Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone (22 page)

“Well,” said Matthew, “look at us!” And he grinned, and I realized that he knew more than I had thought he knew. He was no one to play with—as the dark lady making it over to our table would have been the first to observe.

“Here's Miss Lucy,” Fowler said, and Jerry rose at once, and I rose.

“Sit down,” said Miss Lucy—she had a voice like a man—and she didn't shake my hand, she rubbed her hand over my head. “Fowler, does this boy's mama know he's out? And out with
you?
Sit down,” she said to Jerry, “make yourself at home. Good evening, you young ladies,” and she smiled at Barbara and Madeleine. “What
brings you by here this time of evening, Fowler? I thought you was a respectable, church-going man. And you know tomorrow's Sunday.”

“We're strangers in town, ma'am,” Matthew said, “and old Fowler was kind enough to do us a favor and show us that his town wasn't dead, like I was beginning to think. He said all the life in the town was right here.”

Miss Lucy laughed. “Fowler's full of the devil. You liable to get yourself in trouble, hanging out with Fowler.”

“But it appears like he was right this time, ma'am,” Matthew said.

“Oh, this ain't nothing but a little friendly place,” said Miss Lucy, proudly. “Everybody's welcome here. All the time.”

“These here young ladies,” Fowler said, “they both in that theater come to town—”

“The Green Barn,” said Madeleine. “We're actresses. We hope.”

“And this young man,” said Fowler, indicating me, “he's with the theater, too.”

“He's an actor,” Barbara said.

“I hope,” I said.

A brief, uneasy silence fell before Miss Lucy recovered. “Well. The Green Barn. I've
heard
of it—”

“Out Bull Dog Road way,” Fowler said.

“Oh, yes! Out Bull Dog Road.
I've
heard of it. My, that's real nice,” she said, and smiled again. “You folks going to be with us long?”

“Till the end of the summer,” Madeleine said.

“Well, I sure hope you won't let yourselves be no strangers here,” said Miss Lucy. “You welcome any time. Where you from?” she asked me.

“I'm from Harlem,” I said.

“Oh, you a Harlem boy! I used to go to Harlem a whole lot. But, now, this place keeps me so busy.” She sighed. “Where you from in Harlem?”

I told her.

“I used to have folks lived around there.” She looked at me with a quick, speculative interest. “But that was before you was born.” She turned to Fowler. “Fowler, let me offer you and your friends a round. What you folks drinking?”

“Will you sit with us, Miss Lucy?” Fowler asked.

“Sure,” said Miss Lucy, “I'll come back just as soon as I tend to a couple of folks. Let me just send Andy over. He'll take real good care of you. You all have a good time, now,” and she smiled again, and left us. I watched her talking to the bartender, who nodded several times, not looking in our direction. Then she was very cheerful and proud with several other people, who glanced in our direction once or twice: it was established that the form our madness took was not malevolent, that we might be distinguished, or, even, not impossibly, charming.

We were there for a long time, and we got quite drunk. Barbara and Jerry danced. Barbara and Matthew danced. Fowler danced with Madeleine. I was afraid to dance. This realization came as a shock, for I had never been afraid to dance before. But I had never danced with a white woman. In that youth, so swiftly receding, vanishing behind me, I had only danced with black girls; and we danced among the dancers and we had, in effect, no audience. But now there was an audience, a black audience watching a black boy dancing with a white woman; and they would know, from the dance, whether the woman was really his or not. I had no woman, I had only
had adventures—though I must confess that I have never, in the sexual context, arrived at an understanding of the meaning of this word. They were not adventures at all, at least not if one supposes that adventure suggests risks joyfully taken: they were dry, predictable, and joyless, as laconic as a thermometer. I was very, very frightened, and because I was frightened, I forced myself to stand up and dance with Barbara. I knew that I could never dance with Madeleine. “Bravo,” said Matthew. And I led Barbara onto the floor. It was a slow dance, for I did not feel exuberant.

