Sun, blue sky. The false spring of February, a nice break from Seattle’s usual winter gray. He stared out at the busy highway. Probably missing a nice fat trip downtown or even to the airport. Well, so what? Most of the time he had a sandwich in the cab, and most of the time it didn’t make any difference. It all evened out. Today, one lousy day out of six, he’d enjoy a nice luncheon and get back to work when he was good and ready.
The Wagon Stop Inn was an outpost of fifties Old West kitsch: ox yoke on the wall, wagon-wheel lights, horse figurines. Good to see the old places hanging on, if just barely. There was only one other person in the cafe, a woman in the corner booth. Small, short-haired, mousy-looking. A loner, like him?
He pulled the little gray envelope from his pocket and read the letter again. You seem to know a lot about me…If you persist, I will take legal action. I am serious about this. The words sat like lead pellets. Was it so bad, having someone like you? He put the letter on the table and resumed eating. The chiliburger was delicious.
Sun sun sun, staring glaring sun, like it was prying into her life. She hated it. It was bad to hate, that’s what her mom said. One must learn to love, her mom said, that’s what Jesus wanted. She loved her mom and she loved Jesus, the little baby in the manger, the dewy young man with long hair and kind eyes. But it was too bright. Why did it have to be so bright?
She took a small sip of her coffee and looked around the dining room. She was the only person there, except for the man by the window. It was quiet and restful in the café, with the western decorations and the nice man owner who didn’t talk loud. What she really liked was the little porcelain horses on the shelf. She had a horse like that, an appaloosa, when she was a girl, back when they watched Westerns on TV and she wanted to be a cowgirl more than anything.
What happened to her little horse? Her mom probably dumped it. She was always dumping things, like her Moon Goons and the clothes that she had outgrown but still liked, even though she cried and pleaded. “Don’t be silly,” her mom said. “You’re not a child anymore. Can’t keep everything.” Why not? Her mom was so unfair, sometimes. Maybe the horse was still there at the house. No, don’t be stupid, the house is gone. Sold. She hated thought of her pretty porcelain horse in the dump. Why hadn’t she gone and gotten it and her other things? She could be so stupid so goddamn stupid.
The owner came over and asked, “Would you like anything else, Miss?” He had a nice voice and a nice smile. She thought she might like a sandwich, but restaurants were expensive and they put all kinds of stuff in the food. You had to be careful. Coffee would be enough. She never drank coffee when she was a girl, but she was not a girl anymore so she could drink coffee whenever she damn well pleased, damn well pleased, and she damn well pleased now. She said “No, thank you” to the man smiling over her. It was nice how he called her “Miss.” Polite, old-fashioned, like his café. That was sweet. There needed to be more sweetness in the world but there wasn’t, there was hurt instead, like the hurt of missing her little horse and her mom. The hurt dug in sharper, now, aching and digging. She wished she could just cut it out of herself. But right now she had to get to Northgate, that was the important thing right now.
A cab driver? They would have scoffed, shaking heads, sardonic chuckles. College was prescribed, followed by money, professional status, a family. They could not imagine that their son would eschew putting on a suit and tie every day and making other people’s problems his life’s work. “What are you doing for work these days?” his father, knowing full well, had asked recently.
“Driving cab.”
“Can’t you find something better?”
Like what: lawyer? Bank president? Spy? A little late in the day. His parents had been all presumption and no help, not even to finding a summer job as a kid.
“I like what I’m doing,” he replied. It was pretty much the truth. There was no boss, no office politics, just you and the world. He liked the independence and moving around beneath the ever-changing sky and meeting people without having to be involved with them. A wife would be nice, a decent apartment with a television and some books, and going to the movies on Saturday. The old-time drivers, they bought houses and raised families. But in 1980 the numbers weren’t adding up. Something had happened.
A motorcycle cop pulled to the curb and dismounted. Old Lantern Jaw, a familiar face, must have been on the force forever. He came in and shucked off his leather jacket. The officer smiled at him, a nice, open smile. “Nice day!” He smiled back. “Beautiful!” He liked cops, he liked those motorcycle pants and tall black boots, wished he could wear clothes like that, but then, he wished he could do a lot of things. But you did what you did. You fret, you stew.
He picked up the letter. Gray stationery…small, neat cursive…no scent. Probably wrote it sitting at the old-fashioned desk in her tidy 1920s apartment. She liked old things and he liked that about her. I am serious about this. Okay, I can be serious, too. Life is serious business. Was she rejecting him because of his occupation? Probably. Women like someone with drive, ambition, guts. He liked the simple life, simple pleasures like the Wagon Stop Inn, so near her apartment. He wouldn’t stop coming here, necessarily, but he would have to stop haunting her street at sunrise, stop loitering in the nearby park, stop thinking about her. Someone else was waiting out there, he was sure of it. Time to move. He ate the last bits, pushed back in his chair, and waved at the owner for his check.
