Ruins of the Past

         George slammed the trunk on his ’45 Cadillac Fleetwood, wishing that the rest of his life could be closed with the same force.

                 “I don’t want to do this anymore.” He complained, turning around, to glower at Annie.

                 “Ain’t nobody keepen you here, but the Good Lord and your vows. You decide that’s not enough, you can walk any time now.”

                 “That’s not what I meant,” he grumbled. Half his body pointed towards their Cadillac Fleetwood, the other half towards the Nevada Hotel.

                 “‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’” She intoned, in a familiar sounding litany.

                 George rolled his eyes, and his shoulders turned up in a drawn-out shrug. “Can we just go already? I’d like to get this over with.”

                 Annie, an older woman, resembled a librarian or a spinster, waited a moment, her response was sharp and cutting. “George, I have half a notion to give you what you deserve… but Heaven knows even you don’t deserve to be alone. Now grab the darn luggage and drag your happy butt inside.”

                 “Yes, dear.” Annie gave him a look, but she seemed ready to let it go.

                 At the front desk, they were greeted by a sweat-stained man with what seemed to be a perpetually panicked look upon his face.

                 “Welcome to the Nevada, folks. What can I—what can I... do for you?”

                 George resembled a soldier ready for war with full kit and bandolier except his only war these days was on domesticity. George’s reply was to glare daggers at the hapless man, and he refused to say a word.

                 Annie, stepped around George, seemingly used to his tantrums. “You’ll have to excuse my husband George—he’s not… a people person.” She avoided meeting his eyes for a moment before raising them once again, but the awkward man averted his eyes.

“Well, anyhow we have a reservation. Franklin Douglas organized the reservation.”

                 “Frank? He did? You—you do? Of course, of co-ourse you do.” The hapless concierge began ruffling through paperwork on the desk. “Uh, wh-what did you say your names were?”

                 “We didn’t.”

                 “George. Edward. Sullivan. Let me do the talken. My apologies for that, Sir. The Good Lord did not see fit to provide my husband with an even temperament. If he was a dog, well… we would likely have had to put him down years ago.” Annie gave George a look that said, ‘You can shut up or go to Hell'.’ Her stare implied that it better be the former.

                 “Uh, where were we. That’s right. You was asken about our names. We are the Sullivans, S-U-L-L-I-V-A-N. Mister and Missus George and Annabelle Sullivan. The reservation was made over the phone say--about two weeks ago.”

                 “Y-y-yes. Here it is. I have found it right h-h-here. It was under ‘S’ obvious if you o-o-only know.” A trepidatious, half-smile graced his face. His eyes avoided theirs as he grabbed keys from the wall behind him and handed them to Annie.

                 “R-R-Room 413. It is on the fourth floor Lucius will show you the way.”

                 “Thank you kindly, Mister…” Annie leaned forward as if anticipating a reply, but the concierge turned his back and began studiously ignoring them as he cleaned behind the counter with a soiled handkerchief. 

                 “Well then, thank you kindly. C’mon George.”

                 George’s mouth remained closed, but there bloomed an angry pinkish tinge on his upper cheekbones and the ridge of his nose. He dutifully lugged their baggage, trailing behind his wife, his face wrinkled in a grimace.

                 They climbed steps better suited for a castle or estate of the 19^th century than of the year 1952 until they reached a sign indicating the elevator was down another hallway.

                 Annie commented, and oohed over various antique furniture and the ornate, but antiquated carpets. George would grunt when appropriate, but his face grew increasingly blood-filled. He eyed askance Annie’s running commentary.

                 At last, they ran out of carpet. At the end of the hall stood a gilded cage.

An elevator.

It shuddered to a halt a few inches below floor-level. The wire-framed doors opened, and they were greeted by a young man in red uniform and a cap that hung askew. He was pallid and sickly in appearance, but he gave a warm, and bright smile albeit with crooked teeth. That young man could benefit from modern orthodonture, but that does not detract from his charm one bit. Annie returned his bright smile with one of her own.

