Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

Pretty Eyes

She was thirty-three years old.

She was not a pretty woman, and she knew it.

The bellhop who showed her to the room in the Miami Beach hotel whistled all the way up in the elevator, whistled as he unlocked the door and stepped aside for her to enter.

“Nice room,” he said. “Best on the floor. Has a balcony overlooking the ocean. Get the cool sea breezes.” He grinned. He was no more than nineteen, a redheaded boy with a leering wisdom far beyond his years. “First time in Miami?” he asked.

“No.”

“Been here before?”

“Yes,” she said. “I come down every year.”

“Oh?” The bellhop was still grinning. “First time at this hotel?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a good hotel.” He put the valises on the stand. “You’re not married, are you?”

“No,” she answered, “I’m not married.”

“Must get lonely, a pretty girl traveling all alone.”

She looked at his face, and saw the lie sitting in his eyes. She said nothing.

“If you get... uh... too lonely,” the bellhop said, his grin widening, “why, just buzz the desk. My name’s Johnny. Be happy to... uh... come up and chat or something.”

“Thank you,” she said. There were four valises. She had read somewhere that a bellhop’s services were worth twenty-five cents per bag. She never tipped more than twenty-five cents per bag and never less. She took a dollar from her purse and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said briskly, lifting his coat and stuffing the bill into his watch pocket. “Anything I can get you?”

“No, thank you.”

“If you hurry, you can still catch a swim and some sun.”

“Thank you,” she said.

At the door he repeated, “My name’s Johnny,” and then he left. Alone in the room, she began unpacking. Every year it was like this. The drive to the airport alone. The flight down alone. The cab ride to the hotel — a different one each year — alone. The unpacking. Alone.

A pretty girl traveling all alone.

His lie still rankled. She was not a pretty girl. She had discovered this a long time ago. The discovery had been painful, but she’d adjusted to it. She was not pretty. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her eyes were a faded gray, and her nose was too long, and her mouth was too thin, and her figure was put together awkwardly. She was not pretty. Nor, she supposed, was she any longer a girl. Thirty-three. And next year thirty-four. And then thirty-five. And forty.

And alone.

The room was silent except for the steady hum of the air conditioner. She unpacked her bags and then went out onto the balcony. She could see the azure of the pool nine stories below, the men and women lounging around it in deck chairs. A muted sound of voices hung over the pool area, washed by the steady roll of the ocean against the beach beyond. She could almost see the bright golden shimmer of heat on the air, could taste the wet ocean salt on her mouth.

She wondered if it would happen this time.

The bellhop suddenly seemed an ill omen. His intentions had been clear, absolutely clear. Nor would he have so obviously spoken his mind had she been a pretty woman. A pretty woman somehow generated fear and respect. A plain woman did not. A plain woman was a lonely woman, and men sensed this. Oh, not lonely for the night, no. It was never difficult to find a transitory partner for the night. She had found many such partners, ever since the first time when she’d been twenty-six — she could still remember it clearly, remember the desolation she had felt, the sudden feeling that life was slipping away too fast and that she would die a dried-up old maid. And since that time there had been many, and she knew the approaches now, the pat approaches, the bold, bald propositions: “What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone on a night like this?” “Why don’t we have a drink in my room?” “Come on, beautiful, what do you have to lose?” She knew them all; she had heard them all.

But this time it will be different, she vowed. This time it has to be different.

Purposefully she changed to her swimsuit and took the elevator down to the pool.

Sitting alone at the bar that night, she could feel her skin tingling, and she wondered if she’d taken too much sun that afternoon. Luckily she did not turn lobster red the way some girls did. She tanned steadily and graciously, and there had been a time when she’d thought she was more attractive with a tan, but she no longer believed this. Still, she was thankful that she tanned rather than burned, and she wondered now if she had taken too much sun, wondered if she would spend a sleepless night.

She reached into her purse for a cigarette, put it between her lips, and was digging into her purse for matches when the lighter sprang into flame at the cigarette’s end.

“Allow me,” the man said.

She turned slightly on the stool. “Thank you,” she said in cool aloofness, raising one eyebrow. She sucked at the flame and then blew out a cloud of smoke and turned away from the man, back to her whiskey sour.

The man sat on the stool next to hers. He was silent for a moment and then he said, “Do you like those filter tips?”

“What?”

“The cigarette.”

“Oh. Yes, I do.”

“I never feel I’m smoking with a filter tip,” the man said.

“I don’t mind them,” she answered. “It’s a cleaner smoke, I feel.”

“I suppose so,” the man said. He ordered Scotch on the rocks from the bartender and then turned to her again. “Just check in?” he asked.

“This afternoon,” she said.

“First time in Miami?”

“No, no,” she said, smiling. “I’ve been here before.”

“Are you with your husband, or is this just a rest?”

“I’m not married,” she said.

“No?” he said. He smiled pleasantly. “My name’s Jack Bryant,” he said, extending his hand.

“Connie Davidson,” she told him, and she took his hand. His grip was firm and warm. He released her hand almost instantly.

“Treating yourself to a vacation, is that it?” he asked.

“I come down here every year at this time,” she said.

“Where are you from?”

“New York,” she answered.

“What part?”

“Are you from New York, too?”

“Yes,” he said. “Brooklyn.”

“I’m from Manhattan,” she said. “Shall I make the Brooklyn jokes?”

He grinned easily. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned. He was a pleasant-looking man in his late thirties, with warm blue eyes set in a tanned, even face. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said. “I’m a criminal lawyer. I defend most of the people the jokes are about.”