There was a knife at her place, sharp and jaggedy. What did they call it? Serrated. A steak knife. Her mom had knives like this at home, her dad liked meat, meat, meat, meat, meat all the time for dumb dumb dad, talking loud, loud loud loud, stupid dad. Then, suddenly, he left. To fuck some other woman, probably. Shitheel dad. “We don’t need to discuss it,” her mom said. She picked the knife up and turned it over in her hand, running her thumb along the sharp edge. How hard would she have to press before blood came out? She supposed they served a lot of meat in a place like this, a western place. She guessed that the man by the window and the big man who just came in would have meat. Meat meat meat, men men stupid men.
How far was Northgate? Her mom took her to the mall often, where everything smelled so nice and people seemed so happy just to be there and walk around and look. Her mom loved to look at the people and the displays in the shop windows, her mom in her short pants and bright blouses, “Oh, look! Look!” Her mom seldom—maybe never—bought anything, but she always took them to lunch in the Bon Marche, where the waitresses were extra-polite and everything was quiet and pleasant. She always had a chicken sandwich and a malted milk, her mom was always so happy when they ate there, they were both so happy. Yes, she would go to Northgate and maybe find some of those same shops and things. But she had no car and the sun was so awfully bright. How did she get here to this cafe? She couldn’t remember.
The owner put her bill on the table, smiled at her, and walked away. He probably wants to get in my pants, she thought. They all did, men, even the nice ones. She tried not to hate them, that was against her mother’s and Jesus’s teachings, completely against. But shitheels had to be hated, for all the bad things they did. The hurt feeling came up and soured her tongue and made her shake all over. Me and Mom were so happy when I had my little horse and we lived together at home. God, god, god. She took out a dollar and left it on the check, and slipped the steak knife into her handbag.
He stood, put his jacket on, nodded at the happily chewing patrolman, and walked to the door. As his hand touched the knob a small voice spoke behind him. “Excuse me, sir?”
He turned. It was the mouse-women. “Do you have a car?” Her voice was flute-like, almost inaudible.
“Yes, my taxi.”
Her face seemed to fall slightly. “You’re a taxi driver?”
“Yes.” Yes, I am a taxi driver.
“I have to get to Northgate. Can you take me to Northgate?” She looked away into the street, squinting at the light.
“Okay.” He led the way to the car, opened the passenger door for her, then got in and nosed out into the stream. He picked up the microphone, got on the dispatcher’s list, and pegged in fourth in the North. With luck, he’d get a trip not too long after he dropped her off. “I’ll just turn us around,” he said to the woman, “and we’ll head back up to Northgate.” He liked to let his customers know his route plans up front.
“All right,” she replied. “I have to get there soon. Will we be there soon?”
“Pretty soon, I think.” He wheeled deftly around the block and got in the northbound lane. He said no more. He didn’t talk to his passengers unless they clearly wanted conversation.
After a moment she said, “Your car is clean.”
“Oh, I like to keep it clean.”
“That’s nice.”
She sounded brighter now. He looked in the rearview; she wasn’t unattractive, but rather anemic-looking—lost, somehow. Her thin, clipped voice, Northgate Northgate, soon soon…her avoiding eyes: mildly disturbed, possibly.
She had seemed to like him. They went to two movies, to the Public Market, and on a beautiful Sunday walk in the park, after which they went to her apartment across the street and drank champagne and went to bed. It was his first time and he liked it. He called her twice that week and she didn’t answer. The third time she answered and said, “I think it’s best that we move on. I’m sorry.”
He did not want to move on. He sent her a poem the next day, then a letter telling about his days, his passengers, books he was reading, a recent meal he wished they could have shared, and how he didn’t believe she was just cutting him off. He drove by her apartment, he walked in the park, he reveled in being near where she lived. Then came the little gray envelope. His heart jumped when he saw the return address. He stood in his small attic room staring at it, not daring to open. He took a breath, gently prised open the envelope, and eased out the folded paper. The words tumbled in a blur. It seems that you have been watching me…I will take legal action. He threw the letter down and stared out the window, shaking.
From the back seat the frail voice wafted forward. “Sir? Where are you going?”
“Northgate. This is the most direct way.”
“I’ve never been this way before.”
