Fall and Rise (36 page)

“Will you stop being silly,” Bob says.

“Or the subway he might have been on caught fire and he's now maneuvering his way to you underground through pillows of smoke and will probably end up coming to you from your building's basement. Or the helicopter he took exploded in midair and he's now parachuting to your building's roof and, if he can get the roof door unlocked, will walk to your apartment downstairs. Or the—or, picked up for suspicion while running to your place, he wanted to get there so fast—”

“Pay no attention to her, Helene,” Bob shouts. “Once she starts in—” “—and this will happen right after we finish talking. He'll call you from the police station, in his one allowable call, to set him loose. Who can say in your city? But I have good instincts, and a rather adolescent imagination—too many movies and maybe living in movieland too long and maybe also too deep a belief in down-to-earth romance. But anyone who'd get himself locked out of his apartment, if we can believe him—and if it's not true, then that's saying a whole lot about his feelings and determination for you too. But anyone who would and then phone the same night he met you for only how long did you say? Anyway, you know what I think would make you the happiest, and Bob, for all his criticizing my silliness, agrees completely with me. So we hope you do it—with the one coming over or some other man you take the plunge for, and now you can hang up on me if you like. Wouldn't blame you the slightest, but first tell me this fellow's name again, in case I maybe know him and can warn you against him if my instincts about him were a hundred percent wrong.”

“The name of the man who's supposed to come over but never will? Daniel Krin.”

“Krin. No. Well, we beat the band for Dan.”

“It won't be Dan but—”

“Seriously, Helene, you can't know how wonderful almost everything is in having a baby. Even to doing it in one room while the kid's sleeping peacefully in another. I mean, he sleeps in our room at night, but sometimes, in the afternoon, when Bob—”

“I'll consider it if at the time we have two or more rooms.”

“And breast-feed it too.”

“At the same time or different? Anyway, if the man comes, baby comes and then the milk comes, I will.”

“You'll be such a relaxed mother, it'll just spill. I'll start saving the money to fly in for your wedding. Not with Dan-the-man so much, but you know what I mean. If you gear yourself up for it to happen, it'll happen, listen to me. Before Bob there were plenty just as highly desirable and a couple even more so—I don't kid you and I never did him. But I wanted to go to grad school, travel, work, kick it up a little and so on—you know me—till I said it was time to, since I was approaching thirty-five and beginning to risk Down's for the kid and along came Bob. Whups—sleepytime yawn. And look at this. Bob—and it seems to be a straightout nonfake—fell asleep holding the bottle to Nick's lips and Nick's asleep too, on Bob's chest. So it's one big sleepy family. But he has to be burped. Minimal ten minutes or we get a magnum of gas. But before that I'll get my hard-wrung expressed back into the refrigerator, get the Polaroid and flash attach and snap a few pictures of these two. So, my dearest dream of a generous friend—refrigerator, pictures, burps, then rock Nick in his carriage a bit and probably one more diaper change—I've got a lot to do so really must say toodle-ee-oo.”

“Much love to Bob from me and a big kiss on the tuchis for Nick.”

“That a way to go.”

“Hey, come on there, get this wagon moving—move it along,” man in the subway car says into his newspaper. He stands up, slaps the paper against his leg, opens the window by his seat and sticks his head out of it and says “Hey, come on there, get this—conductor. Hey, conductor there, what's going on? We've been—hey there, you. The one in the blue coat. Yell to the conductor there we've been parked in this station for the last two days…With the Parka—that's right, the blue one, you. Yell to the conductor there I want to see him. That we—damn it. Conductor, hey, conductor. What's with this train? Get it moving, get it moving. When are we supposed to be here to, next Thanksgiving parade?”

“Any minute,” a man yells from where this man's yelling to. “We got a light up ahead to stop and haven't got one to go.”

“Then get that light. Call them up and tell them to put on that light because a mistake's been made and nothing's in your way. Get that light and go. People like me have to get to work or lose our jobs. Jesus,” and he sits, looks around, realizes he's sitting on it, pulls his paper out from underneath him and starts reading it.

