Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [93]
Meanwhile, in another railway station over a thousand miles away—one filled with color and light, its architecture reflecting the optimistic modern style of the West rather than the brooding industry of America’s great nineteenth-century depots—Eve would disembark. Without a trunk to pick up from the porter, she would limp out onto a palm-lined street with no particular destination in mind, looking like a starlet from a rougher, more unforgiving land.
I felt a great wave of sympathy for Mr. Ross.
—I’m considering hiring a Pinkerton to look for her, he said, obviously unsure of whether this was the appropriate step. Does she know anybody in Los Angeles?
—No, Mr. Ross. I don’t think she knows a soul in California.
But if Mr. Ross were to hire a detective, I thought to myself, then I’d have some advice for him. I’d tell him to go to all the hock shops within ten blocks of the train station looking for a skateable engagement ring and a chandelier earring missing its pair—because that’s where the future of Evelyn Ross had just commenced.
The next night, Mr. Ross called again. This time, he didn’t ask any questions. He was calling to give me an update: Earlier that day he had talked to a few of the girls at Mrs. Martingale’s—none of them had heard from Eve. He had contacted the Missing Persons Bureau in L.A., but as soon as they learned that Eve was of age and had bought her ticket, they explained that she did not meet the legal definition of missing. To comfort Mrs. Ross, he had also checked the hospitals and emergency rooms.
How was Mrs. Ross bearing up? She was like someone in mourning, only worse. When a mother loses a daughter, she grieves over the future that her daughter will never have, but she can take solace in memories of close-knit days. But when your daughter runs away, it is the fond memories that have been laid to rest; and your daughter’s future, alive and well, recedes from you like a wave drawing out to sea.
The third time Mr. Ross called, he didn’t have much of an update. He said that while going through some of Eve’s letters (in search of mentioned friends who might be of help) he had come across the one in which Eve described meeting me for the first time: Last night, I spilled a plate of noodles on one of the girls; and she’s turned out to be a real jim dandy. Mr. Ross and I shared a good laugh over it.
—I had forgotten that Eve was in a single when she first moved in, he said. When did you two become roommates?
And I could see the problem I had gotten myself into.
Mr. Ross was in mourning too, but he had to be strong for his wife. So he was looking for someone he could reminisce with, someone who knew Eve well but who was safely in the distance. And I fit the bill just perfectly.
I didn’t want to be uncharitable, and having this little chat wasn’t such an inconvenience, but how many chats would follow? For all I knew, he was a slow mender. Or worse, he was someone who would savor his grief rather than let it go. How was I going to extricate myself when the time came? I wasn’t going to stop answering my phone. Was I going to have to start sounding mildly rude, until he got the message?
When the phone rang a few nights later, I adopted the voice of a girl with one hand on her key chain and the other through the sleeve of her coat.
—Hello!
—Katey?
. . .
—Tinker?
—For a second I thought I had the wrong number, he said. It’s good to hear your voice.
. . .
—I saw Eve, I said.
. . .
—I thought you might have.
He gave a halfhearted laugh.
—I’ve sure made a hash of it in 1938.
—You and the rest of the world.
—No. I get special credit for this one. Since the first week of January, every decision I’ve made has been wrong. I think Eve has been fed up with me for months.
As a rueful parable, he told me how in France he had taken to going to bed early and rising with the sun for a swim. Dawn was so beautiful, he said, and in such a different way from the sunset, that he had asked Eve to watch