Stop-Time

by Frank Conroy

  I waited on the running board for an hour or so, dozing off and then waking with a jolt as my back began to slip on the smooth metal of the door. Once I stood up at the approach of voices, but the men passed unseen in the next corridor and continued up the line, their voices dying out after a burst of laughter. I moved away from the truck toward the long grass at the edge of the area. Where the grass began an old cab had been put up on blocks, the wheels removed, umbilical cords dangling on the ground. I climbed up on the running board and pulled open the door. It was dark inside, but as my eyes adjusted I could see the cab was empty. Kneeling on the seat I spread the curtain hanging where the rear window should have been and looked into a small compartment. There were two small round windows at each end and a thin mattress to lie on. I climbed in and closed the curtains.

  Suddenly it was morning. The porthole at my feet threw a slanting bar of sunlight across my legs. I heard something moving and opened the curtains in time to see a brown cat leap from the seat to the open window of the door and disappear. Climbing down carefully, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, kicked the door open, and jumped to the ground. The field was empty. I took a few steps, looking around in astonishment. The fiat earth spread before me, almost white under the blazing sun, an empty desert the size of a couple of football fields. On the other side I could see the diner, a small square building at the edge of the road. The cat loped toward it, moving in a straight line over the dusty ground, hindquarters jouncing smoothly and head held high. I followed in its tracks.

  And it was as I crossed the empty field that something entirely unexpected happened in my head. A sudden switch, a reversal of polarity, overwhelmingly strong and oddly mechanical, as if my brain were one of those old-fashioned treadle machines that start sewing backward if you catch the cycle wrong. I had to return to New York. The decision to go back was as instantaneous as the decision to start in the first place, but while the latter had exploded like some bright, cleansing, beneficent bomb, the former simply held my soul with irresistible firmness, as if God had reached down out of the sky, grabbed my head, and twisted it north.

  I remember quite precisely the single fact I allowed myself to believe was the cause of my change of heart that I would never see the baby again. Jessica was the only complete and uncomplicated love in my life, and once having conjured her up I knew I hadn’t the strength to leave her. I followed the cat through the dust and thought of Jessica, relieved to know it was she, and not the others, pulling me back, that it was love, and not lack of courage, forcing me to capitulate. Thus works the mind of a child, always a bit behind the world, swamped with emotion, and innocent of its own cunning. I crossed the road and started hitching North.

  An important rule of hitchhiking is never to let yourself be dropped off in the middle of a city. The reasons are obvious—one can’t hitch across and must therefore use public transportation, which takes money and a knowledge of local geography, or walk, which takes time and strength. On the afternoon of my third day on the road I found myself in downtown Wilmington, Delaware, attempting to decide on a course of action. After walking around aimlessly for some time I wound up in front of the railroad station. There would be a waiting room, I suddenly realized, where I could sit down and rest without attracting attention, and perhaps even a newsstand where I could palm a nickel or a dime from the stacks of papers. I moved along the narrow sidewalk to the entrance and slipped inside.

  Under the high, vaulted ceiling people walked in all directions, the women’s heels clicking against the stone, the men moving with that ghostly, withdrawn air travelers assume everywhere, as if nothing happening were of any importance, as if life itself were in suspension until they reached their destinations. I went to the long benches in the center of the room and sat down. The smell of food from an open lunch counter nearby hung in the air like some exquisite perfume, tickling the underside of my brain and knotting my stomach. I looked around for the newsstand but it was inside a shop, the papers, as I could see through the glass window, well guarded. Next to the shop was a door with the words TRAVELERS AID painted in large letters. My eyes locked on the words. I sat watching for an hour before I made up my mind.

  A bell rang somewhere as I entered. It was a small room divided by a wide counter. On my side a small couch with chrome legs, a chair, and a low table covered with magazines, on the other side a couple of desks and a file cabinet. A glass jar filled with white flowers stood on one of the desks catching sunlight from a rear window. A door opened across the room and a middle-aged woman in a blue suit entered to the distant sound of a toilet flushing. She advanced to the counter, a short woman, just beginning to get heavy, her pleasant, slightly chubby face set in a fixed expression of friendly interest like a mask pulled over her skull. “Yes, young man?” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  I folded my hands on the countertop and watched them as I talked. “I was on the train going to New York and I got off to get some comic books and then when I turned around it was pulling out. My ticket and everything was inside so now I’m stuck.” It flashed through my mind that I should appear to be more upset, but I was too tired to put it on. “I don’t have any money.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure we can straighten things out. Now tell me, was anyone with you on the train? We can wire ahead, you see. They’ll probably be worried.”

  I shook my head. “No, I was by myself. I’ve been visiting my grandfather and I was going home.”

  “You live in New York?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” She remained motionless behind the counter. I continued to watch my hands through the long silence. Finally she reached down and brought up a pencil and a pad of paper. “Fine. Now if you’ll just give me some information we’ll see how we can arrange this. Name?”

  “Frank Rawlings.”

  “All right, Frank. Address?”

  “Eighty-one East Eighty-first Street.”

