Read Online The Railway Police and the Last Trolley Ride by Hortense Calisher - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hortense Calisher
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Fifties, on wild-weather Sundays. At the thought that I might be classed with these, I held my heritage the higher, if wanly. What could I say to him, except as it has been said by plumpers-for-the-fact eternally: Officer, it’s mine.
He drew nearer; my uptown accent had stayed him, but he came on nevertheless. “Wotyer doing here … Miss?” Nearer, he looked puzzled; perhaps he had caught a resemblance. I decided to declare myself, thinking that this might settle it. One learns.
“Don’t you know me, Officer?” Delicately I framed my hands over my brow, just enough to bring out the face.
“Why, Miss— ” he said. “Why, Miss—” Pity crept over his cheeks with its mild, coronary pink, and I knew I was lost. “Why, it’s the lady from the agency. Whatever are you doing here?”
“Oh … just … taking the air. Lovely, isn’t it?” It was no use; he was already backing away from me.
“Work done now, eh? You’ll be getting along home, eh. Not a place to hang around this late, even though we—” he gulped—“know you.”
“Oh, after a while. It’s the first night of spring, you know.” That was a mistake.
“Mmm,” he said. “Live far?”
“Not very far,” I said. I was learning, but one last try. “Officer, would you oblige me in something?”
“Why yes, of course, Miss.” Eager. “Get you a cab?”
“No. Just take off your hat.”
Without the hat, I could see that his hairline was well receded, almost gone. He was a middle-aged man, not bad-featured but heavy-headed, with small ears and a flaccid, white jowl; when that faded red line had finally left him, he was going to look, from the front at least, like a polar bear whose grandmother had come from County Kildare. Yet, if he took off his hat, no one would run him in for it.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s all.”
“And you’re welcome, dear,” he said. “Fine evening, indeed now. You enjoy it, love.” He crooned it. “Stay right where you are.”
When he came back from the call-box, of course I wasn’t there. Ruses and stratagems were all coming on as well as could be expected. But I was still an apprentice, on a warm evening. I had left behind my precious Aquascutum.
From the side-window of the Chinese restaurant, where I ordered a pot of tea, I watched the officer come back and go away again. Under the lamppost, in the pool of light where I had first asserted my birthright, the bench was bare. Except for the loss of my raincoat, it seemed almost as if it had never happened. I was as used to this “except-for” brand of kismet as anybody else on the planet. But I found I had no desire to live by my losses only, no matter what graceful interpretations I might make of them. Oh, I had so much to learn, and at this hour, all of it stared at me at once. Is there a preferred style to be honest in? Was it quite the rough-and-ready to do a bunk on a cop by having tea?
The restaurant, empty now, was just that sort of land’s-end in which people so often sit at the end of their own wits, or at the beginning of them. The tiled floor, of the pattern of beer parlors in the days of Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model, had had scratched on it all the intervening sorrows of grime; the walls had once been painted in landscape, in those peculiar Corot-forests of varnish and gravy-fleck down which one could never wander far. Yet, over even the dingiest of such Sing Wu’s, there hangs always a certain paper fantasy, something of fans and kites, and out there in the kitchen, moth-plaints of a language not cognate—not the worst kind to hear in the background when one is taking stock. I wasn’t out to be a heroine—I wasn’t serious enough for it, I just wanted to be ordinary. But I didn’t seem to be Freudian enough for that either, at least not to the police. From his croon I was sure he was a man who knew all about how to be. The ones who do, they’re always the enemy. Watch out for good will, sociological and
He drew nearer; my uptown accent had stayed him, but he came on nevertheless. “Wotyer doing here … Miss?” Nearer, he looked puzzled; perhaps he had caught a resemblance. I decided to declare myself, thinking that this might settle it. One learns.
“Don’t you know me, Officer?” Delicately I framed my hands over my brow, just enough to bring out the face.
“Why, Miss— ” he said. “Why, Miss—” Pity crept over his cheeks with its mild, coronary pink, and I knew I was lost. “Why, it’s the lady from the agency. Whatever are you doing here?”
“Oh … just … taking the air. Lovely, isn’t it?” It was no use; he was already backing away from me.
“Work done now, eh? You’ll be getting along home, eh. Not a place to hang around this late, even though we—” he gulped—“know you.”
“Oh, after a while. It’s the first night of spring, you know.” That was a mistake.
“Mmm,” he said. “Live far?”
“Not very far,” I said. I was learning, but one last try. “Officer, would you oblige me in something?”
“Why yes, of course, Miss.” Eager. “Get you a cab?”
“No. Just take off your hat.”
Without the hat, I could see that his hairline was well receded, almost gone. He was a middle-aged man, not bad-featured but heavy-headed, with small ears and a flaccid, white jowl; when that faded red line had finally left him, he was going to look, from the front at least, like a polar bear whose grandmother had come from County Kildare. Yet, if he took off his hat, no one would run him in for it.
“Thank you,” I said. “That’s all.”
“And you’re welcome, dear,” he said. “Fine evening, indeed now. You enjoy it, love.” He crooned it. “Stay right where you are.”
When he came back from the call-box, of course I wasn’t there. Ruses and stratagems were all coming on as well as could be expected. But I was still an apprentice, on a warm evening. I had left behind my precious Aquascutum.
From the side-window of the Chinese restaurant, where I ordered a pot of tea, I watched the officer come back and go away again. Under the lamppost, in the pool of light where I had first asserted my birthright, the bench was bare. Except for the loss of my raincoat, it seemed almost as if it had never happened. I was as used to this “except-for” brand of kismet as anybody else on the planet. But I found I had no desire to live by my losses only, no matter what graceful interpretations I might make of them. Oh, I had so much to learn, and at this hour, all of it stared at me at once. Is there a preferred style to be honest in? Was it quite the rough-and-ready to do a bunk on a cop by having tea?
The restaurant, empty now, was just that sort of land’s-end in which people so often sit at the end of their own wits, or at the beginning of them. The tiled floor, of the pattern of beer parlors in the days of Nellie, the Beautiful Cloak Model, had had scratched on it all the intervening sorrows of grime; the walls had once been painted in landscape, in those peculiar Corot-forests of varnish and gravy-fleck down which one could never wander far. Yet, over even the dingiest of such Sing Wu’s, there hangs always a certain paper fantasy, something of fans and kites, and out there in the kitchen, moth-plaints of a language not cognate—not the worst kind to hear in the background when one is taking stock. I wasn’t out to be a heroine—I wasn’t serious enough for it, I just wanted to be ordinary. But I didn’t seem to be Freudian enough for that either, at least not to the police. From his croon I was sure he was a man who knew all about how to be. The ones who do, they’re always the enemy. Watch out for good will, sociological and
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