"Your pay's already in your account,” Lita murmured. “They punched it in this morning. I'm sorry, Sarah."
Sarah turned to leave, then looked back. “Tell me something, Lita. Did you know this was coming when you asked me to do the fashion show?"
The woman did not reply.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't say anything."
"No."
"Thanks, Lita.” She wanted to say more, but she remembered the needed recommendation, and kept silent.
She hurried from the office, moving toward the book department, then changed course. She could not tell this to Gerard in the middle of his working day; she would wait until evening.
She found Lacey Duncan behind the lingerie counter. “Guess what?” she said. “I'm in the shredder."
"What?"
"I got fired. Lita just told me."
"Oh, my God.” Lacey glanced at a prospective customer, but the woman was walking away. “Why?"
"Mr. Groves has a granddaughter who needs a job. I could have taken it if my work was poor, at least that would have been my fault, but not this.” Sarah rested her elbows on the counter.
"What are you going to do, sign up for unemployment?"
"Are you kidding? I don't want to be drafted."
Lacey leaned forward. “Don't you have a health problem or anything?"
"Insomnia. That's not enough. Even my eyesight is good."
"You could get pregnant."
"Oh, that's a great idea. We'd have even less money, and they'd put me in the Guard as soon as the kid's old enough for a center. Listen, Lacey, could you do me a favor?"
"Sure."
"Could you go over to books and tell Gerry I went home? Tell him I was tired or something. He was going to take a late lunch and go out with me. I don't want him to know about this yet."
"Sure.” Lacey touched her arm. “If I were you, I'd go eat anyway. Things look better on a full stomach."
"I may have to get used to going hungry."
The sun had come out, but the air was very cold. The clear blue sky made the downtown area of the city seem even shabbier. Slender bare-limbed trees lined the sidewalk at intervals along the curb. Several bolted-down benches lacked boards which had been stolen by thieves wanting firewood.
Sarah passed boarded-up stores. The Empire Newsstand and Tobacco Shoppe had gone out of business; so had Fanny Farmer's, Rosen's Jewelry, and Sikka Imports. Chase Manhattan had closed to prevent a run, and Boot Hill, one the few businesses she would have expected to survive, was bankrupt. Only the astrologer, whose sign labeled her a “character reader and advisor,” seemed to be doing well; several people sat on the modular furniture in her offices, looking away as Sarah passed the window.
She stopped at the corner. As usual, there was little traffic, so she crossed without waiting for the light to change. McDonald's was nearly empty, and she decided to salve her wounds with a hamburger. She went to the back, gave her order to the metal wall, and inserted her card in a slot. A window clicked and opened, offering her a Big Mac and French fries with a Coke; the slot extruded her card.
She carried her food to a window seat and stared out aimlessly. She tried to consider what she could do. She had no special training. She had dropped out of college after two years because she could no longer afford it and the school was closing anyway. Her lost job, except for a short stint in an office, was the only one she had ever held. She realized that she had never planned, had never really thought hard about what she might have to do.
She thought of the coins in her apartment, and wondered how long they would last. She could take some money to a private agency, which would keep her name off the list of those eligible for the draft while she searched for a job. But she was sure the agency would find nothing for her, and the coins would then be wasted.
She gazed unhappily at the cyclists and pedestrians passing by outside. A woman in a fur coat rushed past, tugging a child by the arm; an old man with a brown paper bag stopped to chat with an old woman in a ragged cloth coat. A tall man in shabby tweed was striding along on the other side of the street.
Sarah sat up. She watched the man, then jumped up from her seat, knocking over her Coke. She ran to the door and saw him stop at the corner, then cross the street to her side. Raf, she thought. He was meanly dressed, his hair was blond, and his skin seemed paler, but the loping stride was his. He did not see her. She watched as he turned and crossed to the next block, moving toward Seneca Street.
She hesitated, then began to follow him. As he walked, she became convinced that the man was indeed Raf; a man who could take away memories would have no trouble changing his appearance. He turned at the next corner, and she lost sight of him. She hurried to the corner, passed the tall granite building that had once housed the Mid-City Mall, and found him again.
He was walking down Seneca Street. Sarah moved more slowly, wanting to keep far enough behind him so that he did not spot her. He walked quickly, his coat lifting as if it were a cape. Soon she was almost running just to keep up with him.
He was more than a block away, passing an empty lot stacked high with cords of wood. He strode past the Little Naples Restaurant, glanced at the boards over its windows, then crossed the street. He was heading toward the train station. She prayed that he was not leaving town.
He swerved, and started to cross the bridge over the tracks. The bridge rose in an arc; he traveled over the curve and began to sink from sight. When his head disappeared, she began to run, cursing her boots with their too-high heels, slowing only when she saw a National Guard Jeep pass her. She would lose him. She went by the station, a rambling red brick Victorian structure, and hurried up the bridge. When she reached the top, she saw the man turning toward a side street.
She was near a closed-off area; the police and Guard, she knew, had abandoned streets not far from here. She considered possible dangers, then put them from her mind. She had problems enough; a few more would not make any difference. She approached the side street. The tall man was pushing his way past a soup line in front of the Salvation Army.
