Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“Then Saturday?”

“How did your hair get gray?” Gillian asked.

“What?”

“Your hair. How—”

“Oh. In the navy. At Camp Elliott.” He hesitated. “I was a prisoner there.”

“Why? What’d you do?”

“I hit an officer.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“He said something I didn’t like.”

“What’d he say?”

“Something about my father.”

“Well, then I guess he deserved it,” Gillian said.

“Yeah, I guess so. Can I see you Saturday?”

“All right,” Gillian said.

“Would seven-thirty be all right?”

“Fine,” Gillian said.

“What’s your address?” he said quickly. She gave it to him, and he repeated it four times, and then said, “I haven’t got a pencil.”

“Will you remember it?”

“Oh sure, I will.”

The line went silent.

“I never met anyone named Gillian before,” he said.

“It’s a silly name.”

“No, I like it.”

“It always makes me want to laugh.”

“I’m glad it’s not Lillian,” David said. “It could have been Lillian, you know.”

“I’d have shot myself.”

“Then I’d never have met you.”

“Well... well, I’ll see you Saturday night.”

“Yes, at seven-thirty.”

“Good night, David.”

“Good night, Gillian,” he said.

The play was being presented by a City College drama group at the little theater on the uptown campus of Hunter College, and David bought the tickets on Friday afternoon from a student at N.Y.U. who had acquired them from a pharmacy major at Fordham. He picked up Gillian at seven-thirty, and they had a drink in her apartment, and then rode uptown on the Woodlawn Road — Lexington Avenue Express. It was Saturday night, but they were almost alone in the subway car; most of the crowd was heading downtown, toward Broadway. The lonely car seemed to stifle conversation. Each opening gambit provided a few lines of talk, which suddenly trailed off into a muttered “uh-huh” or a nod of the head. The train rumbled along the track and they sat in the nearly empty car, each separately beginning to develop misgivings about the advisability of dating strangers. David began chastising himself mentally for not owning an automobile. Gillian began looking ahead to a dreadful college production of Ibsen.

“The thing that’s marr -velous about him, of course,” she said, “is that he still holds up so well today.”

“That’s Boston, isn’t it?” David asked.

“What?”

“The ‘marvelous.’”

“No. No, it isn’t.”

“Say it again.”

“ Marr -velous.”

“It’s Irish then.”

“Yes. Does it sound awful?”

“No, it sounds lovely.”

The conversation lapsed again. David wanted a cigarette more than anything in the world. He was sure it would begin snowing the moment they hit the street. He felt in his coat pocket for the tickets, suddenly certain he’d left them home. The tickets were there, but he was still confident it would snow. When the drunk entered the car at 149th Street, he knew there would be trouble. He simply knew it. It was just one of those nights.

The drunk sat opposite them in the nearly empty car. The weather was uncommonly cold for November, but he was wearing only a sports jacket over a thin white shirt. He grinned at them the moment he was seated. Then he waggled his fingers at Gillian and said, “How do you do, miss? Call me Ishmael.”

“Hello, Ishmael,” Gillian said, smiling.

“My name is really Charlie,” the drunk said.

“Hello, Charlie.”

Charlie waggled his fingers at her again, and winked. “Don’t mind me,” he said. He turned his attention to David. He stared at him for a long time. Then he said, “Mister, your hair is gray.”

“Thank you, I know,” David answered.

“Thank you,” Charlie said. “It’ll be all white in a few years.”

“I suppose so,” David said, smiling. He turned to Gillian. “Does it make me look very old?” he asked.

“Well, I don’t know how old you are ,” Gillian said.

“Twenty-three.”

“No, you look only slightly older than that.”

“You look fifty-six,” Charlie said. “How’d it get gray, anyway?”

“In the navy,” David said.

“Yeah?” Charlie got up from where he was sitting opposite them, staggered across the center aisle, and plunked himself down alongside Gillian. Leaning across her, he said to David, “I was in the navy, too.” He studied David for a moment and then said, “He don’t look like a sailor, does he, miss?”

“Not at all, Charlie,” Gillian said.

“No? Then what does he look like, if not a sailor?”

“He looks very sweet-oh,” Gillian answered.

“That’s all right,” Charlie said. “Don’t mind me.”

“Were you in prison for a very long time?” Gillian asked David.

“Four years.”

“That must have been awful for you. Let’s not even talk about it.”

“Listen, don’t mind me,” Charlie said. “You just talk, you hear? Don’t mind me.” He nodded emphatically. “You married?”

“No,” Gillian said.

“Congratulations,” Charlie answered. “You have any children?”

“Three,” David said.

“Boys or girls?”

“A little of each,” Gillian said.

“Best way,” Charlie agreed. “Where you going now?”

“Uptown.”

“That’s a lucky thing,” Charlie said, “because this happens to be a cross-town bus, in case you wanted to know. Listen, don’t mind me. Go ahead and talk. I’ll just listen, okay? Go right ahead, I don’t mind your interrupting.”

Gillian laughed and said, “How do you happen to know Tad Parker, David?”

“He’s from my home town.”

“You’re not from New York?”

“Nope. Talmadge, Connecticut.”

“Are you serious?” she said.

“Sure, he’s serious,” Charlie said. “Don’t you know your own husband?”

“Do you know Talmadge?” David asked.

“Never heard of it,” Charlie said.

“I was asking the lady.”

“Oh. Apologies accepted,” Charlie said, and he nodded.

“I went to school in Talmadge,” Gillian said.

“When? Did you really?”

“Sure. Let me see. 1942? Yes. ’42 and ’43.”

“I was in the Pacific then,” David said.

“Guess who discovered the Pacific Ocean,” Charlie said. “Who, huh? Can you tell me?”

“Henry Hudson,” David said, and Gillian suddenly took his hand.

“Nope.”

“Christopher Columbus?” she asked.

“Hah-hah, smart young kids don’t even know who discovered the Pacific Ocean. Ferdinand Magellan, that’s who. Fer-di-nand Magell-an. An explorer. You bet your life.”

“Thank you,” David said.

“Don’t mind me,” Charlie answered.

“Why’d you leave Talmadge?” David asked.

“Excuse me,” Charlie said. “I beg your pardon.”

“That’s all right,” David said.

“No, that’s all right,” Charlie said, “you’re excused,” and Gillian squeezed David’s hand.

“Talmadge was only make-believe,” she said. “I much prefer Igor’s class. Are you going to school?”

“Yes. N.Y.U.”

“Did you say something?” Charlie asked.

“No.”

“Excuse me. I thought you said something.”

“No, I’m sure I didn’t,” David said.

“Oh, then excuse me.”

“Does that mean you’re living in New York?” Gillian asked.

“Yes. On Houston Street.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful neighborhood. I go there to watch Maurice Schwartz. I learn an awful lot from him. Why did you say you were Jewish, David? In the loft.”

“I don’t know. I read someplace that Ernest Hemingway always signs his name as Ernest Ginsberg or Levine or something like that when he registers at a hotel. Because he doesn’t want to stay anyplace that’s restri—”