“That brings back
memories,” he said, and smiled.
“ Most often on our
lips were the names of famous actresses,” I continued, “and just about any
neighborhood girl with boobs. And I can truthfully say ‘billionairess’ would
have caught our attention.”
“And so did you marry
a woman of great wealth?” he asked.
“No,” I
confessed. “I didn’t marry money. I
married the first girl who laughed at my jokes.”
“I hope it was
successful,” he said.
“Well … we’re still
married, but …” I replied.
“But?” he said.
“We seem to argue an
awful lot,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. “Perhaps, the thrill is gone?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
My voice trailed off with a degree of resignation. I shifted my gaze out the window.
The
sun was down. The mountains were left in
the dark. I could barely see their
outline. When the sky soon turned black,
I saw nothing, but knew they were there.
I wondered why we humans lacked a facility deep inside to tell us
when our eyes lied and something immense stood just beyond our awareness. Across the river or across a room.
“I knew a young man in
high school who married an heiress,” said Daniel, interrupting my
thoughts. We were not far from my
station.
“Gee,” I said, afraid I’d have to sit through
another tale from the old man, “my stop is up ahead and I have to get off. I should get my coat and –“
“He was a very quiet
boy,” said Daniel, who didn’t acknowledge my mild disinterest in hearing one
more story. “A few of the students
thought he might be a deaf-mute and tried sign language to communicate with
him.” He gave a quiet laugh.
“And he married well?”
I said, trying to move the story along.
“He had a rather
curious relationship with his French teacher,” he continued.
“Curious?” I said.
“She was quite young,”
Daniel said. “He asked her to his Senior
Prom. Of course, she refused, but helped
find him a date.”
“Why did you say
‘curious,’” I asked.
“Well, you know … he
loved her,” he said.
“When I was fifteen,”
I said, “I was in love with a woman on my paper route who made great meat
balls, but I never thought it was all that ‘curious.’”
“They met after school
in her classroom for extra lessons,” said Daniel. “She was French and very pretty. So sweet and
so very friendly.
“But if he couldn’t speak –” I said.
“Oh, he could write,” said Daniel. “He sometimes did so in his classes.”
“And after school?” I said.
Daniel looked at me
and smiled. “Ah hah,” he said with
mischief in his voice. “The boy asked her
for lessons, and he didn’t mean the
French language.”
“I hope she refused,”
I said.
“No,” said Daniel,
“she didn’t. There was more going on than most of the students realized.”
The conductor
announced my station. I had to leave,
but Daniel had captured my attention.
“So what happened?” I asked as I gathered up my newspaper,
magazine and umbrella.
“Yes, well what do you think happened?” said an almost leering Daniel.
“I don’t know,” I
replied, tired of this game.
“The boy won the door
prize at the Prom,” the old fellow continued without answering his own
question. “As he walked to the microphone to claim his prize, everyone was
embarrassed for him and they wondered what a person who couldn’t speak would
possibly have to say.”
“Not much, probably,”
I said.
“But for the first
time in anyone’s memory, he piped up and spoke! Everyone said he had a warm and
deep voice, and sounded just like the actor, Charles Boyer. Every girl in the
gym immediately fell in love with him.”
“Wait a minute,
Daniel,” I said. “Charles Boyer had a French accent.”
“That’s right!” said
Daniel. “She had been teaching him English.”
“Oh, c’mon,” I
said.
Daniel laughed at my
reaction. “He was a war orphan from France. Just learning English. That’s what he asked her to
teach him after school.”
“But someone in the
school must have –” I began.
Daniel interrupted and
rushed on with his story. “When he spoke
into the mike that night, he became an immediate hit with the young women at
school.”
The lights of my
station came into view and I reached up for my coat on the overhead rack. I had taken it off because the train was so
warm.
“The young man ended his senior year in a
blaze of romance and glory,” Daniel said.
“His entire high school social life took place after the night of the Senior
Prom, from May 18 to June 22, 1947. Movies and
cokes and milkshakes with 34 girls in our senior class.”
I laughed at yet
another tall story.
“OK, I said, “But
wasn’t he in love with –”
“You try refusing 34 girls,” said Daniel.
I smiled. The train slowed almost to a stop.
“Please tell me he married the great love of
his young life, his French teacher,” I said.
I held my coat and umbrella, ready to hop off the train.