She followed, passing the soup line, and tried not to listen to the lewd commentary of the men standing there. Shabby houses, paint peeling, lined the sidewalk, facing the tracks. The tall man paused in front of a brown shingled house, then went inside.
Sarah moved closer to the house. He must live here, she thought. She could hardly believe it; she supposed he was doing more of his research. The house was crooked, its front porch slouching toward the street. She stared at it until she saw a light on the third floor. A shadow crossed the window.
She wanted to go up there and confront him, demand answers to all her questions, then thought of Gerard's memory loss, and backed away. If she went up, he might take her memories, too.
She went back along the street toward the Salvation Army building, feeling confused and frightened.
Sarah spread the bag of coins on the kitchen table, arranged them in stacks, and counted them. Repairing the Toyota had taken several coins; traveling into the country and having Raf's car towed away had used up even more. Her riches no longer seemed as plentiful. If she had still had her job, the money might have been invested somehow, assuming that they could have found a way to do it without alerting the Internal Revenue Service. Without her job, budgeting it carefully, she and Gerard might be able to live at their current standard until spring at best.
She put the money back into the pouch and concealed it under the floorboard behind the refrigerator. Gerard was late; all she had for their supper was potato soup. It would have to do.
She tried to decide what to tell Gerard first; that she had lost her job, or that she had found Raf. She imagined the conversation: ‘He has different hair, and his complexion's lighter, and he seems a little shorter, and he lives in a slum, but he's Raf.” She would sound mad. She thought of calling Mr. Epstein, to save him the trouble of a search, and realized she could not tell him either. Sh
e was no longer so sure the man was Raf. His walk was the same, but what did that mean?
The telephone buzzed. She went to the living room and picked up the cordless receiver, holding it to her ear as she wandered back toward the kitchen. “Hello."
"Hello, dear, just wanted to see how you were.” The voice was barely audible; Sarah heard crackling in the background.
"Mother.” Sarah tried to make her voice more cheerful. “Is everything all right?"
"Not too bad. I just wanted to hear you. How is everything?"
Sarah wanted to weep and speak of her lost job and her desperation. “Everything's fine.” She tried to keep her voice from shaking. “Gerry's fine.” She could not think of what to say.
"Your brother joined the Guard. He really didn't have much choice, but they're giving him officer's training, so it's not too bad. Renée's thinking of joining up, too, they do all they can to keep husbands and wives together, and it's probably the only way she'll see much of him.” The telephone crackled again. “I wish we could see you, Sarah."
"I wish you could, too."
"Listen, if you can find a way to get out here, please do. You'd probably have to stay at a refugee camp for a while, but that's better than freezing."
"I'm not so sure."
"They probably won't let any more people in after this winter, dear, so you'd better decide. I mean, you might be able to visit for a bit, but then you'd have to go. They won't be able to take any more permanent residents pretty soon."
"What's the job situation?” Sarah kept her voice low.
"What?"
"What's the job situation?” she shouted over the crackling.
"Well, it's not good. You remember, Sarah, I told you that studying history and French Renaissance poetry wasn't going to keep the repossessors away.” Sarah swallowed; her brother had studied business administration, and it had not kept him out of the Guard. “But there's always the Army, or the Guard, or farm work, and with your brother being an officer, well, you might be able to do all right, you and Gerry."
"I'll think about it,” Sarah said, wishing she did not have to think about it. She leaned against the wall near the stove.
"Well, I'd better go, this is getting expensive. Your father sends his love. He had to go over to the church tonight to interview refugees, but he misses you, too. Give our best to Gerry. We'd love to meet him some day."
"I know. Good-bye, Mother."
"Good-bye."
She put the telephone on the kitchen table. Her face was wet and her jaw tight from her effort not to let her mother know she was crying. She stumbled toward the bathroom and dried her face on a towel.
I'm lucky, Sarah told herself. I'm not starving, I have some money, I'm young enough to find something else, I have a roof over my head. She repeated it in her mind as if it were a litany. She thought of Gerard, and the taste in her mouth grew bitter. That was unworthy; Gerard could not change the world, she had no right to expect it.
She heard the locks on the front door snap, and went out to the living room. Gerard was locking the door. He took off his coat and peered at her. “You look terrible. Is something wrong?"
"Mother called."
"I might have known.” He draped his coat over the sofa. “Sorry I'm late. Rob and I went to The Keg after work for a beer. You know how it is.” She sat on the sofa, trying to sort out her thoughts. “People love to hang out; it must be in our genes or something. We hung out for thousands of years when we were hunters and gatherers. I mean, it must have been like that, the whole tribe hanging out around the campfire after a hard day's hunting and gathering, and we're still doing it.” He sat next to her. “Lacey told me you were tired. Listen, do you want to go to The Keg for beer and pizza? Rob said he might still be there."
"We can't afford it."
"Just this once, I think we can."
She turned on the sofa and pulled up her legs. “A lot happened today. First of all, I lost my job.” He gasped and moved closer to her. “Second, I think I found Raf."
