More than two decades later such thoughts
provided me a bittersweet reverie as I
sat deep in the seat of the railroad car and stared out the window at those
same mountains. The setting sun gilded
their peaks with golden light and evoked a haunting beauty as it shined through
the hemlocks and oaks and cascaded down to the river. But the beautiful scene held an unwelcome
truth. It heralded the dying of the day.
The sun would desert the mountains as they disappeared into the evening
gloom, a reminder that nothing lasts forever.
Everything grows cold.
These
somber thoughts were interrupted when an older man came up to me soon after we
left Manhattan and asked if he could take the vacant window seat
next to me. I always sat by the aisle so
I could stretch my legs. I turned
sideways and the man squeezed by me. He
had a full head of white hair and a narrow, patrician face. He sat down and introduced himself. His name was Daniel and he immediately
launched into one story after another that at first concerned his exploits in
business as a young man. Although many
of his yarns were not entirely believable, they did entertain me. Now in his mid eighties, he said, his sense
of humor was infectious but incessant, like a song that loses its frisson when
played over and over. His voice was
cultured and urbane, and it matched his
good looks. He spoke with an odd
cadence, but the effect was pleasant and summoned to my mind movie heroes from
the 1940s and 50s.
When he wasn’t telling
me how he became the president of his company by age 30 or how he met the king
of a Tanzanian principality during an African Safari, Daniel wove his
narratives around the only thread most rail passengers had in common, the daily stories flooding the newspapers, many exhibiting the unfortunate
trend toward an emphasis on celebrity rather than real news. The evening headlines mentioned a young man
who married a rich woman for her fame and fortune, with tragic results.
“Marrying for money is
never a good idea,” Daniel said, the smile leaving his face.
I laughed. “I wouldn’t
know, but I always imagined it would be a great way to pay the bills.”
“That is certainly a
consideration,” he said.
“When I was a
youngster,” I said, following Daniel’s example of exaggeration, “all of us boys wanted to grow up and marry a
billionaire widow or a young woman of wealth.”
“But you were too
young to appreciate the complexities of such an arrangement,” he said.
“Maybe so,” I said and
laughed again. “But we were serious
about our futures. We sat on the steps of the neighborhood grocery store and
sucked root beers up our noses through straws and discussed who we wanted to
have conjugal relations with.”
“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 inquired.
“We seem to argue an
awful lot,” I said.
“Ah,” he said. “Perhaps, the thrill is gone?”
“I sincerely hope
not,” I said, and 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.” he said. “And was 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 at 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. It was time to go.
“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.
“May I offer you a
ride?” Daniel said to 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.
“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.”
