Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone (31 page)

“Don't you ever miss it?” I asked.

“What? Going to confession?”

“Well—the church. All of it. You know—the music.
the others. The—the faith. I guess—you know—the safety—”

“Well. Sometimes, maybe. Especially when I see my mother. She's always weeping about it. And that makes me feel bad and then I remember a couple of priests I used to like and some other people and the music and Holy Communion and the way it felt—you know, it was nice. But, then, I look at my mother and she's not a bad woman but she is a very fucked-up woman and I know that part of what fucked her up is the Church. You know, she believes a whole lot of
shit,
and I've seen her do some very wicked things because she's so goddamn ignorant. Well—I don't want to be like that, that's all. I want to live my own life the way I want to live it. My mother hates Jews and she hates Negroes, and you know, fuck it, I can't be bothered with all that shit. So they can
have
it.”

“Did you ever believe it? I mean, you know—the Son of God and heaven and hell and judgment. You know. The whole bit.”

“My mother and my father believed it. And everyone around me believed it. So I believed it, too.”

“You never believed it, did you, Leo?” Barbara asked. “You never even went to church.”

“No. My father didn't believe it. So none of us believed it. Naturally.” I stood up. “It's been a rough day. So, you'll forgive me if I just say good-night now.”

After a moment they both said, “Good-night, Leo.” I carried my beer upstairs. They stayed on the porch awhile, I could hear them murmuring. Then, they went inside and closed their door. Then, everything was still. I remembered that I had forgotten to ask Barbara what
time we were due to appear before Saul in the morning. But I knew that she, or Jerry, would wake me up.

The story grows harder to tell. What did I do that night? When did I make my decision? Or had it already been made? Did I dream that night? Or sleep? I know that the sheet was like a rope, wet and strangling. The window was open. At some point, I awoke and, naked, walked to the window and looked out at the shadow of the trees, the shadow of the land. I lit a cigarette, and stood at the window, and wondered who I was. Downstairs, they were not yet asleep. I heard them murmuring, Barbara's voice more than ever laryngitic, Jerry's with all valves open. They sounded sad, it sounded very sad. I put out my cigarette and crawled back into bed, my narrow bed.

I heard the door close downstairs, and then I heard the car door slam, and I heard the car drive away. I opened my eyes. It was very early in the morning. I pushed my fingers through my heavy hair. I sat up. I wondered where the car was going at this hour of the morning. I wondered about the silence below. I looked out of the window. It was true that our car was gone. So I went back to bed. It seemed beyond me to do anything else. I heard cocks crowing, far away.

When I woke, Barbara sat on my bed, holding a pot of coffee and watching me.

“How long have you been here?”

“Not very long. The coffee's not cold yet—so, you see.” And she rose from the bed and poured coffee into two cups, which she had placed on the table before my window. She put in milk and sugar and came back to the bed.

“Where's Jerry?”

“I don't know. Driving around.”

I watched her.

“Did something happen?” I asked this very carefully.

She walked up and down my room. “Yes. I guess something happened.”

“Barbara. What's the matter with you this morning? What happened?”

For something
had
happened; that was why she was in my room. I started to get out of bed, but then realized I was naked, and I pulled the sheet around me, and sat up. “Barbara!”

“I hurt Jerry. I hurt him very much.” She was trying not to cry. It hurt to watch; I wished she
would
cry. I sipped my coffee and lit a cigarette. She came to the bed, and took the cigarette, and I lit another one. She walked up and down my room, between the window and me, between the light and me; on and off went the light, on and off. A skinny, pale girl, in a big bathrobe, and her hair piled on the top of her head, and falling over her forehead. “I had planned to do it differently, or do it later—I had hoped not to do it at all. But now I have. And he drove away. I hope he comes back. At least to say good-bye. Because I love him, too. Jesus.”

“What did you do, Barbara?”

“I told him”—she stopped—“I told him how much I love you.”

“But,” I said, frightened, sitting straight up, “Jerry
knows
that! What did you tell him
that
for?”