Gerard brushed back his hair. “You saw him? Where?"
"Downtown. I followed him. He didn't see me. I followed him down Seneca Street. He lives in an old house near the Salvation Army."
"You're kidding."
"He doesn't look the same, but I think it's him."
"Jesus.” He shook his head. “Wait a minute, you said you lost your job."
"I did. Mr. Groves's granddaughter is getting my job. Lita told me. Lacey knew, but I asked her not to tell you there."
"It's a good thing she didn't. I would have gone upstairs and pasted Groves."
"No, you wouldn't. Or you would have been fired, too.” She leaned back. “Gerry, I don't know what to do. Maybe we should take those coins and buy some train tickets, we could go to California. My parents could help us, we could get by somehow. We might not get another chance. We'd still have some money left over, and we might be able to do something with it."
"You know we couldn't. Out there, we'd get drafted for sure. I don't want to sit around guarding some dam or picking lettuce, do you?"
"What choice do we have? Do you think I'm going to find a job here? That money won't last forever."
He slumped against the sofa, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You said you saw Raf. I thought we were going to follow that up if it happened.” He sat up again. “You saw him."
"What good does that do? I think it's Raf, but I can't be sure. He doesn't look the same. What can we do, go up and ask him what he's doing. We don't even know how he'd react."
"We can take a chance. Why not?"
"Why bother?"
He put his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her face. “Maybe because it's time to take a chance. If we do what you want, we'll just keep sliding, you know that. I have this feeling."
She sighed. She had that feeling, too, irrational as it was, the feeling that finding Raf might mean something important. But she could, in her desperation, be fooling herself. “I'm sorry, Gerry. Maybe my mother got to me. I wanted to run out there and have her say she'd take care of me. That's all. What do we do, then?"
"I don't have a day off until Wednesday.” He drew his brows together. “God, what if he moves again? You're going to have to go over there and watch him. You can take the car."
"You're crazy. He might recognize it. What am I supposed to do, sit there like a cop staking him out?"
"You can park farther down the street, can't you? Besides, he won't expect it, and he probably won't be looking for you. And even if he did see you, what can he do out on the street?"
She considered that if Raf could vaporize an engine, he could probably make her and her car disappear.
"All right,” she said at last. “I'll watch him. But I don't know what good it's going to do."
Ten
Sarah drove Gerard to work, then proceeded to Seneca Street. She tapped lightly on the wheel with her fingers as Jehan sang; the singer's vibrato, accompanied by tambourines, and her song were becoming all too familiar. Sarah turned off the radio as she drove over the bridge, then went past the Salvation Army and parked. A large oak tree partially obscured the view from what she assumed was Raf's apartment, thus affording her some protection.
She had brought hot tea in a thermos and a copy of Rain Over the Pacific. She fluttered the pages of the paperbound novel as she glanced at the brown house. The heroine was trying to evade the draft and had still not escaped to Mexico, where, Sarah judged from the blurb, most of her adventures would take place. She sighed, thinking of that warm and more prosperous sanctuary, and opened the book. The yellowing, poorly proofread pages were light brown at the edges; tiny bits of paper broke off, sticking to her fingers.
Janice cast her glance upon the green hills, sucking in their fertile promise with her eyes as her weary heart throbbed with hope. There was food there and the pxymzse of a @ew life. Fervently she prayed that the fearsome border guards would not espy her as she crept through the fence trying not to ale
rt the sensors for she knew that
Sarah lowered the book to her lap. Not long before, she had thought that her most difficult decision would be choosing between the study of history or literature; she had fed her mind, and forgotten the world outside. She tried to recall how it had felt to forget herself while writing an explication de texte or reading old documents on microfiche. She had thrown all that aside when she left school, telling herself that she had to be practical, but that had only been self-deception. She could not punish the world for neglecting her wishes, so she had punished herself. I'll be bitter and stupid, I'll show you. Now she sat in a car reading a bad book and staking out a house in a slum. A weight seemed to press against her chest; her vision blurred.
She wallowed, trapped by subjectivity; at least she could still afford self-pity, her last remaining luxury. She would not have it long if she found no new job before her money ran out. She tried to think about Raf, hoping her curiosity would lift her out of her mental morass.
She looked up, then started. Raf had come out to the porch. He came down the steps and began to walk toward the soup line forming at the Salvation Army. She threw her book down, wondering if she should get out and follow him. He stopped and nodded at a knot of men; they spoke for a few moments. Raf turned, leading the small group back to his house.
Sarah shrank behind the wheel, afraid that they would look in her direction. The group went up the steps and into the house. She drummed her fingers on the wheel; what had Raf told them?
A motor growled behind her. She peeked at her rear view mirror and saw that a military jeep had pulled up. A Guard was climbing out of the vehicle. She picked up her book.
Knuckles rapped on her window. She looked up at the bearded man and smiled nervously as she rolled down her window.
"What's up?"
"What do you mean?” she asked.
"What're you doing?"
"I'm waiting for a friend."
"Here? Kind of a funny place, you know?"
"He's supposed to meet me."
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