Buddwing

6

She had already reached the sidewalk by the time he crossed the street, moving swiftly on her long black legs, turning east immediately and striding toward Broadway with her head bent and her ponytail crest flying.

“Doris!” he shouted, but she did not turn, and he yelled, “Doris!” again and then began running after her. Behind him, he could hear L.J. calling to him, but his voice sounded very far away and indistinct. Doris was wearing black pumps with tiny French heels, and she scuttled over the sidewalk in giant flying steps; God, she was a fast walker. “Hey, wait up!” he called. She did not turn. Running, he caught up to her and fell into step beside her.

“Hi,” he said.

She turned toward him, startled, and the first thing he noticed was that her eyes were not brown, they were green. She looked at him with that peculiarly suspicious shocked incredible outraged look most New Yorkers wear when they are accosted by total strangers, and then performed the magic trick of tilting her nose snobbishly, raising her eyebrows aloofly, and twisting her mouth disgustedly, all at the same time. She quickened her already breathtaking pace, her little behind pumping vigorously as her long legs chewed up concrete, and left him behind her on the pavement.

“Hey, Doris!” he yelled, and ran to catch up with her again, falling into step beside her once more. “Slow down, will you?”

“I am not Doris,” she said. She had a bright perky little voice heavily garnished with the tones and rhythms of New York, familiar to him, pleasant to his ears.

“Sure you are,” he said.

“Will you please get away from me?” she said, but she turned to take a look at him, and then again lifted her nose, and raised her eyebrows, and twisted her mouth, and would have begun walking faster but he suspected she was getting out of breath.

“I’ve been waiting for you for a half hour,” he said. “What took you so long in there?”

“That,” she said, “is none of your business.” She looked at him sideways, and again lifted her nose, to give the impression she was looking down at him, although he was at least five or six inches taller than she. Still, she was a pretty tall girl, five-six or five-seven, he imagined. Her nose was slightly longer than he remembered it, but very nicely shaped, with a slightly precocious Saturday Evening Post tilt to it. Her lower lip protruded a bit, in either a purposeful or natural pout, he wasn’t sure which. She kept walking speedily, and he walked beside her, listening to the noise of her shoes on the sidewalk. Every now and again, she stole a glance at him as if ascertaining that he was still there. Finally, she stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, put her hands on her hips, which were very narrow and practically nonexistent, a boy’s hips almost, and said, “Would you like me to call a cop?”

“Well, no,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t. What do we need a cop for?”

“You don’t need a cop, but I think I do,” she said.

“Well, Doris, if you feel you need—”

“And my name is not Doris.”

“Then what is it?”

“My name is... that’s none of your business,” she said.

“Well, it is my business because I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Nobody asked you to wait for me,” she said.

“Didn’t you hear me calling you on Eighty-ninth Street?”

“On where?”

“Eighty-ninth Street. And Broadway. Where you got the cab.”

“You followed me here? All the way from...”

“Well, I yelled after you, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

“No, I didn’t hear you.”

“Well, I sure yelled loud enough.”

“What did you yell?”

“I yelled ‘Doris!’”

“I am not Doris,” she said.

“Then what is your name?”

“My name is Janet, and goodbye,” she said, and turned away from him and began walking at her furious clip again, her head bent, her black ponytail angrily bouncing along behind her, trying to keep the wiggle out of her behind, but failing miserably. He began running again, but saw that she had stopped on Columbus Avenue to wait for the light, so he took his time catching up with her and then said, “What were you doing in that brownstone, Janet?”

“I was visiting my brother. Is that all right with you?”

“That’s fine with me. What was he doing there?”

“For Pete’s sake, he’s a writer, he lives there,” Janet said. “Listen, I wish you’d stop talking to me. And following me. Really, I wish you would. I’ll call a cop, I really will.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re bothering me, can’t you see that?”

“How am I bothering you?”

“By talking to me and... and following me, for Pete’s sake.”

“Well, you look like someone I know,” Buddwing said.

“Who? Oh, never mind, don’t tell me. Doris.” She made an open-fingered gesture with her right hand, bringing the hand close to her face, her eyes opening wide, and then she rolled her eyes as if she would go out of her mind if she heard the name Doris one more time.

“Yeah,” he said, “Doris.”

“Doris, Doris, all right.”

“May I walk with you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

“Even if I don’t talk to you?”

“Look,” she said angrily, “it’s a free country, and I can’t stop you from walking wherever you want to.” The light changed, and she crossed the avenue. He walked beside her, but he did not speak to her. She still glanced at him occasionally, but made no other acknowledgment of his presence. They walked in silence all the way to Central Park West, past the Tavern-on-the-Green and then onto the 66th Street footpath.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I told you not to talk to me. Listen, you’d better not get funny,” she said. “This is Central Park, you know.”

“So?”

“So you get funny in Central Park, and boy! I’m telling you.”

“I slept here last night,” Buddwing said.

“Where? You mean here? In the park?”

“Yes.”

