Derailed

SIX

Lucinda,” he said. Or yelped.

That’s what it sounded like to him — the noise a dog makes when its tail is stepped on.

She was back on the train.

He hadn’t seen her when he sat down; he’d opened his paper and immediately burrowed into the land of the Giants: “Coach Fassel lamented the lack of pressure by his front four this past Sunday. . . .”

Then that black pump, the stiletto heel like a dagger aimed at his heart, as he looked up and bared his chest for the kill.

“Lucinda . . .”

A second later, that perfect face edging out into the aisle to peer at him, eyes sheathed in black-rimmed spectacles — she hadn’t worn glasses before, had she — followed by a full-wattage smile. No, more like one of those soft-glow bulbs, the kind of light that takes the edge off and makes everything look better than it actually is.

And she said: “Hi.” Such a sweet “hi,” too, as genuine sounding as they come, a woman who seemed glad to see him. Even though she was four rows and three days away from their scheduled assignation.

“Why don’t you come over here,” she whispered.

Yes, why not.

When he reached her, Lucinda pulled her impossibly long legs off to the side to let him pass.

“Just in time,” she said. “I was ready to call the police and report the nine dollars stolen.”

He smiled. “I looked all over for you the other day.”

“I’ll bet,” she said.

“No, really, I did.”

“I was kidding, Charles.”

“So was I,” he lied.

“So,” she said, hand out, impeccably manicured fingernails polished bloodred, “pay up.”

“Sure.” He reached for his wallet, opening it up to a picture of Anna and hiding it immediately, as if it were an admonishment he didn’t wish to hear. He placed a crisp ten-dollar bill in her hand, the tips of his fingers grazing her flesh, which felt slightly moist and hot.

“Your daughter?” she said.

He blushed, was sure he blushed, even as he answered, “Yep.”

“How old?”

“Too old.” The wise - guy - ish you - wouldn’t - believe - the - travails - of - fatherhood tone. The good-natured I love her and all, but I wouldn’t mind wringing her neck on occasion.

“Tellme about it.”

So she had children, too. Of course she did.

“Daughters?” he asked.

“One.”

“All right, I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”

She laughed. Score one for Charles, the cutup. Then she reached into her bag, one of those cavernous things you could’ve gone camping with if it wasn’t made of such obviously expensive leather. She fished out her wallet and flipped it open for him.

A very photogenic little girl of about five, blond hair flying in all directions, caught in midair on a playground swing somewhere in the country, maybe. Freckle faced, knobby kneed, and sweet smiled.

“She’s adorable,” he said, and meant it.

“Thanks. I forget sometimes.” Mimicking his tone of parental weariness. “Yours looked lovely, too — what I could see of her.”

“An angel,” he said, then immediately regretted his choice of words.

The conductor asked them for their tickets. Charles was tempted to ask him if he remembered the woman now. After all, he was doing everything possible to sneak peeks at her legs.

“Here,” she said to Charles after the conductor managed to pull himself away and move on. She’d put a dollar bill in his hand.

“I thought I owed you interest,” he said.

“I’ll let you slide. This time.”

He wondered about this time .

“I didn’t remember you with glasses,” he said.

“Getting new contacts,” she said.

“Oh. You look great in them, by the way.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

“Not too serious for you.”

“I like serious.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why do I like serious?”

“Yes, Charles. Why do you like serious?”

“Seriously . . . I don’t know.”

She smiled. “You’re kind of funny, aren’t you?”

“I try.”

They were passing Rockville Centre, the movie theater where he often took Deanna plainly visible from the train car. And for one surreal moment, he imagined he was looking out on his past life. That he was firmly ensconced in this new universe of his—snug as a bug in Charlesville. Just Lucinda and him, newly married and on their way to work. Still chitchatting about their recent honeymoon — where had they gone, exactly? Kaui — yes, two weeks at the posh Kaui Hilton. Already starting to think about having kids, too — after all, they weren’t getting any younger, were they? One of each, they’d decided, though it didn’t really matter. As long as they were, of course, healthy. . . .

“Busy day today?” she asked him.

“Busy? Sure.” Busy fending off disgruntled clients looking for his head and bosses looking to betray him. And for a second, he felt like telling her exactly what had been going on there and finding a nice soft spot on her shoulder to cry on.

“Me too.”

“What?”

“It’s going to be a busy day for me, too.”

“I imagine you’re getting a lot of angry calls these days.”

“Well, if you consider death threats angry.”

Charles smiled. “You’re kind of funny, too.”

“You think?”

“Yes. Clients must have loved you when times were good.”

