You're the Cream in My Coffee

by Leo, Jennifer Lamont

  My mind exploded with possibilities. Maybe “P. A. Bachmann” was an alias. Maybe he had amnesia on account of the injury that had caused the scar and didn’t even remember his real name. I’d seen that happen once in a movie. Or maybe God had heard my prayer and was working out some sort of miracle.

  I could not tear my gaze away from the man’s bewildered face as I stammered, “You’re not Jack Lund? But . . . are you sure?”

  If the gentleman had wondered if I were deranged, that question removed all doubt. However, he had the grace to smile, or perhaps grimace. “Sorry, miss. I was sure when I woke up this morning. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  My vision blurred with fresh tears. Could I be any more of an idiot?

  Maybe I was dreaming, the kind of dream I’d had off and on since the war. I’d dream Jack was alive and whole and laughing his crinkly-eyed laugh. Then I’d wake up and soak my pillow with tears at the realization it wasn’t true. I hadn’t had the dream in ages, not since Richard came into my life and pulled me down a different path. Still, at any moment I could wake up and realize this encounter was a mere figment of my imagination.

  “I’m so sorry,” I blabbered. “The—the resemblance is uncanny.” I fumbled in my handbag for a handkerchief and did my best to sound like a reasonable human being. “Are you any relation at all to the Lund family? Of Kerryville? A cousin, perhaps?”

  The poor soul gave a puzzled frown. “Where’s Kerryville?”

  “It’s a small town west of here—oh, never mind.” I gave up on finding a handkerchief and forced myself to smile as if this were all a jolly misunderstanding. “You just look a lot like someone I used to know.”

  “Do I?” he said gently. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me.

  “You’re very kind.” If I were him, I’d be running away as fast as my legs could carry me. Yet here he stood, offering assistance. He must have decided I was the non-threatening sort of lunatic. He smiled a little and my insides melted. In an instant his smile gave way to concern.

  “Miss? Miss, are you ill? Perhaps you should sit down.” He took hold of my elbow and steered me toward a nearby bench.

  For a figment of my imagination, he had a mighty firm grip.

  “I’m all right,” I insisted. The waves of shock flooding my body were ebbing to ripples of embarrassment. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. Here.” I offered up his soggy handkerchief.

  “Keep it. It’s no bother. Are you sure you don’t want me to telephone someone?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

  We stared at each other for an awkward moment as commuters brushed past us, too wrapped up in their own concerns to take notice of a puffy-eyed girl and a bewildered man who probably wished he’d taken an earlier train. Finally he said, “Well. All right then. I really must be going. Good luck to you.” And he turned and strode off down the street.

  I watched his retreating back. He’s not Jack, not Jack, not Jack, my brain hammered. Jack is gone. He’s dead. This P. A. Bachmann, or whoever he was, was not Jack, wavy hair and hazel eyes to the contrary.

  Then one split second before the stranger moved out of sight, he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. I’d have known that gesture anywhere.

  And then he was gone.

  Still lugging that confounded suitcase, I hurried in the direction he’d gone, but the crowds had swallowed him whole. Numb with disappointment and disbelief, I returned to the bench.

  Marjorie, get a hold of yourself. I wanted to burst into tears, to cry for joy, to grieve and wail and shout hallelujah, all at once—and all over a complete stranger I’d known for three minutes, tops.

  Was this the sign from God I’d been waiting for? Or was Richard correct, and I was slowly losing my mind?

  One thing was certain: I couldn’t leave Chicago before I knew for sure whether or not the man was Jack. But how was I going to do that? He’d just walked down the street and out of my life.

  I sat on the bench for a long time, taking stock of my situation. How could I stay all alone in the city? At the same time, how could I leave, knowing Jack might be out there somewhere? Even if I wanted to leave, there wouldn’t be another train to Kerryville until the following day.

  My mind tumbled to formulate a plan. Since the man had arrived on a train, perhaps he commuted to the city every day. If I showed up again at the station during rush hour, I was bound to run into him again, and we could straighten this whole mess out. Or rather, I could straighten it out. Surely he didn’t realize there was any mess in need of straightening.

