted Mrs. Golden. It could be he’s drunk or maybe just a kook. We get our share around here, you know.”
“Look,” Bruce said, noticing the small crowd that was beginning to form around them, “you’ll have to clear out one of those massage rooms so we can put this man in there until the ambulance comes.”
“Clear one out?” He looked in their direction. “But … the guests are paying for their time in there.” One look at Bruce and he knew he wasn’t kidding. “Okay, I’ll take care of it right away.”
“What’s the matter with him?” a man asked.
“I’m not sure. Probably passed out from too much heat.” He remembered Sid’s description of how hotels handled their sick in front of their guests.
“O.K.,” Marco said, coming back. “let’s just lift him lounge and all. It’ll be easier.”
“Right.”
The two of them carried David’s body into the massage room. Marco left and Bruce closed the door, shutting himself off from the onlookers. He studied the dead man’s face. His mouth was opened slightly, but his eyes were sealed so tightly they looked like they’d been sewn shut. His identity had already begun to seep out of him. Death was replacing it with that anonymity that characterized all corpses. How quickly a man or woman became a thing, an object only good for scientific curiosity. It was difficult to relate the voice and the gestures of the David Oberman he had met the night before to this cold and clammy body sprawled before him.
“Is it Oberman?” Sid asked, coming into the room. Bruce hadn’t heard him enter. “Bruce?” He tapped him on the shoulder.
Bruce whirled around. “Huh? Oh, Sid. Hi.”
“Is that the man?”
“Yes, it’s him … or I should say was him.” Bronstein moved forward and lifted an eyelid. He felt for a pulse and pinched the skin.
“When you wipe off the condensation from the steam room, you see how dry the skin was.”
“I noticed that when I spoke with him earlier but it didn’t occur to me he was near death.”
“The Bluestone woman is in a very bad way. She must’ve been rundown to start. Dehydrated quickly. She’s already into uremia.”
“A really vicious strain.”
“That’s my guess now. We’d better get back to Ellen’s office. There’s nothing else we can do here.”
Bruce nodded and they left the room. Marco approached quickly. “How long’s that guy gonna be in there?”
“The ambulance should be along any minute,” Bronstein said. “In the meantime, it’s essential that no one goes into the room.”
“Sure, sure.”
They walked out of the health club quickly and headed up the stairs to Ellen’s office. When Sid opened the door they were confronted by a cool, neatly composed Jonathan seated on the couch, a file folder in his hand, his pipe held comfortably in his fingers. Ellen’s face looked flushed but there was a surprisingly controlled calm about her. She leaned forward, eager to hear what they had to say.
“The man in the health club is dead,” Sid reported. “I’m sorry. He turned to Jonathan and pointed his finger. “Dead, Jonathan, okay? What you were so sure was impossible a day and a half ago is cold reality today. Damn it, I never should have listened to you in the first place!” He stood up and started pacing around the room. “And why the hell didn’t you tell Ellen like you promised? You knew how important it was. …”
“He claims he was trying to protect me,” Ellen interrupted. “That there was no reason to upset me over something that would probably prove to be a false alarm.”
“False alarm? He knew I had very serious suspicions that Tony Wong had cholera. And that you had to be alerted to all of the potential danger. I’m sorry if I’m getting carried away, but…”
“You’re the doctor, Sid. Why didn’t you tell me yourself if it was that important?” Ellen asked quietly.
There it was. The question he always knew he would have to face along with why he hadn’t called the health authorities immediately. To say he had faith in Jonathan was little more than half truth. To say that he would have done anything to avoid bringing Ellen news of another death, this time perhaps the death of the Congress itself, was not the whole truth either. No, deep down he knew he had acted in a cowardly way. He hadn’t wanted to rock the boat, disturb the status quo, or be the least bit responsible for participating in a disaster that could have caused his father-in-law to lose his investment and put friends and associates out of business. And disturb his pleasant life style, too, he admitted. At this moment, he didn’t particularly like himself very much.
