The Collected Stories of Richard Yates (72 page)

He drank the first martini a little too fast, and then looked over just in time to catch her eye. She smiled, raising her eyebrows in surprise, and went on with her work. He ordered another and gave his full attention to watching it being made; the bartender's casually careful measuring of ingredients into a mixing glass, the clamping of the glass mouth-in-mouth with the aluminum shaker, the vigorous pumping ritual that made the bartender's cheeks tremble, and finally the pouring of the drink into its frail stemmed glass.

“You're quite a stranger here in the afternoon, Mr. Pollock,” the girl said. She was standing right beside him.

“Why, hello there,” he said, “still tired? You know, you don't look any more tired now than you did at noon.”

“Guess I've got my second wind.” At first he thought she had come over just to talk to him, but then she said, “Two Manhattans, Harry,” and he realized she was filling an order.

“Well, your day's nearly over now, isn't it?”

“Thirty-one more minutes,” she laughed, her eyes shining. “I count 'em.”

What lovely skin, he was thinking, lovely soft young skin. “Do you live far from work?”

“Brooklyn. Takes me about an hour.”

He wanted to slide his hand around her waist as she stood there. Such a slim, straight little waist. “That must be quite a job, riding the subway so far every day.”

“You get used to it,” she said. “Just like everything else. Thanks, Harry.” She picked up her tray and turned around, careful to keep the drinks from spilling, and then she was gone again.

Emptying his glass, Pollock let the olive roll into his mouth and chewed it slowly. She might not come back until quitting time, but it was all right. He would smile at her a few more times, and it would be only natural for her to stop again on her way out. And then it would happen, easily and casually. She would say, “Why yes, thank you, Mr. Pollock, that's awfully sweet of you,” and they would get a cab, and on the way he would say, “Look, why don't you telephone your home and come to dinner with me,” or something like that. It would be easy in the cab, enclosed with her, with the excitement of early evening rushing by and her body only inches away.

“Care for another, sir?”

“Yes, please.” He shifted his position slightly, angling for a place in the bar mirror that wasn't blocked by rows of bottles, but when he found the reflection of his craning, solemn face, fingers fumbling at his tie, it made him feel absurd: a middle-aged cuckolded man, sprucing up for a planned seduction.

He settled back on the stool, depressed, and drank off part of the new cocktail. Alice and Werner, driving west—had they started yet? Was she laughing and excited? The blood started in his throat. The only thing to do was put it out of his mind.

Young Merton, two-faced and flip, an undeserving, crude young man. He decided to put Merton out of his mind too, and found that putting things out of his mind was surprisingly easy. He concentrated on looking out the plate-glass window at the endless succession of faces that passed, momentarily bright in the darkening street, windblown and tense with hurrying: a crowd of giggling office girls, a young couple talking eagerly with puffs of mist whipping from their mouths. Then for a while he concentrated on two quarters, a dime and three nickels that lay on the bar beside his glass. With a finger he arranged them in a straight line, pushed them into disorder and arranged them again. And then he concentrated on Miss Hennessy across the room as she walked toward the “In” door, hips swaying, skirt floating around the legs, hair bouncing lightly on the shoulders. There was a poem about returning no more. How did it go? Something about watching the boats go by.

“Fill it up, sir?”

“Yes, please.” A poem by James Joyce: Alice had said, “Oh, look, George, read this one. I think it's lovely,” and she handed him the book. They were in one of those little bookstores on Eighth Street that Alice liked, the ones with the creaking wooden floors. They were Christmas shopping and he was dead tired, his feet hot and sore in their tight shoes. (When was it? Not last Christmas; Christmas before last? Had it really been that long since they'd shopped together?) “Watching the Needleboats at San Sabba”—or San something-or-other. He read the poem over a few times before he understood it, and then he looked at her, and her eyes were shining. “Isn't that lovely?” she said. “Isn't that perfectly lovely?”

Suddenly it was five minutes after six. The clock had startled him; he checked it with his watch and swung around on the stool to look for her. Two new waitresses were moving among the tables. Had she gone? He watched the “Out” door and waited, his chest tight, and then she came, looking even younger in her street clothes. She glanced at her watch and began to hurry, almost running through the restaurant. He slid off the stool and started toward her. “Say, Miss Hennessy!”

She turned her head, startled, and smiled at him but didn't stop. “Goodnight, Mr. Pollock.”

“Just a minute, Miss Hennessy, I—” She was almost to the door and he hurried to head her off, nearly colliding with a group of people coming in. “Look—” he began, and then he remembered about the hat and the little flourish he had planned, but it came off badly. “I'd like to buy you a drink, Miss Hennessy—Mary—but I suppose that's against the rules.”

“Yes it is, Mr. Pollock. That's very nice of you but I'm late and I've got to hurry.”

“Precisely,” he said, stepping around her to block the door and touching her sleeve. “I know you're late and that's why I thought perhaps you'd allow me to see you home.” She smiled and drew her sleeve away. “No, I'm sorry, Mr. Pollock, that's against the rules too. Now, why don't you go back and finish your—”

His hand slid around her arm and squeezed, tight, and his voice was nearly a shout: “
What
rules?”

Her eyebrows jumped and the smile was gone. He dropped his hand quickly and said, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. It's just that I don't see why you should object when I'm only trying to be pleasant.”

“Well, I do object.” Her eyes were narrow now, darting first at him and then toward the bar, as if looking for help. “I don't like to be grabbed that way.”

