The Hamiltonians
By Thomas VanDeventer

  They were the only Hamiltonians staying at the hotel. They did not acknowledge anyone at breakfast or at the tables on the terrace in the afternoon. Harbor stench blew constantly in their second story window. Out the other window they could see the condemned roller coaster and the Slide-for-Life. People would sit in the baking sun on the benches lining the boardwalk. Most days, beggars would accost the tourists for spare change. They had no other place to work, and the milieu of decrepit hotels and the rotting boardwalk made the obvious choice. The families of fallen Italian women drove many miles to read names of their daughters on the peep show advertisements. The stenciled lettering shimmered with rain. The torn canvas awnings were sagging from rain. There were grey puddles on the walkways. The rain cindered the ocean that rolled a relentless battery of sludge at the beach. No one wanted cotton candy today. Opposite the hotel under the bar awning a waiter leaned against the wall smoking a joint.

  Mrs. Robinson had been watching from her window. On the terrace below a cat was caught under a table in the rain. The cat was too big for the spot sheltered by the table.

  "I have to go save that pussycat," Mrs. Robinson said.

  "Let me," Mr. Robinson said from the Lazyboy.

  "Like hell. Stupid cat doesn't know to stay out of the rain."

  Mr Robinson was watching television, reclining way back in his stocking feet.

  "You'll catch your death," he said.

  Mrs. Robinson pressed for the elevator. When the door opened downstairs she heard television behind the reception desk. It was the program her husband was watching. She could see a bald spot cresting over the back of a checkered Lazyboy. The desk clerk hadn't heard the elevator.

  "Do you have an umbrella or newspaper or anything?" Mrs. Robinson raised her voice, leaning over the counter. She looked for a bell or something to get his attention.

  The lobby smelled strongly of industrial cleanser and cigar smoke. She remembered when they had arrived the desk clerk was drunk. She didn't like drunks. She didn't like his eyes gliding over her breasts. She didn't like the sound he made walking past their door and down the stairway at night. She didn't like the face he made when she asked for extra towels. She didn't like his obesity or his unbuttoned shirt or his general disregard.

  Not liking him she pushed open the lobby door and stood under the awning. The torn canvas amplified the drumming rain. A man walked past and opened a golf umbrella emblazoned with the name of an Italian champagne. He walked in his green pants to the bar, trailing cigar smoke. It should be a table somewhere to the right. Most of the terrace had flooded. She looked up to the second floor and counted over to the open window. The lobby door opened dribbling the television sound under the awning. One of the uniformed maids held up a folded newspaper.

  "You were looking for this?" she rolled her eyes, glancing at the terrace. She must have been working somewhere in the lobby.

  Mrs. Robinson removed her Reebok, handed them to the maid, and took the newspaper. She held it over her head and walked between the tables until she was opposite the open window. No sign of the cat.

 "Oh drat!" said Mrs. Robinson. She felt a seminal wave of nausea. The newspaper sagged heavily with rain.

  "No rats, Ma'am" said the maid. "The cats take care of it."

  "Not rats!" she said. "Here. See where it's dry. See, the little pussycat toes."

  When Mrs. Robinson said "pussycat" the maid winced.

  "Where'd he go?" said the maid.

  "I wanted to save him," she said. "I wanted to take him home."

  "He's a smart cat," said the maid. "You could never catch him."

  "You're probably right," said Mrs. Robinson.

  She slipped back under awning and folded the soggy newspaper.

  "I believe this belongs to you." Mrs. Robinson handed over the newspaper. She had forgotten to take off her socks, and as she removed them she noticed the maid had slipped on her Reebok. She looked most comfortable.

  Mrs. Robinson tiptoed barefoot across the cold lobby floor and the desk clerk held up a dry towel from behind the counter. A few raindrops shown transparently on her cotton blouse. The desk clerk grinned and held up the towel. The tiled lobby floor was surprisingly cold and the air conditioning felt very breezy. As the desk clerk motioned to her, she felt the cold and at the same time felt very exposed. The feeling paralyzed her on the lobby floor and she stood ten seconds feeling as though she were completely naked. The desk clerk coughed and walked back to his room behind the counter, still coughing. Mrs Robinson slapped the elevator button repeatedly until the door opened.

  Mr. Robinson hadn't moved from his position on the Lazyboy.

  "Any luck?" he asked hitting the mute button on the remote control.

  "No."

  "Better luck next time," he said, scratching himself under his arm.

  She balled up her wet socks and threw them at the open closet door.

  "I didn't want it anyway," she said. "Who wants a stupid cat that stays out in the rain. Nobody needs that kind of trouble."

