But it was! What did that note mean?
50 GROVE ST.—NEW YORK—Look In Wallet
The money was for a bus ticket to New York. The fact drifted into his head with the tardiness of someone who hadn’t really intended to come at all. The little hoard of money in the dresser drawer was being saved for a bus ticket to New York City.
And thence to 50 Grove St.?
Damn! Where was the wallet? He must have had one, sometime, somewhere, a wallet full of answers, a wallet crammed with statements about himself. But somewhere along the line he had lost it; or it had been stolen from him, and he knew with fatalistic certainty he would never get it back nor ever know what had happened to it.
Curiosity, still sluggish and half-drugged by habit, nevertheless now was stirring, dispelling both the fear and the paralysis of his being wrested from his round of routine. It was curiosity that pulled him finally up off the bed and over to the dresser where, with the money saved in there, he found a note which told him, “Bus ticket, $33.42.” There was seventeen dollars in the drawer, and on the bed another ten to be added to this pile. Next week, then. If there was a plan behind all this, and it seemed to him there had to be, then it had to mean he would leave here for New York City next week.
But why? Why go to New York City? He didn’t know anybody there, didn’t think he’d ever been there in his life. At least, he didn’t remember ever having been to New York City.
But he didn’t remember anything. Not anything back of the present routine, at any rate.
He was supposed to go to New York City, that’s all he could be sure of. The reasons for it had once been contained in a wallet, but the wallet was now gone. The only clue he had was the address: 50 Grove St. It was necessary for him to go to 50 Grove St. in New York City, in order to find out why he was supposed to go there.
He shook his head, not liking that. Why should he go running off somewhere without any reason? What was the matter with the life he had here? Was he unhappy here, discontented, ill-treated?
He knew he wasn’t. He knew he liked his job, liked the people he lived with and the people he worked with, liked the girl he went on dates with. Why leave any of this, even for a little while? It was best to let matters lie.
But he couldn’t. The thought itself made him suddenly ill, gave him a nervous nausea like the aftermath of a near-accident, the way he might feel right after not crashing in an automobile at eighty miles an hour.
He had to go to New York, that was all of it, he had to go there, and it didn’t seem to matter whether he understood or not.
Would other people know? Maybe the people around him knew about his trip and could tell him why he was supposed to make it. Maybe Matt Malloy, or Little Jack Flynn, or Edna; maybe he should ask.
But he couldn’t do that either, admit to others he didn’t know why he was supposed to go to New York. No, more than that; admit to them he didn’t know anything about anything, from before.
He didn’t even know what he meant by before, except he didn’t think he had lived here all his life, in this house or in this town. He had come here from somewhere else, though he couldn’t remember where or why, and he was supposed now to travel on again, still not knowing why and only by a cryptic note knowing anything of where.
One thing he did know. If he didn’t want to be startled again like this he should leave himself a more comprehensive note for next time. He never doubted for a second that there would be a next time, that he would sink into the grayness again, probably by morning, and only another accident would bring him back out of it.
In the same dresser drawer with the money was a large-size pad of paper, and a ballpoint pen. There were also several sheets of paper containing writing, in what he recognized as his own hand, mostly sets of names or objects with arrows between, none of which meant anything to him at all, no more than 50 Grove St. had meant anything to him or the idea of New York City had meant anything to him.
He set the written-on papers aside, and began a new note to himself, actually a letter, without salutation:
I am supposed to go to New York City. The money in the dresser drawer is for my ticket, and I will have enough by next payday. When I get to New York City, I am supposed to go to a place called 50 Grove Street. I don’t know why, but maybe I’ll find out there.
This note he folded and placed next to the money in the dresser drawer. Then he altered the note on the wall to read “50 GROVE ST.—NEW YORK—Look In Dresser,” and he made another note saying the same thing, which he put in his hip pocket, where he would have carried a wallet if he’d owned one.
With all this set, he felt relieved and much safer, as though he’d just dropped anchor after having been adrift on the high sea. He had hacked away at the enormity of his helplessness and the frailty of his plans, reducing them to manageable proportions by writing notes about them. He cleared away the rest of the paper, moved the stacks of money from his bed, and got ready for sleep.
But sleep eluded him a long while, lying there in the darkness. He gazed unseeing upward at the ceiling while emotional remnants fluttered in his mind; fear at the nakedness of his position, curiosity about himself and the world around him, even a kind of heady anticipation about the trip next week.
It never occurred to him that thirty-three dollars and forty-two cents was not the price of a round-trip ticket.
11
He wasn’t supposed to come back.
Saturday morning he’d read the notes he’d left himself the night before, and then, just to be sure, he’d stopped at the bus depot on the way to work, and that’s where he learned he’d been saving for a one-way ticket. What could that mean except he hadn’t intended to come back?
It was frightening, this adventure into the unknown. In many ways it didn’t make any sense at all, to go running off to a city he knew nothing about, not even knowing why he was going there. For all he knew, the information in the missing wallet was something telling him to stay away from New York, though that couldn’t explain why he was saving money for a bus ticket.