“Will you please close your window?” a woman across from him says.

“What are you worried for? The doors are open and not going to close.”

“When the train starts the doors will close. Will you please be so kind as to close the window you opened?”

“It's only a little fresh air.”

She gets up, says “I knew you wouldn't,” makes sure the four shopping bags at her feet are positioned against one another and the seat so they won't fall, says “Excuse me if it's no trouble” to the man, he moves over a couple of feet, and squeezes the levers at the top of the window but can't get the window to move. “Mister,” she yells to Dan sitting at the other end of the car. “You're my last hope here and not because you're the only one left. Could you please help me close this window—it's stuck.”

“If it's stuck I don't see what I could do to close it.”

“Give it a try. It might be my strength.”

“A try then.” He goes over to the window, says “Excuse me” to the man, who's moved back under the window and now moves again to the side, presses the two sets of levers in, window won't budge. “Seems really stuck.”

“Now you see what you did?” she says to the man.

“What I do? Fifty years of this train going down the drain and you're blaming me? And you got heat—feel it,” and he puts his hand on the seat. “Heat, so you won't freeze.”

“I'm an older person. My bones are brittle. I get frozen faster than you.”

“Then move to another car. There's actually too much heat coming up, making me want to take off my sweater, so it's nice mixed with a little fresh air.”

“But I like this car. It's cleaner than most and who knows what's in the other cars. And this one was the perfect temperature for me without the window opened, which is why I walked through the whole train before I came back to sit here. I have a long way to go.”

“What else can I say? I pulled a window down, now it won't go up. Point of issue has to be finished, for if he, a big strapping man, can't close it, there's nothing more anyone but a train mechanic can do.”

“Maybe you have a special way with those window clickers.”

“I don't. I put my fingers on them like you did and him.”

“Ask him to try to use his special touch again,” she says to Dan.

“I'm sure there isn't any.”

“There isn't,” the man says. “But what's the difference? This train's never leaving here, so we should all stop crying. It'll be another one they'll tell us to get off of and then it'll roll out to wherever they go, probably to the next uptown station to pick up passengers, who'll think ‘Hmm, why's the train so empty?'” He stands, yells out the window “Hey there, we've been here fifteen minutes if you want to know the exact figure—either tell us to get off and you get another train here to take us, or get this one moving. Conductor there—I talked to you before about it…oh go to hell with yourselves, you're all a pack of meat and never gave two craps for the next guy,” and he leaves the train.

“Maybe you can give it a last good try,” she says to Dan. “Sometimes the first times unloosen it.”

Dan shrugs, tries the window again, strains and gets it up two inches.

“That'll help but not by much. That all it'll do?”

“That's it.” His fingers are black and sticky from some crust on the levers and underneath the top window frame. “Maybe this is the problem,” showing her his fingers. “A grime, like glue. Probably down the sides of it—where the window slides up—too.”

“I'm going to another car. I know of one almost as warm if no one there opened the windows. Want his paper? It's Saturday's.”

“He might come back for it.”

“With all he did we don't deserve his paper?” She crams it into one of the shopping bags, picks up two in each hand and a long umbrella and plastic raincoat that had been behind them and goes into the next car. Odor about her. Lots of junk in the bags. Small pots, rolled-up clothing, wooden hangers, loose toggles, stacks of letters, tied-up twine and string.

Conductor rushes through the car holding a flashlight. “Anything wrong, sir?” Dan says.

“We'll be moving in a minute,” and goes into the next car. Dan sits, shivers, tries the window, rubs what grime he can off his hands under the knee-part of his pants.

“Hold the door,” a man shouts, running down the stairs. He runs into the car, “What luck it was still waiting,” pats his chest, “This isn't good, I shouldn't be losing my breath like this,” sits.

“Someone, will someone please help me?” Man in the middle of the platform, turning around in one spot, tapping a white cane on the ground.