“His English teacher, as it turned out,” he said. “But no, she wouldn’t have him. Instead she married the principal of the
school.”
“Well, that ruins a good
story,” I said.
Daniel’s smile faltered.
“OK, sorry,” I said, “what happened to the
boy? And when did he meet the heiress?”
“He had no money,” said
Daniel, “but a college scholarship took him to New Hampshire where he met and married the daughter of a lumber
merchant who was as rich as Croesus.”
“As a consolation prize,” I
said, “money isn’t all bad.”
“Money can be a terrible
consolation,” he said.
The conductor called out
the name of my station, the city of Hudson. I stood up
and stepped into the aisle. I turned to
say goodbye to Daniel. He stood and
gathered up his newspaper and a small valise.
“You’re getting off
here?” I said.
“Juliette is here,” he
said.
We stepped off the train on
to the platform as a brisk wind blew up from the river, my damp shirt chilling
me after the warm interior of the railroad car.
So many years ago a cold breeze often caused the girl to pull herself
closer to me. She would whisper in a
husky voice, “Keep me warm,” and I’d
reach my arm around her and sweep her to me.
With the few passengers
leaving the train, Daniel and I walked down the platform and through the
station out to the small apron of sidewalk.
We stopped at the edge of a circular driveway and were soon alone as the
others got in their cars and headed home to their firesides. My impatience to do the same had
evaporated. I was concerned for Daniel
and wondered if at his advanced age he was
senile and roaming around the countryside following people home.
“I live a few miles from
here,” I said. “Do you live here in Hudson?”
“Not in a long time,” he
said.
We stood like two gentlemen
waiting for our carriage. I wondered
if Juliette was the French teacher and
if she really lived here with the man she married, if he was still alive.
“I can see the city has
changed dramatically over the years,” Daniel said, as he gazed up the hill at a
mixture of new and old buildings, their faces lit by streetlights in the
downtown area.
“It probably didn’t look
like much in 1947,” I said, wondering how he would respond.
“It was a far better sight
than the bombed out buildings on the Rue St. Pierre,” he said.
“Are you the French
orphan?” I asked.
“Mon Dieu, vous es un
bon détective!,” he said.
“Your English has no
accent,” I said, but I now realized why his speech had sounded a bit odd.
“Not easy to rid myself of it,” he said with a chuckle.
“It was a hit with the girls in my class, but a handicap when doing serious
business in this country.”
“I guess Juliette is late,” I said.
“Juliette is not
coming,” he said. “I’m the one who is late.”
As he spoke, a black
limousine bounced into the circle from the street and pulled up in front of
us. A middle aged man in a white shirt
and black tie jumped out and came around to us on the passenger side of the
car. I thought he might ask us the way
to the nearest hotel or nearby town.
“May I offer you a
ride?” Daniel said, surprising me.
“Are you Mister
Droulette?” the driver said to the empty space between Daniel and myself.
Daniel indicated the
rear door with a slight wave of his hand and the man quickly stepped to open
it. I moved out of the way.
“I have my car here,”
I said, “but thank you.”
The old man carefully
folded himself into the back seat of the limo and put a frail hand out to stop
the driver from closing the door. He looked up at me.
“I lost my heiress
three years ago,” he said. “It was not a
happy marriage for either of us.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“And Juliette,” he
continued. “Now I’ve lost the
opportunity to speak with her one last time.
I always meant to call or write her.
Her funeral is here tomorrow.”
“I’m very sorry,” I
said. I felt awful for him.
“Neither of the loves
in my life worked out very well,” Daniel continued. “Perhaps I should have looked for someone who
laughed at my jokes. She would be a
treasure.”
Daniel smiled up at me
and nodded to the driver. The man closed
the door. The limo carried Daniel off to the funeral of a woman to whom he
could never again speak of his love. A
funeral can be a regrettable end to an unfinished conversation.
I turned from the
driveway and found a public telephone in the station.
“I
saw the mountains,” I said into the phone.
“Across the river …”
She
said nothing.
“I
can meet you at the restaurant you like in the village,” I said.
I
heard her breathe, nothing more.
“When
did we stop sitting together on the same side of the booth?” I asked.
She
began to cry.
“I
still want us to spend the rest of our lives together,” I said. “I want to keep you warm.”
copyright 2013
by David Griffin
