I Want to Go Home

by Frances Lockridge

  How my mind does scatter, she thought! How I dwell on things—things at home!

  I wish I knew what Great-grandmother Susan looked like, she thought. I wonder if any of us has her eyes? I wonder why there aren’t any Applebys, any more? Except me, and I’m a Phillips. Oh, George! Oh, darling, darling!

  I’m tired, she thought; tired and in the wrong place. I mustn’t think about George; he wouldn’t want me to. Not that way.

  Great-grandfather John Appleby and Susan Appleby, née Brown, had three children—Susan and John, my grandfather, and Ellen. Susan had no children but she married Silas Meredith, who was a widower and had one child, Frederick. Not a relation, really, although I call him “cousin.” (Good heavens, she thought, actually I call all of them “cousin,” but they can’t all be. Not really.) John Appleby had married Mary Jenkins, and they had had a son, again John, who married Jane Alford. And they had me, Jane thought; only me. Because of that other damned war. First I killed mother, being born, and then the war killed dad—so slowly, so long after it was over. And I never saw either of them, not to know it. And so there are no more Applebys. Now, actually, there is only a girl named Phillips and the Lockwoods, the descendants of Great-aunt Ellen and old Cyrus who, after his wife’s death, had been such a good friend of his sister-in-law and her husband, Silas. Silas-Cyrus—I wonder if they didn’t get mixed up, she thought. Silas she didn’t remember very well; she had been only thirteen when he died, and away a lot. But Cyrus—Uncle Cyrus—she did remember well, because he had lived until 1943. (The same year George—no, I won’t, I won’t!)

  You’re maundering, she told herself, liking the old word. Put Great-grandfather Appleby away. She put him away, in the top of the larger suitcase, hoping he would not get too bent. She was sleepy now, finally. Families do make you sleepy, she thought. Almost without knowing it, she got herself into bed.

  It was a few minutes after ten when she awoke. It was gratifying to have just about the time you needed, not too much, not too little. She telephoned down for breakfast; she had showered and dressed, and had just combed out her hair, so that it shone against the blue of her suit jacket, when breakfast came. A newspaper came with it; the last Los Angeles newspaper she would see for a long time, perhaps forever. Which will be all right, she thought. Which will be fine. In a few days she would have the real Times again, and the Herald-Tribune for fun. She would have a chance to find out what was going on in the world again, without having to listen to the radio.

  It was almost eleven when she finished breakfast, put the nightgown she had worn, and the slippers and robe, into the little case, looked around again and then closed both cases. Her mind was clear this morning, and expectant. It was not browsing around in the past, in that melancholy fashion. She was ready and anxious to get started. And she might as well.

  She rang down for a boy to carry her bags and only half listened to the “certainly, Mrs. Phillips” of the switchboard operator, was only subconsciously puzzled at the faint surprise in the girl’s voice. Apparently Mae, on the switchboard, hadn’t been “filled in” as the Navy said—and how endlessly the Navy said it, wearing it out, until sometimes it seemed that if once again you were “filled in” about something you’d forget you were an officer and a lady and scream your head off. She hoped Mr. Simpkins at the desk, and Miss Arthurson at the cashier’s window hadn’t forgotten that they had been “filled in” about her departure.

  The boy came and took the bags and preceded her down the hall, followed her into the elevator, put her bags down by the desk. She put her key on the desk and said, in a tone of one leaving somewhere, “Well, Mr. Simpkins—” And Mr. Simpkins looked at her in surprise.

  “But,” he said, “you’re not leaving us after all, Mrs. Phillips?”

  “After all?” she said. “But don’t you remember, Mr. Simpkins? I told the office a week ago that I was going back to New York.”

  “But—” he said. He looked at her. “But then last night, Mrs. Phillips? I—”

  The blankness in her expression stopped him.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, and began to run through papers clipped to a board. “Here,” he said, and pulled a memo out and put it in front of her. “Mrs. Phillips, room 811, telephoned she will not vacate as planned,” the memo said. The words were followed by a time, “11:03 P.M.” and initials she could not read.

