"Poor boo'ful," she said. "Don't know his name..."
I turned as though struck. "What?"
"Anonymous brute 'n boo'ful buck," she said, her mouth a bleary smile.
I looked at her, skittering about on high heels, scrunch, scrunch on the walk.
"Sybil," I said, more to myself than to her, "where will it end?" Something told me to go.
"Aaaah," she laughed, "in bed. Don't go up, boo'ful, Sybil'll tuck you in."
I shook my head. The stars were there, high, high, revolving. Then I closed my eyes and they sailed red behind my lids; then somewhat steadied I took her arm.
"Look, Sybil," I said, "stand here a minute while I go over to Fifth for a taxi. Stand right here, dear, and hold on."
We tottered before an ancient-looking building, its windows dark. Huge Greek medallions showed in spots of light upon its façade, above a dark labyrinthine pattern in the stone, and I propped her against the stoop with its carved stone monster. She leaned there, her hair wild, looking at me in the street light, smiling. Her face kept swinging to one side, her right eye desperately closed.
"Sure, boo'ful, sure," she said.
"I'll be right back," I said, backing away.
"Boo'ful," she called, "My boo'ful."
Hear the true affection, I thought, the adoration of the Boogie Bear, moving away. Was she calling me beautiful or boogieful, beautiful or sublime... What'd either mean? I am invisible...
I went on through the late street quiet, hoping that a cab would pass before I had gone all the way. Up ahead at Fifth the lights were bright, a few cars shooting across the gaping mouth of the street and above and beyond, the trees -- great, dark, tall. What was going on, I pondered. Why call for me so late -- and who?
I hurried ahead, my feet unsteady.
"Booo'ful," she called behind me, "boooooo'ful!"
I waved without looking back. Never again, no more, no more. I went on.
At Fifth a cab passed and I tried to hail it, only to hear someone's voice arise, the sound floating gaily by. I looked up the lighted avenue for another, hearing suddenly the screech of brakes and turning to see the cab stop and a white arm beckoning. The cab reversed, rolled close, settling with a bounce. I laughed. It was Sybil. I stumbled forward, came to the door. She smiled out at me, her head, framed in the window, still pulling to one side, her hair waving down.
"Get in, boo'ful, 'n take me to Harlem..."
I shook my head, feeling it heavy and sad. "No," I said, "I've got work to do, Sybil. You'd better go home..."
"No, boo'ful, take me with you."
I turned to the driver, my hand upon the door. He was small, dark-haired and disapproving, a glint of red from the traffic light coloring the tip of his nose.
"Look," I said, "take her home."
I gave him the address and my last five-dollar bill. He took it, glumly disapproving.
"No, boo'ful," she said, "I want to go to Harlem, be with you!"
"Good night," I said, stepping back from the curb.
We were in the middle of the block and I saw them pull away.
"No," she said, "no, boo'ful. Don't leave..." Her face, wild-eyed and white, showed in the door. I stood there, watching him plunge swiftly and contemptuously out of sight, his tail light as red as his nose.
I walked with eyes closed, seeming to float and trying to clear my head, then opened them and crossed to the park side, along the cobbles. High above, the cars sailed round and round the drive, their headlights stabbing. All the taxies were hired, all going downtown. Center of gravity. I plodded on, my head awhirl.
Then near 110th Street I saw her again. She was waiting beneath a street lamp, waving. I wasn't surprised; I had become fatalistic. I came up slowly, hearing her laugh. She was ahead of me and beginning to run, barefoot, loosely, as in a dream. Running. Unsteadily but swift and me surprised and unable to catch up, lead-legged, seeing her ahead and calling, "Sybil, Sybil!" running lead-legged along the park side.
"Come on, boo'ful," she called, looking back and stumbling. "Catch Sybil... Sybil," running barefoot and girdleless along the park.
I ran, the brief case heavy beneath my arm. Something told me I had to get to the office... "Sybil, wait!" I called.
She ran, the colors of her dress flaring flamelike in the bright places of the dark. A rustling motion, legs working awkwardly beneath her and white heels flashing, her skirts held high. Let her go, I thought. But now she was crossing the street and running wildly only to go down at the curb and standing and going down again, with a bumped backside, completely unsteady, now that her momentum was gone.
"Boo'ful," she said as I came up. "Damn, boo'ful, you push me?"
"Get up," I said without anger. "Get up," taking her soft arm. She stood, her arms flung wide for an embrace.
"No," I said, "this isn't Thursday. I've got to get there... What do they plan for me, Sybil?"
"Who, boo'ful?"
"Jack and George... Tobitt and all?"
"You ran me down, boo'ful," she said. "Forget them... bunch of dead-heads... unhipped, y'know. We didn't make this stinking world, boo'ful. Forget --"
I saw the taxi just in time, approaching swiftly from the corner, a double-decker bus looming two blocks behind. The cabbie looked over, his head out of the window, sitting high at the wheel as he made a swift U-turn and came alongside. His face was shocked, disbelieving.
"Come now, Sybil," I said, "and no tricks."
"Pardon me, old man," the driver said, his voice concerned, "but you're not taking her up in Harlem are you?"
"No, the lady's going downtown," I said. "Get in Sybil."
"Boo'ful's 'n ole dictator," she said to the driver, who looked at me silently, as though I were mad.
"A game stud," he muttered, "a most game stud!"
But she got in.
"Just 'n ole dictator, boo'ful."
"Look," I told him, "take her straight home and don't let her get out of the cab. I don't want her running around Harlem. She's precious, a great lady --"
"Sure, man, I don't blame you," he said. "Things is popping up there."
The cab was already rolling as I yelled, "What's going on?"
"They're taking the joint apart," he called above the shifting of the gears. I watched them go and made for the bus stop. This time I'll make sure, I thought, stepping out and flagging the bus and getting on. If she comes back, she'll find me gone. And I knew stronger than ever that I should hurry but was still too foggy in my mind, couldn't get myself together.
I sat gripping my brief case, my eyes closed, feeling the bus sailing swift beneath me. Soon it would turn up Seventh Avenue. Sybil, forgive me, I thought. The bus rolled.
But when I opened my eyes we were turning into Riverside Drive. This too I accepted calmly, the whole night was out of joint. I'd had too many drinks. Time ran fluid, invisible, sad. Looking out I could see a ship moving upstream, its running lights bright points in the night. The cool sea smell came through to me, constant and thick in the swiftly unfolding blur of anchored boats, dark water and lights pouring past. Across the river was Jersey and I remembered my entry into Harlem. Long past, I thought, long past. I was as if drowned in the river.
To my right and ahead the church spire towered high, crowned with a red light of warning. And now we were passing the hero's tomb and I recalled a visit there. You went up the steps and inside and you looked far below to find him, at rest, draped flags...