“You look it,” Janet said sourly. “You need a shave.” She glanced at him briefly, and turned away. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a man who needs a shave.” She glanced at him again and said, “My brother always needs a shave, too. His whole damn apartment needs a shave, if you ask me. Boy, what a rattrap. And I mean rattrap, believe me. I mean, he’s got brazen rats in that apartment who come right out and sit on their hind legs and stare at you, for Pete’s sake, actually stare you down. And I mean rats, not mice.”

“Missile mum, mice missing,” Buddwing said.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“I thought you said something.”

“No, I was just mumbling.”

“Oh.”

They were deep in the park now, deep in the midst of park noises: the joyous sound of shrieking children chasing each other in circles, climbing on the rocks, shooting imaginary guns; the imperious sound of Swedish governesses pushing polished baby buggies, shouting to sibling wards in Greta Garbo tones, tall and statuesque and blond like Nevada show girls; the impatient sound of taxicabs winding on the transverse road, the gunning of engines, the honking of horns; the sweet sound of gentle laughter, of lovers lying on the grass, a boy stretched back with his arm behind his head, one knee bent, a young redheaded girl leaning over him with her long hair falling loose, their shared laughter, the gentle touch of their hands; the distant sound of a baseball game somewhere, the excited voices of young boys in competition; the steady beating rhythm of a skip rope slapping against the path, and little girls’ voices in unison chanting, “Double-ee-Dutch, double-ee-Dutch”; the chattering sound of bulging women with knee-length silk stockings, sitting with widespread legs on sunwashed green benches; the sounds of an oasis.

“Well, we seem to be walking together after all,” Janet said, and she smiled such a radiantly lovely smile, shy and rare, dimpling the corners of her mouth, that he fell in love with her in that instant, and then immediately suspected he had been in love with her all along.

“Yes, I suppose we are,” Buddwing said.

“You’re not a degenerate or anything, are you?”

“No, no.”

“God, I can’t stand those spooks who rub up against you in the subway.”

“Neither can I.”

“They rub up against you, too?” she asked, astonished.

“No, no, I meant I can’t stand the ones who rub up against you. You, Janet.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, and gave a curious giggle. “Are you picking me up?” she asked.

“Would you like to be picked up?”

“Well, no, not particularly. But I don’t mind talking to you. You seem all right.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

“It’s a beautiful day,” he said, and added, “You’re a beautiful girl, Janet.”

“I’m not really,” she said. “My nose is too long, and my legs are too skinny. That’s why I’m wearing these black tights. They make your legs look better, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, they do. Thank you for saying so, anyway.”

“Saying what, Janet?”

“Well, what you said.”

“I’m sorry, what...”

“About my being...” She turned away from him shyly. Her voice dropped. “Beautiful,” she said.

“Where are you going now?” he asked.

“Oh, to my analyst,” she said. “He’s on Park and Sixty-fifth. I don’t have to be there until ten-thirty.”

“Well, that gives us a little time.”

“Yes,” she said. She turned to look at him, and he saw how very green her eyes were, reflecting the freshness of the spring grass all around them, glowing with sunshine. “Hey, you know, I really shouldn’t be doing this,” she said. “Talking to you like this. How do I know who you are?”

“Who do you think I am?”

“Oh, boy, you sound just like my analyst! He always wants to know what I think about something. I ask him something simple, like where he went to medical school, and he says, ‘Where do you think I went to medical school?’” Janet shrugged. “He went to Cornell, in case you’re interested.” She pulled a wry face and added, “I’m sure that’s very fascinating to you, the fact that my analyst went to Cornell.”

“I am fascinated,” Buddwing said.

“Ho-ho, I’ll just bet you are. How old are you, anyway?”

“How old do you think I am?”

“There you go again, you’d better watch it. Hey! You’re not an analyst, are you?”

“No, I think I’m a patient, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, welcome to the club. What’s your doctor’s name?”

Buddwing smiled and said, “Voegler, Dr. Edward Voegler.”

“Thank God we don’t have the same analyst,” Janet said.

“Voegler’s the resident psychiatrist at Central Islip State Hospital,” Buddwing said.

“Really? I know Central Islip.”

“How do you know it?”

“Oh, one of my instructors made a joke about it, in a Psych course. I’m really raw-ther well oriented psychologically, as you can see. Anyway, they first performed frontal lobotomies at Central Islip, and apparently they did a great many of them there because everyone in the profession began calling it Central Icepick. You know, they do a lobotomy with a long—”

“Yes,” Buddwing said.

“I wonder if your Dr. Voegler performs lobotomies.”

“I wonder.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I will, the next time I see him.”

“How often do you go?” Janet asked.

“How often do you go?”

“Four times a week.”

“Me, too,” Buddwing said.

“Been going long?”

“Oh, on and off.”

“How long?”

“How long have you been going?”

“Two years,” Janet said.

“Me, too,” Buddwing answered.

“Well,” Janet said. “Anyway, how old are you? You still haven’t told me.”

“Guess.”

“That’s the same thing as asking me how old I think you are. You know all the tricks, don’t you?”