  Jane Phillips read the memo twice, looked up at Mr. Simpkins, looked again at the memo and then shook her head.

  “But I didn’t,” she said. “It must have been somebody else. Some mistake. I didn’t telephone last night. I’m going east on the Chief.” She looked at her watch. “In about forty-five minutes,” she said. “So if I can have my bill?”

  “I’m afraid—” Mr. Simpkins said. He moved behind the desk to the other end, and Miss Arthurson at the cashier’s window. “There seems to have been a mistake,” he said, to Miss Arthurson. “Mrs. Phillips is leaving after all. So you’ll have to make out her bill. She’s catching the Chief.”

  “Oh,” Miss Arthurson said.

  Jane Phillips said, “Oh,” too. She said, “I hope it won’t—”

  “Only a few minutes,” Mr. Simpkins told her. “I’m very sorry, but there seems to have been a mix-up.” He turned and looked at the clock over the desk. “But you’ll have plenty of time, really,” he said. “I’ll see that Harry has a cab waiting.”

  It was ten minutes before Miss Arthurson, who apparently had to go through several card indices, had the bill ready and it was two or three minutes more before Jane signed one of the traveler’s checks into which she had converted most of her ready cash when she closed her Los Angeles bank account. There was still plenty of time, of course, but obviously not as much as there had been. She would make it comfortably, with ten minutes instead of twenty to spare. It was fortunate, she thought, that she hadn’t—as so easily she might have—allowed herself just time enough, secure in the knowledge that the little details of leaving had been smoothed out in advance. It was silly of the hotel, of the night clerk, to mix her up with someone else, as obviously he had. What name, she wondered, had he managed to confuse with Phillips?

  Harry, at the door, did have a cab waiting, and her bags were in it. Harry was sorry she was leaving, appreciative of a smile and a bill. He closed the cab door behind her and she said, “Union Station” to the driver, who said, “Yes mam” to her.

  They started off, rattling. It was, certainly, one of the oldest cabs she had ever met. In addition to other things, it had a marked irregularity, and apparently some effort, in breathing.

  “Your motor’s missing,” she said to the driver. “I hope it doesn’t—”

  “Now don’t worry, lady,” he said. “This old crate’ll make it. Always does.” He paid attention to his driving. “Somehow,” he added.

  She was only mildly reassured. Perhaps she shouldn’t have had that second cup of coffee. But she had seemed to have so much time. I hope it doesn’t break down, she thought. It would be so—so ridiculous to miss a train with all morning to catch it in. I hope—

  And then the motor coughed in a different fashion, caught for a moment and coughed again. This time it apparently had coughed itself to death. The driver coasted to the curb, stopped, and began to grind the starter. Nothing happened. Then the motor coughed faintly. He moved his right hand rapidly, manipulating the choke. The cough was not repeated. The starter ground again; paused and ground again. Then the driver turned back to her. He did not seem abashed.

  “I guess this is the time she don’t make it,” he said. “Sorry, lady.”

  “But I’ve got—” she began, and recognized futility.

  “I’m sure sorry,” the driver said. “It’s only about eight blocks to the station, lady. You catching a train?”

  “I hope so,” she said, getting out. He got out, also, and came around to remove her bags from the trunk. He seemed to have a little difficulty getting the trunk open. She found, then, that her nerves were growing uneas
y, that a kind of impatient tension was setting in. “Hurry, please,” she said, and found it was difficult to phrase it so politely.

  “Sure,” the driver said, and wrenched again at the trunk cover. It came open. “Take it easy, lady,” he said. “There’ll be another cab along, likely. Here you are.”