The pained look on his face aroused great sympathy in Ellen. She pushed him no further. “What do we do now to protect our people? Do we send them away?”
Sid was grateful for the chance to get back to medicine. “No. First I have to call Gerson Kaplow, the public health officer. The procedures are pretty well outlined for Class I communicable diseases. Quarantine is mandatory where there is a possibility of an epidemic and they don’t know what’s causing or who’s carrying the disease.”
Ellen’s hands flew involuntarily to her face. “Quarantine? You mean keeping all the guests restricted to the grounds?”
“Everybody, guests and staff alike. All deliveries will be stopped at the gate and no one will be permitted in or out without official authorization.”
“Oh, my God. It’s like keeping hostages in a prison.”
“Not exactly,” Sid said, managing a smile for the first time. “No prison I’ve ever seen has such elegant meals and facilities.”
Suddenly Bruce interrupted. “There’s something we’ve got to do right away,” he said. He looked directly at Jonathan. “The New York doctor you sent the dishwashers and chambermaid to. You’ve got to call him immediately and advise him of the status of things. There’s a possibility they are infected and—”
“There’s no one to call,” Jonathan whispered, staring down at his patent leather pumps. The enormity of what was happening was finally sinking in. He let out a deep breath and tapped out his pipe. His shoulders began to sag.
“What are you talking about now?” Ellen asked.
“Hold it,” Bruce said, ignoring her question. It suddenly all become clear. “You didn’t send those people to a medical facility either, did you? Did you?” The room was silent. “Just where the hell did you send them?” He reached down toward Jonathan, grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him to his feet.
“Get your fuckin’ hands …”
“Hold it, Bruce,” Sid said, pulling them apart. “Fighting isn’t going to solve anything.” He turned to the general manager. “Just what exactly did you do with them, Jonathan?”
“I gave them some money and sent them into the city to have some fun until the weekend was over.”
“You sent them into the city to walk the streets when they might have been contaminated because you were afraid the hotel might get some negative publicity? Why you son of a …” Bruce pushed Sid away and lunged for him again.
Ellen stood up. “Enough,” she said sharply. In the midst of the three raging men, she suddenly took on new strength and control. “Now sit down, all of you.” Bruce glared at Jonathan and retreated to a chair. “Bruce, I want you to go to Halloran and see if he has any information regarding where the dishwashers and Margret Thomas went. Sid, I know you have your hands full. Jonathan,” she turned with undisguised bitterness to her general manager. “I have nothing to say to you right now. When this is over, if there’s anything left after the damage to our reputation and finances is computed, we’ll discuss whether or not you have a future with the Congress.”
“There won’t be any need.” He backed toward the door. “There won’t be any hotel to discuss. I’m getting out while there’s still a chance.”
“I advise you not to try to leave,” Bruce said.
“He’s right,” Sid said. “By the time you’re finished packing we’ll be in quarantine.”
“And,” Bruce added, “as hard as it may be for you to believe, Mr. Holier-than-Thou, you too might already be infected. Knowing what kind of a scum you are, it probably feels right at home.” Jonathan didn’t wait to hear what anyone else had to say. He turned and rushed out of the office.
“You’d better start making your phone calls,” Ellen said. Sid nodded and reached for the phone.
“I’m sorry Ellen,” he said quietly. He lifted the receiver but before he could get the operator, Rosie came barging into the office.
“Oh, Dr. Bronstein, hurry. There’s a pregnant woman with stomach pains, terrible stomach pains, and they just took her out of the dining room. She’s afraid it might be a miscarriage.”
Bronstein followed her out of the office.
“Cholera can do that,” Bruce said softly. Ellen Golden reached for the phone to make some of the calls herself.
When Flo Goldberg came back to her room after breakfast, she found Manny in his undershirt and shorts sleeping on top of the bed. His mouth was wide open and he was snoring. For a few moments she stood staring at him in disgust. Then she tiptoed across the room to her dresser, took out her bathing suit, and went into the bathroom. She changed, put on her robe and sandals, gathered her body oils and lotions together, found her copy of McCalls, scooped up her sunglasses and headed out of the room.
