It felt good to sit still, in any case. Eyes shut, body briefly untwitchy, the world’s bad news held at bay. The subway car swaying like a cradle. Her plastic seat warmed by her butt.
The seat . . . good lord, this spot right here in a dark tunnel under the Hudson River, right here and now in late July 2005, might it actually . . . even though a war was on. And Walter was dead. And Win in who knew how much trouble. Might this be the seat of happiness?
7
At Cortlandt the doors pinged.
She kept her eyes closed.
Sounds of riders exiting, a baby whimpering. Jostling of passengers around her. Now some garbled mumbo-jumbo from the train’s conductor: Step aside, let ’em off, City Hall next, we’re being held, moving shortly.
The mind just had to sit back and breathe. That was all. If each and every mind in the world could just sit back and breathe, watching its thoughts pass like aimless clouds, there’d be no need for fretting.
But what if a person wanted to be subject to the skyey influences?
Oh dear, the Buddha would say. You’ve rather missed the point. But go ahead, do as you wish. Everybody’s got to learn the hard way.
8
She felt her palms warm against her belly.
She blinked. The doors were about to close; any moment, the train would sputter back into motion. Where were they? The train had been held in the station a minute or so. She’d been in a patch of mental fog, almost dozing, eyes lazily fluttering open and closed. In that interval, what had taken place? She’d noted something, seen or half-seen it, registered it as peripheral. A hand rising from a thigh.
The seat to the right of her was empty.
The young woman in her sweatshirt stood at the open door of the subway car. With one hand she reached into her sweatshirt’s pouch, pulled forth a handful of green stuff—something like confetti?—and tossed it in the air. Quickly she tossed out another handful, the colored bits gyrating downward til they littered the floor. Then she exited the train, slipping out just before the doors closed.
Ellen gazed at her lap.
An elderly man dropped into the vacant spot next to her. The baby’s whimpering resumed.
What the hell’s that stuff, said the elderly man, pointing to the stuff on the floor.
Ellen tapped her left side. The old brown bag was still there, its wide strap slung lightly over her shoulder. Had she put the clutch inside? No—it’d been on her lap the whole time. But it wasn’t there now.
She stood, looked on the seat, under the bench, around it. She sat again, lowered her head, elbows on knees, dizzy. Only one thing to do: stay aboard and ride it out—this wave that had crashed and was already receding, carrying off the past month like so much silt.
Next stop City Hall, barked the conductor.
She sat and rubbed her knees. Gone—as if it’d flitted off on its own. But a purse couldn’t just flit off. She could picture it now: above-ground, in the grip of someone’s hand. That person’s other hand would reach inside the purse, feel around, and pull out a hanky, tossing it to the ground. Feel around some more and come up empty. Pitch the useless clutch into a garbage can.
Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing.
And the scrap of paper, released from the hanky and uplifted by a breeze, would flutter off by itself.
Elbows still on knees, Ellen squeezed her temples with her forefingers.
That girl in the sweatshirt—the one who’d littered the car with those colored green bits—it had to be her. She’d taken the purse. Slipped it under the kangaroo pouch, next to her skin.
Ellen lifted her chin and glanced at her watch. At her hand, trembling. Roy would be home now—maybe having some tea or reading the Times, one of his hands resting lightly on Kay’s or Nine’s head. The dogs had new collars; she’d bought them for him, and paid for a locksmith to change the front door’s lock and install new closures for the rear windows. After the break-in, Roy had been distraught that he hadn’t been more careful. For God’s sake, he said, you don’t let a stranger in to take pictures of something you own. What was I thinking? But why would someone take the dogs’ collars, too? It doesn’t matter, she’d told him, it’s over now, the main thing is the dogs are fine.
He’d be checking his phone now, hoping she’d be in touch before he left for his afternoon class. Hadn’t she told him she’d call or text after doing an errand downtown, before her lunch with Dale? He’d want to know how her day was going.
His lovely reedy voice. Those straight dark eyebrows.
I would not wish, confessed Miranda to Ferdinand, any companion in the world but you.
Her chin still resting on one hand, she let the other hand drop.
By her feet were a few colored bits. She reached down and touched them. Not paper, not plastic. Something else . . . cardboard, maybe? No, a slightly heavier material. Canvas of some kind, perhaps. The bits were in various shades of green, a little yellow now and then. Weirdly cheerful. Like a bed of grass with some dandelions mixed in.
On the subway floor, of all places. The thief left those bits there on purpose. Almost like an offering.
9
Just breathe. Because there was literally nothing else to be done.
The train was barely doing five miles per hour, but at least it was moving. Almost there—not at the Commission’s offices but at Bouley, where she’d be having a nice lunch with Dale. Raising a glass to his new apartment. Fresh space, Daley, a fresh start.
About her morning she’d say nothing at first. Would celebrate his good news, share his high spirits, revel in his relief. Better to spring her own news on him at the meal’s end. He’d stare at her as she spoke—first in puzzlement, then in disbelief. Wait, you won what? Are you kidding? And then your bag was stolen?
He would say nothing more for a good long minute. Then he’d shake his head, take her hands, grin, and utter something totally Dale-ish—everything for a reason, huh?—something in that vein, followed by a bunch of truly salty expletives. They’d order another glass of champagne. She’d make him promise never to tell anyone—not even the other nearest-and-dearest—or bring it up with her again, ever. To let it drop. And he’d agree, being the wise fellow he was.