  And what if he did turn out to be Jack? Then what?

  I’d worry about that when the time came.

  I opened my purse and counted its meager contents. Where would I sleep? I couldn’t show up on Miss Brownlee’s doorstep again like some sort of stray animal. Please, God. Show me what You want me to do.

  As I fumbled through my purse, my fingers brushed against my unused train ticket. I jumped up and hurried back into the train station, where I gave a stern-faced clerk a breathless song and dance, one moment winsome, one moment quivering on the edge of tears—Helen would have been proud of my acting chops—about why I needed to cancel my trip. Finally he relented and refunded my fare—just enough for a cheap lodging and a few bowls of soup. No matter. The excitement of seeing Jack had driven my appetite clean away.

  With fresh resolve I straightened my shoulders and strode to consult that oracle of all knowledge, the Traveler’s Aid lady, about where to go next.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Traveler’s Aid lady directed me to the Young Women’s Christian Association. The plain truth was, I couldn’t leave the city until I knew for sure, truly for sure, that P. A. Bachmann was not Jack Lund. And who knew how long that would take? But I’d have to think of something; my traveling money was dwindling fast.

  The first thing I did was call Richard, so he wouldn’t be waiting for me at the train station. I found a public telephone in the lobby and asked the operator to connect me with Kerryville General. Richard was busy with a patient, so I left a message, secretly relieved that I didn’t have to speak to him directly yet. I needed more time to plan out what I’d say—not a lie, but something easier to swallow than the bald truth that I was chasing down the ghost of a past lover.

  The Y seemed like a pleasant-enough place, a buzzing beehive of young working women—stenographers, shop girls, factory workers. I started to hoist my suitcase up a flight of stairs when a woman wearing a light blue uniform and a hairnet zoomed past me.

  “Wait there, Millie,” she called over the railing to her friend. “I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

  “Hurry up,” her friend replied. “I’m starving.”

  “Think about where to eat,” Hairnet yelled as she rounded the landing.

  “Where do we always eat on payday?” the friend replied in a snippy tone. I sympathized. Hunger made me snappish, too.

  Wait. Payday.

  All at once I knew what to do. I hurried up the stairs, glanced around the tiny, spartan room assigned to me, flung my suitcase on the floor and my hat on the bureau, and raced back downstairs.

  In the lobby, I tapped my foot and tried to catch the heavily shadowed eye of the bottle-blonde now hogging the sole telephone.

  “So I says to him, I says, ‘Just how do you expect me to do that?’ And he says to me—get this, Myra—he says, ‘I dunno, you figure it out, you’re supposed to be the smart one.’ So I says to him—hold on a sec, Myra.” The blonde placed her hand over the mouthpiece and glared at me. “You want something, sister?”

  “Yes, the telephone. Are you almost through?”

  “Hold your horses.” She turned her back toward me and continued her conversation. “So, Myra, as I was saying . . .”

  My temples pounded. At long last she replaced the receiver. “It’s all yours. Let’s see how you like talking with somebody breathing down your neck and listening in on your every wo
rd.”

  I mumbled an insincere “Sorry,” dropped some coins in the box, and gave the number for Corrigan’s Dry Goods to the operator.

  To my relief, Charlie answered.

  “What’s up, sis? Thought you’d be on your way home by now.”

  “Charlie, listen,” I hissed, my hand cupping the mouthpiece, even though nobody at my end had any reason to eavesdrop. “Where’s Pop? Are you alone?”

  “He’s out front with a customer. What’s gives? Are you all right?”

  I took a deep breath. “I need you to do me a huge favor. I need to stay in Chicago for a couple of days. Yesterday was payday—can you wire me my pay?”

  He sounded confused. “Sure, but—”

  I exhaled with relief. “Oh, thank you.”

  “But why? Do Pop and Frances know you’re not coming home?”

  “Not yet. I’ll—I’ll call them next.”

  “Is something the matter?”