The cab sped through the suburban clutter of Aurora Avenue, passed a concrete elephant perched above a florist’s shop.
“Is that an elephant?” she asked.
“Yes, been there for years.”
“Isn’t that funny, having an elephant there.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“You’re sure this is the way to Northgate.”
“Positive. We’ll head up here a few more blocks, then cut right over, be there in about ten minutes.”
“I have to get to Northgate. I have to find Daniel Berrigan.”
“Oh?” Berrigan, the anti-war activist priest. “Is he speaking someplace?”
“We’re supposed to meet at Northgate, but we keep missing each other.”
It was her stomach that first hurt. “Tummy,” her mom called it. “Is your tummy upset?” her mom would ask, hugging her close, and she would feel better. Her tummy got upset a lot and so her dad yelled at her a lot, Why are you always sick—sick, sick, sick! Her dad and his voice, loud loud loud, was probably what made her sick and her mom wouldn’t do anything except smile and say, “We don’t have to talk about that, okay?” Her mom kept trying to be nice to her dad all the time, cooking him steak and cleaning up after him even though he was a total complete shitheel.
One night when she was ten she heard them fighting. The loud angry voices punched through the night and her dad said, so loud that maybe he actually wanted her to hear, “She doesn’t love you, you know.”
Her mom’s voice came, weaker. Why so weak? Why didn’t she tell him how wrong he was? His voice cut her mom’s off: “Oh, bullshit! She doesn’t love you! She doesn’t love anybody. Just look at her eyes—she’s a little manipulator!”
Manipulator? It gnawed into her as she lay in bed, long ugly nasty word. After that she totally hated her dad and stayed away from him, which was easy because he pretty much stayed away from them, and more and more he stayed out at night, and then finally he left for good, probably to go fuck another woman, and she and her mom lived by themselves, and everything was so much better. On graduation day her mom smiled at the teachers and her friends, and afterward took her out to a special lunch. But when they got back home, her mom got a strange, hard look on her face and said, “So, what are you going to do now?”
The house was quiet, like it too was waiting for an answer. She looked around at the sunlit kitchen, suddenly alien and scary. “I don’t know…”
“Hah!” her mom huffed, crossing her arms. “Well, kid, you’d better think about it.”
Words choked and died in her throat. Why couldn’t she keep on doing what she had always done and live at home with her mom and watch TV and go out to eat and shop?
Then her mother said, “You’ve got to get off your duff, kid. Best get to gettin’.”
She hated the way her mom said “kid” and “get to gettin’.” Things her dad always said! Why would her mom say them too, even after he left them? It was like he actually took over her mom’s body and got inside, men always wanted to get inside women they were such pigs. It was her dad who made her mom turn into a shitheel. Manipulator. Then she realized that maybe her mom only really acted like she loved her in order to get back at her dad. And now he was gone so now she should be gone too.
The next day she went into town and asked a nice lady at the library and found out about some jobs, and got a job as a clerk. At first she liked it, being with other women who laughed and made jokes about the men and what shitheels they were. She had never laughed so hard, ever. But after a while the other women stopped being so nice, and one of the men started trying to get in her pants. She ended up hating him so she quit and went to another place. It was quiet there, and there were only older men who were actually nice. She felt nice making her own money now, and talking about her job with her mom.
But then one night they were watching TV and suddenly her mom asked her, “So, when are you going to get a place of your own?”
She felt sick again. “Mom—are you kicking me out?”
Her mom got the hard look again. “Isn’t it time you had your own place? You’re not a kid anymore, you know.” Her stomach turned over, stomach, which was grownups called it and what she called it, stomach, stomach, stomach, not stupid tummy, I’m not a kid anymore. She was so not a kid that she knew her mom probably wanted to get rid of her so she could have men over, stupid shitheel men. So, her mom was dumping her. She went to bed feeling sick and could not sleep, and at work next day she asked some of the girls if they knew any apartments close to downtown. One did, so she got a little studio in her same building, and lived there and walked to work. Sometime later her mother called and told her she was selling the house and moving into an apartment with a new man. By then she knew that her mom had probably actually never wanted her and probably actually always hated her.
Daniel Berrigan. Swell. Was she going to be a problem?Most people weren’t, but all it took was one. On another sunny day in February four years ago, Bruce Hardman, a nice young guy with a wife and kids, picked up a fare at Smitty’s Tavern, a guy who asked to be driven to Fisherman’s Terminal, then when they got there shot him in the head and left him dead. At the end of the day drivers gathered at the cab lot and cried or stared in shocked silence. For a while he tried to screen his bar and street pickups, looking closely at their faces and divining their malignancies. But the cruel momentum of time asserted itself, and aside from a drug dealer run-out and one belligerent drunk, his cab career had been uneventful and unmarred by violence. Still, fear always rode shotgun.
