Twentieth Century Limited Book One - Age of Heroes. Jan David Blais
after they got word of the contract, he burst into the house, grinning from ear to ear.
“Ti-Paul! Would you like to see New York?”
New York!
He flopped down on the sofa. It was great to see him happy again. “When this new work starts I won’t have a minute,” he stretched his legs and clasped his hands behind his head, “and we never celebrated your graduation right, did we?” My mother walked into the room, smiling. She knew. “Mrs. Lamontagne got the reservations today. Two rooms! One for us,” he winked at my mother, “and one for you kids. A week from Wednesday we drive down then come back Sunday night.”
The day before our trip, my father came home early. He had this sad look on his face. “What a shame, and just before our big trip,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s the car. No chance in hell it’ll make it there and back.”
My heart sank. Our trip was off. He sat down, elbows on the kitchen table, chin in his hands. There’d been talk about engine work, also the differential, whose function I grasped only vaguely, was said to be slipping. But this was no reason to call off our trip!
“The train! We can take the train!”
He shook his head, “Can’t afford it, not if the car needs an overhaul.”
As I sulked, King’s face flashed in front of me. Tears weren’t far away. My father pursed his lips. “But maybe there is a way,” he said, standing. “Let’s go outside, ti-Paul, maybe the fresh air will give us an idea.” I followed him out and... what was this! In our driveway, a car! A bright red brand new car! As my father stood by, arms folded, beaming, I ran my hand over the fender. Never had I touched anything so smooth. “Not bad, eh?”
“Can I get in?”
“Sure! Why not? He opened the door and immediately I was engulfed in this wonderful aroma. I patted the seat cushion and slid behind the wheel. So many dials and knobs! I looked around. Lots more room in back, too. The interior was gray and red. We always had a black car, up til now. Red! This was unbelievable! “Move over, ti-Paul, let’s go for a spin. We need to break it in, right?”
He backed down the driveway and we drove to the turnaround, circled, then paraded down the street. I’d never seen my father drive so slow. Neighbors waved and he leaned out the window and waved back. Suddenly I realized. He wasn’t shifting! “It’s an automatic!”
“Damn right! Nothing but the best for Julien Bernard and his family!”
He rolled up his window. “Close yours,” he ordered. I looked at him, puzzled – it was a hot day. “Go ahead.” As I cranked the handle he reached down and turned a knob. All of a sudden there was this WHOOSH! and a blast of hot air hit my face. “Give it a minute.”
It started to feel cooler... I put my hand against the vent. It was freezing! He grinned.
A few minutes later we were turning onto Fruit Hill Avenue, crossing into North Providence, heading toward the real country. “Can I steer?” Sitting on his lap I had often steered on the two-lane roads when there wasn’t much traffic.
“No way,” he laughed, “not in this car. Not til you get your license.”
“But if I can’t use the car, how’ll I get my license?” I was planning on my learner’s permit the day I turned fifteen.
“We’ll keep the Plymouth, that’s how. Anyway a shift is better for learning. One of these days Catherine’ll want to learn too, though girls aren’t that interested in cars.” He leaned back and stretched his arms, caressing the steering wheel. “The worm has turned, ti-Paul. Yes indeed, the worm has turned.”
THE NEXT DAY WAS FULL OF EXCITEMENT. Crossing into New York, I soon caught my first glimpse of Manhattan, tall thin silhouettes stenciled in the haze and heat. Jim was full of his what’s-the-big-deal routine. Mr. Expert had been here on a school trip. We paid a toll and were on what the signs called FDR Drive. I noticed this steam rising from building roofs. “Cooling towers,” my father explained, “for air conditioning.”
We drove along a narrow, shaded street, crossing broader streets and swiftly moving traffic. First Avenue, then Second, then Third... I got the picture. When we turned onto Fifth, I craned my neck and looked up. You couldn’t see the tops of the buildings, you could barely see the sky between them. Stone and metal walls dwarfed la famille Bernard’s tiny red raft as it plunged down the canyons. After more rights and lefts we pulled off the street and wheeled under this canopy with JEFFERSON HOTEL on it.
“Made it!” My father turned to us with a big grin.
A man in a red and gold uniform opened my father’s door. “Welcome to the
Jefferson,” he said, tipping his hat, one of those tall shiny hats you see at fancy parties, pictures of them, that is. On this hot day he looked ridiculous but I figured somebody must be impressed. Another red and gold man helped my mother out. My father handed over the car keys and a dollar bill, motioning toward the trunk.
“Thank you, sir.” The doorman’s partner was placing our suitcases on a little two-sided wagon. We entered the gold and red lobby. The clerks behind the counter wore gold and red striped shirts and ties, even the women wore ties. “The Bernard party,” my father announced in a loud voice, “we have a reservation.”
One of the men began flipping through some cards, then he picked one out. “From Providence? Two rooms, four nights.”
“That’s right,” my father nodded, “at your best commercial traveler rate.”
The man looked down at Catherine and me, Jim was already cruising the lobby. He frowned. “Sir, I’m afraid that rate is available for one room only.”
My father had his elbows on the counter, leaning toward the man. “We were promised that rate for both rooms.”
“I’m sorry, sir, hotel policy is one room only at the special rate. There must have been some mistake.”
“There is no mistake,” my father interrupted. “I am President of a large company and you guaranteed my secretary that rate for both rooms!” The back of his neck was getting red. “If you will not honor your commitment we’ll have to take our business somewhere else!”
Catherine and I looked at each other. Such a fine hotel, how could we find another as good? By now our luggage was right beside us in the little cart. It belonged here, we belonged here. My mother was tugging at his arm. He turned toward her. “Fiona,” he said loudly, “if these people can’t keep their word, it is not a place we want to stay.”
The clerk was getting frazzled. “A moment, sir, I have to speak with the manager.”
“You do that,” my father said as the clerk disappeared through a door. He looked at us. “Don’t worry, mes petits choux! If this doesn’t work we’ll stay somewhere else.”
My mother was shaking her head. “Julien! You said everything’s booked! You said we were lucky to get this reservation!”
“Relax, Fiona. You got to play the angles.”
“Angles? You mean we really don’t have that rate?”
“Shhh!” he put his finger to his lips. The other clerks were silently flipping through their papers and cards.
“Well, I never!” She stomped her foot and strode across the lobby, flopping down in a chair and crossing her legs.
My father winked. “Keep your eyes open, mes petits, you’ll learn something.”
A couple of minutes later the clerk returned. “This is extraordinary. We always note special rates on the guest card.” He held up our card. “You see, it says one room only. But this one time we will make an exception, possibly whoever took the reservation made an error.” The clerk slid a form in front of my father. “Two rooms, twenty-seven dollars per night