South of Superior - Ellen Airgood [42]
“Oh, Gladys.” Madeline looked truly Upset, which was decent of her.
Gladys took a breath and then she said, “I went down to Crosscut the other day when you thought I was just at Mabel’s. Went to see if I could get a loan against my house. They turned me down. Said I was too old, and no income.”
“Oh, Gladys. I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t want Butte to know. Or you, either. The fact is I don’t see what else to do but let the hotel go. It makes sense.”
She picked Up an old metal sign advertising tinned Moroccan anchovies. It was going to a woman in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, who had paid thirty-eight dollars for it. Gladys remembered the days when they Used to sell anchovies at the hotel. They’d sold all kinds of things, anything to bring a nickel in. Cigarettes, peppermints, matches, woolen socks, chocolate bars, newspapers. To her the sign was as real as anything, as common as a can opener (but not Unloved for that), a tiny gear in the business she once ran, but to some stranger halfway across the country, it was an antique, a curiosity.
“That’s where you get all this stuff, isn’t it? From the hotel?”
“Most of it. I sold all those alarm clocks, you know, but I didn’t get as much as I wanted.” She shrugged. “The place is full of junk. Might as well clean it out.”
“It’s not junk.”
Gladys made a face.
“Mary Feather told me that your parents ran it.”
“Yes, and my grandparents before them. They built it. Eighteen hundred and eighty-six they put in the cornerstone, it’s cut into the cement, you can see.” Gladys began to tidy the wrapping paper, blinking tears away, furious at herself.
“So you ran it too?”
“Frank and I did. Hansen’s General, we tried to call it, but that never took. The Hotel Leppinen it was and always remained.”
“I love the place, you know. I have to tell you, I’ve even—” Madeline broke off, picking Up the rooster pepper shaker and rubbing its red comb with her thumb. Gladys had done that a million times herself. Something about the dull glossy red of that comb, you just wanted to touch it. Madeline probably expected to be snapped at for prying into this business of theirs. Gladys knew herself. She had a sharp tongue. It was just her way. Some people were sweet, like Arbutus, and some were sour. It didn’t mean she didn’t have feelings. It just meant she didn’t—couldn’t—indulge them. But now she smiled wistfully.
“I love it too. I guess that’s why I’ve hung on so long.”
“Did you close it when Frank died?” Madeline asked. She had set the rooster down and had her chin on her hand and looked all dreamy-eyed. As if this was a wonderful make-believe story.
“Heavens no, I had to make a living, didn’t I? Mostly I ran it myself anyway, Frank was working in the woods. Oh, Arbutus came and lived with us for a spell, after Nathan’s father died, but that was just for a while, before she married her second husband, Harvey Hill. It was when my Frank Junior was small. Those boys were the best of friends, back then. Hard to believe how greedy Nathan got as he grew Up.”
“Frank Junior?” she said, sitting Up straight, the dreaminess gone.
“My son. He was killed. In Vietnam.”
“Oh, God. Gladys, I don’t know what to say. I had no idea—I’m so sorry.”
Gladys could not bear to talk about it. “It was a long time ago.” She picked a package Up, resmoothed the tape carefully. At last she could look at Madeline again. “I closed the hotel not too long after your grandfather died. I just lost heart, I guess. It seemed like it’d got to be too much for me. The roof sprang a leak and that was the last straw. I patched Up the hole but I couldn’t see repairing the damage.” She shook her head.