                 “Hello there Mister, and Missus!” The youngster held out a gallant hand and assisted Annie onto the elevator, and held the door open for George as he clambered into the car. George moved faster, and less carefully than he could have, seeming to delight in the ‘oof’ sound that came out of the young man’s mouth as their bags careened into his shoulder.

                 The young elevator attendant paused a moment, Oh! The poor dear thinks George is going to apologize. Quick--Anne, old girl, say something.

                 “We are the Suhlivvans, Annie said, her accent more distinct than was usual. “Although, I am growing rather tired of apologizing on his behalf. This genial oaf is my husband. George, apologize to the young man.” Annie refused to remove her baleful gaze from George’s brooding face until he muttered something that was not an apology, under his breath. Although the words were indistinct, the young man, and Annie, pretended that it was an apology worthy of royalty. The gorilla. My husband. He just needs a banana and a tree to climb (or maul) and he would just about fit the bill.

Whatever did I see in him?

                 She pretended not to remember—but much to her chagrin she could not deny that beneath that obstreperous, difficult demeanor there had once beat the heart of a poet. That was years ago—before the War.

                 “This is certainly the quietest elevator that we have ever ridden, ain’t it so, George?”

                 The young man smiled patiently. “Well Ma’am, I can explain…” He took a seat on a stool that Annie had not previously seen as it had been hidden by the young man’s body. “I haven’t pulled this—” he indicated a knobbed lever, “—contraption yet, which signals the electricity to pull us up, I pull it just so—” he indicated a black knobbed lever, and the elevator began to gradually rise.

                 The lobby hallway disappeared as they laboriously rose between floors. Annie noted that she could see the spaces, and gaps, in between. I wonder what dirty secrets hide there. She shuddered at the thought.

                 George stared ahead, ignoring them both.

                 The elevator hummed along, and Annie’s tired eyes struggled under the strain Good Lord! I hate getting old. In the auxiliary light of the elevator, all was quiet save for the subtle hum of machinery, and the rasp of metal as the doors faintly opened and closed—not enough to be threatening, but enough to cause Annie’s heart to flutter.

                 The young man expertly caused the elevator to hum to a smooth halt. His landing more precise this time. “Well then young man.” Annie beamed a smile, eyeing him appreciatively. “You were just a splendid young man. Here.” She proffered a quarter from her coin purse and would not take no for an answer. He took the coin with a bemused thank you and bid them to have a safe night.

                 “Excuse me. Young man. What did you say that your name was?”

                 “I’m sorry Ma’am I must have forgotten to introduce myself—I’m Adam.”

                 “Adam? That’s a good Christian name. Shame about his brother, but—it’s a good name all the same.”

                 “Thank you, Ma’am. My Ma always did like it more than I did.” 

                 “The concierge man said that the bellhop, Lucas would show us to our room.”

                 George piped up, “Lucien.”

                 “That’s right. Thank you, George. Lucien then. Where is Lucien?”

                 “There’s nobody by that name here Ma’am.”

                 The elevator doors closed with a *clang* “Have a safe night Ma’am. Sir.” The young man said with a nod, as he rode the elevator down.

                 “Wait right here young—” Annie started to say, but the elevator had already began its descent. “—man…” she finished lamely.

                 “That was bizarre, wouldn’t you say George?”

                 George grunted noncommittally. “A bit.” He ventured.

                                  A woman appeared as if out of nowhere. Oh, my. She gave me such a fright she has my heart all aflutter.

“My daughter. Have you seen my daughter? Elisa. Elisa.” A panicked grey-haired woman grabbed Annie’s arm. Annie felt ice clutch her skin where her fingers gripped her.

                 Annie clutched her hands to her bosom, her chest tight, she struggled to find air to reply. “Pardon me? No... of course not. We’ve only just arrived on this floor. George, please tell the lady that we haven’t seen anyone.”

