Come and Join the Dance (11 page)

“You haven't depressed me.”

“I think I wanted to. When you walked over to me, I should have said, ‘Susan, you shouldn't even be in this place tonight. Let me take you away from here, let's celebrate … '”

“Oh stop!” she said, laughing.

“But isn't that what you expected?”

“No!”

“You're lying. Women always expect that from a man.

“I didn't expect anything,” she said.

He was silent. “You know,” he said solemnly, “I think I'm angry with you because you're going way… . We might have had a chance to make each other miserable for a while—I suppose that's the way it would have worked out.”

“I don't know,” she said faintly.

“I do know.”

Someone plunged past them. The Riverside Café turned itself on again—suddenly the jukebox was pounding and a man was shouting, “Beer! Beer!”; the balls in the bowling machine were crashing into the pins; the bartender was wiping glasses. With a feeling of panic, she noticed that the door to Broadway was swinging back and forth a little as if someone had just left. She made herself look back at Kay's booth and saw that it was empty. “Peter! Kay's gone!” she cried. She slid down from the stool and rushed out of the bar into the street.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

K
AY WAS HALFWAY
up the block. She didn't stop when Susan called to her, but kept on walking, slowly, aimlessly, like someone blindfolded. “Kay! Wait!” She knew how it had been for Kay—how Kay had awakened from her sleep and found herself alone and walked to the bar to be with them, and how, when she had seen them, there must have been something about the way they looked together—the way their heads were turned perhaps, the angle at which they leaned toward each other—that made it seem as if they were shutting her out, that she was isolate, that no one would hear her if she spoke, notice if she passed. “Please wait, Kay!” Susan ran now in her new white high-heeled shoes. Somewhere behind her, Peter's voice cried, “Susan!” and she realized that he must have followed her out of the bar, but she kept going. In a moment she was going to overtake Kay; she would ask her what's wrong, what's the matter, what do you mean leaving us like that? “Kay, wait!” Kay had halted on the corner, trapped there because the cars kept coming, the light hadn't changed. Susan stopped running and walked the rest of the way—no one was supposed to run after anyone else.

“Hey, Kay … where are you going?” Standing next to each other now, they might have been two people who had been wandering Broadway together.

But Kay wouldn't stop watching the cars. “Across the street,” she said.

“Going to the Southwick Arms?”

Kay shrugged.

“Going to Bickford's for coffee, Kay? Why don't you come back to the Riverside?” Her voice lost some of its lightness.

“No!” Kay said hoarsely.

“Would you like me to go somewhere else with you?”

“I just want to cross the street.”

“Listen, Kay … ” Listen to what? she thought. She was stalling for time, a moment; the light was changing. Why was she so afraid of not being able to sound indifferent?

“Well, ladies, what's happening?” Suddenly Peter was present. She heard Kay make a stifled, wordless sound and saw that all the cars had stopped. Kay stepped off the curb, hesitated, then began to cross Broadway. “What the hell is going on?” Peter shouted, running out after her. He grasped Kay's arm and yanked her back to the curb. “Would you mind telling me the meaning of this performance!”

Kay looked at Peter, then at Susan; tears were wetting her face. “Good night,” she whispered.

“It's very difficult to hear you,” Peter said. “Could you possibly speak a little louder?” But Kay shut her eyes and stood before them mute, a prisoner waiting to be sentenced. “Christ! why is it always this way with you? Why all this silence? You make me feel like a tyrant!”

“You're … not,” Kay gasped.

“Now stop playing the orphan girl. People can't bear victims, Kay. Goddammit, you're always—effacing yourself!”

Susan had never seen Peter so angry—but maybe anger could reach Kay. She heard Kay dully recite: “I know what I am.”

“You don't know anything. You're an idiot.”

“I'm drunk. I can't—”

“Yes, tonight you're a drunken idiot. Look at you!” He seized her by the shoulder and held her at arms' length. “Crazy Jane! Someone ought to wash your face for you.”

Kay laughed brokenly. “But not you.”

