12

She looked much the same, yes, perhaps a bit thinner, her blond hair a little shorter, but she was Grace, yes, and he felt an enormous sense of peace settle over him as he began following her and the young man. They seemed in no particular hurry to get wherever they were going, which was why, he supposed, they had not taken a taxicab with the rest of their group. They strolled idly, enjoying the mild spring evening, chatting, laughing occasionally, their laughter drifting back to him where he followed some fifty feet behind them.

The presence of the young man did not disturb him, although he felt somehow it should. As he watched them strolling, there seemed to be the same lightness he had felt when sitting in Washington Square Park, a correctness about the situation which, rather than excluding the young man whose arm she held, made him an integral part of it. Watching Grace and the young man, he had the peculiar feeling that he was watching himself, that she was chatting with him, Buddwing, that she was turning her head every now and then to laugh at something he had said, that she was not really with the young man at all. He smiled. He felt his position to be both superior and advantageous. He could, in effect, walk side by side with Grace in the presence of the young man, and at the same time he could follow behind and observe her from a distance.

Her hair bothered him a little because Grace had always worn her hair very long, flowing past her shoulders and down her back, and this girl wore it clipped short like a rolled gold helmet, evenly cropped at the nape of her neck. She was thinner, too, a lot thinner than he had first thought, moving with casual angularity in her sweater and skirt and high-heeled pumps. But he supposed she was Grace, after all, because her walk seemed somehow familiar and well-remembered, as did the way she held her head, the way she placed her hand gently on the young man’s arm to emphasize a point.

He followed them down 44th Street, and then the young man stopped on the steps of a building between … Eighth and Ninth, he supposed it was, and he and Grace chatted there while two Puerto Rican kids impatiently waited for them to get off the steps so they could resume their game of stoop-ball. Buddwing understood now why they had not taken a cab along with the rest. The young man obviously lived here, fairly close to the docks, and Grace probably had felt like walking, maybe she had some shopping to do, or maybe she just enjoyed walking in the spring air, yes, he remembered Grace liked to walk a lot. They finally shook hands in farewell. The young man went into the building and Grace continued walking east toward … yes, it was Eighth Avenue, and then crossed the avenue, heading toward Broadway.

The theater district was curiously still at this hour. It must have been six or a little after, he supposed, and everyone seemed to have gone indoors in preparation for the evening. The girl was walking rapidly, but he sensed she still was in no hurry to get anywhere, since she stopped every now and then to study the photographs outside a theater, or to read a three-sheet as she was doing now, her face turned in profile, forehead, nose, jaw, and throat combining in a sweeping fluid line that denied its own thrust and achieved a look of serene order. She turned toward him briefly, as though sensing his intent gaze upon her, and he turned away quickly and lighted a cigarette under the marquee of a theater, but not before he had seen the deep brown flash of her eyes and felt an exultant rush of joy at this last confirming aspect of her features. He busied himself shaking out the match and putting the cigarettes back into his pocket until, from the corner of his eye, he saw her begin to walk again.

Her movements all seemed impulsive and unpremeditated. She walked almost completely past Mackey’s and then suddenly arrested her step and turned toward the window as though the decision had been made abruptly and without prior thought. She studied the theater posters there, nibbling on her thumb, and then abruptly turned away again—in mid-glance as it were—and began walking rapidly again, cutting across the street and into Shubert Alley. He followed her through the narrow passage, aware of the silence of the streets, aware of distant voices only as muted sections of an orchestra, the abrupt whine of a truck starring behind him at the Times delivery depot, the hollow echo of a newsboy shouting his headlines on Broadway, the pleasant hum of two dancers chatting outside the Shubert, and then they came into 45th Street, and she turned right toward Broadway, and he suddenly realized she knew he was following her.

What had earlier been a direct utilitarian walk now became a subtly seductive prance. She stepped out with a deliberate sway now; she brought each foot down firmly as if sensuously aware of the high-heeled shoes, as if certain each clicking jog would send a subsequent tantalizing ripple to her behind. Where her movements had been sudden and disjointed before, they became studied and deliberate now. She turned her head to look at signs and passersby, showing her profile, tilting her nose, her face assuming a studied look of indifference that sang to him loudly. She tossed her short hair, she smiled at a small boy carrying a shoeshine box, she stopped at the window of a petshop on Broadway and rapped the glass, trying to catch the attention of the puppy inside, and then turned her face fully to Buddwing, with a sudden raising of her eyes, blinding, and turned away to lead the pursuit.