  I hesitated, then said slowly, “Charlie, I think I’ve seen Jack.”

  “Who?”

  “Jack. I think I saw him, here in Chicago. Although he’s going by a different name. I don’t think he remembers who he is.”

  “What are you talking about? Jack who? Your Jack?”

  “Yes. My Jack. I saw him at the train station. He said he wasn’t Jack, but . . .” I lowered my voice even further. “I think he has amnesia.”

  Charlie’s voice went flat. “Marjorie, are you joking? If so, it’s not funny.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, Charlie, but I swear—”

  “Darn right, it sounds crazy,” my brother said, forgetting to be quiet. “You’re mistaken, that’s all. Lots of people resemble other people.”

  “I know, Charlie, but I swear, this man—”

  “You listen to me,” he interrupted. “No matter what you think you saw, that man wasn’t Jack. Jack is dead. I know you’ve been under a strain, but you have to stop this nonsense here and now.”

  “But, Charlie—”

  “I mean it, sis.” His voice lowered to a growl. “Look, I didn’t want to say anything, but Frances has been telling Pop she thinks you’re having some kind of nervous breakdown or something.”

  “Me?” I snorted. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m dead serious. Pop doesn’t think so, but Frances has her suspicions. She keeps saying stuff like she can’t imagine how anyone in her right mind could abandon everything right before her wedding and run off to Chicago.”

  I groaned. “First of all, it’s not ‘right before my wedding.’ That’s four months away. And I didn’t ‘run off.’ For heaven’s sake, she practically put me on the train herself.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger,” Charlie said. “I just thought you should know. She may have even discussed it with Richard. She was on the horn with him for a long time the other evening.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” So Frances and Richard agreed that I was becoming unhinged. Naturally he’d discussed my mental state with my parents as well as with Dr. Cragin. Why not just stand up and ask Pastor Rooney to announce it from the pulpit?

  “Yeah. So for Pete’s sake, don’t throw gasoline on the flame by talking about seeing ghosts.”

  “But if you could see this man—”

  “Marjorie. No.”

  I bit my lower lip. “But you’ll still send the money?”

  “I’ll send the money. But you’re going to have to talk to Pop.” He raised his voice. “Pop, it’s Marjorie.”

  “Wait. Charlie—” Oh, boy.

  I heard some shuffling, and then my father’s deep voice came over the line. “Marjorie?”

  “Hi, Pop.” I choked up a little at the sound of his voice. Maybe he would be more reasonable than everybody else and see the commonsense genius of my plan.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “I’m right as rain.” In my elation over seeing Jack, I’d forgotten all about the reason I’d come to Chicago in the first place. “No explanation for the dizzy spells, and anyway, they’ve stopped.”

  “That’s fine. You did the right thing to get yourself checked out. By the way, Frances told me you wanted to stay in the city. That you don’t want to come home.”

  “Oh, Pop. It’s not that I don’t want to come home, exactly.” How could I make him understand? “I just—I really love it here, and I feel like it’s important for me to have some freedom before I get tied down.” I thought it best not to mention the real reason . . . that somewhere in the vast metropolis existed a man who might be the long-dead Jack Lund, and that I aimed to find him. Charlie’s reaction convinced me to keep this incredible news to myself, for now.

  “Tied down, eh.” My father grew quiet. I pictured him rubbing his chin, as he did whenever he mulled something over. “Honey, tell me the truth. Are you having second thoughts about marrying Richard?”

  “I—I have some things to think over,” I admitted. “I don’t really care to discuss it over the telephone.”

  “I see. Do you need me to come there?”

  “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  He cleared his throat. “So how long are you thinking of staying?”

  “I don’t know.” Mentally I calculated how far my paycheck would stretch. I also had a small savings account at Kerryville National Bank that I could tap if absolutely necessary. “Maybe a week or two?”

  My father paused again. “You know, your mother loved the city.”