“Because,” she said—my God, she was steady, standing there in the morning light—“it's true.” Then, she sipped her coffee; and remained standing in the light.

I watched the blue smoke from our cigarettes.

“Barbara,” I said.

I don't know what I was going to say. Barbara suddenly crumpled to the floor, spilling her coffee, and ruining her cigarette, and I jumped out of bed, naked as I was, and grabbed her. I had endured female tears before, God knows, young as I was then, but I knew that these tears had nothing to do with blackmail. But if Barbara had been capable of blackmail, then the terms of our love would have had a precedent and would not have been so hard. We were alone, she in that robe, and I in my skin, under the morning light, and with the spilt coffee all over the whitewashed floor.

“Leo. I'm sorry. Oh, Leo. I'm sorry.”

“Get up. Get up. This is no time to be sorry.”

I pulled her to her feet. But, naked as I was, and holding her against me, I realized that I did not really feel for her what I had felt for Madeleine, whom I knew I did not love, several hours before. I felt a terrible constriction. It felt, I think, like death. I loved Barbara. I knew it then, and I really know it now; but what, I asked myself, was I to do with her?
Love, honor, and protect.
But these were not among my possibilities. And, since they were not, I felt myself, bitterly, and most unwillingly, holding myself outside her sorrow; holding myself, in fact, outside her love; holding myself beyond the reach of my blasted possibilities. One cannot dwell on these things, these echoes of what might, in some other age, and in some other body, have been; one must attempt to deal with what is, or else go under, or go mad. And yet—to deal with what is! Who can do it? I know that I could not. And yet I knew that I had to try. For there was something in it, after all, and I heard it in her sorrow, and I heard it in my heart, and in spite of our hideous condition, which
I had to accept, to which I could not say, No. I carried her to the bed.

“Leo. Leo. Leo.”

“Barbara.”

Perhaps it could only have happened as it happened. I don't know. I had, then, to suspend judgment, and I suspend judgment now. We had no choice. We really had no choice. I had to warm my girl, my freezing girl. I covered her with my body, and I took off her robe. I covered her, I covered her, she held me, and I entered her. And we rejoiced. Sorrow, what have we not known of sorrow! But, that morning, we rejoiced. And yet, it must be said, there was a shrinking in me when it was over.
Love, honor, and protect.

“Leo,” Barbara said. She was running her fingers along my unshaven chin. I was rather too conscious of my unbrushed teeth.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Oh. Well. You
have,
you know, had better ideas.”

“I know. But I don't care.”

“I've had better ideas, too,” I said, after a moment.

“I know,” she said. “I really
do
know.”

I lit two cigarettes, and I put one between her lips.

“Leo?”

“Yeah?”

“Don't worry about me. I know the score. I accept the terms.”

I watched her very closely. “You mean, you know it's impossible—that
I'm
impossible?”

“I don't know if you are—no more than I am, anyway. But I know that
it
is—at least, right now. I've thought about it a lot, up here. And I realized something
kind of funny. I mean, it's lucky I'm an actress. I mean—nothing comes before that, and I know that. And that helps me, somehow. Do you know what I mean?”

“I think so. I'm not sure. But I think so.”

“It means,” she said, with the gravity of a child, “that we must be great. That's all we'll have. That's the only way we won't lose each other.”

“A person can't just decide to be great, Barbara.”

“Some persons can. Some persons must.”

“You think I'm one of those persons?”

“I know you are. I've always known it.” She paused. “That's how I know, you see—that you don't belong to me.” She smiled. “But let's be to each other what we can.”

“
While
we can,” I said, watching her.

“Yes. While we can.” Then, “But if we do it right, you see, we can stretch out our while a very long while and we can make each other better. You see. I know. I've
thought
about it.”

I moved from the bed to the window. “What about Jerry?”