Then she’d return to Brooklyn, feed the cats, and start looking for more freelance work. Detour over.
10
But wait. There was something else to do, something important, before picking up where she’d left off.
After lunch, instead of going home she’d go straight to Bay Ridge. She’d let herself into Roy’s apartment with the new keys he’d given her when the lock was changed. He wouldn’t be there, would already have left for his afternoon class. But when he returned, he’d be glad to see her—relieved, in fact. Everything okay? Yes, she’d say, everything’s fine.
Then she’d ask him to call Gina and see if Ennio could come over for a visit. Once the kid arrived, she’d hand Roy a piece of paper. Well, well, he’d say, flapping it before him. Look at this—Ellen’s written something for you, Ennio. I bet it’s a poem. How great!
It’s a prose poem, she’d tell the boy.
What’s that?
Kind of a mix. A cross between a poem and a story.
About what?
Something that happened to me this morning, on the subway.
I wanna hear it.
Ellen, how about you read it to us?
Actually, I’d like to hear you read it, Roy, if you don’t mind.
Not at all. Though I don’t know how good a reader I am, especially of a prose poem I’ve never seen before . . . but I’ll try.
He’d rustle the page softly, then clear his throat and begin. He’d read well, not rushing. It’d only take a minute or two.
Ennio would react immediately. Wait a second, he’d say, smiling and frowning at the same time. There’s no way someone on the subway stole your bag with a jackpot ticket in it! You’re trying to fool us!
I dunno, Roy would say. Anyt
hing’s possible, right, En? I mean, Ellen’s using her imagination. That’s what she’s supposed to do, she’s a poet . . .
But Ellen, it doesn’t make sense! Why would you have two purses with you—one on your knees and one on your shoulder?
Well, she’d tell the boy, I liked the one on my knees, the green suede one. It was really soft, like a cat. And it seemed like just the right bag for the ticket. It was small, so I could fit it inside the big bag if I wanted to. But actually, I felt like having it on my knees.
Like a cat . . . And you said the green purse was empty, right, except for the ticket. Which you’d wrapped in a hanky? Like, really?
Yep.
How come?
Well, the hanky was a gift from my friend Dale. I was going to have lunch with him today, so he was on my mind. I stuck the ticket inside his hanky, and put the hanky in the purse. That seemed like the safest place for it.
We’ll get to meet Dale sometime, Roy would interject. I bet he’s a nice guy. Did you and he have a good lunch?
Yes, we did.
But wait, Ennio would press. Wait a sec! Even if you liked having your green purse on your lap, and even if the purse did have a lottery ticket in it, there’s no way the ticket was a jackpot winner. Why do you expect me to believe that?
Ennio, Roy would say, you’re right. The odds of hitting the jackpot are ridiculously low. Still, isn’t it fun to think Ellen might have had a jackpot ticket in her purse? This is a poem, remember?
Odds—what are they?
They’re chances. When you play the lottery, you’re buying a chance at winning. Everyone knows the odds of hitting the jackpot are super low. But everyone believes they might win, and that’s how the lottery makes money—because people are willing to take a chance. You were, once, remember? And you lost a dollar.
Last time I’ll do that!
Right. But you wanted to give it a shot, didn’t you?
Yeah. And a dollar’s not that much.
Right.
Just once, Ellen would say then. That’s all it takes, Ennio.
At that, the boy would nod.
Then he’d say he liked her poem. And would add that it was actually a good thing her bag had been stolen. It would’ve been worse if it hadn’t.
Really? Why is that, Roy would ask, chuckling.
Well, think how embarrassed Ellen would be when they told her, uh, sorry, you’re wrong—you didn’t win, those aren’t the winning numbers.
Yeah, Roy would say, she’d feel pretty silly, wouldn’t she? She’d be all like, oh man, what was I thinking? So it worked out fine in the end.
Well, but she did lose her purse, the one like a cat . . .
Yes, she’d say. I did, unfortunately. But I can get another purse. And what happened to me—it felt good, I have to say. Being the winner, I mean.
You know, Ennio would counter, you can do that whenever you want. You don’t even need a ticket.
Do what? Be the winner?
No—imagine you’ve won.
That’s true. So next time I’ll imagine that I’ll give you a big chunk of what I’ve won, and you can figure out what to do with it.
Hah! Yeah, I’ll let you do that. And you can write another poem about it.
Then Roy would ask if he could hang onto her prose poem.
Sure, she’d say. But what about a notebook—for evidence of process, remember?
Of course I remember, he’d say. It’s just that I haven’t found the right notebook yet, dove. I’ll know it when I see it. You’ll get it soon, I promise.
One hand on his chest, making a vow. The other hand reaching for hers.
I’ll wait, she’d say, we’ve got time.
Biographical Note
Martha Cooley is the author of two novels—The Archivist, a national bestseller also published in a dozen foreign markets, and Thirty-Three Swoons—and a memoir, Guesswork. She co-translated Antonio Tabucchi’s story collection Time Ages in a Hurry. Her essays, reviews, short fiction, and co-translations have appeared in the Los Angeles Review of Books and numerous leading literary journals. She is a Professor Emerita at Adelphi University. Prior to Adelphi, she taught for fifteen years in the Bennington Writing Seminars. She lives in Castiglione del Terziere, Italy, and spends time in the United States.
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