  He put the two cases down on the sidewalk and held out his hand for the fare. She paid him. She went behind me cab and stood by the rear bumper, looking up and down the street for another cab. Usually they were thick. Now traffic was thick enough, but not with taxicabs. She saw one, waved at it, discovered it was filled and indifferent. Now her nerves clangored their impatience; she looked at her watch and what she saw increased a feeling which was, for all its disproportion—after all, there were many trains—a kind of desperation. And she was, she found, furious—at the hotel for delaying her, at the cab driver for the breakdown, at herself. She stood by the bumper of the disabled taxicab and waved with a kind of desperation.

  A middle-aged Chevrolet, coming toward her, suddenly swerved in and came to a stop. There were two men in it, both in their late twenties, looking somehow alike. They both had thin, sharp faces. The one beside the driver, the one nearest her, had eyes which seemed oddly light in his narrow, darkly tanned face.

  “Give you a lift, dearie?” he said.

  She did not like him—his eyes, his voice, the way he looked at her. But she had hardly ten minutes now.

  “Oh,” she said. “If you could? I’m afraid—”

  Then she stopped, because another car, a long convertible, had swung in and stopped just in front of the Chevrolet.

  “Ray!” she said. “Darling!” She waved at the cab. “It broke down,” she said. “And I’m already—”

  Ray Forrest, swinging from the car, did not wait for her to finish. He was around the abandoned taxicab—the driver had left it, apparently to telephone for help—he had her bags, he was tossing them into the rear seat.

  “Thanks anyway,” she said to the dark men in the Chevrolet. “It was so—” She did not finish, because the driver of the Chevrolet suddenly raced his motor. The motor sounded angry. But she was beside Ray Forrest, and the forward movement of the convertible flattened her against the seat.

  “Thought I’d miss seeing you off,” Ray said, talking a little jerkily, as the car jumped at gaps in the traffic. “Got tied up. Thought you’d have been on the train long ago.”

  She told him she should have been. Between forward lurches of the car, sudden enforced stops, she told him what had happened. “Rotten luck,” she said.

  “Funny about the hotel,” he said. He talked over his shoulder at her. “Funny series of things.”

  “Can we make it?” she said, and he hoped so. He found a gap in traffic and the car jumped at it. “Just,” he said.

  “Just” was the word for it. The station clock said noon as they ran into the station, her bags bouncing in Ray’s hands. The gateman was looking at his watch and reaching for the gate control when Ray yelled at him and he looked up. “Hey,” Ray yelled. “Hold it, pal!” The gateman looked at them, and then at his watch. But he did not close the gate until they were through it.

  They ran on down the platform, with a trainman beckoning them, indignantly. They found a Pullman door open and a porter just swinging into it. He swung out again, helped Ray Forrest push the bags in.

  “Goodbye, Ray,” she said, standing just inside. Her voice, she realized, was high and excited. “Saved my life, darling!” she said, kissing her fingers at him. “New York,” he said. “See you in—” But the train was moving and the porter closed the door on his words.

  “You sho just made it, mam,” the porter said. “You sho enough just did. You could ahv given yuself more time, mam.”

  It’s really very funny, she thought, as she followed the porter through the train toward her room. I thought I did give myself more time than I needed. Much more, really. I could so easily have started five minutes later, and then I’d have missed the train. It wasn’t until she was in her room, watching the first few miles of a continent slide by, that she realized the absurdity of that. Because if she had been five minutes later, she probably would have got another taxicab, one which would not have broken down. It would be absurd to think that this particular cab, with this particular ailment, had been waiting for her—waiting, specifically, for her.

  Three

  Coming back through the station, feeling unexpectedly depressed and at loose ends, Ray Forrest veered toward a bank of telephone booths. He wasn’t going to see Zeffron at one o’clock; he was going to be tied up. Zeffron could wait until tomorrow to tell him what it was that had turned out to be impossible; what it was that even he, Zeffron, could not make a camera do. Or Zeffron could find somebody else to hold his hand, to say “Of course you can, Zeffie. Sure you can.”

