“Ira, do you have the fare?”
“Oh, sure.” He still had a good part of the five she had given him. He changed a quarter. Ira piloted the dazed Edith to the turnstile. Two dimes in the slot. And through. And once again, they had very little time to wait before the train pulled into the station. They had evidently left the ship long before its departure, because this time the arriving train discharged far more passengers than the one that had brought the three there. Almost no one was returning yet, and once the various groups of talkative and vivacious newcomers climbed up the stairs, the platform was left deserted.
Ira led Edith through the train doors. They sat down, alone in the big empty car. What should he say to her? Everything he could think of seemed vain, seemed futile and insipid against the impenetrable silence that immured her. “C’mon, train, let’s go,” he finally said aloud, and then because her self-absorption increased his uneasiness, he demanded irritably, “I wonder how long these trains take to turn around?”
Immobile and expressionless, she made no answer. Distraught, if ever anybody was, looking with blank, protrusive eyes from floor to window of the train, from window to the row of straw seats opposite, and hopelessly at the advertising placards overhead.
Minutes passed. A man and woman came aboard, sat down across the way. At last, doors slid to — the longed-for thrust set the train into motion. In seconds, the dingy tube enclosed them, the stupefying roar rose to crescendo, partly welcome this time as vindicating abandonment of all efforts to speak. But not for the couple on the other side of the aisle — the young man, Arrow-collar clean-featured, with ruby stickpin in his tie and a thin, segmented Charlie Chaplin walking stick between his knees; the young woman, pretty in her pearl earrings and light taupe coat, beneath which the tassels of her slate-colored skirt showed — they were leaning toward each other. And as if enjoying the exertion of making themselves understood, they were apparently shouting at each other at the top of their voices, though not a word was audible across the aisle. Ira watched them, fascinated — until his eyes began to smart. Hilarity engulfed the pair as the train slowed down, and they shrieked with laughter when the train stopped. Ira looked at Edith — she seemed completely oblivious. The situation was getting to be serious. What should he do?
He steered her through the open train doors, then from the platform out to the general underground area, his eyes raised, searching for the tiled tunnel that connected the Hudson Tubes to the IRT subway.
“I think—” Frowning uncertainly, Ira hunted for a directional sign overhead. “We go — it’s this way to the IRT, isn’t it? Just a minute, Edith, I’ll ask someone.”
“No. Please. Ira.” She checked him, and bending her head, snapped open her purse. “Please, let’s take a taxi.” She held out another five-dollar bill. “Take it, won’t you?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Like an automaton, she proferred the bill.
He took it from her. Grim, how grim she made him feel, with all the determination and responsibility of being in charge: he had never hailed a cab in his life. “We gotta go upstairs to the street first. All right?” Again he took her arm, and with his other hand on the banister, helped her mount the stairs.
Out of the subway, they emerged into well-lighted, cool, and sparsely peopled 34th Street. There were cabs in evidence cruising by. So he was Larry now, worldly Larry; he was Lewlyn, adult Lewlyn. Resolute and stern, Ira held up his arm, signaled. And at once a checkered yellow cab swerved, tires squealing, to the curb.
“We want to go to 64 Morton Street,” Ira instructed the driver. “Hudson Street’s your best bet. As soon as you can, go downtown on Hudson.”
“I know where it is.”
Ira held the door open for Edith to get in, followed her. The meter flag snapped down, and they were on their way.
And then — with stunning suddenness — she wept! Wept, sobbed: a torrent of tears he would never have believed possible: heartbroken, uncontrollable. They threatened to wrack her asunder. These were not Mom’s tears, filled with old-world imprecations, or even Minnie’s taunting tears of rage. These were tears of such inexhaustible sorrow. God, what to do, how to calm her, quiet her? What would the driver think? For there was no doubt he could hear, though he gave no sign. Anxiety over her state, solicitude over her woe, his helplessness, all assailed Ira at once — immobilized him, at a loss, the victim of a flood. With an effort, he wrenched himself into action: “Edith, please!” he implored. “For God’s sake, try to get hold of yourself. You gotta stop that! Edith!
Sobs. Broken, stifled cries. A spate of tears swamping the glimmering little square of handkerchief she tried to staunch it with.
“Here. Take this one.” Ira yanked his own handkerchief, which Mom had just laundered, out of his pocket. “It’s clean. C’mon, calm down, Edith. You hear what I’m saying? That’s enough!”
“I’ll try. I’ll try.” For the first time coherent words mingled with her sobs. “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
“You’ll be a wreck, that’s what’ll happen.”
“I know it. I know it. It doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does. What d’ye mean, it doesn’t matter? You’ve got classes tomorrow.”
“I can call them off.”
“All right, so you’ll call ’em off. But there’s yourself, you can’t go on this way.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Ira. Putting you through this. Oh, mercy!”
“That’s nothing. I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I’ve been such a damned ninny. I’ve been such an unspeakable fool.”
“Why? What did you do? I don’t know — oh, you dropped it.” He stooped to pick up her handkerchief from the floor of the cab. “I don’t know everything about this. I mean”—he said vehemently—“you know what I mean. I don’t see that you did anything wrong. What did you do that was wrong?”
“I deluded myself. Just deluded myself. Clung to wish fulfillment. I’ve been such a damned fool. How could I have been such a damned fool? Oh, God! A woman my age just plain sacrificing herself to schoolgirl daydreams!”
“About what? About Lewlyn?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“He’s coming back, isn’t he? You said yourself he was just going to England to make up his mind.”
“He’s not. His mind is made up. No matter what he says. And even if he comes back empty-handed, who knows what he’ll do?”
Perplexity gathered like a turbulence in the mind. “What d’you mean? How d’you know?”
“It’s only too clear, Ira. Lord!” A sob shook her. “I know when I’ve lost. I knew when I had lost, but did I do anything about it? No! Can you imagine such a perfect fool?”
“Did he say? Did he tell you it was over? I only heard his telling you not to — gee!” All he could do was lean forward in the bounding vehicle and gesticulate against swiftly changing slash of light and shadow. “What? Like don’t give up. He hasn’t decided, made up his mind. No?”
“Ira, dear, he’d been planning this trip to England for months. They’ve been writing back and forth. He’s been telling me what she said. And I’ve been conspiring with him to delude myself all this time.” She wept softly into the handkerchief against her face. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. It’s like knowing someone will die, and now you have to face the fact.”
He tried to catch a glimpse of the street sign. They must be close to destination. He felt an irresistible urge to scratch under his hat band. “Gee, I didn’t know.”