But why leave, why go away from here at all? It wasn’t as though he needed somewhere else. Here in this town he had a good job, and a steady girlfriend, and a good place to live, and lots of good friends; who could want anything more than that? In New York City, he had no idea what to expect.
But somehow the thought of staying was even more frightening than the thought of leaving. He didn’t understand his feelings himself, but it was as though there were something out there in the world a million times greater than anything he had here in this town, and if he stayed here he’d lose that something forever. It was all as vague as air; he didn’t know what the something could be, or if he would ever find it, or even if he would recognize it on seeing it, but the certainty of not finding it, by staying here in town, left him sick with nervous apprehension.
All weekend he lived with his fears and uncertainties, plus one matter more; from the moment on Saturday when he’d learned he was to buy a one-way ticket he had known he would have to tell Edna. It was impossible that she already knew about his plans, or she wouldn’t have been so open and total with him. Her behavior implied a permanence he now knew was impossible.
He tried to tell her Saturday night, in the tavern after work, but shyness and embarrassment and a sense of loss stilled his tongue, and afterwards he lay in bed sleepless with a sense of shame. On Sunday evening, as usual, he took her to the movies, and it wasn’t until the picture was over and he was walking homeward with her that he finally managed to force himself to speak.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something,” he began, but from the way her hand tightened on his he knew he’d phrased it badly and she was now anticipating something much more pleasant from him than what he had to say, so he added quietly, “It’s bad news, I guess.”
“Bad news? What kind of bad news?”
“I’m not going to be staying here very long.” He’d said it over and over in his mind all evening, dif
ferent phrasings, different way of telling her, and this was the sentence he’d finally settled on, so it rolled out of him without hesitation.
“Not staying here? You mean, in town here?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, where are you going?” From her tone, she didn’t really understand him yet.
“New York City.”
“You’re going all the way to New York City?”
“Yes.”
“But, but why?”
How to explain to her? He couldn’t even explain to himself. He said, “I just have to go, that’s all.”
“You mean, for a visit?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
She disengaged her hand from his, but her voice seemed calm as she said, “You mean you’re going back for good.”
“Back?” He frowned at her phrasing, but it sounded right.
“You told me you used to live there.”
“Oh. Yes, back, I’ve got to go back.”
“Why?”
He shook his head, feeling more and more miserable. “I don’t know,” he said. This was the second time she’d asked him why, and this time he’d had to tell her the truth.
But how could she understand the truth? She was walking a little faster now, and her face was wet. She said, “What do you mean, you don’t know? Are you trying to make a joke?”
He spread his hands, walking faster and faster to keep up with her, and said, “It isn’t a joke. I’ve got something wrong with me, I don’t remember things. All I know is I’m supposed to go to New York. I’ve got notes in my room, and I’ve been saving my money for the ticket.”
“Saving money? You knew about this all along, this isn’t something that just came up?”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so.” She was practically running now, her coattails fluttering around her knees, her face set in harsh lines that made it look bonier and older.
“I wanted to tell you before,” he said, “but I couldn’t, I was afraid to.”
“Afraid I wouldn’t let you touch me anymore.”
They were about a block from her house now, and he stopped where he was on the sidewalk, feeling ashamed and inadequate. “That wasn’t it,” he said, but he was only speaking for the last two days. How did he know, from before that? He could remember incidents with her, particularly the babysitting episode, but his own plans and purposes were only a blur.
She stopped two paces ahead of him and looked back over her shoulder. “Why did you lead me on?”
“Because I was lonely, I guess.”
“Now you want me to feel sorry for you.”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“And this memory thing all of a sudden. You expect me to believe that?”
“It’s true, Edna.”
She brushed that away with an angry motion, and said, “When are you going?”
“Next week. The end of next week.”
“And you won’t be coming back.”
“I guess not, no.”
“And with that convenient memory of yours, you can forget all about me in no time, can’t you?”
“I suppose so,” he said, feeling painful at having to say it but knowing she would see the lie in anything else he might say. “I’m sorry, Edna,” he said.
“You’re sorry.” Her voice was flat. “What a dirty sneak you are,” she said. “What a dirty nasty sneak.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned away. “Goodbye,” she said, her voice muffled, and walked away from him across the tilted squares of sidewalk.
He stood where he was, watching her go. She looked so small and thin and young and frail. He remembered the feel of her ribs against the heel of his hand, when his fingers had been cupping her breast. He remembered her embarrassment at his seeing her undress, and he remembered the moments of awkwardness between them caused by her shyness and nervousness and insecurity.
What good would it be to run after her? He would have to say either I’ll stay or Come with me, and he could do neither. He couldn’t stay and he couldn’t take her with him, and he only understood in the vaguest way the reasons for both. So if he did run after her, what could he possibly say? “I’m sorry. I didn’t ever want to hurt you, and I’m sorry.” Useless words. They would only make even larger the words he wasn’t saying.