“Are you kidding? Then you weren’t making them enough money. They all had a cousin or brother-in-law or grandmother whose stock split sixty-four times. Why couldn’t I sell them one of those? ”

“Well, admit it. It was kind of like throwing darts.”

“Sure. Now they’re throwing them at me.”

He thought he detected the slightest accent. What, though?

“Were you born in New York?” he asked her.

“No, Texas. I was an army brat,” she said. “I grew up everywhere and nowhere.”

“That must have been tough.” The usual platitude one was supposed to offer at that kind of statement, he guessed.

“Well, your best friend changed identity just about every six months. On the other hand, it was kind of neat because you changed identity, too, if you wanted to. If you screwed up in Amarillo, they didn’t have to know about it in Sarasota. You were able to start clean.”

“I can see the benefit of that,” Charles said. The man across from them was pretending to read the paper, but what he was actually doing was the very same thing the conductor had done. That is, taking every opportunity to stare at Lucinda’s thighs. Charles felt a certain pride of ownership — even if ownership consisted solely of the forty-five-minute ride into Penn Station.

“Did that happen a lot?” Charles asked.

“What?”

“You screwing up?”

“Once or twice,” she said. “I was rebelling against authority.”

“Is that what you called it?”

“No. That’s what they called it. I called it getting lit.”

“Who’s they? Your parents?”

“Yeah. And the army psychiatrist they made me go to.”

“How was that?”

“Have you ever met an army psychiatrist?”

“General incompetence? Major malpractice? No.”

She laughed. “See, I told you you were funny,” she said.

Yes, an absolute laugh riot. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind calling my clients up and telling them that.”

“Sure. How are things at the office?”

“Fine.”

“You said you were in what . . . advertising?”

“Yes. Advertising.”

“So? How is the ad biz these days?”

“It has its good days and bad days.”

“And . . . ?”

“And . . . ?”

“These are the bad days?”

“Well, no one’s threatening to kill me.” No, just to demote him into insignificance.

“Come on, I complain about my job — you complain about yours. Fair’s fair. . . .”

And so, what the hell. He did tell her.

Initially not intending to reveal much more than that he’d had a little trouble with a client, but once he started he found himself more or less unable to stop. Listening to himself spill out the details of office Sturm und Drang with genuine amazement at his utter lack of control. Seething Ellen Weischler. Backstabbing Eliot. The unfairness of it all.

He supposed she could have stopped him at any point. She could have said enough, or do you really want to be telling me this, or even begun to laugh at him.

She did none of those things, though. She listened. And when he finished, she said:

“And they think brokers suck.”

“I don’t know what made me tell you that,” he said. “Sorry.” Although he wasn’t, actually. Embarrassed? Sure. But at the same time purged. As if he’d finally thrown up last night’s rancid meal and could finally get back to the table.

And then she did more than just listen to him. She reached out and massaged his right shoulder. More like a soft, soothing pat, a friendly rub, a supportive and sisterly squeeze.

“Poor baby,” she said.

And Charles couldn’t help thinking that certain clichés are belittled out of nothing but jealousy. Her touch felt electric, for instance. A cliché knocked as pure hokum by people unlucky enough not to be feeling it. Which, at any given moment, was most people. Because, well, her touch did feel electric; his body was suddenly humming like one of those power lines they string across the dry Kansas plains.

They blew into the East River Tunnel — the tunnel of love, he thought — and for just a moment he was afraid he was going to lean over and do something stupid. That he’d end up being taken away in handcuffs for this stupid thing on the platform at Penn Station.

Then something happened.

The train car went pitch black, the lights zapping off as they always did when the train burrowed under the East River. It felt as if he were sitting in a darkened movie theater waiting for that phosphorescent glow to come rescue him. Or for something else to rescue him; he could smell her there in the darkness. Lilac and musk.

And then her breath was by his ear, soft and humid. Her mouth was close enough to kiss as it whispered something into his ear.

Then the lights blinked on, blinked off, and settled back into full ghostly fluorescence.

Nothing had really changed.

The unrepentant voyeur sitting directly across from them was still peeking at Lucinda’s thighs. The woman with varicose-veined legs was dozing across the aisle from them. There was the pinch-faced banker, the college kid slumped over his textbook, the court stenographer warily guarding her Teletype.

Lucinda also looked just like she had before, turned face forward like everyone else.

Wasn’t she turning back to her newspaper, checking the Amex and the Nasdaq and the overseas indexes and municipal bonds?

He waited a while to see if she’d look over and resume speaking with him, then looked out the window, where they passed a massive billboard that said, “Lose Yourself in the Virgin Islands.”

When the train settled into Penn Station, he asked her if they might have lunch sometime.

You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever met.

That’s what Lucinda whispered to him on the train.