  “Phone?”

  “We don’t have one.”

  “Mother’s name?”

  “Dagmar, but she’s not there. She’s away on a trip to Europe.”

  “Father’s name?”

  “My father’s dead. Look, couldn’t you just lend me the money? I’ll pay it back. I’ll sign whatever you want. Or you could just buy the ticket for me and I’ll mail you what it costs when I get home.”

  “We can’t do that, I’m afraid,” she said. “Now there must be somebody at home. You can’t be staying all by yourself.”

  “That’s the way it is most of the time. There’s my stepfather, but he’s a truck driver and he’s on the road now. He won’t be back for days.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jean.”

  “Jean what?”

  “Jean Florida.”

  “Jean Florida? That’s an odd name,” she said, writing if down.

  “I don’t see why you can’t just put me on the train. I give you my word I’ll send back the money.”

  “I know you would,” she said. “But we can’t do it that way. Now how about your grandfather. Name and address?”

  “That won’t help. He’s an old man, we have to leave him out of it. He’s senile.”

  She looked up from the pad. “I can’t do anything unless you cooperate, Frank. You can trust me.”

  “Suppose you lend me five dollars,” I said quickly. “I could get across town to the highway and hitch back.”

  “You mean hitchhike all the way to New York?” Her eyebrows went up. “A boy your age? All by himself? I couldn’t do that. I’d worry about you.”

  I turned sideways, my arm lying on the counter. “That’s what I’m going to do, even without money.”

  “Why be so hard on yourself?” she said. “We can arrange something. How long since you’ve had a decent meal?”

  I watched the stack of magazines and listened to my insides, to the silent me within me, trying to hear if I should run away before the conversation progr
essed any further, or stay and tell the truth. I turned the rest of the way, facing the door.

  “Now wait a second before you do anything,” she said behind me. “Wait just one second and listen to me. When did you eat last?”

  I stood quite still, attending myself, but my mind was silent. Very quietly, tentatively, as if the word might destroy me, I answered, “Yesterday.” I waited for something to happen inside. I seemed to be floating, everything in perfect balance, all emotion suspended while the logical part of me continued to operate on its own momentum. The sensation was odd, as if I might slowly come apart and go drifting off in all directions.

  Her voice was clear. It was pure. “Well, we can fix that right now. You don’t have to commit yourself to anything. Sit down and read a magazine and I’ll get you some food. You can eat right there at the table.”

  “No. You’ll just get the police.”

  “I promise I won’t do that,” she said, and there was something in her voice that made me believe her. “I give you my word. This doesn’t have anything to do with the police.”

  Alone, I sat on the couch, picked up a magazine, and then put it down again. Sunlight was fading through the rear window and I could hear the faint sounds of the station through the closed door. When she came back in with a tray I said, “What happens if I tell you?”

  “Unless there’s something special,” she said as she lowered the tray, “we’ll wire home for your fare and you’ll be on your way.”

  The smell of the food made my hands tremble. Franks and beans, thick slices of tomato on a bed of lettuce, bread and butter, two half-pint containers of milk, and a piece of apple pie with a slice of cheese on top. The first mouthful was rapture.

  “Don’t wolf it down,” she said, and sat on the corner of the table. “Try and eat slowly.”

  I finished one of the hot dogs and most of the beans before I paused. “What does something special mean?”

  “If you’d stolen a car, that sort of thing. I can tell you haven’t.”

  I went back to the food. It was amazing how good a simple piece of bread and butter could taste. As the food got into my system the trembling stopped. I could feel a film of sweat on my brow.

  “You haven’t done anything the police would want to know about, have you?”

  I shook my head.

  “How long have you been gone?”

  “Three days.” I wiped up the last of the gravy with the last of the bread. “Excuse my manners.” I opened the second container of milk and began on the pie.

  “Listen now,” she said. “There are some things that are hard to talk about. Things we’d rather forget, or keep to ourselves, but I have to ask, and you have to tell me the truth. It’s important. Back home, were you beaten? Were you abused in any way?”

  Surprised, I looked up at her, my fork in midair. “Beaten? No. There was never anything like that.”

  “They fed you and gave you enough clothing?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She looked me in the eye for a moment and then, apparently satisfied, turned away. “There’s no of course about it. We had a boy last year who answered the same as you. It turned out he had scars from his shoulder to the backs of his knees.”

  “No, really. There wasn’t anything like that.” I took a sip of milk. “You mean this has happened before? A kid coming in here?”

  “Many, many times. Dozens of boys.”

  I turned the fact over in my mind, examining it from all sides the way a man might study a strange tool to determine its function. She sat silently, watching me while I finished the meal. When the last of the apple pie was gone I leaned back in my chair. “Thank you. You don’t know how good that was.” We remained motionless, both staring down at the tray. A distant voice was calling out the names of cities over the public address system. “Okay,” I said. “Jean Fouchet, Eighty-one East Eighty-sixth Street. Atwater nine, eight-five-nine-nine.”

  “Why did you run away? Can you tell me?”

