The Grand Grand Hotel

“OK, so we started a war that was probably unnecessary; I can forgive that. I mean, what the hell, right? But when they couldn’t find any WMD’s, why the hell didn’t they plant some goddamn evidence? What’s the point of having a CIA if they can’t plant some WMD’s, for crying out loud,” said Jack, shoveling another forkful of heavily gravied mashed potatoes in his mouth.

Henry wasn’t quite sure if his host was joking, since this was their first dinner together, but this sort of talk made Henry uneasy, and he shifted in his chair as he listened to Jack pontificate on topics of various size and relevance. It wasn’t that he couldn’t talk about these things with a fair degree of intelligence. He was well-read, at least for a cop. And he could even have strong feelings about subjects like the Iraqi war and the state of the country. But he liked to think that his leaders at least tried to be honest, tried to do the right thing; he liked to think that he wasn’t the last honest man standing and there was still hope for the world he had been promised as a kid sitting next to his mother in church.

He might have said something, too, argued, perhaps, that the only noble thing Bush had done was not plant weapons of mass destruction. That it showed the man had some thread of integrity where otherwise there was no evidence of it. He might have said more, had he been back in Detroit and the dinner had been, well, with people of his own kind. But he wasn’t in Detroit, he was much further north, in geography and thought, and he was most certainly not with his own people. So he nodded, took another sip of the imported something-or-other beer in front of him, and smiled. His wife, Mary Ann sensed his discomfort, because she stole a hand squeeze under the table. This was all very difficult for him. At least she was there with him.

He glanced over at her now. She had pasted a polite smile on her face and was nodding responsively at Jack’s wife, who from the tidbits of conversation he heard, had appointed herself Mary Ann’s personal welcome committee and in what can only be described as a pedantic tone, was prattling on about all the wonderful things the island had in store for her, for people like her.

He looked down at his wife’s plate; untouched, near as he could tell, save a butter-macerated carrot or two. She had artfully forked off a few bites of salmon, so overdone that the edges were curling, and tucked them under the browned, dry duchesse potatoes. She made some swirls in the corn pudding to make it appear that she had taken a bite or two. In the background, the din of their hosts.

Like her husband, Jack’s wife could talk a blue streak, and she liked, evidently, to share their stories of privilege. Henry could tell the couple fancied themselves of the blue-blood class, and within the confines Mackinac Island they might indeed have been, but to him, and especially his wife, this was all so much unnecessary pomposity. Henry sensed Mary Ann seething just under the surface, as Jack’s wife prattled on about the Junior League and other such activities reserved for ladies’ whose goal in life was to drop their first names in favor of their husband’s on wedding invitations, and who – for all intents and purposes -- would rather not sully their world perspective by reading a newspaper. Mary Ann had no time for such brain-wastes, Henry knew. He would hear it when they got back to their hotel room.

He looked out the window of the private dining room that Jack had reserved for them, and watched the water glistening against the backdrop of the setting sun. It was a beautiful island, he had to admit that. And he could think of a lot of folks back in Detroit who would have given their eye-teeth for such a cushy gig. Had the circumstances been different, perhaps he would have felt differently about the new job, but things being what they were, it was difficult to appreciate his new lieutenant position.

“You simply have not lived until you have had a pecan ball at the Grand Hotel,” said Mrs. John “Jack” Walker (Barbara was it? Henry couldn’t remember). She put her hand to her chest with an overly dramatic sweep, and did a bit of a swoon. Barbara glanced down at Mary Ann’s practically untouched plate. “Oh, and good for you for showing some restraint, dear, though I don’t know how you do it. You won’t regret having saved room for dessert, through. The pecan ball is to die for. The food here is just so, well, have you ever tasted anything so divine?” Barbara looked around expectantly at her husband’s guests and after getting the expected facial confirmation, went back to her own plate, dabbing up gloppy orange glaze from her chicken l’orange with a dinner roll.

“I have to agree with my wife,” said Jack. “Not like you’re going to get food like this every day.” Thank the Lord, thought Henry. Though he was not the gourmand his wife had become over the years, he was not impressed by the roast beef with the metallic-looking rainbow sheen staring back at him.

“So, how do you like our quaint little Island, Henry?” said Jack. “Pretty amazing, isn’t it? A far cry from Detroit, wouldn’t you say?”

“Or any city, really,” chimed Barbara, before he could answer. “I mean, where else are you going to get all this elegance and beauty without it being spoiled by, well you know, big city filth. And the service!” She looked fondly over at her husband, “Well, the credit for that goes to you, dear.” She looked back over at Henry and Mary Ann. “You know, my Jack has been responsible for bringing the service people to Mackinac Island for the past 30 years,” she said, beaming. “And his father and grandfather before him.”

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask someone about that,” said Mary Ann, perking up for the first time since dinner began. “I noticed a lot of Jamaicans – or are they Trinidadians? – working on the island. Are all these people local?”

