The Dud Avocado - Elaine Dundy [115]
When he came to, he made a statement of which I have the transcript. He had this to say about you—it’s in the transcript, so I am quoting exactly. “I stole her passport. She had nothing to do with it. She didn’t even know what was going on. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I meant what I said about her down at the beach that day. Maybe it will explain certain aspects of my behavior Opening Night. I really liked her. Tell her next time to look where she’s going.”
Well. He may have something there in that last sentence. What do you think? Meanwhile I should be most obliged if you would drop me a line explaining how someone who is not actually deaf, dumb, blind and feeble-minded could have gotten so ignorantly involved in all this.
I note that our agreement has another few months to run. I look forward with interest to seeing you then.
Your bewildered,
Uncle Roger.
P.S. Oh yes. I had almost forgotten. Your new passport will be ready for you at the American Embassy by the end of the week. Also I have enclosed a clipping of the French girl. Perhaps you can throw some light on that subject as well. R.
I felt along the bottom of the envelope and drew out the news clipping. I stared for a long while at the picture. It was Crazy Eyes’ sister, the Mono-dancer. It really took me back.
I moved back to my old hotel.
I visited Judy. The operation had been successful, or as successful as it could be. She was weak but she was out of danger. I told her I was going to Hollywood to sign a big contract. I promised to write.
I went to the Embassy and arranged for all the details of my passport—fingerprinting, pictures and so forth. At the end of the week I plunked down the 3,000 francs for it and picked it up. Then I walked around Paris for the rest of the day and decided to get the hell out.
FIVE
A WEEK LATER I arrived by plane in New York. I had told Judy I was going to Hollywood, and for some reason I now felt honor-bound to do so. In any case, I figured there’d be old Bax loping around the Reservation out there, and he could help me get started. So I went along to Grand Central Station and bought a train ticket to California.
It wasn’t until the train drew out with me in it that it occurred to me to wonder why I hadn’t simply continued the journey by plane. I mean it was crazy, now that I thought about it, going to all the trouble and inconvenience of getting into town when all I had to do was just hop on the next plane out West. But I couldn’t think clearly. The excitement and tension, the almost unbearable feeling of rushing headlong at my destiny as we sped toward Chicago, prevented me from even attempting to analyze my strange behavior; prevented me from trying to do anything except chase down the spooky sense of familiarity that the train ride was giving me. I kept telling myself that it was because I’d done this trip a million times before as a child, traveling back and forth from schools, visiting relatives and so forth. But it wasn’t. And not until I got off at Chicago to change stations was everything at last made clear.
I wandered slowly through the La Salle Street Station, foud-royée in the middle of the terminal. It was my nightmare station; the station I’d dreamed of so many times with such fear and pain. And the recurrent desk, that desk whose elusive familiarity had worried me so—I knew just where to look for it. It was the Traveler’s Aid Counter.…
It was nearly ten years ago. I was almost thirteen, and I’d run away from a school back East and was heading out West to become a bullfighter. I’d sold most of my clothes and jewelry and hoarded a Christmas windfall from Uncle Roger to get together enough money to buy a coach ticket to Albuquerque. I planned on hitching the rest of the way to Mexico. But somehow I’d forgotten entirely about food. By the time I hit Chicago my stomach was flat against my spine and gasping for breath. I saw the sign saying Traveler’s Aid Society and decided I was in luck. I’d just go up to it and ask for a loan. The woman at the desk—actually she probably wasn’t more