“This is it,” he said, finding a place next to the curb in front of her house. He got out, not sure whether he should or not, and opened the door for her — a personal service for first customers only. “Are you all right?” he asked when she made no move to get out. She looked up, smiled, looked at her watch. “So we are,” she said. “That was fast.”
Fussing with her hair, she slowly, tremulously, made her way out of the cab.
“That will be one eighty-five,” he said, trying to strike the right professional tone, holding the door, embarrassed.
She fiddled with the clasp on her purse, stumbled, clutched his arm. “A little faint,” she said. “The fumes.”
“Do you want me to help you to the door?”
“No. Thank you. I’m all right.” She took a step, turned, and in a convulsion fell back against him, muttering, the words unintelligible.
“Don’t worry,” he said, worried. His arm around her shoulders, he clumsily led her to the house, a modernized brownstone, the door black, a brass knocker set on its chest like a jewel.
“Let me go, please,” she said, struggling as if he were holding her against her will. When he took his arm away he was afraid she would fall down, the full weight of her body balanced against his chest. She remained in precarious suspension against him for minutes, then without a word rushed into the house. Peter stood outside awhile, a well-wisher, hovering about awaiting reports, appreciation, the small change of acknowledgment. After five minutes of lonely vigil he climbed back into his cab, curiously dissatisfied, and drove away. It struck him, as he was approaching the park, that he had not collected his fare.
Reluctantly, he went back. All he wanted, he told himself, was what was due him, which had nothing to do with the woman being sick, which wasn’t his fault anyway, and besides, he had a wife and unborn child to think of — also to feed.
Knocking with his fist on the door, unable to find the bell, Peter waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, strangely uneasy, as if he were doing something indefinably criminal. When no one answered he knocked again, using the ornamental brass handle, which made a delicate, hollow clack like the clearing of a throat.
“Yes?” A slight, delicately pretty girl, a child of a girl, her blond hair in a plaited rope down her back, peered whimsically at him from the doorway. “Are you looking for someone?” He was. “I’m a cab driver,” he said — a matter of introduction.
“I guessed that you were,” she said, keeping a straight face, amused. “Do you want to come in? We’re having a party.”
“Thank you,” he said, “but as you can see I’m on duty.” He turned to look at the cab, to see that it was still there; it was, two little boys sitting on the bumper to keep it from floating away. “I delivered a lady here about fifteen minutes ago,” he explained. “She wasn’t feeling well and forgot to pay her fare.”
“Now, who could that be?” the girl said, balancing her chin on the forefinger of her right hand.
‘Well, she was wearing a kind of brown …”
“Delilah,” a voice trilled from inside, “who are you talking to out there?” The woman appeared, looking much better, imperious as ever, the death of a smile on her face.
“Hello,” Peter started to say, relieved that she was no longer sick. “You forgot …”
When she saw him the woman blanched, fiercely pulled the girl behind her and with a look of unmistakable contempt slammed the door in the face of his explanation.
Defeated, numb with the invisible possibilities of guilt, he retreated to his cab, chased the kids off his bumper and then, feeling the injustice of his position, went back to the house, fired with rage. Kid hater, they called after him. Mean man.
A man answered the door. “What do you want?” he asked, belligerent, nervous. “Are you looking for some kind of trouble?”
Fighting with customers discouraged by the company, Peter presented his case, his sense of injustice making him incoherent.
“Why don’t you just go away,” the man said, his well-fed face animated by nervous indifference. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but you’re not getting any more money. Now go away.”
“I want my fare,” Peter said. “I’m not going until I get a dollar eighty-five, which is what the lady owes me.”
“The lady doesn’t owe you a thing, buddy. Mrs. Townley paid you for the taxi; she told me so herself.”
“She may think she did, but she didn’t.” He explained again that the lady had fainted and had to be helped to the door.
“That’s not the story I heard,” the man said, looking behind him for support. “Wait here. I’ll find out if you’re lying or not. Everyone thinks I’m made of money,” he muttered as he disappeared inside.
Peter hung on, resurrecting his dignity, thinking of the things he should have said, like “who’s a liar, you sunnava-bitch.” “A buck eighty-five is not going to break you, you bastard.” It was just as well he hadn’t said anything.
“Hello, cab driver.” The girl, looking older, looking like Alice in Wonderland, had reappeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry that you’re having so much trouble,” she said. “Really.”
Peter grunted, in no mood to be charmed, charmed in spite of himself. “All I want is my fare,” he said. “What’s the matter with everyone here?”
“Everyone’s crazy in this house,” she said blandly. “Haven’t you noticed that yet? My name’s Delilah, if you must know.”
“You don’t look like Delilah,” he said, passing the time.
Delilah pouted in mock anger. “Please don’t be witty. It’s unbecoming in a cab driver. Really, it’s gauche.” She stuck her head inside. “They’re still arguing about you.” Then out again, appraising his face. “What’s it like, being a witty cab driver?” she said, leaning casually against the door frame, her hand on her hip.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“What do you think?” A challenge.
“I think about fifty,” he said.
She didn’t smile. “That’s about right,” she said, listening inside again.
“Are they going to pay me?” he asked.
“I would,” she said, “if it were up to me. However, my mother says that she distinctly remembers having given you your fare, and that it’s not money you’re after, anyway.”
“What does she think I’m after?” He was almost afraid to ask.
“Don’t you know?” She winked at him, a parody of insinuation.
His face burned. “No,” he said, “I don’t know.”
“I think you know what I mean,” she said. “My mother says that you touched her with lewd intent, that you wanted to rav-age her. It’s probably not true at all, though you look like the type. If you want my opinion, I think my mother has delusions of grandeur. She thinks that every man who sees her wants to rav-age her. Did you … want to?”
Sweat leaked from his forehead. “I didn’t do anything like that,” he said. “She was sick. I tried to help her into the house. I didn’t …”
“Well, don’t look so sick about it if you’re innocent.”
It was true; he felt guilty, as if in his worst imaginings he could conceive of making a pass at a middle-aged woman. “She’s crazy,” he said.
“Didn’t I say so? Do you want to know my secret, whatever-your-name-is? My secret is, I always look innocent even if I’ve just rav-aged an old lady.” She blushed.
The man was back, imposing himself between Peter and the girl. “Lila, your guests are looking for you,” he said.
“Oh damn!” She smiled specially for Peter. “I’m always losing people before I get to know them.”