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On Good Terms

Barry Hill

    I entered Penn Station from Seventh Avenue. It was 2:45 according to my cell phone. I looked at the giant board that was being stared at by a hundred faces, all lifted up to see it, like some kind of cult ritual. My train was leaving in 2 minutes, on track 19. Luckily, the entrance was right in front of me. I followed the fast moving line of people down the stairs. At the bottom, the people scattered, some left, some right, hoping for a last-minute seat.
    I peer into one of the cars. Down the row of seats there’s few opportunities to have a sitting ride. In the seats of three, I look for two people that I could tolerate sitting between. I hope for two young attractive women, but never have such luck. Most of the seats in groups of two opposite the threes are filled. I see one seat open, but occupied by a man who is sleeping and taking up one and a half seats. I put my carry bag down while standing near the doors, and as I do, I see something available in the seats of two that I missed at first glance. It’s an elderly woman with grey hair, taking up no more than her share of space. I grab my bag and plop down next to her.
    Sometimes a person will greet you in a friendly way. They’ll smile and nod and say hello. Sometimes even a comment about the crowd or the weather or the burden you carry in your arms. But this woman doesn’t flinch at all, as if I never sat down. I turn directly to look at her, hoping that she senses it and at least acknowledges my presence. But she continues to stare out the window, leaving only the right side of her face visible to me.
    I get my book out, thinking that she may notice and comment on my short stories of Vonnegut. But she remains a fixed statue, arms on her lap, not moving at all. I open my book, but at this point I’m still a little curious about this woman, so I begin to look closely at her. I’ve become quite skillful at turning my eyes sharply without turning my head. This is especially effective when wearing sunglasses in a car, but works just as well with reading glasses on a train. Perhaps she’s asleep. But no, her eyes are open, though not fully. Her short trimmed gray hair curls around her face. She’s got wire-rimmed bifocals. Her lips are thin, and for a second I’m pretty sure it’s someone I know. I think that it’s Catherine.
    I’m not on good terms with Catherine, though. I don’t just say, to her, “Hey Catherine, how’s it going? Long time no see.” I also don’t get up and leave. I try to think about how sure I am that it’s her, because it’s been over ten years since I last saw her. I wonder if she recognized me and that’s why she’s staring out the window, pretending not to know me, pretending that neither of us are on this train sitting next to each other.
    One of my worries is that if I find out it’s her, there’s going to be an uncomfortable ride, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to go searching for another seat either. I begin to look more carefully at her to make my determination. She seems old to me, but I’m sure that she’s my age. I wonder if I look old to people, with my gray thinning hair and beard, and my ever-increasing wrinkles. I look down at my stomach. I need to lose a little weight.
    Her arms look bloated, and hairy. Unattractive. The first time that I met Catherine was about 35 years ago. It was in the lounge of the Music Department at the college we both attended. She had long brown hair, skin like a child and was quite pretty. There was a heavy thunderstorm outside and we both had run into the cozy lounge for shelter. At 20, it felt briefly like a fateful moment. We talked nearly 15 minutes before revealing that she was waiting for her boyfriend. My heart fell out of my chest and landed like a brick in a puddle. Six months later, we would meet again. She was accompanied by another woman, who is now known as my ex-wife.
    My eyes are still sharply turned left while my head is pretending to read the book. The train had already been moving, and now we’re coming out of the tunnel that goes under the East River. The afternoon sunlight fills the car with flickering shadows. I gaze at her legs. She’s wearing worn jeans, but she looks to be the build and the height of Catherine. I can see the ring on her left hand. I remember her wedding, just two months after my own. She had dumped that boyfriend she had and married a bright and articulate man and my ex was the maid of honor. Her husband suffered from obesity and a bad heart, and they never had children, neither of them having the desire or patience. One day my ex will call me and say that Catherine’s husband died. I’ll go to the wake out of respect and I’ll know then if it’s her.
    I look at her ears and she’s not wearing earrings. She was not one for taking advantage of her beauty. She despised glamor and glamorous people. I remember how attractive she seemed to me back then and how naturally beautiful. I begin to imagine myself being married to her. We’re on this train together. I’m not feeling happiness. Does someone grow unattractive and you don’t notice because it’s just a little at a time? I realize I would have divorced whomever I married. The only method that I had for judging a woman back then was by the way she looked. I thought I could judge intelligence and other features like loyalty but I was wrong. I was doomed for marital failure when I was talking with Catherine in the Music Lounge, but I never had a clue.