He turned east and passed the little duck pond where he sometimes liked to stop and watch the birds. It was nice, getting to see things, things you would never see working in an office. He zigged left and zagged right, hoping the frail, thin voice wouldn’t ask, Sir, where are you going? He knew the best way and he was taking it. They would be at the mall in five minutes, and then he’d move on.
He wouldn’t drive cab forever. He told himself that every day. The body wouldn’t stand it, sitting for twelve hours a day, six days a week. Some days he barely took anything home. Savings, nil. What could he offer a woman? He would find something that let him stand and move a little, something that paid a little more.
Recently he had begun writing poems. He knew nothing of poetry but he had been finding words that conveyed the grit and humor, the mystery and promise of the streets. He would keep on, maybe go to some readings, stand up and recite, become a new voice in a new scene. The idea excited him, even as he, taxi driver, drove his fare to Northgate. Poetry was something old, something magical, something that she would respect. Well, okay, so maybe he should forget her. He would, he could. I am serious about this. Okay, great, baby, you’re free, I’m free. Catch me if you can.
The sharp hard thing inside her pushed again. Was this like having a baby? She would never have one, she promised herself that. Never. A man lying on you—on top of you—was unthinkable. What did they smell like? She wrinkled her nose and grimaced.
Daniel was obviously not that kind of man. He had a nice face when she saw him on TV, this young minister who was obviously a kind man, a man with a nice face and brains and who was not a shitheel and who said on TV that he would be coming to Seattle, to a place that sounded just exactly like Northgate.
The cab driver had a nice face, too, sort of almost like Daniel’s face. This man had brains, you could see it in his face and in how he talked and kept his cab so clean, like he cared about others and wasn’t just a stupid shitheel man. Maybe he was going too fast but men always went too fast and anyway the car was clean and it smelled nice and maybe she wouldn’t mind if this man was with her that way. Oh god god god.
A strand of hair fell on her forehead and itched lightly. Maybe her hair was getting too long, maybe she should get it cut, there was a place she remembered once, maybe…God. She rubbed her hand on the seat, it was so smooth and cool, and she brought her hand to her face, slyly so he wouldn’t see, and sniffed it. It didn’t smell like anything, which she was glad, because all those bottoms sitting on the seat she was now sitting on, it was not something nice to think about, why she didn’t like taking cabs or the bus, but you had to get around, you couldn’t just stay in one place all the time, just like her mom had shown her, even if she had suddenly been a shitheel about it, for some reason. She wished she could ask her mom why.
She pushed the thought from her mind, hard. She had to think, but the thoughts were slow coming. She sighed softly and looked straight ahead. Daniel Berrigan would be there, wouldn’t he? She was sure he said “Northgate,” but maybe she wasn’t so sure.
He turned into the Northgate mall entrance and stopped in a loading zone. “This okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied.
“It’s four dollars, please.” He got out, went around to the other side, and opened her door. She took out a Chinese paper wallet and counted out four dollars and held it out to him. She squinted out into the light and remained seated.
The sun was high, the dispatcher came on, Cars vacant north… Calls waiting. Goddamn it, lady, get out.
She squinted into the light and gave a small shudder. “I don’t know,” she said, looking around at the parked cars, “maybe this isn’t right. There’s something else. I’d like to get a really good haircut. I think I can get a better one in Bellevue than here. I think I’d like to go to Bellevue.”
He felt himself shrink. Her hair was already short. He had to shake this one. “Bellevue’s a long way,” he said. “Could be expensive.”
“Don’t you want to take me to Bellevue?”
No, I don’t. “Sure, I’ll take you, but it could cost twenty dollars.” He looked hard at her. This was business. “Do you have it?”
Her eyes jittered. “Yes, I have it.”
“Okay.” He closed the door, got back in, and headed for southbound I-5.
“Do you know where I can get a good haircut in Bellevue,” she said after a moment.
“No, sorry, I don’t.” She was stealing the afternoon from him. He hated her.
A mile went by and she said, “I don’t know…I’d like to meet Daniel Berrigan, I think he was going to be at Northgate.”
Shit. “Are you sure he was going to meet you? It would be hard to find him…”
“We were supposed to be married, but something didn’t go right. We missed out.”
Shit shit.
“Daniel is probably waiting. I think I’d like to go back to Northgate.”