She was very soft and small in my arms. I felt very strange—quite peaceful in one way; quite disturbed in another. Barbara's hand was very light on my back, her hand in mine was warm and dry, she held me with an unexpected, a surprising intensity. I don't know anything about the way we are put together, how long, in what secrecy, a moment prepares itself, or according to what law it suddenly comes into the light, so that one is standing, abruptly, trembling, face to face with the unimaginable. I don't think that I had been particularly aware of Barbara's body before, but I was now, and I felt that she was aware of mine. I thought, at once, guiltily, of Jerry; perhaps Barbara had also been thinking of Jerry; and I had a sudden, bewildering sense of Barbara as being trapped. I turned my mind away from this too bleak confusion. I became dreadfully uncomfortable, thinking of Jerry and Matthew and all the black people watching: it was almost as though we were making love in public. And yet—how can I explain this?—this profound discomfort did not really disturb my peace. I knew I could not move out of Barbara's arms. Then I was horrified to remember that I was wearing no underwear, and my member, with
no warning, with uncontrollable speed, raged and thickened against the cloth of my jeans. Barbara had to feel it, but her face gave no sign; and I—poor me!—had no choice but to keep the rude witness hidden against her body. It was horrible. I thought of all the people watching. Involuntarily, without realizing I was doing so, I pressed Barbara closer. Sweat broke out on my forehead, at the hairline. I wanted the dance never to end. I wanted the dance to end at once. How would I ever be able to get across the dance floor? I tried to move as little as possible, but this made matters worse. I cursed myself. Then I maneuvered us closer to our table, and thanked God that the lights were dim. Yet, beneath it all, I felt a curious peace. At last the record ended. In a grave and decorous silence we walked back to our table and I slipped quickly into my seat. We were silent. Something of the greatest importance had happened to us.

Everyone seemed perfectly at ease. Matthew was involved in a joking flirtation with a rather pretty girl at the next table, who was sitting with two couples. He was quite drunk now, but very cheerful, and it seemed to me that he had certainly scored with the pretty girl, who was clearly much taken with him. Fowler was watching him with a kind of amused and lofty affection. Barbara sat down next to Jerry, her face still and closed; I thought there was a certain fear in her face. She said, “Jerry, I really think it's time we started home.”

I didn't want to go home to my empty room, with the two of them together downstairs. I grabbed Madeleine's hand again.

“Any time you ready,” Fowler said, “I'll be happy to drive you back to your car.”

“I think we might as well be going now,” Jerry said.

“You folks thinking of leaving now?” Matthew asked. “The evening's just getting started.”

“It's just getting started for
you,
” said Jerry.

Barbara rose. “It's been a fine night. Thanks for bringing us here.”

“Well, it sure was my pleasure,” Matthew said, “and we have to do it again sometime.”

He rose, and we all shook hands.

“You fixing to stay here?” Fowler asked.

“I'll stay here till you bring the car back, Fowler. You know I can't just tear myself away from this charming young lady just like that.” He grinned and winked at me. “Look here,” he said, “I'm going to give you a call up at your theater in a couple of days. We'll have us a couple of drinks together before I cut out of here.”

“Good luck on the North Atlantic,” Madeleine said.

“Thank you—
Madeleine.
You see, I remembered that time.” And we laughed.

“Be good,” I told him.

“You too. Bye-bye now.”

We walked slowly to the door. “Bye-bye,” shouted Miss Lucy. “Don't you all be no strangers now, you hear?”

We told her that we wouldn't be strangers, and we stepped outside. We piled into Fowler's car. Madeleine and I sat in the back, and I put my arm around her. And, looking at her very hard, emboldened perhaps by the whiskey and the fear of my white-washed room, I asked her, “Can I come up and have a nightcap at your place?”

She paused for a moment. She said, “All right. That might be nice.”

I asked Fowler to make a slight detour, so we could
let Madeleine off before going back to our car. When we reached Madeleine's house, Madeleine and I stepped out and I gave Jerry the car keys.

“I'm going to have a drink with Madeleine,” I said. “I'll see you all later. Bye-bye, Fowler, and thank you. I'll see you soon. Good-night, Barbara.”

