Эд Макбейн - Running From Legs and Other Stories

“Isn’t that what you’d really like to do, Mr. Eisler?”

“Maybe,” I said, and smiled.

“Be honest. I’m twenty-one years old, well beyond the age of consent.”

“Are you consenting?”

“Are you asking?”

I didn’t answer. I picked up my drink. The glass was empty. I looked toward the bar for the waiter.

“Go ahead, Mr. Eisler. Ask me.”

“I don’t think I will,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Maybe because you still call me Mr. Eisler.”

Jennifer laughed and said, “What shall I call you? Sam? That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my name is Sam.”

“I prefer Mr. Eisler. Come on, Mr. Eisler. Ask me.”

The waiter brought our third round and put the drinks on the table. He seemed about to leave us. Then he hesitated, turned back, and said, “I’m certainly glad we cleared up our misunderstanding, sir.”

“Yes, I am, too.”

“One thing I hate to do is irritate a customer. You realize, though, that I have to ask for identification if somebody looks underage. Otherwise...”

“Yes, I understand your position,” I said.

“Otherwise, like suppose I serve some kid and we happen to have the law in here, why we could lose our liquor license just like that.”

“Yes, of course you could.”

“Listen,” Jennifer said suddenly and sharply; “why don’t you leave us alone? We’re trying to talk here.”

“What?” the waiter said.

“What?” Jennifer mimicked.

“I’m sorry, I just...”

“Don’t be so sorry, just leave.”

The waiter’s jaw was hanging open. He looked at Jennifer in hurt surprise, and then turned to me for support. I busied myself with the hot cheese patties. The waiter shrugged, picked up his tray, and started walking back toward the bar, slowly, his shoulders slumped.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “He was only...”

“He was a pain in the ass,” Jennifer said. She picked up her fresh drink, drained half of it in a single swallow, and then said, “I never did thank you for the abortion, did I?”

“There was no need...”

“Oh, I’d like to thank you, Mr. Eisler.”

“All right, so thank me.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s...”

“And I think you ought to thank me,” Jennifer said.

“I thank you,” I said, and gave her a small nod.

“No, Mr. Eisler, you can really thank me.”

There was something suddenly hard and cold and dangerous in her voice. I turned toward her on the leatherette seat, our knees touched, she moved hers away instantly. I searched her face and found her eyes.

“Thank you for what?” I asked.

“For going through with it. For not causing any trouble.”

“Jennifer,” I said, “there was never any question of you and Adam getting married. You didn’t want it, he didn’t want it, your parents didn’t want it...”

“I don’t recall anybody ever asking us.”

“It was our understanding...”

“I loved your son,” Jennifer said.

“It was our understanding...”

“Oh, the hell with you and your understanding,” she said. “Nobody asked us what we wanted. Everybody just assumed we were too young, and too stupid, and too uncommitted...”

“Nobody forced you into anything.”

“ Everybody forced us into everything!” Jennifer said flatly.

“Look,” I said, “we discussed this completely at the time. It was our understanding that you and Adam wanted the abortion.”

“I loved that goddamn son of yours,” she said, and suddenly she was crying.

My first reaction was to look quickly around the bar. The only person watching us was the waiter. I turned to Jennifer, covered her hand with my own, and said, “Don’t, Jennifer. Please.”

“I can cry if I want to,” she said.

“All right, cry. But here, take this, dry your eyes...”

“We shouldn’t have told you,” she said. “Keep your damn handkerchief!”

“Jennifer, please!”

“We should have gone off and got married and never told any of you about it.”

“Okay, but that’s not what...”

“We should have known better. You’re all full of crap, each and every one of you. Honest Sam Eisler. Sends an eighteen-year-old kid to Puerto Rico for an abortion! I was only eighteen! Damn it, I don’t want your fucking handker-chief!” she said, and shoved my hand aside.

The waiter materialized again. He was wearing a stern and ominous look. He studied me solemnly for a moment and then said, “This person bothering you, miss?”

Without looking up at him, Jennifer said, “No, you’re bothering me! Would you please go away and leave us alone?”

“Because if he is, miss...”

“Oh, my God!” Jennifer said.

“If he is...”

Jennifer suddenly seized my hand fiercely and looked up at the waiter, her eyes glistening, her face streaming tears. “This man is my lover,” she said. “We meet...”

“Him?” the waiter said.

“Him, yes! We meet here secretly at the Chicago airport, and now you’re ruining everything for us.” She rose suddenly. “Come on, Sam,” she said, “let’s get out of here,” and walked swiftly away from the table. I paid the check while the waiter apologized yet another time, and then I collected the luggage, and carried it in two trips to where Jennifer was waiting outside the bar. Her face was dry. Her eyes still glistened.

“Well,” she said, “thank you for the drinks, Mr. Eisler.”

“I think I prefer Sam,” I said.

“Sure,” she said. “Sam.” She nodded, and then said, “Played your cards right, Sam, you could have had yourself a gay old time here in Chicago.”

“Never was a good card player,” I said.

“Not even in the old days, Mr. Eisler. Not even when two scared kids came to you and asked for advice. It’s a shame you didn’t understand what they needed from you.”

“What did they need, Jennifer?”

“They didn’t need an abortion, Mr. Eisler.”

“Maybe they should have asked for what they needed.”

“Maybe you should have known what they needed.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t,” I said. “I mean that, Jennifer.”

“No sorrier than I, Mr. Eisler,” she said, and her voice caught, and I was sure she would begin crying again. But instead she picked up first one suitcase, and then the other, and then the wig box, and tossed her bag back over her shoulder, and brushed her hair away from her face, and walked off to try to catch a flight back to San Francisco, which was home.

I’m colored.

My wife Adele says that if I had ever really made peace with myself, as I keep telling her I have, I would not refer to myself as “colored.” Instead, I would say, “I’m black” or “I’m a Negro,” but never “I’m colored.” This reasoning stems from the fact that her father was a very light Jamaican who, when he came to this country referred to himself constantly as “a person of color.” Adele is very conscious of any such attempt at masquerade, though I have never heard her refer to herself as a “Negress,” which term she finds derogatory. She also goes to the beauty parlor once a week to have her hair straightened, but she says this is only to make it more manageable, and disavows any suggestion that she does it to look more like a white woman. She, like her father, is very light.

For Adele’s benefit, and to correct any possible misunder-standing, I hereby state that I am a colored black Negro. I was born and raised in a little town near St. Petersburg, Florida, and the only racial discomfort I ever experienced was when I was still coming along and was walking with my sister over a little wooden bridge leading somewhere, I didn’t know where, and a gang of white kids attacked me. They did not touch my sister. They beat me up and sent me home crying. When my grandmother asked me why I had been so foolish as to attempt walking over that particular bridge, I said, “I wanted to see what was on the other side.”