“Oh, nooooooo,” said Barbara, suddenly furrowing her brows. “My Jack brings all this wonderful wonderful help directly from Jamaica each and every year. They really are part of what makes the place so charming, don’t you think?” Mary Ann was silent, her mouth open slightly. Henry elbowed her under the table, which closed her mouth, at least momentarily. Mary Ann pushed her plate forward and planted her folded hands on the table. Here it comes, thought Henry.

“Well, that’s kind of strange, isn’t it? I mean, why is it that you feel you have to import Jamaicans to service the island? With the outsourcing of a lot of jobs to India, and the depressed economies in Northern Michigan and places like Flint and even Detroit, I would think you could get local people to fill these positions. Wouldn’t that benefit the local economy?” It was Henry’s turn to squeeze his wife’s hand, only it was not a show of solidarity. He had hoped the subject would not come up. Please, he thought, shut up. She shot an annoyed glance at him.

The question caught Barbara mid-chew, but she waved it away, and with a full mouth sputtered out, “ Well, I don’t know about the economics of anything, but we tried hiring the –you know, locals -- years ago, but, well, those people are spoiled, just spoiled. You wouldn’t believe what they demanded, and well, you’d think they’d be grateful to have a job, but they weren’t. Not like our wonderful people from Negril” Her voice trailed off as she swallowed. “Now, Jamaicans know a little something about service; how it used to be. How it should be. And that’s how we like it here, right honey?” Barbara reached over and patted her husband’s thigh.

Henry was squeezing his wife’s hand with the grip of a bulldog. Let it go. Please let it go, he thought. He knew she wanted to pounce on this woman.

“Well, truth is, we’ve got a pretty good deal going with these Jamaicans. If it weren’t for them, we’d probably have to close this place down,” Jack waved a hand around the dining room.

“The whole Island?” asked Mary Ann. Henry gave one last squeeze. A begging squeeze.

“Well, the Grand for sure,” said Jack. “Or we’d have to charge twice what we already do. They really keep the island running, and well, there are people who come back every year, just to experience the feel of the place with all its charm. The Jamaicans are really part of that, but economically speaking, we need them as much as they need us.” Jack broke off a bit of roll and slathered it with butter.

“This used to be a big underground gambling area, and it really attracted a lot of tourists. We had this whole deal with the big cops, even, where they would come up here, make a bust, you know, for publicity purposes, so that the local papers would print a story about how illegal gambling was still going on the island. It made the place seem forbidden and the tourists would just flock here.” Jack should his head. “Those days are long gone. Nowadays the police have too much going on in their own precincts to bother about Mackinac, what with all the drug trafficking going on. They don’t have time to come up this way.”

“That’s fascinating. Do you mean to tell me the cops would stage a bust?” asked Mary Ann, again interested in the conversation.

“Well, no, it was a real bust, but it was sort of tipped by us. We’d pick some old guys whose reputation could withstand a little police activity and tip off the Mackinaw cops about where and when the gambling would happen. They’d go in an haul out the old geezers, handcuffs and all. Of course, charges would not be filed, but the arrest was enough to make the papers. Funny thing is, the old men we’d arrest – they’d have games going in their rooms – they’d get a real rush out of it. They really thought they were criminals. Never dawned on them that we planned the whole thing.”

“How strange,” said Mary Ann. “Sounds like the idle rich really do have too much time on their hands.” She could not hide her disgust. Henry knew much more of this wouldn’t sit well with her. There was an awkward silence and then his host chimed in again.

“Well, this certainly isn’t neighborly chatter. What about you two? Where in Detroit are you all from? Are you all moved in? Did you get a chance to tour the island thoroughly? Did you rent bikes? Whereabouts did you find a place?” The questions were coming rapid-fire. Henry wasn’t certain he was supposed to answer all of them, and in any case, he wasn’t sure he could, so he concentrated on the latter ones.

“Well, the rental prices were a little rich for our blood on the Island, so we found a place over in St. Ignace,” said Henry. The commute won’t be too bad, at least not in the Summer, and we met some of the other people on the force who live out that way. Seems pretty nice.” In point of fact, Henry and Mary Ann had found a place on the island, but after spending a few days there, Mary Ann had steadfastly refused to take up permanent residence. The creep factor was too high, she said.

“Right, right. St. Ignace is nice, quiet and the rents are decent. And there are a lot of cops there. You’ll like it there. And if you park at the Shipley’s dock, they give Mackinac’s finest free ferry rides, so it won’t cost you a thing. I know the pay isn’t great here, but there are lots of perks, you’ll see.