She looked slightly stunned, but she smiled and said, “Good-night, Leo. Good-night, Madeleine.”

“Good-night, kids. See you all tomorrow.”

“I'll fix a night for supper,” Fowler said. “One night at my house. Before Matthew goes.”

“Okay. Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

And they drove off down the dark street, leaving everything empty. Now, I was really frightened, though, now it was too late. What would people say if they saw me coming out of Madeleine's house in the morning? We were crazy, both of us. But Madeleine already had keys out, there was no one, anyone, to see us go in. I took the keys and opened the door and we climbed in silence to the third floor. Still in silence we entered Madeleine's apartment and she turned on the light.

“Well!” said Madeleine. She was smiling.

“Do you think we shocked anybody?”

“I think we shocked Fowler.”

“Do you think it matters?”

“No. I don't think it matters.”

We walked into the living room.

“But we may,” she said, “have shocked Barbara even more than we shocked Fowler.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Barbara's not like that.” I turned from her and walked about the room. “You've got a very
nice place here.” It was pleasant enough. She had big, curtained windows, the bedroom was on the right, and the john and the kitchen were behind me.

“Oh, it's all right,” she said. “But those windows just open on that awful street—but from the kitchen you can see a little bit of the river. Isn't that silly?”

“All these towns have their ass in the river,” I said.

“Come look.”

I walked into the kitchen and we stood beside the window. And it was true—through the interstices formed by other buildings and mighty poles and wires and the dull gleam of the railroad tracks, one made out the river. It caught the light differently; or it threw back another light. And if one held one's breath, as now, indeed, we did, one could hear it, faint and steady, rolling along.

For a second, I listened to Madeleine's breathing, which was faint, but not very steady. I didn't know what role she wanted me to play with her, and for the moment I was just stalling, being a kind of bebop kid.

“Put something on the record player,” she said, “and I'll make that drink.”

“Right.” I walked back into the living room. “What do you want to hear?”

“Anything
you
want to hear. But keep it very low.”

“That's right. We certainly don't want the neighbors barging in here tonight.”

She laughed. “No. I don't want to be sent back to the convent.”

I couldn't guess what she wanted to hear, she didn't have anything I particularly wanted to hear, and so I put on something very easy, maybe it was
Rhapsody in Blue,
very low. I still felt very sure of myself, probably because I was not alone in my room. I sat down on the sofa. On
the table next to the sofa, under the lamp, was a picture of a little girl with long hair, standing near a white fence. Her head was up, and she was laughing.

“That's my daughter,” Madeleine said. She came in with the drinks and sat down on the sofa beside me. She put the drinks, with coasters and napkins, on the coffee table. “She was only six then.”

“She looks like a nice little girl.” I put the picture down. “How old is she now?”

“Eight.”

“What's her name?”

“Audrey. She's my pride and joy. She makes my life worth living.”

I looked at her. “Good for you.” I picked up my drink. “Here's to a life worth living.”

“That's a good toast.” We laughed and drank and listened to the music. I put my glass down. I pulled her blond head onto my shoulder.

“You're not drinking,” she said, after a moment.

Some instinct made me do exactly what she wanted me to do. I looked at her, I changed my position, and I put my head in her lap. She looked down at me, smiling. Her breasts seemed very big. I put my hand on one of them, really rather like a kid playing doctor, but also aware that a strange and mighty storm was rising in me. I was aware that the storm had really nothing to do with Madeleine, except that she was in the path.

“You're a strange boy,” she said.

“Why? Why am I a strange boy?”

She took, very deliberately, a sip of her drink. My hand stroked one breast. Part of me felt, Leo, you're nothing but a goddamn sex-fiend and you'll never get out of this house, let alone this town, alive. If this broad
could read your mind and know what a freak you are, your ass would be in the river, your head would be on a pike, and your cock and balls would be nailed to the courthouse door. And I thought, Fuck it. I want to see how much of a freak
she
is. She's come this far, let's see how far she'll go. I began fumbling with the buttons of her blouse. She put her drink down, and, as she leaned over to do this, I put one hand inside her blouse.