changed the subject. The world was altering, and those of us who had escaped the drudgery and dangers of our old countries for a new life in America had to avoid going back, in our own minds. Falling into sentiment about the places we had come from was unwise and dangerous. It could cause the kind of pointless pain that led to deep and abiding unhappiness. It was important to look forward, to stay grateful for the wealth and security to be found in our new lives. It was important to remember that we were, first and foremost, Americans.
I ordered apple pie and ice cream, and when it arrived I ate hungrily as if my steak had never existed.
“I like a woman with a good appetite,” Stan said, and I blushed at my obvious greed, before reprimanding his impertinence.
“I’ve been traveling since early this morning, and have not eaten all day.”
“So sensitive,” he said, “clearly you have the temperament of a true artist!”
I smiled—I really did like this incorrigible old flirt.
“I should like to see your work sometime,” he said.
Suddenly I felt really, really tired. On top of the wine and the steak, the dessert had finished me off, and I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. It had been a long day and my tiredness reminded me of why I was here.
I looked up—I am afraid quite rudely—and signaled to the waiter.
“You’re tired,” Stan said, and he smiled and studied my face queryingly, but didn’t pry. “I can see you need to retire. Let me pay for dinner, please.”
He did not ask how far I was going and, as far as he knew, my journey ended in Chicago.
“Thank you,” and I stood up and shook his hand. “You have made the evening pass very pleasantly.”
His hand was cold and he held mine to kiss it, barely touching it with his lips.
Then he reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a crumpled card with his name and address printed on it.
“If you ever find yourself in Los Angeles,” he said, “for any reason—any reason at all—you can contact me at this address.” I took the card and he added, “Any time, Eileen. I won’t forget you.”
It was a strange declaration, perhaps made from this old man’s confidence in his own memory or intellect, certainly not with any romantic sentiment attached. But something about his words reminded me of my first husband, John; never forgotten. The feeling of having been so deeply in love as a young girl had faded with time, but the smell of carbolic soap or lavender or freshly chopped mint would bring me back to the fields that I grew up in and to the strong, beautiful boy that I married. John never kissed my hand like a gentleman; he held me around the waist and drew down on me like a departing soldier. I was tired and, with all that had happened that day, my emotions began to rise.
“Thank you—nor I you,” I said. It was a polite lie. Stan had been a distraction, and a generous host, but I had much more important things on my mind and would surely have forgotten him by the morning. I put his card in my purse, then went back to my small cabin, where I slept until dawn.
C HAPTER T EN
As soon as I stepped off the train in Chicago anxiety hit me again like a blast of cold air. I was less than halfway on my journey to find Leo, and yet when I was trapped on the moving train I knew I was powerless. Somehow, having my feet on solid ground made me feel as if I should be doing something. Modern conveniences being what they were, a part of me was itching simply to telephone the Chateau Marmont hotel and speak to Leo directly and check that he was still all right, but my greater instinct told me it would be a bad idea to notify him that I was on my way. It was best for me to wait until I got to Los Angeles, so that I could deal with it all in person. I wanted to see him and was afraid he might take flight again. In the meantime I would have to bide my time and occupy myself as best I could on this interminable journey.
Maureen’s
I ordered apple pie and ice cream, and when it arrived I ate hungrily as if my steak had never existed.
“I like a woman with a good appetite,” Stan said, and I blushed at my obvious greed, before reprimanding his impertinence.
“I’ve been traveling since early this morning, and have not eaten all day.”
“So sensitive,” he said, “clearly you have the temperament of a true artist!”
I smiled—I really did like this incorrigible old flirt.
“I should like to see your work sometime,” he said.
Suddenly I felt really, really tired. On top of the wine and the steak, the dessert had finished me off, and I just wanted to lie down and go to sleep. It had been a long day and my tiredness reminded me of why I was here.
I looked up—I am afraid quite rudely—and signaled to the waiter.
“You’re tired,” Stan said, and he smiled and studied my face queryingly, but didn’t pry. “I can see you need to retire. Let me pay for dinner, please.”
He did not ask how far I was going and, as far as he knew, my journey ended in Chicago.
“Thank you,” and I stood up and shook his hand. “You have made the evening pass very pleasantly.”
His hand was cold and he held mine to kiss it, barely touching it with his lips.
Then he reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a crumpled card with his name and address printed on it.
“If you ever find yourself in Los Angeles,” he said, “for any reason—any reason at all—you can contact me at this address.” I took the card and he added, “Any time, Eileen. I won’t forget you.”
It was a strange declaration, perhaps made from this old man’s confidence in his own memory or intellect, certainly not with any romantic sentiment attached. But something about his words reminded me of my first husband, John; never forgotten. The feeling of having been so deeply in love as a young girl had faded with time, but the smell of carbolic soap or lavender or freshly chopped mint would bring me back to the fields that I grew up in and to the strong, beautiful boy that I married. John never kissed my hand like a gentleman; he held me around the waist and drew down on me like a departing soldier. I was tired and, with all that had happened that day, my emotions began to rise.
“Thank you—nor I you,” I said. It was a polite lie. Stan had been a distraction, and a generous host, but I had much more important things on my mind and would surely have forgotten him by the morning. I put his card in my purse, then went back to my small cabin, where I slept until dawn.
C HAPTER T EN
As soon as I stepped off the train in Chicago anxiety hit me again like a blast of cold air. I was less than halfway on my journey to find Leo, and yet when I was trapped on the moving train I knew I was powerless. Somehow, having my feet on solid ground made me feel as if I should be doing something. Modern conveniences being what they were, a part of me was itching simply to telephone the Chateau Marmont hotel and speak to Leo directly and check that he was still all right, but my greater instinct told me it would be a bad idea to notify him that I was on my way. It was best for me to wait until I got to Los Angeles, so that I could deal with it all in person. I wanted to see him and was afraid he might take flight again. In the meantime I would have to bide my time and occupy myself as best I could on this interminable journey.
Maureen’s
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