“Well, I thought I was being very clever with Jerry. I thought neither of us would get hurt. He was just a very nice boy, and he liked me very much, and I liked him very much. And I was a little afraid—well, I wanted, partly,
not
to get involved with you. I was afraid it would spoil everything, because we got along so well. I was afraid to startle you. I know you don't like to be startled. Then you run. But—Jerry—got more and more serious. And I realized I wasn't going to be able to handle it at all. So—I thought I'd make everything as clear as I could.”

“How did he take it?”

After a moment, she said, “He tried to take it well.
He tried very hard. But—I wish—oh, how I wish I'd left him alone! He's far too nice a boy for me.”

“Is he coming back?”

“Yes. He's coming back.”

I turned and looked at her. “Barbara. Do you know what you're doing? We can't play around with people's lives this way.”

“I know that. That's why I tried to make it clear. Before I hurt him too much. Before it went too far.” She put out her cigarette. “Before I told myself too many lies. And before—before you went too far away from me.”

“But you're not much better off now, are you? With me, I mean. I'm spinning like a feather, Barbara. I don't know where I'll land.”

“I'm better off,” she said, “because at least I'm not lying now.”

I sat down on the bed. “Barbara,” I said, “there may be a lot you don't know about me.”

“There may be,” she said, “but I don't think so.”

I laughed. “Well. There's a whole lot I don't know about myself.” I watched her. “Do you know I'm bisexual?”

“Yes. At least, I supposed it.”

“Why? Does it show?”

She laughed. “I don't know. I guess it shows to some people. It just seemed logical to me.” She laughed again. “Normal.” She sobered. “You're very gentle. I always wondered, in fact, if you were having an affair with Charlie.”

“Charlie? No.”

“I think he wanted you to.”

“It doesn't bother you?”

She looked at me. “Why should it bother me, Leo?
I'm not in your body. I can't live your life. I only want to
share
your life.” She sat up, and pulled the robe around her. “Anyway—what difference would it make if I
did
mind? It wouldn't change anything. It would just make you not trust me—I'm
glad
you know you're bisexual. Many men don't.”

“How do you know that?”

“The blue grass of Kentucky,” she said, “is great for finding out the facts of life. Especially if neither you nor anyone around you has anything else to do. When I went to parties, I used to pretend I was Jane Austen.” She laughed again, and grabbed me and kissed me. “In fact, I thought of being a writer before I thought of being an actress.” Then she looked at me very soberly. “Well. I hope you like having a sister—a white, incestuous sister. Doesn't that sound like part of the American dream?”

“Well—like Adam said to the Lord, when all this shit was starting—I guess I'll get the hang of it, all right.” I put my head on her breast. “But I am a little frightened.”

She held me. “I know. But what is it that one's frightened of?”

“I wonder. I don't know. It's just—so many things have happened to me—”

“But not all bad?”

“Oh, no. I don't mean that. I'm not as mad as that.” She was playing with my hair, knotting it knottier than it was already, then pulling it—so to speak—straight, then knotting it again. “But good and bad, that's all tied up together. I mean, like, it's bad to be thirsty but it's good to drink—of course,” I added, “you get thirsty enough, you drink anything.” She was silent. “You see what I mean?”

“I guess it's very bad,” she said slowly, “when the
taste of some of what you've drunk comes up and fills your mouth again.”

“Yes,” I said, “that's very bad.”

“Has that happened to you?”

“Yes. That's happened to me.”

She was silent for a long time. I began to be worried about Jerry coming back. But we were peaceful; we might not be so peaceful for a long time again; and I didn't want to break it.

“I suppose,” she said, “that people invent gods and saints and martyrs and all—well, one of the reasons, anyway—in order to prevent themselves from drinking—well—a lot of what they're offered to drink. It doesn't seem to work out very well—I mean, then, they just seem to poison themselves and never, even, get nauseous—but I'm sure that's one of the reasons.” I couldn't see her face, but I felt her chin bob up and down in a kind of mockery of decision. “I've thought about it, you see,” she said. “People need a means of being reproached.”