“I didn't say that—I said
someone
.” Peter drew Kay closer to him; he brushed her hair back from her forehead. “Come on. The three of us will go back to the bar and have another drink.”

“No—you go back with Susan. I can't make it in there.”

“No one can,” Peter said. “It's a terrible place.”

Susan stepped forward. “We'll go anywhere you like, Kay. But you've got to come with us.”

Kay hadn't taken her eyes off Peter. “Go with Susan,” she said to him.

“Kay!” Susan cried out.

Kay turned to her. “Just don't tell him about the drawings—that's all.”

“Kay,” Susan said desperately, “I
love
you.”

“Not necessary,” Kay muttered. “Not necessary.” She shook her head.

“I wanted you to know that.”

Kay's eyes avoided hers. When she finally spoke, she said, “Can I cross the street now? I want to go home.”

They walked Kay to the hotel, took her to her room in the Southwick Arms Hotel. Was that what Kay meant by home—a room? She had told them she didn't want them to come with her, but they had made her walk between them for four blocks—she stumbled a bit, said nothing at all. Would it have been kinder to have let her go alone? They rode up with Kay in the elevator to the sixth floor; they escorted her down the corridor. A lot of the doors were half-open because it was a warm night—you could look in and see people alive in their little garishly lit boxes. A party was going on in one of the rooms. “A gala night,” Peter remarked. Then they waited in the corridor while Kay groped for something in her purse. “I can't find the key,” she kept saying. “I don't have it. I can't find the key.” “Having trouble, Kay?” Peter asked. No answer. Across the hall someone was being very angry in Spanish.

At last Kay found the key and opened her door. But then she just stood there, outside her room.

“All right, Kay?” Peter said wearily. He wanted it to be over now, Susan thought—they had brought Kay to her room, why wouldn't she go in? The next thing he was probably going to say was “So long. See you tomorrow.” And the door would close. And that would be all. Good-bye to Kay—she hadn't even said that yet.

Kay hadn't moved. She gave them a dazed look. “I forgot to leave my light on.”

“Kay,” Susan said gently, “I'll turn it on. I know where it is.” She stepped past Kay into the darkness and felt along the wall for the switch. “I've got it, Kay!” she called.

The room was suddenly much too bright—she could see its sadness too well. This was a room she never could have lived in. This was the last time she would stand here, her last view of the rented, indestructible furniture, the debris of Kay's life, the pictures Kay had tacked on the green wallpaper that she would not have chosen herself—no answer for her in the little nun's starved face.

Peter was still standing in the doorway, but Kay had come all the way into the room. She wandered around at first like a child in a strange house, touching the back of a chair, fingering a book; then she stopped and stared at Susan.

“All right now, Kay?” Peter demanded.

Kay's face was flushed, exhausted; her eyes kept closing. “Susan … ” she said slowly, her voice low and sweet, “I don't have any coffee for you. I used it all up.”

“Oh Kay—it doesn't matter.” She could hardly get the words out.

“I should have saved some,” Kay said vaguely. Then she seemed to be staring at the wallpaper. “You know,” she said, “my walls are green just like the Riverside's. The same green”—her voice rose—“the same green walls. All the walls in my life are the same color!”

“Kay!” Peter said from the doorway. “You ought to get some rest now. You ought to go to sleep.”

“I know,” Kay murmured.

“Why don't you go and lie down?” He walked into the room and took Kay by the arm. “Come on—get into bed,” he said sternly. Kay giggled. “Come on.”

“I'm really your daughter, Peter,” Kay said, letting him lead her across the room. “I'm really your daughter.” She kicked off her shoes and laid herself down on top of the rumpled blanket of her unmade bed.

“Aren't you going to take some of your clothes off?” said Peter. “You don't look very comfortable.”

Kay had closed her eyes. “I'm comfortable.”

Susan noticed Kay's bedspread lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. She went and picked it up, then draped it over Kay, tucking it in around her.

“What are you doing that for?” Kay whispered.

“Oh, I don't know. It seemed like a good idea.”