                 “Ma’am— “he started to say, but she went on as if neither of them had spoken.

                 “Elisa. Eli-------sa! Daughter where are you? Momma’s coming.” The distraught woman brushed past George, causing him to stumble a step back, and he struggled to keep the luggage from clambering to the carpet.

                 “Wait Ma’am, let us help you.” George said to the woman, but she had already turned the corner of the hallway and was gone.

                 “George. George. Go after her!”

                 George jogged after the woman, the two round apples that were his cheeks brightening under the strain. Annie watched him disappear around the corner and then reappear a moment later his sides heaving, and a stunned look upon his face.

                 “What are you doing back here George? We need to help her!”

                 “I did—but she’s disappeared. When I rounded the corner there was no one there.”

                 “What!?!? Did she go into a room?”

                 His head shook in denial. “I would have seen her, or heard her, she was just—poof—gone.”

                 Annie heard the sound first, the faint sounds of a young girl crying, and George turned to her. “I hear crying.” She nodded absently. “Me too.”

                 They ran towards the sounds of the girl crying, Annie ignoring the stitch in her side, and the faint aching in her arms. They heard a tinny voice whispering, and shouting, “Mommy.” 

Annie shushed George unnecessarily, and they both listened, keen to determine the origin or the proximity of the sound. They both were so still that they were afraid to breathe.

                 Annie approached the door of the first room on her left, room 425 was written in bold, golden numbering, followed by 426, and 427 and no matter how close they came to the sound the crying sounded the same distance away.

                 “I’m sick of this...” George muttered, a look of confusion replacing his normal sourpuss. “Goddamn kids—and their pranks.” He said, uncertainly.

                 Annie ran from door to door, venturing to call out a few times. George, acting brave knocked on any door with light creeping out from underneath but there was never a response. Ominously the light would disappear at George’s knock. “Jesus preserve us…” Annie huffed and puffed, and the look on her face was defeated.

                 They stood frozen locked in place; perspiration dusting their brows, and hesitation expressed plainly upon their faces.

                 “C’mon George...” Annie’s breath left her in a defeated sigh. “Let’s head to our room and... go to bed.” They crossed the hall, antique marble busts on both sides of the hall, left instead of right from where they had exited the elevator. This time Annie did not marvel at the antique, ornate carpets that adorned the halls, or the oil mining paintings from the previous century.

                 They shuffled their feet, and ignored the incessant crying, and screaming from the hidden little girl. They ignored too mocking laughs of a male voice.             

                 The key turned in the lock with a *snick* and the door opened with a creaking whine.

                 Room 413 kept its secrets, except the silhouettes of pillows, and a soft, comfortable bed, down comforter piled high, betraying themselves. The rest of the room was a shrouded mystery, with ghosts and banshees hiding in every corner. George set their luggage down on the carpet that took up most of the floorspace.

                 George turned the switch on the tall, elegant lamp near the entranceway, revealing a room not changed at all from when the doors of the Nevada had first opened. Absent ghosts and banshees.

                 Elegant, if overstated, and it had Annie thinking not so much of her grandmother’s living room, but of her great-grandmother’s opulent house built in the last century.

                 “Well then—” Annie said, shrugging her shoulders.

                 George wasted no time in setting their bags down at the foot of the bed and he proceeded to open the bathroom, inspect the cabinets, and behind the door. He then stepped back into the room, and peered out the window, a hawk searching for prey.

                 Oh Lord. Annie thought, he’s back in the war days now. Her thoughts turned grim, she knew the man had suffered calamity and heartbreak in that darned war. He often awoke screaming, and was a terror to startle during those nights, but in his waking moments—he never talked about it. At times he could be startled into old habits, war-habits, checking for enemies around every corner.

                 George had fought in the Pacific, a marine at Guadalcanal and Iwa Jima, he had become calloused and brittle by the horrors on those distant islands. “I don’t want you to know the Hell that was, is war.” He had told her once. “However, I try I cannot forget it. It was Hell. Nobody deserves to know that.” When she had asked him more, “No Annie, let it lie. Let it lay dead with our sons, brothers, and fathers in graves far from home.”