They were giving mambo lessons at the pool and she was the first to volunteer. All of the others who joined the class came up in couples. Since she was alone the dance instructor used her for his demonstration. That was all right, but when he was finished illustrating the steps, he left her to give the couples individual attention. For a few moments she stood there with a bemused expression on her face looking about for a partner, someone who would step forward and rescue her from this absolutely foolish stance in between the dancers. No one came over so she went back to her chaise.
She tried to read her magazine but the words kept flying off the page. When she looked around the pool, it seemed to her that everyone else had someone to be with. Of course, this wasn’t true. There were other women who were unescorted, but most of them at least had other women to talk to. She was completely by herself. She stared at the lifeguard and tried to think about his body and the way he would move in bed, but even those thoughts became unglued.
Gradually the mambo rhythms, the voices of the people, the sound of splashing in the pool, and the laughter all around turned annoying. She didn’t understand why, but she was suddenly feeling miserable. She thought about ordering a drink, then remembered what drinking in the daytime usually did to her. If anything, it made her groggy and gave her sinus headaches.
She even considered writing a few postcards, then realized how stupid that would be. After all, she was only spending an extended weekend in the Catskills. It wasn’t like a trip to Europe or the Far East. Besides, Bernard hated the Congress and everything he thought it stood for. He certainly wouldn’t be interested in any details. In some ways he was a terrible snob. She wondered if it was a terrible thing for a mother to sometimes dislike her own son.
With her daughter it was just the opposite. It was Linda who had come to dislike her. They saw so little of each other now and somehow she had come to realize it was better that way—a mutual truce, an unspoken understanding. The love, the respect, it just wasn’t there—despite the years and the attention, the meals and the doctoring. It had never taken, like a skin graft that failed. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out to be a mother in the first place.
As the late morning wore on, Flo lay there thinking. She felt very small and alone. Her affairs, her two minute episodes, were really not very satisfying. She could dote on them for a while but in the long run they were like aspirins. The thought made her laugh but she could see that the analogy was true. The aspirin took away the symptoms of the headache but didn’t really get to the cause.
What was the cause? If, for a moment, she would give her life serious thought, she was certain to grow depressed. Here she was over forty years old without close friends, without any family that really gave a damn, without any purpose. In some ways she envied Ellen Golden. Her husband had died and left her with too many problems and too many responsibilities to feel sorry for herself. She thought about her, wondered where she was right now, imagined herself in Ellen Golden’s place, saw herself greeting people, issuing orders and overseeing glamorous projects. It didn’t take her long to see how ridiculous a picture that would make. She had a hard enough time running a house for her husband and son, much less a hotel like this.
The sound of a man and woman laughing together drew her attention across the pool. She saw a young couple, with a pair of young children about them. It made her maudlin. They looked impregnable, happy, complete. They were continually aware of each other, almost as if invisible spiderlike threads were strung between them, holding them together.
Why couldn’t she have loved someone that way? Why couldn’t she have enjoyed her children and her marriage instead of continually thinking of them as an ordeal? Her self-pity was making her feel old and tired. She tried to fight it off but couldn’t. It turned into bitterness. Those husbands would stray from those wives soon enough, she mumbled, and the wives would do the same. Their children would grow up to be self-centered and ungrateful just like hers. They were no different. Why, she thought, I bet Manny and I even looked that happy once upon a time. She tried to resurrect the images but no such memory existed.
It made her angry and she took relief in the change of emotions. Where was that idiot? How long could he sleep? Did he have to spend so many hours drinking and playing cards? Their vacation always turned out this way, him going along his own way and leaving her alone. She’d fix him. She’d make it as miserable for him as he was making it for her. Maybe she would do the drinking tonight and not come back until 4 A.M. How would he like that for a change?
