car and it doesn’t always start. My brother wasn’t supposed to come with me, but after what happened last time, my mother made him . . .”
Jonas was only half listening. How could this be possible? He interrupted her. “So . . .” he started slowly. “So, what year is it?”
“What year is it?” Laura echoed. “What year is it . . . when?”
“Now,” Jonas said. “What year is it now?” He knew he was taking a risk. It sounded like a question from a science-fiction movie or one of the medical shows where the guy is waking up from a head injury. Laura must have been thinking the same thing.
“You want to ask me who the president of the United States is?”
Jonas didn’t answer. He watched Laura’s face, trying not to be distracted by the dip of her collarbones, the skin that was showing at her neck.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked him.
He nodded.
“OK,” Laura said. She spoke more softly.
There were a few other people on the train. It was still pretty early.
“It’s nineteen seventy-three,” she began, and as she spoke, Jonas lifted his eyes and let them wander around the subway car, the greenish color of the walls, the molded plastic benches. He looked up at the print ad that decorated the top of the car, just under the rounded ceiling.
“And the president is — unfortunately still is — Richard Nixon,” Laura went on. She seemed to be watching his face carefully. She spoke slowly. “But not for you, is it?”
Jonas shook his head. They both looked around the train. A youngish mother wearing lots of eye makeup sat with a sleeping toddler sprawled across her lap, and an older couple were holding hands at the other end of the train.
“Don’t say anything,” Jonas said.
“I won’t.”
They fell silent and let the train lull them for a while. The older couple got off. A tall man in a velour jogging suit got on.
“This is weird, isn’t it?” Jonas said finally.
“Yeah,” Laura said. “But it feels right.”
IT did. Jonas hadn’t felt this right in a long time. He had a sense of being home, right here in the subway car. And it was odd, since he had never liked being down in the subway system, being underground. When he was little, he was afraid the city would most certainly collapse on top of him. How can all those buildings and all those people and cars and buses be just eighteen feet above the tunnel? It was impossible.
“It’s fine, Jonas,” his father would say. “It’s perfectly safe. Look —” His father would take his hand and walk him down the steep concrete steps. The smell of urine and the roar of the trains would assault him.
“It’s OK. Take another step. If you just
act
like everything’s OK, it will be. Tell your body to just keep moving. Before you know it, it will feel just fine.”
It seemed impossible, but Jonas trusted his father, and wouldn’t you know it, like his father promised, the whole of New York City never collapsed into the ground. And now he was here with Laura, and it was safe again.
“So you live in Woodstock?” Jonas asked, metaphorically putting one foot in front of the other, acting as if everything was normal as Laura told him her story.
She told him about her mom and dad, about their move, about the changes, finally about Bruce. She had never told anyone about Bruce, she said. No one knew.
“You’ve got to tell someone,” Jonas said. “That’s against the law. What a sick bastard. You can’t go back there.”
“I live there,” Laura said.
“Well, you can’t.” Jonas felt a rise in his heart, a fear, maybe, an urgency, a sense of indignation, and a powerlessness all at once.
Laura suddenly looked worried. The lovely calm fled her face. “I gotta go actually. I want to be back before my dad gets home. Is this the right stop?”
Jonas looked up. He hadn’t noticed where they were. There was no electronic map on the wall above the straphangers’ bar. He had no idea where they were along the
Jonas was only half listening. How could this be possible? He interrupted her. “So . . .” he started slowly. “So, what year is it?”
“What year is it?” Laura echoed. “What year is it . . . when?”
“Now,” Jonas said. “What year is it now?” He knew he was taking a risk. It sounded like a question from a science-fiction movie or one of the medical shows where the guy is waking up from a head injury. Laura must have been thinking the same thing.
“You want to ask me who the president of the United States is?”
Jonas didn’t answer. He watched Laura’s face, trying not to be distracted by the dip of her collarbones, the skin that was showing at her neck.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked him.
He nodded.
“OK,” Laura said. She spoke more softly.
There were a few other people on the train. It was still pretty early.
“It’s nineteen seventy-three,” she began, and as she spoke, Jonas lifted his eyes and let them wander around the subway car, the greenish color of the walls, the molded plastic benches. He looked up at the print ad that decorated the top of the car, just under the rounded ceiling.
“And the president is — unfortunately still is — Richard Nixon,” Laura went on. She seemed to be watching his face carefully. She spoke slowly. “But not for you, is it?”
Jonas shook his head. They both looked around the train. A youngish mother wearing lots of eye makeup sat with a sleeping toddler sprawled across her lap, and an older couple were holding hands at the other end of the train.
“Don’t say anything,” Jonas said.
“I won’t.”
They fell silent and let the train lull them for a while. The older couple got off. A tall man in a velour jogging suit got on.
“This is weird, isn’t it?” Jonas said finally.
“Yeah,” Laura said. “But it feels right.”
IT did. Jonas hadn’t felt this right in a long time. He had a sense of being home, right here in the subway car. And it was odd, since he had never liked being down in the subway system, being underground. When he was little, he was afraid the city would most certainly collapse on top of him. How can all those buildings and all those people and cars and buses be just eighteen feet above the tunnel? It was impossible.
“It’s fine, Jonas,” his father would say. “It’s perfectly safe. Look —” His father would take his hand and walk him down the steep concrete steps. The smell of urine and the roar of the trains would assault him.
“It’s OK. Take another step. If you just
act
like everything’s OK, it will be. Tell your body to just keep moving. Before you know it, it will feel just fine.”
It seemed impossible, but Jonas trusted his father, and wouldn’t you know it, like his father promised, the whole of New York City never collapsed into the ground. And now he was here with Laura, and it was safe again.
“So you live in Woodstock?” Jonas asked, metaphorically putting one foot in front of the other, acting as if everything was normal as Laura told him her story.
She told him about her mom and dad, about their move, about the changes, finally about Bruce. She had never told anyone about Bruce, she said. No one knew.
“You’ve got to tell someone,” Jonas said. “That’s against the law. What a sick bastard. You can’t go back there.”
“I live there,” Laura said.
“Well, you can’t.” Jonas felt a rise in his heart, a fear, maybe, an urgency, a sense of indignation, and a powerlessness all at once.
Laura suddenly looked worried. The lovely calm fled her face. “I gotta go actually. I want to be back before my dad gets home. Is this the right stop?”
Jonas looked up. He hadn’t noticed where they were. There was no electronic map on the wall above the straphangers’ bar. He had no idea where they were along the
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