“Rents are pretty high in the summertime here on the island. You’d be amazed how quickly things drop off in October, though, so you may want to look in a few months. Lots of folks who couldn’t afford a place here find they can get a year’s lease in October, so that might be an option for you. Nothin’ like living on the island,” he said, washing down his roast beef with a gulp of merlot. “Course, we’re lucky. My grandfather built here 100 years ago, so that’s not a problem for us. And when you’ve been around as long as we have,” he said, waving his fork and rolling his eyes in faux self-deprecation, “well, you forget just how lucky you are. I mean, look around you. The view, the food,” Jack sat back and surveyed his hotel. “Spectacular.”

In fact, while the view was truly spectacular, the Grand Hotel itself had seen better days. What was described as “charming,” “quaint” or “historic” in the coffee table books about the island might better be categorized as “old,” “dirty,” “inconvenient” and “tacky,” anywhere close to a real city. Hardly a destination location for the Deer Valley crowd, and at $350 a pop for one of the smaller rooms, it’s unlikely any true American aristocracy would have suffered the dank and dark hallways so thick with the smell of mildew and spilled alcohol, that one wondered whether the place had once been a fraternity basement. The plastic plants that filled the indoor window boxes gave the place an almost Disney theme park feel, and the décor was not helped by the vinyl covered couches that dotted the sitting areas.

For a brief time in the 80’s, there had been talk of big Hollywood studios using the Grand as the stage for a number of period pieces, the cash from which events would infuse the hotel with much needed capital to make even simple improvements like pulling up the mildewed carpet on the lower floor. “Somewhere in Time” had been filmed on location and the rumors abounded that Mackinac was now on Hollywood’s map. A combination of the island’s longstanding tradition of disallowing any form of motor transportation coupled with the fact that despite a recognized cast, the movie hadn’t been the box office smash most people guessed it would, kept the promise of big money filmmakers far away. Not that Mackinac didn’t have its share of film credits, but it never became the “go-to” destination everyone had hoped.

In a more recent effort to re-establish The Grand as a premier conference center and resort, the management had made an attempt at upgrading the facilities with the comforts of a digital world, but implementation had been largely unsuccessful. The town council voted down the Grand’s request to install a satellite dish on its rooftop, citing historical concerns with the unsightly device, and so the mobile coverage was spotty at best. The high speed internet access, at a pricey $25.00 a day and no guarantee that the signal would work anywhere but the Veranda, kept most conference goers away.

Even if the hotel had managed to create a more work-friendly environment, the convenience factor frequently weighed heavily on the decision to nix Mackinac for most law retreats or other expensive conference events; it took a minimum of two planes and a boat trip to get on the island Still, there remained enough curiosity about the island itself and enough old guard returning to the place, that the Grand managed a decent, if no longer hearty, summer contingency.

The food at the Grand changed nightly, rotating 7 standard menus. This was an attempt to make diners believe that the chicken, fish, or meat entrées they were getting were not just the same old preparation with a different sauce. From time to time, the chef would latch onto a new glaze or change to a lamb dish. For instance, in the last two years he had increased his use of Asian-style dishes and added a thai ginger sauce to the halibut, but underneath, it was the same old lump of protein, par-baked on parchment paper and then sent to live out its life on a giant steam table in the kitchen, until some diner with an Egyptian cotton shirt from Campion/s and a pair of dirty bucks ordered it. If one had to eat at the Grand, it was best to order off the children’s menu, since hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, chicken fingers, and spaghetti tended to improve after sitting awhile.

By all rights, the place should have gone the way of places like Chicago’s Parker House, which, once considered the quintessential upscale Chicago experience, is known more now for its dinner rolls. But this was Northern Michigan. And this was Mackinac Island. And here more than the Grand Hotel was other-worldly.

The dark-skinned waiters in their short-coats had clearly been keeping a watchful eye on the boss’ table, because as soon as he pushed back his chair, they descended upon the foursome with lightening speed, removing plates and sordid dinner accoutrements like the salt and pepper shakers and butter dishes until only their drinks remained.

“You know what I’m having for dessert,” said Barbara to her husband, then she winked at Mary Ann. “But don’t ask me to share. You’ll want one of your own.”

“I’ll have a pecan roll, too,” said Henry quickly, before his wife could order. “Honey, why don’t you get something else and then we’ll share.” He knew that it would have annoyed Mary Ann no end to have to acquiesce to this dumpy Michigander whose pedigree seemed to be limited to her married name.

Like clockwork, another set of waiters placed coffee cups, each with the handle at precisely 4 O’Clock, in front of the guests. Then cream, then sugar, then dessert. The coveted pecan roll turned out to be nothing more than a scoop of vanilla ice-milk rolled in chopped pecans that, judging from their soggy texture, had been left sitting in the freezer all day. The roll was placed in a large puddle of gritty hot fudge sauce. Though not nearly as artful as his wife, Henry managed to manipulate the fat mass so that it looked like he’d eaten more than he had.