  A good many people were waiting to telephone. They stood along the line of booths, waiting to pounce, each one wary and suspicious of the others, each resentful of those who already had booths and were, irritatingly, loitering in them. Forrest went back along the corridor of booths, stopped behind a dark young man who was standing in front of one of the booths. He was standing close to it, and the door was partly open. He was, it appeared, rendering support to another man in the booth. The man outside did not look around when Ray Forrest lined up behind him. He was listening to the man inside.

  “All right,” the man inside said, “so she made it. That’s what I’m telling you. I’m telling you how it happened. Smitty did his stunt, like he was supposed to.” He paused, evidently listening, and then said, “Yeah.”

  “Tell him—” the man outside began, pulling the folding door open a little wider. The man inside waved a hand, rejecting the interruption.

  “I tell you, she knows this Joe,” the man said, into the telephone. His voice sounded artificially weary, conveying the fact that he had said all this before. “What’d you want us to do?” He listened to an answer. “That wasn’t what you said.” He listened again. “Okay,” he said. “Maybe you’d have done it better. Okay, we mucked it up. We just played it the way you set it up. So you can—”

  He hung up then, not saying what anybody could do. He turned to the man outside, who moved back to let him come out. He came out.

  “He’s sore,” the man who had been outside said.

  “He’s burned up,” the other man told him. He swore without emphasis. “So what?” he said. “So he’s burned up.”

  They went away, leaving the booth empty. Ray Forrest went into it. It smelled of cigarettes and, around the edges, sweetly of hair dressing. Forrest called the studio and said that he was tied up, and to tell Zeffie. He did this with half his mind. The other half was on the Chief, going east. Well, he was supposed to go east himself at the end of the week. He thought about this. Maybe sooner, he thought. He walked back through the station, heading toward his car. After a moment he was conscious of a feeling that he had forgotten something. It was a vague feeling, faintly disturbing his mind. He had forgotten something, or overlooked something he should have done. It was as if he had forgotten an appointment—an appointment of little importance. Then it was as if he had, belatedly, become conscious of a question somebody had asked him, and to which somebody was awaiting a reply. It was something he had heard. Suddenly his mind cleared. He smiled at himself.

  “She knows this Joe,” he repeated, remembering. That was all it was, and it was nothing. Momentarily, subconsciously, “she” had been Jane Phillips; “this Joe” had been himself. It was interesting, in a fashion oddly revealing, how he could not hear the coupling of any girl with any Joe without thinking of Jane and himself, without thinking momentarily that it must mean Jane and himself. How easily, to yourself, you became the center of the universe, particularly when you were in love.

  This last formed itself subconsciously in his mind. Then it reached his consciousness and he almost stopped walking, because it seemed proper to stop and consider it. He did not stop; he went
on, not looking very carefully where he was going, thinking, with surprise—and with a kind of delight—that’s the way it is with me, that’s the way it is with this Joe. He’s in love. And then he was angry with himself, remembering the previous night. He had been light about it, mannered. He had behaved as if it didn’t matter a great deal; as if they were both very witty, and it was all a comedy. He had waited months to say anything, said it almost on the spur of the moment, because it had come to him so suddenly. And naturally he had said it wrong. Well, he’d find her out there in Westchester, at her aunt’s house, and say it right.

  He felt better when he got into his car and no longer as if he had missed something, or forgotten something. He would get things set at the studio and leave Wednesday, instead of Friday. Maybe he’d even leave tomorrow.

  He stopped the convertible to let an elderly Chevrolet, with battered and repainted fenders, come out of a parking place ahead of him. It came out at right angles, so that he could see the two men in the front seat. He looked at them for a moment without seeing them and then, very suddenly, he did see them. They were the two men on whom he had eavesdropped with half his mind outside the telephone booth.

  Then the appearance of the car they were in completed it.

  They were also the two men who had been about to pick Jane up when he had come along! And—and Jane had been the “she” and he had been the “Joe” of their conversation. But then—

  Somebody behind him sounded a horn, spitefully. He took his foot off the clutch and the convertible jumped. His mind jumped with it.