  “She did? I didn’t know that.” Goosebumps rose on my arms. Pop spoke about my mother rarely, if at all. He had taken her death hard. So hard that, in my less charitable moments, I suspected he may have jumped into marriage with Frances without giving the matter enough careful consideration.

  “Yes. She was a city girl when I met her. Minneapolis born and bred. She would have loved to have visited Chicago more often, but I always . . . well, things were always so busy, and now I wish—” He broke off for a moment, then said briskly, “Are you still at Richard’s great-aunt’s house?”

  “No, I’ve taken a room at the Young Women’s Christian Association,” I said, with an emphasis on the “Christian” to ease his mind.

  “Well . . .” he said finally, “if you want to stay awhile, I have no objection. But I won’t be able to send you any spending money. After all, I have a wedding to pay for.”

  Great day in the morning! “Oh, Pop, thank you. But what about the store? Can you and Charlie manage all right without me for a while?”

  “Now, don’t you worry about the store,” Pop said. “We’ll be fine. Helen’s been nagging me to give her a summer job. Business slows down in summer anyway, as you know. We’ll miss you, of course, but I think maybe you’re right—a change will do you good.” His voice took on a more serious, resolved tone. “I want you to use this time to really think things over, Marjorie. Marriage is a mighty big step. Be absolutely clear in your mind about what you want to do with your life, and how you feel about Richard. You don’t want to rush into anything, like—like some people do.”

  “Oh, Pop. You’re the bee’s knees.” I could hardly breathe, my heart felt so full.

  “Take care of my girl.” He cleared this throat. “And no more long-distance calls. Too expensive.”

  “Gee, thanks, Pop. I love you.”

  I hung up after telling Pop where to have Charlie wire the money, settled up with the operator, and trailed a chattering flock of women up the stairs. Pop had been swell. But everyone else in my family, including Richard, was doubting my sanity. As for me, I was starting to doubt everything—my sanity, my eyesight in seeing Jack, and my judgment in marrying Richard. Pop’s words echoed in my head. Be absolutely clear in your mind, Marjorie. Did I dare to ask Richard, yet again, to postpone our wedding? Did I dare call the whole thing off? I needed to be sure. Because once the decision had been made, I knew there’d be no going back.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Early the next morning I took extra care getting dressed, then positioned mysel
f strategically at the train station. If Mr. P. A. Bachmann passed by, I was sure to see him. The terminal seemed remarkably empty. Then I realized it was Sunday morning—no commuters. I abandoned the quest and spent the rest of the day exploring the lakefront and the park.

  On Monday I returned to the station, but still didn’t see P. A., which was probably just as well. What would I say to him? Hello. I think you might have amnesia. Or Excuse me, but do you recall that you and I were in love at one time? The longer I went with no sign of Jack—or P. A.—the more I suspected I was badly mistaken. Still, I couldn’t give up that glimmer of hope that Jack was alive.

  I went to the Western Union office to collect the money Charlie had wired, then stopped in a used-book store and bought a battered old book that turned out to be Robinson Crusoe. I returned to the YWCA and arranged to stay a few more nights. Upstairs in my room, I sat on the bed, opened Robinson Crusoe, and carefully clipped out a section of the middle with a pair of manicure scissors. I placed my remaining cash in the hole, closed the book, and slid it back into my suitcase, safe from prying eyes. Who would suspect that dog-eared copy of Robinson Crusoe was actually my piggy bank? And now, how to fatten him up?

  It occurred to me that, with the busy tourist season coming on, some shops might be hiring extra help. With a temporary job, I could extend my stay even longer. I could hardly expect Charlie to keep sending me money I wasn’t earning at Corrigan’s.

  I headed for the State Street shopping district and started inquiring about jobs. My experience clerking at Corrigan’s should have counted for something, but nobody seemed to be hiring.

  In the late afternoon I trudged back to the Y, bone-weary and sweating. While it was nice to be around younger people after the dreariness of Miss Brownlee’s house, the hall outside my tiny room held a steady stream of laughing, chattering women. Not only was it impossible to get a moment’s quiet, but the wait for bathroom time was interminable.