“That must be fascinating work,” she said.

“It is. It gets a little tiring, though.”

“Are you here on business?” she asked.

“No, no. Just a rest.” He sipped at his Scotch. “What sort of work do you do?”

“I work for an advertising agency.”

“Doing what?”

“I write jingles.”

“Really? No! You mean Pepsi-Cola? Like that?”

“Well, not Pepsi-Cola. But like that.”

“Well, that’s wonderful. You know, you hear the jingles, but you never realize somebody wrote them. It must be fun.”

“It is,” she said, smiling. “But it can get tiring, too.”

He looked at her empty glass. “Would you like another drink?”

“Thank you,” she said. “I would.”

He ordered for her. They sat silently for a while, and then he said, “Here comes the band. Would you like to dance?”

“Not right now,” she said.

“You look like a good dancer.”

“I’m fair,” she said.

“I’ll bet you’ve taken lessons.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. I just get that feeling.”

“I took a few. For the mambo.”

“And the cha-cha?”

“No. I stopped before that became the rage.”

“There’s always a new one,” he said, chuckling. “After the cha-cha it’ll be the ha-ha or the ho-ho. I think if you know the fox trot, the rhumba, and the waltz, that’s all you have to know. Unless you’re a fanatic for dancing.”

“Well, I like to dance,” she said.

“Oh, I do, too. But you can’t make it your life’s work.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“How long will you be staying, Connie?” he asked.

“Two weeks.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence?” he said.

“You’ll be here...”

“Another two weeks, yes.” He paused. “We can have a lot of fun together.”

“Well,” she said.

“I always wonder how it feels,” he said.

“What?”

“You know.”

“No, what?”

“A pretty girl like you,” he said, “traveling alone.”

She looked at him steadily.

“It... it feels fine,” she answered.

“Must get lonely.”

“Not too,” she answered.

“Well, it seems to me it must get lonely,” he said.

“I... I don’t mind it,” she said.

“Well, we’ll have fun,” he said, and he covered her hand with his. She did not move her hand for several moments. Then she slid it from his and picked up her drink.

“Think you could teach me the mambo?” he asked.

“Anyone can learn it,” she answered.

“It seems so difficult.”

“No.”

“It seems that way,” he said. “I’m always afraid I’ll make a fool of myself on the dance floor.”

“It’s really very simple.”

“Just a matter of getting the rhythm, I suppose,” He said. “Still, with all those experts on the floor...” He shook his head ruefully, embarrassedly.

She knew what was coming next. She could have said the words even before they left his mouth. For a moment she wished desperately that she were wrong, wished that he would not say what she was sure he would say. For a moment she wished that once — just once — a man would look at her and honestly believe she had beautiful hair, or a fine brow, or pretty eyes. Once, just once, and her heart would open like a flower and the warmth would pour from her, the warmth that was stored, ready to burst. Just once, just once...

And then he said, “Maybe you could give me private lessons.”

She did not answer.

“It’s a little stuffy in here anyway, isn’t it?” he asked.

“A... a little,” she said.

“The air conditioner in my room works fine,” he said. He smiled pleasantly.

“I... I don’t know,” she answered.

“We could order some drinks up there,” he said. “I’d be honored. A pretty girl like you teaching me how to dance. I’d be honored.”

“Please,” she said.

“Seriously. We could dance a little...”

“Please...”

“... and drink a little...”

“Please, please...”

“You know, have a little fun,” he concluded.

She looked at his face soberly. The lie was in his eyes and on his mouth. Blankly she said, “I’m not pretty.”

“Sure you are,” he answered. “You’re one of the prettiest girls in the hotel.”

She nodded briefly. Her eyes dropped to the bar. She could see his left hand and the narrow band of white flesh on his third finger, where a ring had belatedly been removed after the skin had tanned.

“You’re married?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She nodded silently.

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.” She rose. “Good night,” she said. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Hey, what about the private lessons?”

She did not answer. Her eyes were misting as she walked away from the bar.

She checked out that night.

There did not seem to be any sense in staying. There did not seem to be any sense in anything. She wore a white linen suit, and she stood in the hotel corridor with the bellhop, impatiently waiting for the elevator, anxious to get away.

The elevator door slid open. She entered the car, and the bellhop followed with her four valises. A man was standing in one corner of the elevator. He looked at her when she entered. The car dropped leisurely toward the lobby. The man seemed rather nervous, a man of about thirty-five, with solemn brown eyes. He seemed as if he wanted to speak to her, but instead he swallowed repeatedly until the elevator had almost reached the lobby floor.

And then, at last, he very quietly said, “You have pretty eyes. The—” He glanced self-consciously at the bellhop and the elevator operator. “—the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

She turned to him, naked hatred gleaming on her face. Sharply she whispered, “Stop it! Damn you, damn you, stop it!”

The elevator door slid open.

“Lobby,” the operator said.

She stepped out of the car. The man looked at the operator in embarrassment. He waited for the bellhop to leave the car, and then he stepped into the lobby. He watched while she settled her bill. He watched while the bellhop carried her bags out and hailed a cab. He watched as the cab pulled away from the hotel, the girl sitting alone on the back seat. The bellhop returned to the lobby, pocketing a dollar bill.

“Touchy broad, huh?” he said to the man.

The man did not answer for a long while. He kept staring through the wide plate-glass doors at the empty street outside where the girl in the cab had been.

Then he said, “She had pretty eyes. She had very pretty eyes.”

He bought a newspaper at the cigar stand in the arcade and sat in the lobby, reading, until midnight.

Alone in his silent room, he went to bed.