Chapter 27.2

The miracle I hankered for did happen after all. A man and a girl, more or less conjoined in a dark car under dripping trees, told us we were in the heart of The Park, but had only to turn left at the next traffic light and there we would be. We did not see any next traffic light--in fact, The Park was black--but soon after falling under the smooth spell of a nicely graded curve, the travelers became aware of a diamond glow through the mist, then a gleam of lakewater appeared--and there it was, marvelously and inexorably, under spectral trees, at the top of a graveled drive--the pale palace of The Enchanted Hunters.

A row of parked cars, like pigs at a trough, seemed at first sight to forbid access; but then, by magic, a formidable convertible, resplendent, rubious in the lighted rain, came into motion--was energetically backed out by a broad-shouldered driver--and we gratefully slipped into the gap it had left. I immediately regretted my haste for I noticed that my predecessor had now taken advantage of a garage-like shelter nearby where there was ample space for another car; but I was too impatient to follow his example.

"Wow! Looks swank," remarked my vulgar daughter squinting at the stucco as she crept out into the audible drizzle. Under the arclights enlarged replicas of chestnut leaves plunged and played on white pillars. I unlocked the trunk compartment. A hunchbacked and hoary attendant in a uniform of sorts took our bags and wheeled them slowly into the lobby. It was full of old ladies and clergy men. Lolita sank down on her haunches to caress a pale-faced, blue-freckled, black-eared cocker spaniel swooning on the floral carpet under her hand while I cleared my throat through the throng to the desk. There a bald porcine old man--everybody was old in that old hotel--examined my features with a polite smile, then leisurely produced my (garbled) telegram, wrestled with some dark doubts, turned his head to look at the clock, and finally said he was very sorry, he had held the room with the twin beds till half past six, and now it was gone. A religious convention, he said, had clashed with a flower show in Briceland, and--"The name," I said coldly, "is not Humberg and not Humbug, but Herbert, I mean Humbert, and any room will do, just put in a cot for my little daughter. She is ten and very tired."

The pink old fellow peered good-naturedly at Lo. Whatever doubts the fellow had, they were dispelled by that blossom-like vision. He said, he might still have a room, had one, in fact--with a double bed. As to the cot--

"Mr. Potts, do we have any cots left?" Potts, also pink and bald, with white hairs growing out of his ears and other holes, would see what could be done. He came and spoke while I unscrewed my fountain pen, everything muted by the screams of my bladder.

"Our double beds are really triple," Potts cozily said tucking me and my kid in. "One crowded night we had three ladies and a child like yours sleep together. However--would there be a spare cot in 49, Mr. Swine?

"I think it went to the Swoons," said Swine, the initial old clown.

"We'll manage somehow," I said. "My wife may join us later--but even then, I suppose, we'll manage."

The two pink pigs were now among my best friends. In the slow clear hand of crime I wrote: Dr. Edgar H. Humbert and daughter, 342 Lawn Street, Ramsdale. A key (342!) was half-shown to me (magician showing object he is about to palm)--and handed over to the attendant. Lo, leaving the dog as she would leave me some day, rose from her haunches; a handsome young woman slipped open the elevator door, and the child went in followed by her throat-clearing father and the attendant with the bags.

"Say, it's our house number," said cheerful Lo.

There was a double bed, a mirror, a double bed in the mirror, a closet door with mirror, a bathroom door ditto, a blue-dark window, a reflected bed there, the same in the closet mirror, two chairs, a glass-topped table, two bedtables, a double bed: a big panel bed, to be exact, with a Tuscan rose chenille spread, and two frilled, pink-shaded nightlamps, left and right.

I was tempted to place a five-dollar bill in that sepia palm, but thought the largesse might be misconstrued, so I placed a quarter. Added another. He withdrew. Click. Alone at last. I departed to the restroom without a word, relieved to have made it without incident.

"Are we going to sleep in one room?" said Lo on my return.