He knew he would have to approach her soon.

There was a muted excitement on Broadway as the city tentatively ventured outdoors in search of Saturday night. She was waiting for his approach, he knew that now, waiting with an impatience that was wearing thin, seemingly oh so interested in everything that was happening around her, the teen-agers lounging outside the Paramount, the Times Square fags boldly sniffing the air, anticipating the darkness that would soon enshroud them, a tenor saxophone starting in one of the bars, “How High the Moon” with a split reed, the Bronx women in their mink stoles and their escorts in Saturday night blue, entering restaurants and studying marquees, the shopgirl hurrying home with a small white cake box dangling from a string, the girl who stood on the sidewalk bent over a newsstand, delicately picking the New York Post from the stack of papers, her long black hair hanging over one eye, her sneakered feet in an unconscious ballet position. The city was poised, coiled as tight as a spring, and all of it was interesting to her, oh so goddamn interesting, she examined it minutely with her eyes, she sniffed each savory aroma, her ears caught each innuendo of sound, but he knew she was anticipating him, and he knew he would have to approach her fast or lose her. She stopped to wait for a light change on Broadway and 43rd, and he took a deep breath and walked up to her.

“Hello, Grace,” he said.

She turned as though discovering him in surprise. “Hello, Seymour,” she said.

“Is that my name?” he asked.

“Is Grace mine?”

“Yes.”

“Then yours is Seymour.”

They began walking together naturally, as though they had met by prearrangement and were now idly filling each other in on the day’s activities.

“I don’t think Seymour is the right name for me,” he said.

“I don’t think Grace is right for me, either,” she answered.

“It’s the perfect name for you.”

“No, I’m not at all graceful. And I’m much too short. A girl named Grace should be at least five-seven.”

“You’re about five-four,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re tall.”

“How long have you been following me?” she asked.

“When did you discover I was following you?”

“I asked first.”

“I saw you on the dock.”

“I saw you when I stopped to look at the sign outside the St. James.” She paused. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

“Grace,” she said, and smiled.

“Okay, mine is Seymour.”

“I’m not really Grace. Why do you call me that?”

“Because that’s your name.”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’m not sure I’ll tell you.”

“Okay. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I don’t have any money,” he said.

“Then why’d you ask me if I wanted coffee?”

“I thought you might like some,” he said. He paused thoughtfully, and then said, “You have a beauty spot near your left shoulder, haven’t you?”

“No,” she said. “I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.”

“You must be thinking of another Grace.”

“No, I’m thinking of you.” He held out his right hand. “You gave me this ring.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t.” She looked at the ring. “I wouldn’t have given you a ring with a cracked stone.”

“What kind of ring would you have given me?”

“I wouldn’t have given you any ring at all.”

“Besides, the stone wasn’t cracked when you gave it to me. I broke it yesterday.”

“How?”

“I banged it against the wall.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Because you got me angry.”

She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked at him curiously, her brown eyes narrowing. “You really do think you know me, don’t you?” she said.

“Yes, I really think so,” he said.

She kept staring at him. “You know, you say it with such … certainty that … you make me feel I ought to know you.”

“Well, I think you ought to,” he answered.

“Yeah, huh? Why?”

“Well, I’m a very nice person to know.”

“Mmmm,” she said, and she smiled. “I thought I was pretty hip,” she said, and she shook her head.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m falling for the oldest line in the world.”

“What line?”

“‘Haven’t we met before? You remind me of someone I know.’ That one.”

“Oh, that one.”

“Yeah.”

“But it’s not a line.” he said.

“I’m Grace, huh?” she said, nodding.

“Yeah.”

“Mmm,” she said. She kept nodding. “And you’re Seymour.”

“Well, no, I’m not Seymour.”

“Then who are you?”

“I don’t know. Who do you think I am?”

She shrugged. “You’d have to tell me a little about yourself before I could even guess. How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine. How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“What were you doing at the dock?”

“Meeting a friend. Well, an acquaintance really. He’s in the Peace Corps, and he just got back from Africa. He used to be a social worker, you see.” She paused. “That’s how I know him.” She paused again. “I’m a social worker, too, you see.”

“Oh, that’s good,” he said.

“Why?”

“Well, you’re probably very good at interviewing.”