  Mr. Robinson hit the remote again. She walked over to the bathroom alcove at the far end of their room. She posed in front of the three way mirror holding up the latest Cosmopolitan magazine. She held it under her chin like she was taking a mug shot. She leaned close to the mirror.

  "Can you see the bump from over there?" she said. She turned her head to the side.

  Mr. Robinson hit the remote control button and turned his head to look at her by the mirror.

  "You know me," he said. " I never knew a bump I didn't like."

  "I'm thinking about getting it fixed," she said, putting down the magazine. "How much should they take off?"

  Mr. Robinson was up on his elbow twisting his body around to see.

  "You can't be serious," he said. "You have a perfectly straight nose. Damn straight."

  "What about implants?" she said. Mrs. Robinson held her hands on her hips and turned from side to side. "I don't care what they say about them. Are my breasts large enough?"

  Mr. Robinson turned back toward the television. He picked up the remote.

  "Why don't you sit down and watch this show," he said. He patted the arm of the Lazyboy.

  "I'm serious," she said. "I don't know what all the fuss is about. Not if you take all the precautions. Follow all the steps they tell you."

  "They're doctors," he said. "Anyway, we've been all over this."

  "Anyway. . .they’re not gods," she said. "The new procedures are foolproof. They plumb through your navel, or some place."

   Mrs. Robinson synched up her skirt to get a long look at her thighs.

  "Only thing foolproof is your bellyaching," he said. "You peck worse than a blackbird." Mr. Robinson pressed to raise the television volume and put down the remote control.

  "You know what, you’re priceless!" She stomped from the mirror to the foot of the bed. She was still holding her skirt. "I ask for Florida, you give me Jersey. I want casinos you give me Asbury Park. Better yet, you give me the Excelsior. For Pete’s sake, what a nightmare! They think room service is a mop and a dust rag. And when are they ever going to fix that toilet? If I have to go down to that lobby one more time, I’m going to shit on that bell!"

  "The thanks I get. Don’t think that I don’t have expectations." Mr. Robinson had not looked away from the television.

  "Now what’s that supposed to mean?"

  "Let’s say, you don’t have any corner on the disappointment market."

  "Disappointment? I’d be happy if I just had a fly strip."

  "And how I feel?"

  "You? You had your chance. Nobody held a gun to your head when you spent that money."

  "Here we go again." Mr. Robinson pressed the remote on the arm of the chair to lower the volume. He turned to face Mrs. Robinson again, legs full length, then hesitating, said, "I bought the extra helmet, remember? We share that hog, equally. Even Steven."

  "It’s not a hog. It’s a Kawasaki, for cris’sake." A blood vessel had started to show on Mrs. Robinson’s neck.

  "That’s it isn’t it? That’s the whole thing." Mr. Robinson turned the volume completely down without looking away from his wife. "You know, I didn’t make it rain. And I didn’t bust the freaking A/C."

  "Fine. Just sit there on your brains." Mrs. Robinson slowly walked back to the mirror and resumed inspection of her exposed legs. The temperature in the room had caused a pink reaction above her knees. "Least you don’t have to get up to change channels. But, do you think it would be too much to ask to find a cooler room? They aren’t exactly booked. You don’t hear anybody beating down the door."

  "Let them get to it. It’s Sunday, remember?" Mr. Robinson lowered the Lazyboy footrest with his left hand.

  "Oh, thanks a million. Only five more days of this heaven. That’s what I feel all the time, you know. I’ve died and gone to heaven. And you’re freaking Gabriel!" Mrs. Robinson turned so she could see the backs of her thighs in the mirror. Her body was facing her husband.

  "And you -- my prize, my love, my Cassandra -- don’t know when to stop. You’re like the damn sweeper, stuck in the on position." He had not looked away from his wife since turning down the volume.

  "There you go again, confusing me with the damn Hoover."

  "No. I can tell which you are. I can tell you by the way you pucker." Mr. Robinson took off each of his socks by pulling steadily from the toes.

   "You dirt bag!"

  "You bag of bones."

  Mrs. Robinson looked away from the mirror toward her husband. She still had not lowered her skirt. "You want some of this?"

  "Honey, I can tell you by the way you suck." He was now standing on his bare feet.

  "Sugar, I think it’s time we cleaned your clock." She let go her skirt.

  "Been waiting all damn day."

  There was a sudden knocking at their door. After a very brief pause, there was another knocking at their door, and at the same time, a displeased meowing.

  Mrs. Robinson pressed her finger to her lips. "Shhhhh. . . Do you think they heard us?"

  "Gonna hear something in a minute." Mr. Robinson drew the plastic blind.