"Now look here," I said, sitting down, while she stood, a few feet away from me, and stared at herself contentedly, not unpleasantly surprised at her own appearance, filling with her own vain sunshine the surprised and pleased closet-door mirror. “Let's settle this once for all. For all practical purposes I am your father. I have a feeling of great affection for you. In your mother's absence I am responsible for your welfare. We are not rich, and while we travel, we shall be thrown a good deal together. I've asked them to put in a cot. Which I'll use."

"You are crazy," said Lo.

"Why?"

"Because, those cots are tiny. You’d never fit!”

Lo walked into the closet, walked out again with a young golden giggle, opened the adjoining door, and after carefully peering inside with her strange smoky eyes lest she make another mistake, retired to the bathroom.

I opened the window, tore off my sweat-drenched shirt, changed.

She said: "Look, let's get something to eat."

It was then that I sprang my surprise.

Oh, what a happy child (or at least, what a talented actress)! She walked up to the open suitcase as if stalking it from afar, at a kind of slow-motion walk, peering at that distant treasure box on the luggage support. She stepped up to it, lifting her rather high-heeled feet rather high, and bending her boy-knees while she walked through dilating space with the slowness of one walking under water or in a flight dream. Then she raised by the armlets a copper-colored, charming and quite expensive vest, very slowly stretching it between her silent hands. Then she pulled out the slow snake of a brilliant belt and tried it on. I was pleased she was pleased. She hugged me and we left for dinner.

And so to the elevator, daughter swinging her old white purse, father walking in front. As we stood waiting to be taken down, she threw back her head, yawned without restraint and shook her curls.

"When did they make you get up at that camp?"

"Half-past--" she stifled another yawn--"six"--yawn in full with a shiver of all her frame. "Half-past," she repeated, her throat filling up again. The movie wasn’t happening.

The dining room met us with a smell of fried fat and a faded smile. It was a spacious and pretentious place with maudlin murals depicting enchanted hunters in various postures and states of enchantment amid a medley of pallid animals, dryads and trees. A few scattered old ladies, two clergymen, and a man in a sports coat were finishing their meals in silence. The dining room closed at nine, and the green-clad, poker-faced serving girls were, happily, in a desperate hurry to get rid of us.

"Does not he look exactly, but exactly, like Quilty?" said Lo in a soft voice, her sharp brown elbow not pointing, but visibly burning to point, at the lone diner in the loud checks, in the far corner of the room.

"Like our fat Ramsdale dentist?"

Lo arrested the mouthful of water she had just taken, and put down her dancing glass.

"Course not," she said with a splutter of mirth. "I meant the writer fellow in the Dromes ad."

I didn’t yet know to curse his name.

After dinner, the dessert was plunked down--a huge wedge of cherry pie for the young lady and vanilla ice cream her protector, most of which she expeditiously added to her pie.

She had had a long long day, she had gone rowing in the morning with Barbara whose sister was Waterfront Director, as she now started to tell me in between suppressed palate-humping yawns, growing in volume. The movie that had vaguely loomed in her mind was, of course, by the time we watertreaded out of the dining room, forgotten. As we stood in the elevator, she leaned against me, faintly smiling. "Sleepy, huh?" said the attendant who was bringing up the quiet Franco-Irish gentleman and his daughter as well as two withered women, experts in roses. They looked with sympathy at my frail, tanned daughter. I had almost to carry her into our room. There, she sat down on the edge of the bed, swaying a little, speaking in dove-dull, long-drawn tones.

"If I tell you--if I tell you, will you promise [sleepy, so sleepy--head lolling, eyes going out], promise you won't make complaints?"

"Your secret? Later, Lo. Now go to bed. I'll leave you here, and you go to bed. Give you ten minutes."

I pocketed the key and walked downstairs, beginning to suspect that whatever secret she had to tell me was absolutely none of my business. So you see, I was already learning one of those lessons they don’t tell you—didn’t tell me—about parenthood: the complete invasion of all the boundaries you spent your whole life cultivating.