“Yeah … well … mmm,” she said, and shrugged. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“I can tell.” She paused. “I’m always getting involved with married men. I don’t know what the hell it is.” She shook her head. “Do you have any children?” She shook her head again. “Never mind, don’t answer. You’ve probably got six of them.” She paused, studying him. “What do you do for a living?”

“Is this the interview?”

She smiled. “Yeah, sure, this is the interview.”

“I’m a pretty bad subject,” he said. “What do you think I do for a living?”

“Let me see your hands.” He held them out to her, and she looked at them briefly, and then dropped them, and was thoughtfully silent as they began walking again.

“Do you know what a tort is?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a civil wrong or injury to a plaintiff.”

“What’s a misdemeanor?” she asked quickly.

“Any crime that isn’t a felony,” he answered.

“And what’s a felony?”

“A crime punishable by death or imprisonment in a state prison.”

“What’s the maximum penalty for burglary?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” Buddwing said.

“Okay, what’s the name of the most popularly used reference book on evidence?”

“I don’t know.”

Grace nodded in disappointment and studied him again. She seemed to be preparing a further list of questions in her mind, and then suddenly she asked, “What’s a catheter?”

“A hollow tube.”

“What’s it used for?”

“For draining off body fluids.”

“Is morphine a depressant or an excitant?”

“A depressant.”

“What about codeine?”

“An excitant.”

“And scopalamine?”

“Is that a drug?” Buddwing asked.

“Yeah, well, skip it,” Grace said. She thought for a moment, and then asked, “Who wrote Gone With the Wind?”

“Margaret Mitchell.”

“Who published the book?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are the names of some New York publishers?”

“Doubleday, Random House, Macmillan …”

“What are pages?”

“Pages?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean pages? Like in a book?”

“Never mind,” Grace said. “If the market is bearish, what does that mean?”

“Weak.”

“What’s it called when it’s strong?”

“Bullish.”

“What’s the current quote on A.T. & T.?”

“I don’t know.”

“General Motors?”

“I don’t know.”

“I.B.M.?”

“I don’t know. What’s an A and R man?” Buddwing asked.

“What?”

“An A and R man.”

“I don’t know,” Grace said. “What is it?”

“Ah-hah,” Buddwing said, and they both laughed.

“All right, I give up,” she said. “Is that what you are? An A and R man?”

“Nope.”

“Then what are you?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know anything about myself.”

“What?”

“I don’t know who I am,” he said, and shrugged almost cheerfully.

“Really?” she said, and stopped on the corner suddenly, looking at him with what he realized was professional interest, a social worker’s curious, sympathetic, detached, probing look.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she said.

“Yes.”

“About not knowing who you are, I mean.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You’re not kidding me? I mean, this isn’t part of your line?”

“No. No.”

“Mmmm.” She kept studying him thoughtfully, nibbling at the inside of her mouth. “How long … when did this happen?” she asked.

“This morning. When I woke up.”

“Mmm. You just don’t know who you are, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Mmmm.”

He could feel the professional interest completely overwhelming whatever other interest had previously existed. He felt a bit put out by this new turn of events, as though he had suddenly become a client in her case load rather than a person. He did not want to be a client; he wanted to be himself. And he had thought Grace, of all people, would certainly see him as himself, rather than as some damn stupid client in a case load. He knew immediately that he had to get her off this track, had to swing the conversation back to its main topic, which was, after all, a man and a woman on a street corner: Out here, Miss Jones, a man is a man and a woman is a woman.

“Look,” he said, “let’s not worry about—”

“Haven’t you got any identification on you?” she asked.

“No. But I wish you wouldn’t worry a—”

“And no money, you’ve already told me that.”

“That’s right. Listen, do you think we could—”

“Do you have anything at all that might—”

“I don’t see what difference—”

“—help to identify—”

“Look, couldn’t we just forget it?”

“But I want to help, you see.”

“Yes, but …”

“I want to help,” she said, very softly.

“Well …”

“Are you carrying anything that might—?”

“I have an address book with a telephone number in it,” he said wearily.

“Have you tried calling the number?”

“Yes. She doesn’t know me.”

“Who would that be?”

“A woman named Gloria Osborne.”

“Would you mind if I called her?”

“What good would that do? I went to see her. She doesn’t know me.”

“Did you recognize her?”

“No.”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Sure. We’re on Broadway.”

“What city?”

“Oh, come on, Grace. New York.”

“Why do you think my name is Grace?”

“You haven’t told me it isn’t, have you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, you haven’t told me what it is. I mean, if it isn’t Grace.”