None of these vengeful thoughts really satisfied her. They left her even more miserable than before. Now the sun was getting too hot. Her shoulders felt sunburned. She was thirsty. The straps of the lounge were cutting into her back. Those damn little kids were splashing water. The band was playing too loud. She reached for her robe, slipped into her sandals and scooped up her belongings. Then she stood up abruptly and started back to the room. If that son of a bitch was still asleep …
A large group of people at the end of the pool had turned their attention to something going on down the path. It drew her curiosity so she followed the crowd to see what was happening. It was disgusting. What looked like a teenage boy was throwing up into one of the small ponds by the rock garden. Two of his friends stood nearby laughing.
An elderly man on a bench looked up at her.
“I’ll bet you anything,” he said, “that young whippersnapper drank too much shnapps last night. Such a shame to have to drink so much in order to be happy.”
She thought about Manny.
“You’re probably right,” she said and walked on.
Sandi opened her mother’s office door just enough to peer in. Ellen had just put the phone down and sat back. Sandi walked in further because she didn’t see Bruce seated to one side. The moment she did, she stopped.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were alone, mom.”
“That’s all right, honey. Come in. This is Mr. Solomon. Bruce, this is my daughter Sandi.”
“Hi,” Bruce said. He winked and smiled at her. Cute, she thought, moving to the desk.
“I just stopped by to take a breather.”
“Oh?”
“I was helping out at the day camp.”
“I know. Magda told me. I think that’s just great.”
“The counselors took the rest of them on a hike.”
“Rest of them?”
“Yeah. A couple of the kids had accidents.”
“My God, I hope nobody got hurt. What kind of accidents?”
“They got sick,” she said, looking at Bruce again. His face changed completely. “One made number two in her pants a few times and the other kid threw up. Right on Mary Dickson!”
“Where are these children now?” Bruce asked.
“We took them back to their parents.”
“We?” Ellen said. Sandi stared at her. Her mother’s face suddenly had a look of genuine fear. She didn’t know what to say. “You did?”
“Take it easy, Ellen,” Bruce said. “There are very limited ways in which this thing can be spread.”
“What thing?”
“Oh, Sandi.”
“What is it, mama?” Sandi moved around the desk to her mother’s side.
“We have big trouble, baby. Big.”
“It’s essential you understand this thing.” Bruce went on, very much tuned in to the mounting hysteria forming in Ellen’s voice. Sandi took her mother’s hand. “Wait a minute, Sandi,” he said leaning forward and extending his right hand. “Did you have any contact with … the mess the children made?”
“Contact?”
“Did you accidentally touch any of it or did any of it get on your clothes that you might have touched?”
“No.” She shook her head. “The head counselor took care of the little girl and the boy threw up on someone else. I just brought him back to the hotel.”
“Do you know if he or his counselor touched anything he threw up?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“You haven’t eaten anything since you brought him in, have you? Even a stick of gum?”
She shook her head and looked at Ellen, who seemed to be holding her breath.
“All right,” Bruce went on, relaxing some and leaning back. “Just to be on the safe side, go wash your hands real good, lots of soap and hot water, will you?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just listen, Sandi.” Her mother spoke in a quick, clipped command. She let go of her hand and backed away. “Go on.”
“Isn’t anybody going to tell me what this is all about?”
“Just go wash up and come back. Then I’ll tell you everything, I promise.”
Sandi looked at Bruce again and then turned and left the office.
“You see,” Bruce began as if he had just been interrupted, “direct contact with contaminated material is our major concern.”
“There’s so much I don’t know about this. Actually, I barely know how to spell the damn word. All I do know are all sorts of horrible stories …”
“I know. That, and misinformation, lack of information, confusion—will be out biggest problems for the next few days.”
“Days? How long will the quarantine last?”
“Well, if my memory serves me correctly, we’re talking about five or six days. It’s the length of the incubation period, you see.”
“Five or six days,” Ellen murmured softly. “An awful lot can happen in five or six days.”