“A few,” he said.

“Mmmm, I’ll bet,” Janet answered, and she gave a low sexy chuckle that startled him. “I think you’re twenty-eight. Right?”

“Wrong.”

“Twenty-six?”

“No.”

“If you say you’re younger than that, you’re a liar.”

“I’m much older than that,” Buddwing said.

“How much older?”

“I’m about thirty-five.”

“What do you mean ‘about’? When were you born?”

“This morning,” he said automatically.

“Ask a stupid question,” Janet said, and nodded her head. “Thirty-five, huh? Well, well. I’m with an Older Man.”

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Nineteen. Well, I’ll be nineteen next month.”

“When is that?”

“The twelfth.”

“Of what?”

“May.” She looked at him curiously. “Next month. May. This is April.”

“Yes, it feels like April.”

“It’s a beautiful day.”

“Yes.”

“I was fishing,” Janet said, “but you didn’t say it again.”

He took her hand and stopped walking, and she stopped beside him, and he looked into her face and said, “You are beautiful, Janet. You are the most beautiful girl in the world.”

She tilted her head to one side and gave a small embarrassed shrug, lifting one eyebrow at the same time — she seemed capable of the most extraordinary simultaneous body movements — and then said, in a very soft voice, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“You’re holding my hand.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, an old thirty-five-year-old lecher?”

“No.”

“Mmm,” she said. She looked into his face and then shook her head and drew her hand back gently and said, “Listen, you’d better go easy.”

“Why?”

“Why? For Pete’s sake, I don’t even know your name!”

“Sam Buddwing,” he said.

“Or whether you’re married or not.”

“I’m not.”

“Or engaged or anything.”

“I’m not engaged.”

“Or... who you are. I mean...” She shrugged again. “Well, let’s just go easy, huh? I mean, let’s take it easy, okay? Because, listen, I’ll tell you the truth, you’re a pretty attractive guy, you know?” She took a deep breath. “I mean, considering everything.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re old enough to be my father, for Pete’s sake!”

“Okay,” he said.

“Yeah, okay, what does okay mean? I’m not in the habit of... well, I don’t dig this Electra bit, you know? Well, at least I didn’t used to. Or I suppose I used to, when I was a kid — you know all girls go through that — but I’ve resolved it, and listen, you’re attractive as hell, I don’t even know what I’m talking about!”

“That’s good.”

“Who’s Doris?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“No, huh? You followed me all the way from Eighty-ninth Street because you thought I was her, and now you don’t know who she is.”

“I thought you could tell me who she was.”

“Doris Kantor is the only Doris I know. She’s in my History of the English Language course.”

“Where?”

“Hunter College.” Janet paused. “I’m a sophomore.” She paused again. “Is Doris Kantor your Doris?”

“No. You’re my Doris.”

“If I’m going to be anything, I’d better be your Janet,” she said, and she turned to stare at him steadily.

“All right,” he said.

“All right what?”

“You know.”

“Say it.”

“You’re my Janet.”

“Mmm,” she said, and her eyes held his steadily, and again there was that same sexy understatement on her face, deep and somehow hungry. “We’d better go easy,” she said again. She looked at her watch. “And we’d better hurry. I don’t want to be late. Does yours charge you when you’re late? Or when you miss a session?”

“Oh, yes,” Buddwing said.

“Mine does, too. That seems awfully unprofessional to me. Will you wait for me? I’ll only be fifty minutes — well, you know that. Will you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Listen...” She shook her head. “No, never mind.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Only... listen, you better not hurt me.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to get hurt by you.” She paused. “I’m... I’m a very vulnerable person. If you’re a son of a bitch or anything, well, let’s just shake hands now, okay?”

“I’m not a son of a bitch,” he said.

“Because I’m... I’m not just a quick college-girl roll in the hay, if that’s what you think I am.”

“I don’t know what you are, Janet, or who you are. I only know that I love you.”

She stared at him silently.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t mean it. And... I told you... I’m... I’m a very vulnerable person and I... I find you terribly attractive... and those are magic words. You... you have to be very careful with magic.”

“I’ll be very careful. I love you, Janet.”

“Ahh,” she said.

“I do.”

“Ahhh.” She closed her eyes and smiled, and then she opened her eyes suddenly and said, “Come. Please. I’ll be late.” She took his hand, and they walked swiftly across the park, and then onto Fifth Avenue, and across Madison, and over to Park. They stood holding hands on the corner of Park and 65th. “Wait for me,” she said. “Will you wait for me?”

“You know I will.”

“Listen, don’t love me yet,” she said. “Please wait.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid of things that come too fast.”

“Don’t be.”

She squeezed his hand and nibbled at her pouting lower lip, and then reached up suddenly and kissed him on the cheek.

“I really want to kiss you,” she said, “but that’ll do.”

“All right.”

“For now.”

“Yes.”

“You won’t go away?”

“No.”

“You’ll wait right here?”

“Yes.”

“I must be crazy,” she said, and she turned and ran under the awning and into the building.