Dan looks at the man in the car. “Not me,” his face says, takes his wallet out of his side pants pocket and puts it into the back, puts his athletic bag against the window and leans his head back on it, curls in his feet, pulls the ends of his coat down over his knees and shuts his eyes. Dan gets up and stands by the door nearest the man on the platform. “Sir, what is it?”

“Good—someone. Thank you. First I want to make sure of one thing. Are we at the Seventy-second Street station?”

“Ninety-sixth and Broadway—the uptown platform.”

“What I thought. Were you here five minutes ago when the uptown express left?”

“Five minutes ago? If it did, it went completely by me.”

Feels a watch on his wrist. “Five and a half minutes ago exactly. I was on it and meant to get off at Seventy-second but fell asleep. And a woman, when I woke up between stations, said the last stop was Thirty-fourth when it was Times Square, which is how it happens I'm here. Could you help me get to the downtown side?”

“Excuse me, but you
are
blind, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well you see, I'm standing inside the local, waiting for the doors to close. So I'd like to help, but I have to get to someplace which if I'm any more late for—”

“Thank you. Someone,” he shouts, turning around, “will someone please help me get to the other side of this mess?”

“Wait—listen. The stairs are over there—stop turning—
now
, you're facing them. Maybe fifteen feet in front of you at the most. Walk straight—I'll stay here and guide you, and if the doors close, guide you from the open window here long as I can—feel for the bottom step with your foot or cane, grab the railing on your right and go upstairs. The stairs to the downtown platform are to your right about thirty feet once you get up there.”

“I don't know this station. I'm also very tired, so for that reason also I'm being extra cautious.”

“I can understand that. But much as I truly want to—and I truly do—”

“Hey,” the man from before, head sticking out the window of the next car, “get this thing going. You maybe already made me lose my job. My supervisor can't believe when I say these trains are always breaking down—he uses a car. So move it—stop your stalling.”

“If the train doesn't leave before I see a transit cop,” Dan says, “I'll call one over for you or someone else who seems safe and is waiting here—”

“Help me out now?”

“Believe me, you can't believe how late I am for where I'm going. And I'm freezing here. I lost my sweater and coat tonight. So I just don't want to lose my train.”

A man approaches, heading for the stairs. “Sir,” Dan says, “could you take this gentleman here—he can't see, as might be obvious—up the stairs and deposit him—”

Man's past them, never made a sign he saw or heard, hurries upstairs.

“Thanks a lot. That's where he was going—And when I mentioned your sight, sir, I only thought—Wait, I'll do it. This train's never going. Should've done it before and I would've been back by now.” Steps out of the car, grabs the man's arm. Train motor starts up. “I have to get in. Ah, I don't know what I'm doing.” Doors shut. “Oh well,
macht nichts
. If this one's been here so long, another should be close behind it.”

“Whatever it's costing you, I'm—”

“Finally,” the man in the next car says. “Hurray,” and pulls his head in and shuts the window.

“No problem whatsoever” Dan says. “That's not so, but let's try to do it quickly without either of us tripping. I won't rush you though.” Doors open. Dan walks him a few steps to the staircase, says “Wait a second, maybe I can have both,” walks him to the car, wedges a foot against the part the door slides out of, says “Don't worry, I'll get you over there one way or the other without much more delay, but maybe in the next few moments someone will come who can take you. Hello,” he shouts, “but is there anyone here who could take this man whose sight is bad to the downtown platform? I can't. My uptown local's leaving—Don't worry, I will if no one else does,” he says to the man. Two men a few pillars down the platform look at them, then seem to look away. “If one of you gentlemen is waiting for the uptown express—I just thought of something,” to the man. “Come with me to a Hundred and tenth—the stop I'm going to—and once there I'll take you around to the downtown platform, stand with you till the local comes—I don't care how long it takes—and then you can take it all the way to Seventy-second without getting off. Four stops. Hundred-third, Ninety- and Eighty-sixth, Seventy-ninth and then-second. Five. It's a fair compromise. I'm going out of my way doing it that way also, but that's okay—I don't mean to sound begrudging or guilt-making. I want to help you, but you also shouldn't have been out alone this late and on the subway in the first place.”