    Her lips are what are convincing me that it’s her. Back then in the Music Lounge I had imagined kissing them while she sat next to me on the couch, my heart ablaze with youthful desire and lust. I think once a person has imagined kissing a pair of lips, the picture of those lips never leaves you. Thin and curvy, with a lovely wide mouth.
    The stations come ten minutes apart. One, two three stops. Only two more until I get off. People get up and leave. I turn my head straight and again using my eyes to look and not my head, I see the people on the train as their bodies sway to the curves and the bumps in the tracks. It’s after 3 PM and the train is nearly full. People wearing nice clothes. People with and without children. People with frowns and smiles and sleepy eyes. A 60 year old man with a bad toupee and a suit to match.
    The last time I saw Catherine, she was helping my ex move out of our house. It was shortly after I got the surprise divorce papers. I remember the look that Catherine gave me. As if I was the devil. As if I was evil itself. I can only imagine what my ex was telling her about me, about our failure of a marriage. Some of it may have even been true.
    I feel so distracted that I’ve hardly read any of my book. And I love to read on the train with the stretch of uninterrupted time. No one around me has a book. They are talking on cell phones, playing games on cell phones, reading email on cell phones. Texting on cell phones. I read one story about a Monkey House. I forget about Catherine for awhile.
    The computerized conductor reads out my stop. The last time that I talked to someone who I thought I knew, I was wrong. I was in a bar and thought I recognized an ex-student. She was with a man much older than her who then began to eye me with suspicion after my mistaken identification. There’s not much of a line between those of us just trying to get by and make sense of things and the really creepy ones I guess.
    I return the book back to my carry bag. The train hits the brakes and we’re slowing for my stop. Catherine hasn’t moved any more than a cadaver would in her seat. I’ve decided that I’m going to say something just before I get up. That seems to be the best thing. This seems to be the best time.
    As the train crawls to a stop, I say, “Hey Catherine, how’s it going?
    She doesn’t move or react in any way, though I’m sure now that it’s her. I think I’m sure. There are no earplugs in her ears, so she had to have heard me. I decide not to try again. I turn away from her, and as I’m just about to step off the train, she turns around to look, and our eyes meet just for a brief second or less.
    I walk on the platform and pass by her window. She’s back to sitting and staring and makes no effort at eye contact. I remember her as a writer and a poet and for a second I’m surprised she’s not reading a book. Maybe she’s given it up. I went to a workshop that she gave in a bookstore once. She gave out a poem by Langston Hughes to the twelve of us there. Some guy raises his hand and says, “I can’t relate to this. I don’t care about this poem at all.” She turns to him and says, “Reading poetry is about opening up and understanding someone else’s experience, not about locking yourself inside your own bigoted mind.” The guy sat there for a moment while it sank in and then he got up and left. We were pretty good friends at that time.
    The train pulls away and the conductor passes by with his head out the window. He’s enjoying the spring air, like a dog enjoying the adventure of movement and new experience when he hangs his head and tongue out a car window.
    I climb the stairs over the tracks to get to my car. On the other side, at the bottom, there’s a younger woman with a heavy piece of luggage. She’s trying to pull it but the wheels seem to be broken. I ask her if she’d like me to carry it for her, and without hesitation she says, “Oh, that would be so kind of you.” I pick it up and start to carry it to her car. “That suitcase would pick today to break. Thanks so much.” She’s wearing a white dress with printed roses on it. It’s a short walk to her car and we’re there before either of us can start a conversation.
    She opens the trunk of her Kia for me to put it in. Then there’s that moment where we are facing each other behind the car right after the trunk is closed. “It’s a lovely day isn’t it?” she says, and I want to give her a hug or a kiss or even a handshake, but my body doesn’t move. She gets in her car. I smile and she says, “Thanks again,” out the window while she backs out of her parking space.
    I can see her blue eyes and say, “You’re welcome,” the last words we will have together.
    When I get to my own car, I find that a bird has done its business right in the middle of the windshield on the driver’s side. I put on the washer and wipers, but it just makes more of a mess.
    With my vision partially obstructed, I start the engine anyway. I take a deep breath that I feel go all the way into my toes. Exhaling, I grab the stick shift, and unconsciously slide it into gear. Keeping my hand on the automatic stick, I’m on my way home.

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