“Mmm,” she said. “Do you live here in New York?”

“I think so.”

“Would you happen to remember where?”

“No.” Buddwing paused. “I have a New York Central timetable in my pocket, if that means anything.”

“Oh? May I see it?”

Buddwing shrugged and handed her the schedule. “Oh my, there are a great many towns on the line,” she said gently, professionally. “Is it possible you’re from one of these towns?”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m from New York, I think.”

“Do any of these town names mean anything to you? Do you recognize them?”

“Recognize them?”

“Well, do any of them mean anything to you?”

“I know where they are, if that’s what you mean. I know what towns they are.”

“Bronxville?”

“Yes, I know where that is.”

“Does it mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“White Plains?”

“No.”

“Valhalla?”

“No.”

“Chappaqua?”

“No.”

“Mount Kisco?”

“None of them mean anything to me.”

“How about Katonah?”

“None of them.”

“Croton Falls?”

“I told you …”

“Do you have any idea why this timetable would be in your jacket pocket?”

“No.”

“Are you carrying anything else in your pockets?”

“Yes. A pen and pencil set, and two theater stubs.”

“Legitimate?”

“What?”

“The legitimate theater?”

“No. Movie stubs. They’re movie stubs.”

“Would you remember which movie?”

“Something with Kim Novak.”

“When did you see it?”

“Last night.”

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we?” she said, and smiled such a goddamn solicitous social-worker smile that he wanted to punch her in the mouth.

“Are we?” he asked.

“Well, we know you went to a movie last night, and obviously someone was with you, since there are two stubs.”

“I knew that when I woke up this morning,” he said coldly.

“Where was that?”

“In Central Park.”

“Did you know where you were at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Were you surprised? Waking up in Central Park?”

“I don’t remember what I was. I think I was confused. Because I didn’t know who I was.”

“What I meant was—”

“It’s a little eerie walking up and not knowing who you are, you know,” he said sarcastically.

“Yes, I know,” she said sympathetically, and smiled. “What I was driving at was whether the neighborhood seemed strange to you.”

“Central Park?”

“Yes, Central Park.”

“How would Central Park be strange to anyone who lives in New York?”

“I meant the surrounding neighborhood.”

“Fifth Avenue?”

“Yes, if that’s where it was.”

“Yes, that’s where it was,” Buddwing said.

“Did it seem strange to you?”

“No, of course not. How the hell could Fifth Avenue seem strange? That’s a pretty stupid question, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“I mean, I’ve lived in New York all my life; how could Fifth Avenue seem strange? It’s Fifth Avenue, what else could it be?”

“Of course,” Grace said understandingly.

He was getting angrier every moment they talked. Her professional interest seemed to have moved beyond that now, seemed to have overgrown its own bounds and become a directing force. Doggedly, she persisted in shoving him toward a truth he did not wish to recognize. Stubbornly, he resisted. What’s the matter with you? he thought. Why won’t you just accept me? Do we have to go all over this? Don’t you know how much this hurts?

“What’s my last name?” she asked suddenly.

“How would I know?” he answered coldly.

“Well, you seem to think I’m Grace.”

“I’m not sure any more,” he said sharply, hoping to hurt her.

“But Grace what?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said.

“Could it be the same as your last name?”

“Yes, I suppose it could.”

“Is it possible she’s your wife?”

“It’s possible,” he said. “Anything’s possible.”

“Well, is she?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know for sure.”

“Then she might be, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, she might be. But she isn’t.”

“How old is she? Would you remember that?”

“She’s thirty-six,” he said. “She looks younger.”

“When did you see her last?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try to remember.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Tell me what you do remember.”

“I don’t remember anything at all about her,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Well, how about your parents, then?”

“My mother has no mouth,” he said, and then frowned in puzzlement.

“What?”

“I mean she has very thin lips,” he said quickly. “When she takes off her lipstick, her mouth vanishes.”

“Is she alive? Your mother?”

“Yes. Wait, I don’t know. I think so. Maybe.”

“And your father?”

“He owns a cafeteria,” he said immediately, and immediately felt confused. She was confusing him, the bitch.

“What’s his name?”

“Isadore Schwartz.” Confusion and anger. Why was she

“Well, there you are,” she said, smiling. “If his name is Schwartz, then your name must be—”

“No. I changed it,” he said tightly.

“To what?”

“Buddwing.” Leave me alone, he thought.

“Well, in any case—”

“That’s not my name, either,” he said angrily.