In the years between she had heard stories, and rumors that the War had been little more than a living waking Hell. Beyond hot, and humid, with mosquitos and disease running rampant... To this day George would not set foot anywhere even remotely tropical, or even vacation in Florida.

                 She sighed as he turned on both lights in the room, drawing the curtains closed, and then checked beneath the bed. “Clear.” He said at last. His eyes hard and his head on a swivel. He was careful to keep his back to the wall. Part of her amused, at George with his grey hair, and distended beer belly in contrast with his serious warrior demeanor, the other half grieved. Where is my husband? The man who wrote me letters and poetry, that wooed me and courted me by the lake? Where is the George who made us laugh and who made me cry at the beauty of his words?

                 Gone. Lost 2000 miles away in the middle of the Pacific.                 

                 *Thump Thump*

                 The sounds, followed by a tremendous crash above their heads. Annie’s memories faded as they were assaulted by cacophonous sounds.

                 She looked to George and his face was pale. “Fucking kids... It must be... right Annie?” To her, he seemed not a man past his prime, but a frail little boy.

                 “Sure George," she said, reassuringly. That had to be the rooftop, but... there is... it is not possible.

                 Enough. “Alright George, grab the luggage. We’re going home.”

                 George hesitated a moment, his face indecisive, before dutifully obeying.

                 Annie passed the elevator in favor of the door labeled ‘stairs.’ They descended the four stories back to the lobby and she noticed details that she had not seen before.

                 Instead of ornate mahogany countertops, the counters had been replaced by more modern marble. The nervous concierge’s replacement was an attractive young woman.

                 “Go ahead to the car George.” George did not waste any time looking back, he hurried right through the front doors back to their ’45 Cadillac Fleetwood.

                 “Pardon, Miss.” Annie ventured to the young concierge.

                 “Oh, we’re not open yet, Ma’am.” The young woman replied, meeting Annie’s eyes with a raised brow. “

                 “Ma’am?”

                 “I-I need to sit down. May I?”

                 The young woman hurried from around the counter and ushered Annie to a seat.

                 “Ma’am, are you alright?”

                 “S-U-L-L-I-V-A-N-S, we’re the Sullivans. Can you please check on our reservation, we just checked in with a young man not two hours ago.”

                 “Ma’am...” The young woman said with an agitated chuckle, “That’s impossible. The Nevada has been closed since the war, the last six, or seven years now.”

                 “What on Earth.” Annie said, and she felt her head spinning. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, and blood flushed her cheeks. Trying, failing to catch herself in the final moment before hitting the marbled floors.

                 Her breath caught in her teeth.

                 Just above, and over the young concierge’s shoulder was a picture out of history dated 1905. It was labeled Hotel Nevada and in it was the nervous concierge, Adam the elevator operator, the grey-haired woman, and a young girl of seven years old or so standing on floors of mahogony. Standing before them all was J. Franklin (Frank) Douglas owner proprietor. That’s not possible.

                 Lord Above. Annie thought and collapsed. Pain, sharp, corrosive shot up her left arm and into her chest. Her vision dimmed and blurred.

                 She saw George absent their luggage charge through the doors of the hotel. His eyes wide, and he sighted Annie lying upon the wooden flooring, in obvious distress.

                 “No, no, no, no, no... No!” He ran tender hands through her hair and caressed her cheek. Tears ran in rivulets down his face, transformed into valleys of grief.

                 Annie saw George as he was when he was young, unfettered by memories of war, and grief. Thin, handsome, and young. She longed to feather her fingers through that hair one final time...

                 Annie’s heart ceased its earthly beats and as her soul lifted, she saw the ghostly apparitions of a young girl, a grieving mother, and a dark souled former owner. Lastly, she felt the black grief of George who had remembered his reason for surviving the war.