Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“What are you doing in my car?” he asked impulsively.

“I... you said you wanted to take a ride.”

“And what did you think would happen on this ride?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Did you think I’d ask to see you again?”

“Yes. I guess so.”

“Suppose I did?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I’m not asking. I only said suppose.”

“I shouldn’t be here with you. You shouldn’t have asked me to meet you.”

“Why did you meet me?”

“I wanted to know what makes you tick.”

“And do you know now?”

“No. Look...” She was ready to say something, and then she shook her head.

“What is it?”

“Never mind.”

“Go ahead. We’ll never see each other again, so say it.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“It’s... look, I was very lonely this summer. My husband was away and I...” She stopped. She turned away from him and stared through the windshield again. “I was very lonely.”

She did not say more than that, but it was enough to tell him he had not been wrong about her. He glanced into the rear-view mirror and then at the road ahead, slowed the car, and made another U turn.

“What...?”

“I don’t want to go back yet, do you?”

“I...” She wet her lips. “You’re driving.”

They drove in silence for several minutes. “You asked me what I want from you,” he said. “I know.”

“What?”

“I want to see you some night.”

“Oh, God, you’re so damned practiced. How often have you done this before?”

“Never,” he said flatly.

“You don’t even know me. You met me in the street! How do you know me?”

“I don’t. That’s why I want to see you. To—”

“I don’t want to know you,” she said.

“All right, then leave it at that. I’ll take you back.”

“Please.”

“Fine.”

He swung the car around a third time. He was beginning to feel a little foolish. The conversation so far had been completely ridiculous. But what had he expected? What do strangers talk about, anyway? The car was silent. He drove slowly. Now that he’d had his say and been refused, he was in no real hurry to get back. He felt only relief now and, curiously, a sense of peace.

“I saw your house,” she said suddenly. “The one in House and Garden .”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes, very much. It’s a... a strong house.”

“Thank you.” He paused. “Where did you find it? The September issue, I mean.”

“At the library.”

“You looked for it?”

“Yes.”

Again they were silent. He wondered what she was thinking, but he was almost afraid of knowing. He could feel her beauty beside him, a live presence that filled the automobile. His fear had evaporated, to be replaced by an extrasensitive awareness of her closeness. But she’s stupid, he thought, and then he wondered just how stupid she really was.

“What did you mean?” she asked.

“About what?”

“When you said I wasn’t so pretty.”

“Only that... sometimes you look pretty and sometimes you don’t,” he lied.

“How do I look now?”

“Lovely.” His eyes touched her face. “Look, do you want to see me or don’t you?”

“Will you be very hurt if I say no?”

“Hurt?” He felt completely confused all at once. Why should she care whether or not he was hurt? “I’ll be disappointed, yes,” he said. “Look, the hell with it. I’m married, you’re married, this is crazy. Let’s forget it.”

“When did you want to see me?”

“When can you get away?”

“You name it. You do it.”

“Tonight?”

“No.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“No.”

“Thursday night?”

“I think so.”

“You’ll see me?”

“Yes. But please don’t think I’m a pickup. Please don’t think that.”

“I don’t.” He looked at her curiously. “Eight o’clock?”

“Don will be going out, too. I’ll have to get a sitter.”

“Is eight too early?”

“No, it’s all right. But please don’t think—”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“It’s not that I don’t want—” She shook her head. “What will we do? Thursday night?”

“Anything you like.”

“No, no. You tell me.”

“I’ll surprise you. All right?”

“Yes.” She nodded, but she seemed troubled. “Are you sure you want to see me?”

“Yes. Aren’t you sure?”

“No,” she said. “I’m not sure at all.”

“Well,” he said, disappointed by her unexpected honesty. There didn’t seem much else to say. Everything was wrapped up, it seemed, somewhat confusedly but nonetheless securely. He did not feel at all excited. Now that it was over, he felt almost let down.

“Where shall I meet you?” she asked.

“Oh. Yeah.” He thought a moment. “The post office? Do you know where that is?”

“Certainly. Eight o’clock, you said?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there. You’re... you’re sure you want to?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” he said. “We’re almost to the center. I’d better leave you off somewhere here.”

“All right.”

They were both tensely alert again. He pulled to the curb and when she reached for the door handle, he said, “Wait!” She waited obediently, not questioning his command. The car Larry had seen in the rear-view mirror flashed by.

“Okay,” he said. “Thursday night, the post office, eight o’clock. Please don’t leave me waiting.”

“I’ll be there,” she said. She opened the door, and as she got out of the car, she whispered, “Larry.”

“What is it?” he asked.

She smiled. “Nothing. I just wanted to try your name.”

He drove into town, bought a soap eraser, a new typewriter ribbon, and a roll of tracing paper. He stopped at the drugstore to pick up the aspirin for David, and then he went home.

The huge wingless fuselages stood on the assembly line like giant hibernating insect slugs, the aluminium glistening under the glare of the overhead fluorescents. There was something eerie about the scene, Don thought, the welders with their masks pulled over their faces, the goggled eye pieces reflecting the blue flame of their torches; the staccato trip of the riveters, the resounding beat of hammered aluminium; the maze of wires trailing from the plane like intestines ripped from a soldier’s corpse; the people rushing over the factory floor, each with a job to do, yet each seeming like an undirected ant frantically scurrying over the orderly structure of an ant hill.

Just like the Army, he thought. Everybody running around with no place to go. Still, the Army hadn’t been bad. He’d been well liked in the Army. There, in the vast faceless morass of men, he had worn his pfc rating with humorous anonymity, and he’d been content. Until. Until, of course.

Everything ends, he supposed. All happiness ends. All contentment ends. We die.

Well, the hell with that. The Army was then, and this was now, and he was certainly well liked at the plant too. Nor was it the phony deference generated by fear which some men automatically gave to muscular men. Don was excellently built, and he was also foreman of his floor, a combination which easily could have led to a false display of friendship from the men with whom he worked. But he liked to think he was a nice guy with easygoing warmth and humor who never took the little problems of aircraft production too seriously, who was always ready to look at the brighter side of a factory snarl. That was why he got along with the men. He was simply part of their team.

It was something like being on an Army patrol, where the well-being of each man depended on every other man. He could still remember the night patrols, and the tight feeling of a small group pitched against a larger unseen group, the enemy. He could remember the misty black silence of the jungle, the sense of impending danger, the sorrow that no one but the men involved in the patrol were there to see such movie heroics.