“Which only goes to prove even further how utterly unfair the whole thing is. I haven’t any.”
“You’re sure?”
And now Ira could feel Edith stiffen beside him. “You don’t really mean that, do you?”
“How can I ignore other factors when they exist?”
“Rubbish.”
“Believe me, Edith, this can only lead to recrimination.”
She was silent, with the resolute silence of a refused reply.
“No, really,” Lewlyn urged. “With everything up in the air the way it is.”
Ira could see her head turn toward Lewlyn, but whether in conciliation, in reproof, in appraisal, he couldn’t tell. “It’s a great pity both of us aren’t in the same city,” he heard her say. “I think your protestations would soon be tested. And—” She scratched a small ear.
“And?”
“Forgive me.” Her voice became stony. Unmistakable, the rigidity of her posture, even if unseen. “Forgive me for not going on, dear. Of what use inflicting wounds? All we’re saying would lead to them, as you pointed out. It’s certainly not my intention to, and I won’t. We’re on the eve of parting, aren’t we?”
“Temporary. I assure you, dear. I’m on the eve of departure, that’s all.”
The train doors slid shut. Seconds later, the train jarred into motion and accelerated.
The roar within the closely encompassing tube became deafening. Fetid subterranean gusts swirled through and inside the car; they spun scraps of newspaper, spiraled dust. At the far end, the lady in the blue coat, last person to come in, frowned, tucked her coat more securely beneath her squalid thighs. Ira swallowed hard. Wow! Plunging through the mud of a whole river above you. He saw Lewlyn’s hand move forward, pat Edith’s, saw his lips shape words, only one of which was audible: “ordeal.” She nodded. Did she say, “Quite”? Everything had other meanings, meanings. Quite. Ordeal. Why would she want to do it, anyway? She could have said goodbye right there on Morton Street. Goodbye and good luck. But no. And he was going to see another woman, and make up his mind about her, between her and Edith. So why do you have to go all the way to the ship with him? Why don’t you cross the ocean with him too? Anh, don’t get funny. Or snide. You’ll begin to sound like Mom. Yeah. . Growing late, that was the trouble: eleven o’clock, half past eleven maybe. Past his bedtime, and the dust made you blink. But you never were in love, said Minnie. So what do you know, stupid? Let’s see: twelve o’clock maybe, they would leave the ship. Then all the way back to the apartment: that would be one o’clock. Then to Harlem: two o’clock. Whew, he’d be walking in his sleep.
If only, Ira’s despairing cry ran loud within himself, he didn’t dawdle so, didn’t moan, didn’t temporize. He had been just a bit too timid, and more than a bit. He was, to say the least, amply and fully disgusted with himself. There was so little time. He had overextended himself, overplayed his hand, or whatever cliché fitted the situation. The situation, the story, needed to be resolved, and quickly. He had been too cavalier about his abilities, his ability to cover ground within the limited time he had allotted himself — though it might have been adequate for someone else, younger, brighter, with greater stamina. The novelistic process — and it was a process, not just a form — could only sustain so much. Beyond that, whatever the tolerances of the exact points were, the process would soon become impacted, like an oversized, overloaded engine. It would stop and stall — the way the old engines of a plane became impacted when encountering a flock of starlings beyond the engine’s capacity to digest, and the plane, so low in reverse, would crash, the journey unfulfilled.
The roar did indeed subside. The train slowed down. Surrounding tunnel walls fell back into the wide expanse of station sliding by and coming to rest with the train: Lewlyn stood up, Edith and Ira did likewise, and the other few passengers as well.
“Don’t you want me to carry that?” Ira asked.
“No, thanks. My turn.” Lewlyn picked up the valise, guided Edith to the train doors, and when they glided open, sustained her across the gap to the platform. The three stepped out into the great deserted chamber of concrete: HOBOKEN.
“It’s this way.” Lewlyn led them to the stairs.
Fresh air, poured down from above, and growing fresher as they climbed, sharpened when they reached the carbide daylight of the news vendor’s stand at street level. “Aren’t you chilly?” Edith asked.
“Not much. Oh, I can feel it’s a little nippy. Maybe that’s why I should be carrying the valise.” Ira hitched his shoulders.
“Oh, no, thanks, Ira. It’s only a short way. You can see where it is from here.”
“That building with the lights?”
“Yes. That’s a Cunarder pier. Number ninety-two.”
“I can still give you a hand.”
“No, thanks. You’ve done more than your share.”
“It would warm me up.”
“Oh, dear! I knew I shouldn’t let you go without more over you.”
“I’m all right. I have my vest.”
“We’ll be there in a minute.”
Over cobblestones into the obscurity of a starry night. . in the direction of a dim, low, hulking row of buildings: the piers. Before the gaping entrance of one of them, weak, yellow incandescence spilled out on the cobblestones. Beside the pier a moored ship blazed with floodlights crisscrossing in basketweave from boom to mast.
“There it is,” said Lewlyn.
“Isn’t that funny? I always get twisted around. I would have sworn the Hudson was that way.” Ira thumbed over his shoulder.
“That’s more nearly the direction of the Ohio. Are you all right on these cobblestones, Edith?”
“Oh, yes.”
“They’re meant for wagons, not for heels, picturesque in daylight. But out of date.”
“I better go over to that side.” Ira suited action to word.
“Thank you, Ira.”
“Oops! Cobblestones is right.”
They trod their way carefully.
“I hope you don’t regret coming,” Lewlyn said gently.
Ira could sense at once the intolerable latency in her reply, a silent latency that brooked no ameliorating in speech. His presence was both essential and superfluous, diversionary, even more than when Lewlyn made those fragmented exonerations, those token apologies, on the train. They were like two people caught in a personal vortex that affected them and no one else, no matter how close.
“Oh, it’s picturesque, it’s dramatic. Ocean voyages, departures are—” Edith seemed deliberately to pause, clip her words in odd places. “Notably poetic. I’m glad I came. Am I overjoyed? No. . I’m glad I came — this once. It was necessary for me to come. I’ll never have to do it again. I suppose that might be viewed as a consolation of sorts.”
“It wasn’t very wise of me to ask, was it? I was hoping it would mean the same thing to both of us, something beautiful and shared.”
“How can it be?” Edith replied.
“I realize that now. I thought of it as something shared — or I thought you regarded it that way. Even if not a happy occasion. There are those times. Parting with someone close, say, off to war, as we did with my older brother, Andrew. Fortunately he came back from France. I told you about the poppy seeds that fell out of his uniform. Are you still able to cope with these cobblestones?”