“But I wasn't
grabbing
, don't you understand? I was simply—”

“All right, Mr. Pollock, let's just forget it, all right? Goodnight.” And with a tentative half smile she slipped around him and out of the plate-glass door, closing it behind her and walking quickly away. For an instant he stood there uncertainly, and then he lunged out after her, cramming on his hat, aware as he passed the window that faces at the bar were laughing at him. She was twenty feet away, headed for a subway entrance, and he walked as fast as he could, then ran a few steps. “Wait a minute—I'm not drunk, don't you understand?” He was at her shoulder now, half running, the unbuttoned topcoat flapping behind him. “Look, you don't understand. If I made a scene back there I'm sorry—if you'd just let me explain—”

She stopped at the head of the subway stairs and faced him. “All right, Mr. Pollock, say whatever it is you want to say and get it over with. Don't
yell
like that and run after me. Everybody's
looking
.”

“I'm awfully sorry, I don't know what gave you the idea that—well, I suppose a girl in your position does have a lot of trouble with men trying to pick you up—”

“Is that all you wanted to say?”

“Well, no, actually I”—he felt his mouth leap into a ridiculous grin—“simply wanted to take you to dinner and—”

“Let go of my arm.”

“—get to know you a little better. I don't see any reason why—”

“Let go of my arm.”

“—we couldn't have a pleasant—”

“Let go of my
arm
!” She squirmed away and ran down the steps, and he clattered after her, pushing past another man. At the landing she looked back, then fled down the second flight and through the crowd at the change booth.

“Wait a minute!” he called, clearing the last of the steps. “Wait a minute!” She was out on the platform now, and a train was there, and its doors were sliding open. “Wait!” A sharp blow caught him in the groin and doubled him over—the turnstile. In a rage he whipped back the skirt of his topcoat and jammed a hand in his pocket for a dime. He sprang free just as the doors closed, ran into the chest of a man in a leather jacket and reeled off to the side.

“Why the hell don't you watch out?” the leather jacket said.

The train was moving now and Pollock stood there watching it. Flatbush Avenue, Flatbush Avenue, Flatbush Avenue, and then it was gone.

“Hey
you
. I said why don't you watch out?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Well, take it easy next time, for Christ's sakes, huh?”

“Of course. I'm sorry.”

He went out and up the stairs, carefully buttoning his coat and righting his hat. And he walked four or five blocks before he realized, coming to a halt and looking around, that he had absolutely no idea where he was going.

HONESTLY, GRACE, IT
really is good to be home. I mean it was a wonderful trip, seeing all those different places and everything, and I wouldn't of missed it for the world, but I don't know, it's funny. When I walked into the office today and saw all you girls working at the same old desks and you all acted so glad to see me, and when Mr. Willis came out with that real cute grin and says, “Well, look at the globe-trotter,” you know what I felt like doing? I almost felt like crying.

And I mean, I never thought I'd feel that way about the office, you know it? Oh, I mean, I like all you kids a whole lot and everything, I don't mean it that way, but gee, after working there six years for those lousy two-dollar raises, getting so mad at Mr. Willis I could scream half the time, and always saving up for my trip—I mean, you'd think that when I finally quit and
took
the trip, I wouldn't care if I ever laid eyes on the place again. But I guess a person gets used to having things a certain way, and after that no matter what they do or where they go, they always like to come back. You know what I mean? Well, listen, Grace, I could sit here talking all night—I mean, it's like old times, coming here to Child's for coffee after work and everything—but honestly, I got to get home or my mother'll kill me. I told her I was just going to drop in at the office to say hello; she says, “Ah, I know you—you'll be there all day.” So she was right, as usual. And also, Marty's coming over tonight and I got to pick up my dress from the cleaners before they close. So listen, Grace, I'll just give you the high points of the trip now, and we can talk about it some more when you're over at the house Friday night, okay? Because honestly, there's so much to tell I hardly know where to begin.

Well, first of all there was the boat trip, of course. Honestly, I'll never forget the way all you kids came down to see me off that day, and all those swell presents, and me bawling like a baby all over the place; it was really swell. Well, anyway, remember that real cute fella that got up and offered you his deck chair, and you all kidded me about him and I got so embarrassed? Well, the first day it turned out he was married—honestly, I was so mad—but his wife was real nice too, she was French, and we had the same table in the dining room.

There was this other fella at the table that was all right, a single fella. We sort of went around together on the boat until he started bothering me. I mean I liked him and everything, but he wanted to make dates with me in Paris, and dates with me on the Riviera, and dates with me in Venice and Rome—he was going to all the exact same places I was going, and it was really a problem. So I told him, “Look, Walter”—Walter Meltzer was his name, from Milwaukee—I told him, “Look, just because a girl's traveling alone doesn't mean she wants to spend all her time with the first fella she meets.” And I guess he got the point, because I didn't see a thing of him after the boat docked. Except one time in Rome; I'll tell you about that later.

So anyway, I also met these two real nice girls on the boat, the ones I wrote you about, remember? Pat and Georgine? They were from Baltimore, both secretaries there, and honestly, they had so much fun together it made me homesick for the times you and I used to have. Well, Pat started going around with this real nice English fella on the boat, and Georgine was mad because she didn't have a date. I introduced her to Walter, kind of hoping I could get rid of him that way, but she said he wasn't her type. I don't think he cared for her much either. I mean, Georgine wasn't a homely girl, and she was very intelligent and had a real good figure and everything, but she was—I don't know, sort of quiet and too serious about everything. I liked Pat better, myself. But I got along real good with both of them, and later we all decided to stick together in Paris—I mean we had the same hotel and everything.

So we finally got to Le Havre, and that's where Pat had to say goodbye to her English fella, because he was staying on to Southampton. Well, she took so long to say goodbye to him that we almost missed the boat train, or anyway Georgine thought we almost missed it, and she got real mad at Pat. They weren't speaking all the way to Paris. But they made up as soon as we got there, and from then on we had a wonderful time. I mean, Paris was really wonderful.