  I looked away quickly, my face flushing. There was something about the words run away that threatened me with loss of control. Hearing them spoken aloud threw my body into a turmoil, as if they were the key phrase in a hypnotic command. I couldn’t look at her. “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t explain it.”

  She’d been at the desk on the far side of the office for two hours, just out of earshot, picking up the phone every ten minutes. I assumed she was calling New York, and having checked the address and number I’d given her, was trying to get through to Jean. It seemed odd that they were actually going to talk to each other. Suddenly she got up, crossed the office, raised the leaf of the counter, and came and sat beside me on the couch. “I can’t get through. He must be out and I’m afraid I can’t stay any longer. I have to get home.” She looked tired and a bit harassed—thin lines I hadn’t noticed before showing around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. “You’ll have to spend the night.”

  I was on guard instantly. “Where?”

  “There’s a very nice Y.M.C.A. They even have a pool. You could take a swim and there might be a movie in the auditorium. How does that sound?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “All right,” I said finally. I’d been wearing the same clothes for three days and the idea of the pool appealed to me. “As long as they don’t lock me in.”

  “I’ll give them a call. Harry Brian can come for you. You’ll like him. And they won’t lock you in if you promise to stay put.”

  “Okay.”

  She went behind the counter and picked up the nearest phone. After a few moments of conversation she listened, three fingers against the side of her head, her lower lip between her teeth, and then hung up.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “They’re full up. They don’t have any room.” She stared across the room at the blank wall. “I tried everything I could think of.”

  Very alert, moving unconsciously to the edge of my seat, I felt apprehension growing in me, a slow subtle buildup, like a color change, like the start of a long slide through the calm blues and greens toward the eventual terror of red. “Where do I go, then?”

  “The Juvenile Home. It isn’t as nice, of course, but you’ll be perfectly comfortable.”

  Kangaroo court, my mind screamed in a blast of red. KANGAROO COURT KANGAROO COURT! “What kind of place is that?”

  “Now don’t worry. It’s perfectly all right.”

  “Do they lock you up?”

  “It isn’t a prison.”

  “Do they lock you up?”

  “They lock the doors, but they have to do that. I’ll explain everything to them. It’ll be all right. I promise you.”

  “Isn’t there any place else?”

  She turned back to the phone. “No,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

  I was up and away so fast I doubt she had time to realize what was happening. Up, running, and through the door before she could turn her head.

  A reckless, all-out dash through the station, astonished faces falling behind one by one, frozen by my speed. It was like running through a crowd of cardboard cutouts. I swerved, jumped, and dodged between them to the doors, slipping past the outstretched arms of a guard into the open roar of the street, into the twilight and the high, vaulting sky. Running headlong through the streets I felt my limbs go wild with freedom. My brain raced to keep up, ignoring the present, knowing only what was just ahead—a corner, a vacant lot, an overpass, a man with a dog. Dazed by the sweetness of surrender, I left everything behind me without a thought, all of it forever behind me, falling away, more and more distant with every stride, falling away, falling away, falling away.

  Leaning against a high fence, both palms and the side of my head against the wood, I opened my eyes and saw half a boxcar. The rest of the world moved. Only the boxcar and myself were fixed in space. I watched until stillness settled and then moved along the fence. The boxcar stood by itself on a siding, a tall, wooden car
without markings. Approaching, I could see weeds growing in the darkness underneath. I went around to the other side. A dilapidated loading shed nearby seemed deserted. The big sliding door of the boxcar was not completely closed and I slipped my hands into the crevice, pulling hard as I fell back along the length of the car. The door rolled open with a thunderous roar. I jumped away from the car and stared into the dark interior, ready to run should anyone emerge.

  After a minute or two I moved cautiously to the open doorway and looked inside. The floor was strewn with large, empty paper sacks. I stood listening for a sound from the impenetrably black corners of the car but there was only silence. Holding on with one hand, I bent my knees and leaped like a high jumper rolling over the bar, tumbling in and getting to my feet in a matter of seconds. There was no sound except my own breathing. A vague sweet-sour smell hung in the air, the smell of some chemical. A light haze of white powder covered the floor and walls. Bent over, skittish, ready to bolt at the first sound or the first movement, I went over the entire car and satisfied myself there was no one in it. I picked up one of the bags, white powder trailing from its torn mouth, and read it had contained chemical fertilizer. I shook it out and prepared a place to sleep in the darkest corner of the car.

  Sitting in the open doorway, my legs dangling in the air, I watched the approach of night. Over the roof of the loading shed stars began to appear, faint at first, growing brighter as the sky turned from lavender to purple to black. Every now and then I would lean forward and look to the left and the right to make sure no one was coming. When it got so dark I couldn’t see more than a car length in each direction I got up and went to the corner. Slipping into the bag I’d cleaned, I pulled three or four more over me for camouflage and went to sleep.

  It started to rain just after dawn, a heavy downpour that crashed against the roof of the car and woke me up. I raised my head, saw the slanting white lines through the doorway, and then went back to sleep.