She looked so fragile, walking away from him along the sidewalk. She looked like a child, cruelly hurt. With thin dignity, she was walking straight and even, and she didn’t look back. He stood watching after her until she turned at her house and went up the stoop and across the porch, and still she didn’t look back. He waited until he couldn’t see her any longer, until he knew she’d gone into the house, and then he turned around and walked home.
She was right. I just used her. I did lead her on. That was why I was ashamed to tell her before now, because I knew all along what I was doing to her.
He went on home. The Malloys were all in bed; only the nightlight at the head of the stairs was on. He went upstairs and got ready quickly for bed, and then lay there in the darkness, gazing at the less-dark rectangle of the window. He was feeling again that depression that came over him from time to time, the emotion that brought him so close to crying. He dimly remembered feeling this way before, and not crying, and he didn’t cry now.
I wonder if Edna is crying, over there in her own bed. Across the rows of angled roofs, and down, and through her window, and in the corner of her bed she is weeping, muffling the noises with blanket and pillow so her parents won’t hear. She is never a pretty girl; sobbing, her face will be ugly. Her body is thin and frail, and under the blankets she is cold.
I’m sorry, he thought, but it didn’t do anybody any good.
12
There was no point in working Friday.
The idea had come to him earlier in the week, and he’d been amazed by it; it was a leap of logic he hadn’t expected from himself. But once the thought was there, he saw that it was obvious. He was staying here only until he got his next pay, and then he’d be off; he’d told Mrs. Malloy on Tuesday that he’d be leaving this weekend. He’d be paid four o’clock Friday afternoon, and there was no reason in the world why he should work Friday night.
There was only one problem. He wasn’t sure exactly what days he was being paid for, didn’t know if his pay would include Friday’s work, and maybe even Saturday’s work too. So the thing to do was just slip away after he was paid, and get aboard the bus, and be off. He’d gone to the bus depot, and there was a New York bus leaving at four-thirty, plenty of time for him to get to the depot from the tannery, even if Joe Lampek was slower than usual in doling out the pay envelopes.
The idea came to him Thursday afternoon, while he was watching television, and he was so pleased by it that he acted on it at once, going upstairs and getting all his money out of the drawer. The full twenty-seven dollars was there. He put ten dollars in his pocket and went back downstairs to the kitchen, where Mrs. Malloy was doing her baking. She baked on Mondays and Thursdays. He said, “I’ve decided I’ll leave right from work Friday night, so I’ll give you this week’s rent now.”
“You’re really going, are you?”
“I’ve got to.”
“You want to, Paul.”
Yes, that was true. The unknown had a fascination, and so much was unknown. He knew his life here, but this life faded away in the very near past, and everything beyond it was blank. More than any other reason for leaving here, he was curious about himself.
“We’ll miss you, Paul,” she was saying. “I only hope our next roomer is half as considerate.”
“You’ll get somebody else.” He made a joke of it, saying, “I’ll write you a reference, if you want.”
“If you’ll write me a postcard sometime, I’ll like it even better.”
“I will,” he lied.
“It’s only a week till Christmas. Why not wait till after the first of the year?”
“I can’t.” N
early every day he needed the reminder note; to stay here any longer was too dangerous.
“If you must, you must,” she said. “Just leave the money on the refrigerator.”
He left it there, and went back to watch television some more, burning with impatience. That night he worked twice as hard as usual, trying to burn off some of the excess nervous energy he’d been building up. He worked up a good sweat, but his energy seemed inexhaustible. It didn’t even bother him tonight that he was still in Coventry.
As near as he could figure it, Ann Bellman had found out from Edna that something had gone wrong between her and Cole, but apparently Edna hadn’t said what it was, that he was leaving. Ann in her turn had talked to Little Jack Flynn, and apparently they’d decided between them that he’d seduced her and, mission accomplished, had now dropped her. Little Jack had come to have a private talk with Cole, to tell him that Edna was a real good kid and nobody should treat her bad. Little Jack had been calm and deliberate and judicial, a strangely solemn attitude for him, and he’d even been diffident a bit about butting in, but Cole’s conscience was still bothering him about Edna and he snapped back, losing his temper with a co-worker for the first time since coming to work here. He told Little Jack to mind his own damn business, and Little Jack’s face froze and he turned on his heel and went away. That was Tuesday night, and since then no one else on the crew had said a word to Cole. It was obvious that Little Jack had enforced the silence rule, and Cole knew that it was essentially, in a topsy-turvy way, a friendly action. If Little Jack didn’t like him, he would have insisted on fighting him. Doing it this way, Little Jack could only be thinking in terms of withholding friendship.
Whatever the motive, the silence rule was complete. It was awkward at first, but Cole got used to it rather quickly. He was used to solitary daydreaming during work anyway, and besides he would be in the company of these people less than a week longer. So it didn’t really matter what they thought or did.
Memory (Hard Case Crime) Page 13
