The New Yorker Stories - Ann Beattie [52]
“Is there a cop car?” he said.
“I saw one when you were talking,” she said.
“Penelope. Have you got it straight about walking to McHenry’s? Can you do that?”
“I’ve got some money,” she said. “We can go to New York and get a steak dinner.”
“Christ,” he said. “Stay in the phone booth. Where is the phone booth?”
“I told you I’d go to McHenry’s. I will. I’ll wait there.”
“Okay. Fine. I’m going to hang up now. Remember to sit in a booth. If there isn’t one, stand by the bar. Order something. By the time you’ve finished it, I’ll be there.”
“Robert,” she said.
“What?”
“Do you remember pushing me in the swing?”
He remembered. It was when they were all living in the country. She had been stoned that day, too. All of them—stoned as fools. Cyril was running around in Penelope’s long white bathrobe, holding a handful of tulips. Then he got afraid they’d wilt, so he went into the kitchen and got a jar and put them in that and ran around again. Johnny had taken a few Seconals and was lying on the ground, saying that he was in a hammock, and cackling. Robert had thought that he and Penelope were the only ones straight. Her laughter sounded beautiful, even though later he realized it was wild, crazy laughter. It was the first really warm day, the first day when they were sure that winter was over. Everyone was delighted with everyone else. He remembered very well pushing her in the swing.
“Wait,” he said. “I want to get down there. Can we talk about this when I get there? Will you walk to the bar?”
“I’m not really that stoned,” she said, her voice changing suddenly. “I think it’s that I’m sick.”
“What do you mean? How do you feel?”
“I feel too light. Like I’m going to be sick.”
“Look,” he said. “Cyril lives right near Park. What if you give me the number of the phone booth, and I call Cyril and get him down there, and I’ll call back and talk to you until he comes. Will you do that? What’s the phone number?”
“I don’t want to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t talk anymore right now,” she said. “I want to get some air.” She hung up.
He needed air too. He felt panicked, the way he had the day she was in the swing, when she said, “I’m going to jump!” and he knew it was going much too fast, much too high—the swing flying out over a hill that rolled steeply down to a muddy bank by the creek. He had had the sense to stop pushing, but he only stood there, waiting, shivering in the breeze the swing made.
He went out quickly. Park Street—somewhere near there. Okay, he would find her. He knew he would not. There was a cab. He was in the cab. He rolled down the window to get some air, hoping the driver would figure he was drunk.
“What place you looking for again?” the driver said.
“I’m looking for a person, actually. If you’d go slowly . . .”
The cabdriver drove down the street at ordinary speed, and stopped at a light. A family crossed in front of the cab: a young black couple, the father with a child on his shoulders. The child was wearing a Porky Pig mask.
The light changed and the car started forward. “Goddamn,” the driver said. “I knew it.”
Steam had begun to rise from under the hood. It was a broken water hose. The cab moved into the next lane and stopped. Robert stuffed two one-dollar bills into the driver’s hand and bolted from the cab.
“Piece of junk!” he heard the driver holler, and there was the sound of metal being kicked. Robert looked over his shoulder and saw the cabdriver kicking the grille. Steam was pouring out in a huge cloud. The driver kicked the cab again.
He walked. It seemed to him as if he were walking in slow motion, but soon he was panting. He passed several telephone booths, but all of them were empty. He felt guilty about not helping the cabdriver, and he walked all the way to McHenry’s. He thought—and was immediately struck with the irrationality of it—that New Haven was really quite a nice town, architecturally.
Penelope was not at McHenry’s. “Am I a black dude?” a black man said to him as Robert wedged his way through the crowd