Kay smiled slightly. “You must both kiss me good night—will you?”

“Of course.” Her voice shook. She bent down and kissed Kay quickly on the forehead.

“And Peter—leave the light on.” Kay opened her eyes and reached for his hand.

“Any other instructions?” Peter laughed.

Kay was silent for a moment. “Yes,” she said gravely. “I
think you should get the car and take Susan for a ride.” Her hand slipped away from Peter's. “I'm awfully drunk,” she said, just before she fell asleep.

They stood in front of the Southwick Arms Hotel. It was one o'clock in the morning now and there was a wind from the river blowing up 113th Street. Peter was trying to light a cigarette, but the wind kept putting the matches out. “The hell with it!” he said, tossing the cigarette away. Then he looked at her. She wasn't afraid of his eyes. It was the wind that made her shiver a little. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“No. Not really. I feel—very awake,” she said.

“So do I.” He was smiling. Suddenly his face looked very young. “Susan, would you like to go somewhere?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I think I would.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
HE NIGHT HAD
transfigured the road—the highway her parents had traveled a few hours ago—now, for her, a road without end, without even landmarks. She was sitting in the front seat of the car next to Peter, watching the car's lights whiten the darkness ahead of them, always the same whiteness to drive into and everything dark beyond it, the shapes of trees, houses, to be felt rather than seen. He said that maybe they would find a beach very early in the morning, they would get out and watch the sun come up. But even if they didn't, it wouldn't matter. She was traveling fast, she was riding through the center of night—she was with Peter, next to him, and yet alone. The car was making the same machine-gun sound she had heard four days ago. Sometimes it would stall, sometimes it rushed forward violently—but she had no sense of danger. Peter began to drive even faster. She leaned back against the seat and shut her eyes. She could feel the speed now as if it were a force inside her.

The car wasn't moving. Susan woke with a start. There was light everywhere, harsh gray light, and a no-colored sky. “Peter?” She put out her hand, but he wasn't there. She sat up, her heart beating wildly, and looked out the window. Little orange and green flags were flapping in the wind and a sign said Esso. She was in a gas station. The hood of the car was up, and she saw Peter standing near a gas pump talking to a man. She groped for her shoes—she couldn't remember taking them off—opened the door and climbed out of the car. “Peter!” she called. He turned and waved his hand at her and she walked unsteadily toward him, on legs that were not quite hers yet. It was terribly cold. The wind kept whipping at her dress. Peter's face looked gray, older, maybe because of the light or because he needed a shave. “What's happening, Peter?” she said.

Peter shrugged wearily. “The car seems to have had it.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“Like I said,” the gas station man put in, “you can have it fixed.”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter said. “Seventy-five dollars.” He looked at Susan. “Let's go and have some coffee. There's a diner across the road. I'm going to leave the car here for a few minutes,” he said to the gas station man. “Is that all right?”

“It's all right with me,” said the man, “just as long as you can drive it out.”

“I'll drive it out,” Peter said stiffly. “Come on, Susan.”

She followed him across an expanse of concrete that was gray too, she noticed. Even her dress looked gray.

“Did the car break down?” she asked with an effort. The problem of the car didn't seem real somehow.

“It's still running, but it's pretty far gone,” Peter said grimly.

“Oh. But what's wrong?”

“Transmission,” he said.

“Is that serious?”

“Yes.” Peter sounded as if he didn't want her to ask any more questions. He was walking very quickly, walking across the road, away from her, as if she had turned into an enemy. She was completely awake now. She folded her arms and held them tightly against her body for warmth; she didn't try to catch up with him.

When Peter reached the diner, he waited for her, holding the door open, but his face was bleak, remote. Susan thought the waitress gave them an odd look when Peter ordered the two coffees. She was suddenly very conscious that she hadn't combed her hair, that her dress was badly creased, that it was five-thirty in the morning and she was sitting in a diner in an unknown town miles away from her room, her suitcases, her life.

For a long time Peter stared out of the window and stirred his coffee. “I'm going to sell the car,” he said at last.

