Thursday, November 17th, 2011
4:15 p.m.
As she climbed the stairs to the Oak Room, there was something different about the atmosphere of just the hallway. It seemed darker than usual walking up the stairs. Then again, the stairs seemed a bit dirtier as well, more grit stuck to the stair runner and in the corners of the hardwood, kind of like that corner of the Plaza had fallen into the slightest neglect. Not overtly noticeable, but still not quite how she remembered it from back in springtime.
It had been a good six months or so since her last foray to the Oak Room. It wasn't the most popular place to be in New York anymore. Not when there were all those one-word places written with strange capitalizations, like "ArOmA" or "ghoul" popping up all over the city that served bites on tiny square plates with drinks made by a bearded gentleman who dressed as though he belonged with a team of lumberjacks. The Oak Room was a reminder of the old days. Men in jackets, women in heels. A skilled bartender, with a non-ironic bowtie, mixing the simplest and most classic drinks, pouring them into traditional glasses. The one place a person could easily escape to in Midtown that had any resemblance of what was used to be New York. How much of New York had she seen change before her eyes?
The Oak Room held a certain place in her heart. Carol and Therese would go for drinks on a Friday night every April, until night became too late for either of them to want to be out and instead they opted for drinks between three and five o'clock, just before the post-work rush appeared. Without fail, every April they would go to the Oak Room to toast another year together. It was always just the two of them, no other friends or family there. Martinis, Chateaubriand for two, one dessert (always different), and a bottle of 1929 Mumm. Always a private affair in a far off table for two with some dark lighting, minimal candles so Carol could continue pressing her foot against Therese's to see the dimples on prominently pop up on her cheeks.
When they would head home, Therese would look down at her feet and see the imprints from where Carol's shoes had pressed against hers. She never wanted to remove the scuffs or the dust from whenever that happened, but Carol always noticed them weeks later and would polish and scrub the shoes so they looked good as new, not realizing how they had gotten there in the first place or their significance.
Sometimes, whenever they fought, most likely Carol would appease Therese by telling her no more squabbling, after work the next day, they should meet at the Oak Room. They didn't always follow through with it: upon arrival, sometimes Carol would get there after Therese and approach the usually secluded table without her noticing. All it took was the right tone of voice and the right words to rectify things.
She would place a hand squarely on her right shoulder, quietly asking, "Are you waiting for someone, angel?"
"Only you." Therese would reply. Therese would turn to look at the hand on her shoulder and then up to see Carol standing beside the table, waiting for Therese's permission to sit. Without fail, Therese would melt at the sight of her, eager to make things right, smiling at her so adoringly, and tilting her head to make the most subtle contact with Carol.
"Darling, I love you." Carol would softly say as she felt Therese's cheek graze against the hand resting on her shoulder.
Sometimes Carol's hand would come away wet, with a droplet or two of tears. Therese would reassure her, whispering, "I love you too, Carol" against her hand; however, what Carol most frequently heard was, "Do you want to - "
Therese never needed to finish what she was saying because Carol would whisk them away and they would walk back to the apartment. They never needed to even stay for a drink, there was no need when they would venture back to the apartment, shed their clothes, climb into bed together, and hold one another without having to say much more. It wasn't perfect all the time, but there was always the Oak Room. There was always their table at the Oak Room where they could convene and reconnect.
Upon reaching the top stairs near the entrance, the sight of the locked door was most troubling. It was almost happy hour, shouldn't the door be unlocked? She peeked through the crack in the door and couldn't see too much. Needless to say, everything was dark and without any sign of the usual merriment. Something certainly was not right.
Despite looking around for one of the hotel staff who constantly wander the corridors, there was no one to be seen as she waited in place. She didn't want to wander around unnecessarily; the old injury on her right leg was acting up again. Finally a young woman walked past, hands carrying metal pitchers of ice water, who might know what was happening.
"Excuse me, but could you please tell me why the Oak Room is closed? It's nearly five!" she exclaimed as she pointed to the watch on her right wrist.
The young woman looked at her strangely and put down the pitchers on the table by the entrance. "It closed back in July, ma'am. Didn't you read about it in the Times?"
"In the Times? Goodness, no." she said with a chuckle. "We were away this summer. Afraid keeping tabs on the New York social scene hasn't been a priority."
"Well, it's closed. Again. However it's not for renovations this time."
With a quick look at the locked door, she turned to the young woman with a slump to her shoulders and tilt of her head. "Do you think you might be able to let me in for a quick look around?"
"I don't know… I don't have a key… "
"It'd just be a moment."
"Let me see if I can find someone with some keys though, okay?" The young woman started to walk away and was out of her line of sight for a moment, then returned with a chair which she unfolded. "It's not the most comfortable, ma'am, but it's better than standing."
"Thank you, you're very kind." She sat down and waited. A few moments more, no other sounds in the hall or along the stairs, and she pulled out her book from her oversized purse and began to read. She figured if no one showed for fifteen minutes, it was no fuss, she could amble back downstairs and pester someone at reception.
It wasn't until she realized that she had read all of Chapter Fourteen that it had been much longer than fifteen minutes.
She could open it with a credit card, right? Swipe it down the middle of the lock. Hadn't someone taught her that for when she was locked out? Or had she just seen it in a film and was wholly impressionable at times? Perhaps there was an expired one somewhere in her purse, just in case some damage came to it. There was always something expired in her purse lately; she'd need to ask Rindy about downsizing to something else despite her preference for carrying around at least two books.
"I swear, I'm getting you a Kindle for Christmas. You'll throw out your back again lugging all this around." Rindy exasperatedly spoke one afternoon shortly after Labor Day.
"Maybe… "
"No, maybe. Definitely. You can also make the print - "
"Don't even begin with that."
" - bigger."
"I warned you."
"Well, you can, you know."
Drifting back to the present, there was a tap on her shoulder. A friendly-looking woman wearing a suit and her hair in a tight bun stood next to her, holding a binder. "Excuse me for the delay, ma'am. How can I help?"
She stood from her chair, eying the locked door of the Oak Room, and casually pointed toward the entrance. "I was hoping I might go in, look around some."
Opening the binder in her hand, she leafed through the pages for the calendar and a blank sheet of paper. "We have availability for private functions if you're interested in booking an event with us."
"Well, is the rate attractive?" she asked with a faint chuckle.
"Pardon?"
She laughed softly. "Oh, nothing. Just… do you think I could have a look around? By myself. I'll only be five minutes or so."
"Go right ahead, I'll be down the hall in Event Planning Office when you're done and ready to go over things." The woman unlocked the door to let her in. Once she was inside, the woman walked back to her office, leaving her to explore the vacant space.
All the way in the back though, she spotted the table. There weren't any freshly laundered white tablecloths, no candles, no neat tumblers of Scotch sitting out, no place settings.
Nothing but vacancy and silence.
It was so unlike the place they had grown to love over the years, even with the murmur of other conversations, or the bartender's cocktail shaker off in the distance. She made her way to the very back, noticing trace amounts of dust on the edges, and walked to the booth in the far corner, slowly to savor each step forward.
Their table.
Placing a hand on the edge of the booth, she whispered, once more, "Darling, I love you."