“Well, Henry,” said Jack, as they finished their desserts. “I can’t promise that every night will be as spectacular as tonight, but we sure do hope you’ll be happy here. We really look forward to seeing your face around. You know, don’t be a stranger,” said Jack, in a way that surely meant that this was the only act of highbrow charity Henry would see for the rest of his tenure on Mackinac. At least for his wife, that was a good thing.

“I have to get up early, but please, we’d be delighted if you would be our guest over at the Jockey Club across the way. Have a drink. Just let Stedley know you’re my guest for the evening. He’s always there. And we’ll definitely be in touch, Henry. And of course, enjoy your stay at the Grand. I realize that it was a bit of an inconvenience to come have dinner so late. And it probably seems silly that you have to stay at the Grand when you live just across the lake. But, the last ferry leaves at 7:30 and we really wanted to give you a chance to experience Mackinac at Sunset.” They all stood up and shook hands. “It’s really been a pleasure.”

Jack and Barbara disappeared into the hotel and Henry and Mary Ann made their way down the giant antebellum-style front steps, past the bellman and carriage boy, and back onto the walk-street. Of course, all streets were walk-streets on Mackinac, since cars were allowed nowhere on the island.

“Thanks for doing this with me,” said Henry, grabbing his wife’s hand. “I know you were about to burst.”

“It had to be done, I know that,” said Mary Ann. “Just don’t ask me to do it again. I think I will lose it if I have to walk past that human herdy gerdy again,” she said, referring to the very black carriage boy who was dressed in a bright red woolen uniform complete with box cap. “Tell me, oh husband of mine; they didn’t repeal the 13th Amendment and forget to tell me, did they?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s pretty weird. Think we’ll ever get used to it?” he asked, strolling toward the Jockey Club.

“God, I hope not. I can’t place my finger on it, but it’s more than the fact that they fly in their ‘negro’ help,” she said, using her fingers as quote marks. “I think what really creeps me out is no one seems to think it’s strange. You know, like, it’s just the way things are.”

“Well, you heard what Jack said, you know, about their symbiotic relationship. Maybe we’ll begin to understand it once we’ve been on the island awhile.”

“I sure as hell hope we’re not on the Island long enough to think it’s normal to have uneducated black people walking around the island in uniform waiting on white people. God this place is strange.”

“You don’t think it’s, you know, interesting sort of, I mean even a little bit --” his wife cut him off.

“NO I DON’T. I said ‘creepy’ and I’m sticking with ‘creepy.’ This is like a place caught in a time warp and if we didn’t have to be here, I’d never come back. Give me 10th graders with cake cutters coming out of their hair. Give me belligerent ghetto kids who talk smack to me. But this steppin’ fetchit stuff is just – well, it’s just creepy. I feel sort of dirty just being here.”

Henry suddenly felt like an asshole. It was his fault that they were here. His fault that the only place he could get a job in Michigan was far enough away from the Detroit PD that his name would not be synonymous with internal affairs. He had forced his wife to leave her beloved garden and her teaching job for this place, all because he had some notion that being a good cop meant trying to rid the force of bad ones. It wasn’t women scorned that should be compared to hell’s fury, Henry knew; it was cops. He was not in the mood to listen to her, but he owed her that much, so he grabbed her hand again and kept silent and kept walking.

“And what a piece of work those two were. What did he mean by that patronizing ‘you’ll like it there’ bullshit?,” said his wife, stopping for a moment to look at Henry. “What, like we’re not suitable for his beloved Mackinac? Fuck you.”

“I don’t think he meant it that way, Mary Ann.”

“The hell they didn’t!”

They had just passed the Jockey Club where they were intending to have a drink, but it was just as well. Mary Ann needed to vent. Besides, she was quite funny when she got rolling, in a sarcastic sort of way. And he needed a laugh. He closed his eyes briefly and let his wife lead him with her hand and her voice. He breathed deeply and relaxed. He didn’t notice the woman coming toward him on his right and he clipped her with his shoulder. She went down like a lead balloon.

“OH!” he said, “Excuse me. Are you alright?” he said, helping her up. The woman smiled and nodded quickly.

“Yes, it’s my fault. I’m fine,” she said.

“No, trust me, it’s my fault,” he said. “You sure you’re alright?” Henry touched her shoulder briefly.

“My husband is sort of a klutz,” said Mary Ann. “Forgive him. You sure you’re OK?”

“No, it’s alright. Have a good evening.” She left them, scurrying over past a sea of parked bicycles, to a waiting group of other Jamaicans. As Henry and Mary Ann passed the group, she could hear some of them teasing the young woman.

“You dork,” whispered Mary Ann, giggling just a little. “See what you’ve done? They’re laughing at her now.”

“Should I go over and apologize again,” asked Henry?

“I think the nicest thing you can do is disappear. Come on, let’s go back to our room and raid the minibar.”


Chapter Two