There was such a deadness in his voice that she could think of nothing to say. All she could do was ask: “Can't you have it fixed, Peter?” which was no better than saying nothing. He didn't answer. “The man said it could be fixed.”

“Yes,” Peter said bitterly. “For seventy-five dollars.”

“Can't you get it?”

“No, I can't,” he said. “Susan, I'm twenty-nine years old and eight hundred dollars in debt—that's a nice adult sum, isn't it? And the car's a—toy, you know … just a distraction. It wouldn't even pay to fix it. It cost me a hundred; now it's worth about forty. And it's old. Every few months something else is going to fall apart… . Why are you looking so depressed?” he demanded. “You should be encouraging me.”

“I can't imagine you without the car,” she said.

“Oh you see it as a tragedy—like the Lone Ranger shooting his horse. What was the name of that horse? Come on—you know it.” He looked hard at her and tried to laugh.

But she wouldn't say it. She was thinking about how it would be for Peter now, how he would wake up in his apartment at noon each day and find that more dust had settled overnight, how he would go out for breakfast because there weren't any clean cups, how he would drift up and down Broadway until he was tired enough to sleep again.

“Think!” Peter said sternly.

“It was Silver,” she said. “
Hi-yo Silver! The Lone Ranger rides again
… ” The words caught in her throat.

A smile flickered across Peter's face. “Very good.”

“Useful information,” she said. But he was looking out of the window again. She drank about half of her cup of coffee.

“You know,” she heard him say, “if I thought the car would last—even a few more days—I'd be tempted to get into it now and just keep going.”

“I wonder where we'd end up,” she said.

Peter turned, his eyes cold. “Oh—did I invite you?”

Her mouth quivered; she didn't trust her voice, her face. She picked up the cup she had just put down.

“I thought you had to get back to your suitcases.”

“That's right.”

“Well, the real problem anyway is whether or not the car can make it back to New York—that is the real problem,” he said loudly. “Susan?”

“Yes.”

“You can either take your chances with me or catch a train. I can give you a little money toward the fare.”

She was silent. She ought to tell him she'd take the train; that was what she ought to tell him. “I'll take my chances,” she said unsteadily.

Peter laughed. “You want the honor of being my last passenger—is that it?” He laid his hand heavily on her shoulder. “Is that it, Susan?”

She wouldn't look at him. “I don't want anything,” she said.

“I think I'll sell the car today,” Peter said, as if he hadn't heard her, “get it over with. There are a lot of places in the Bronx that buy used cars—near Yankee Stadium. A hideous section. You wouldn't want to go to the Bronx.” His hand rested on her shoulder a moment longer; then he looked at his watch. “We ought to go now,” he said. “I'll have to drive slowly.”

We're not going to fly this time, she thought.

“Better finish your coffee,” Peter said.

Her anger had left her. There was something she wanted to say. She needed only a little more courage, a little more silence. But her cup was empty; now Peter stood up and began to search his pockets for change. “I'm finished,” she said sadly. Then she stood up, too.

Peter put two dimes down on the counter. “Let's go,” he said.

“Peter … ” If she didn't say it now, she wouldn't say it—it could not be said without risk. “Peter, if you're going to sell the car this morning—well, why don't I go with you?”

He didn't make it easy for her, didn't answer right away. “You have a desire to go to the Bronx.”

“That's right,” she said.

“Just for the ride.” His eyes met hers—she didn't turn from them. “I'll think about it,” he said at last.

When they left the diner they discovered that it had begun to rain—a fine rain that drifted down on them like mist. It wasn't windy any more. Instead there was a great stillness. Not a car moved upon the highway. The trees shook softly, and across the road the little flags hung sodden on their lines like garish laundry. They were walking to the car very slowly as if they had all the time in the world.

“Do you mind getting wet?” Peter said.

“No.” Susan smiled. She wanted to be wet, drenched, to walk under the enormous sky—a different sky than the one you saw in the city in little bits and pieces. For once there was no urgency to rush to a dry place.