They could seem so gentle, so soft. Her lips had been like an ocean, he had drowned in those lips. But then she turned hard. Legal action…serious…This woman: her face was youthful, even gentle, but her lips looked thin and hard. Had she been abused, beaten? Or was she some naïve only child, a waif, a will-o-the-wisp? The thread was frayed, if there was a thread.
“Okay,” he said, “you want to go back?”
“Yes, to Northgate.”
“Yes, to Northgate,” he snapped. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Please go back to Northgate, now.”
She sounded hard now, too, as if she had suddenly found herself. Where had she been? How had she gotten to the Wagon Stop Inn, and how had he ended up with her? He took the next exit and turned back toward the mall, glancing again at the thin, set lips in the mirror.
He remembered the thin, set line of his own mother’s mouth after she gave him a spanking once. Love—what is it, when it goes flying off into the black zones of discipline and anger? His mother loved him, didn’t she? Of course, she did. And of course, there were moments when strong discipline was necessary, weren’t there? A little more might have done him some good, but why think of that? Here he was, driving down I-5 with a crazy woman in back, heading for—what? His mother: would she remember, or was home only a closed door?
“Stop here,” she ordered as he eased again into the loading zone. As he put the car in Park, she opened her door and walked away.
He yanked his door open and ran after the retreating figure. “Miss!” he yelled, “that’s six dollars.”
She squinted up at him, then looked away. “I don’t think I’m going to pay you.”
“Why not?” His heart pounded. He hated her.
“I felt like there was something wrong. Something like an insult.”
“Well, I’m sorry if you felt insulted. I didn’t intend any insult. But I’ve driven you where you asked and you have to pay.”
Her mouth made an odd jittering motion. “Well, I don’t feel right. We’ll see. Next time.”
The hard-boiled cabby took charge: “Look, lady, there is no ‘next time’. If you go to a store and get a loaf of bread, you have to pay for it, right? This is the same thing.”
She shook her head. “You’re pleading with me, but I don’t think I will. We’ll see how it goes.”
His face tightened with bewilderment. It was a look he hadn’t felt on his face since he was a kid. “No,” he said, in a hard, tight voice. “Pay me. Now.”
If a cougar jumped on you, would you fight to the death? Or would your scruples stop you from gouging it in the eyes, even at the price of your life? How far do “civilized” people have to be pushed to defend themselves and their rights as individuals?
She wasn’t a cougar, she was a woman, a little stupid crazy mouse woman who was now skinning him. Him, a simple working man who lived with failure every goddamn day. She turned and started walking, he grabbed her canvas bag and pulled it from her shoulder. She staggered. In a thin, parched voice she said, “Don’t touch my things, sir!”
“You owe me, lady.” He jabbed his hand in the bag and removed the wallet, opened the red Chinese paper wallet with the golden dragon, and extracted a ten-dollar bill. He put the wallet back in the bag and handed the bag to her. “What the hell, lady! I’m going to have to call the cops.”
Her eyes went black, something glinted in her hand. A knife.
“Hey, hey,” he said. “Look…”
“You shouldn’t take my purse, you shouldn’t have taken my things!” She was shaking. She held the knife up and made a jerking movement across her arm, brushing the fabric of her light jacket.
“Jesus, stop! This it nothing to hurt yourself over.”
“No, you stop! You men, you take everything!” She pushed the knife edge into her arm.
“Please, miss, don’t, it’s not worth it. You need help, let me find some help for you, okay?”
Her face creased nastily. “Help? Men can’t help! Men are all shitheels!”
Fortunately, she was short and her grip loose. He kicked the knife from her hand and it clattered thinly on the asphalt. She raised her hands and flailed them helplessly. He backed away from her. “Why the hell did you do that?” he said, voice trembling. “I didn’t want to take your money, but you owed it to me. You can’t cheat people.” He jumped into the seat and radioed emergency.
She walked quickly away toward the mall. She couldn’t see very well, it was so bright, why was it so bright in February, like it wouldn’t leave her alone, like it was saying You’re not a child anymore, we can see you now, we can all see you, right out in the sun, and you still act like a child, kid kid kid MANIPULATOR…She kept walking, faster now, faster, faster. The mall was near, now, the shops, the displays, the cool dim light, so nice, like it was. Why couldn’t it always be like that? “Mom?” she whispered. She took out the small paring knife. It felt hot under her hand, hot and hard and sticky. The knife didn’t go very far in, maybe not far enough. She felt faint.
“Mom? Mom?” She kept walking, the cool dark doorway came closer, closer.