“Then what is your name?”

“For Christ’s sake, don’t you know?” he shouted.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Must we start with a goddamn argument?”

“Don’t shout at me,” she said.

“Why the hell must we—”

“I said don’t shout. I’m trying to help you.”

“Well, I don’t need your goddamn help.”

“I’m not sure you know what you need,” she said.

“I sure as hell don’t need you.”

“I wish you wouldn’t shout. People are looking at us.”

“The hell with people,” he said triumphantly: if she was at least aware of people as people, then perhaps she would begin to recognize him as a person, too. “Do we have to start with an argument, Grace?” he asked gently.

“Start?”

“Yes, start. Do we have to argue?”

Her face was now very serious, and her voice very low, and she said, “I’m not starting anything. Not with you, mister. You’ve got too many problems.”

“So have you,” he answered, and she looked at him in startled surprise, and he knew he had finally and magically pierced the social-worker armor to reveal the soft and throbbing vulnerable flesh beneath it. She kept staring at him. Something was happening in her eyes and on her face. Something terrible was happening, and he watched it and wished for a moment that it would not happen because he knew that once it did, they would be tied to each other forever.

“My problems are my business,” she said softly.

“Yes. And mine are mine.”

“Okay, so let’s keep them separate and apart,” she said.

“Okay, let’s do that,” he said, and turned from her abruptly and began walking away, feeling he was escaping, feeling an enormous wave of relief.

“Hey!” she yelled after him.

He stopped and turned to face her.

“What are you going to do now?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Well … you can’t just go wandering around.”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because you need help.”

“Every goddamn person on the face of this earth needs help,” he said angrily.

“Won’t you let me take you to a hospital?” she asked gently.

“I can find my own way to a hospital, thank you.”

“Is that where you’re going?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“Why? Are they going to tell me who I am? I’m eight million different people—how the hell are they going to know who I am?”

“Look, I …” She lowered her eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forget it.”

“I suppose I … I suppose I did lead you on.”

“I suppose you did.”

“And I was flirting with you,” she said.

“I know you were.”

“But I can’t get involved with you, that’s all there is to it.”

“Sure. Nobody wants to get involved with anybody. Why the hell should you be any different?”

“I’m not usually afraid of involvements,” she said.

“Then what are you afraid of?”

“Look …” she said. She shook her head. “Look, I don’t owe you a goddamn thing. You have no right to talk to me this way.”

“I’ll talk to you however the hell I damn please,” he said.

“No, you won’t,” she answered, her eyes flaring, “and don’t you ever forget it!” She seemed not to realize that she had, in that moment, given their tenuous relationship both continuity and longevity. He stared at her silently and said nothing.

“Well,” she said, “why … why don’t you go?”

“All right,” he said, but he did not move.

“I can’t go around feeling sorry for every damn stray dog who crosses my path.”

“All right,” he said.

“I’ve got enough troubles of my own.”

“All right.”

“I don’t want to know you,” she said. “This is just what I don’t want, this … this goddamn intimacy. So … so just disappear, will you? I’m not about to get involved with you, no, sir.”

“Okay, so long,” he said, and again he turned.

“Wait a minute.” she said.

“What do you want?”

“Have you got any money?”

“You know I haven’t got any money.”

“Have you … have you had dinner yet?”

“No.”

They faced each other silently. She would not say more, and he sensed it. He kept watching her, waiting for her to speak, and knowing she would not. I know you too well, he thought. I know every goddamn corner of your mind.

“Do you want to have dinner with me?” he asked.

“You don’t have any money,” she said. Her voice had become very gentle, almost shy. She smiled shyly and looked up at him, waiting.

“That’s right, I don’t,” he said.

“You mean you want me to pay for your dinner?”

“Well, I hadn’t really thought of it that way. I just thought it’d be nice to have dinner together.”

“That’s kind of nervy, isn’t it?” she asked. A coquettishness was creeping into her manner, replacing the shyness, or perhaps merely an extension of it.

“Is it?” he asked.

“Well, sure it is,” she said. “Very nervy.”

They were not talking about dinner at all. He suddenly remembered a long discussion he and Jesse had had aboard the Fancher one night, and then pushed it out of his mind and walked very close to where she was standing by the lamppost.

“I am hungry,” he said.

“So am I.”

“Where would you like to eat?”

“I didn’t know it’d been settled.”

“It’s settled,” he said.

She stared at him in silence for a long time, and then she said, “Yes, I suppose it is.”