As I was going to bed I opened Transition at random. My eye fell on this sentence: Our human biological presence carries in its body two hundred rudiments: how many the soul carries is unknown.
How many the soul carries! With this phrase on my tongue I plunged into a profound trance. In my sleep I reenact a scene out of life … I am with Stanley again. We are walking rapidly in the dark towards the house where Maude and the little one live. Stanley is saying that it is a silly, futile thing to do, but since I wish it he will go through with it. He has the key to the front door; he keeps reassuring me that no one will be home. What I want is to see what the child’s room looks like. It is ages since I have seen her and I am afraid that when I next meet her—when?—she won’t recognize me any more. I keep asking Stanley how big she is, what she wears, how she talks, and so on. Stanley answers gruffly and brusquely, as usual. He sees no point to this expedition.
We enter the house and I explore the room minutely. Her toys intrigue me—they are lying everywhere. I begin to weep silently, as I examine her toys. Suddenly I perceive a battered old stuffed doll lying on a shelf in a corner. I tuck it under my arm and motion to Stanley to clear out. I can’t utter a word, I’m shaking and sputtering.
When I awake next day the dream is still vivid with me. Out of habit I get into my old clothes, a pair of faded corduroys, a torn, frayed denim shirt, a pair of busted shoes. I haven’t had a shave for two days, my head is heavy, I feel restless. The weather has changed overnight; a cold, fall wind is blowing and it threatens to rain. In listless fashion I kill the morning. After lunch I don an old cardigan jacket out at the elbows, slap my wilted hat over my ear, and set out. I’ve become obsessed with the idea that I must see the child again, at any cost.
I emerge from the subway a few blocks from the house and with eyes pealed I edge into the danger zone. I creep nearer and nearer to the house, until I am at the corner, only half a block away. I stand there a long while, my eyes riveted to the gate, hoping to see the little one appear any moment. It’s getting chilly. I put my collar up and pull my hat down over my ears. I pace back and forth, back and forth, opposite the lugubrious Catholic church made of mossgreen stone.
Still no sign of her. Keeping to the opposite side of the street, I walk rapidly past the house, hoping that I may detect a sign of life indoors. But the curtains have been pulled to. At the corner I stop and begin pacing to and fro again. This goes on for fifteen, twenty minutes, perhaps longer. I feel lousy, itchy, crummy. Like a spy. And guilty, guilty as hell.
I’ve almost decided to return home when suddenly a troop of youngsters swing around the far corner opposite the church. They run wildly across the street, shouting and singing. My heart is in my throat. I have a feeling that she is among them, but from where I stand it is impossible to pick her out. Now I hasten towards the other corner. When I get there I see no signs of them. I’m baffled. I stand there like a lost soul for a few minutes, then decide to wait. After a few moments I notice a grocery store a few doors beyond the church. It’s just possible they are in the store. Carefully now I ease up the side street. A bit beyond the store, on the opposite side of the street, of course, I dash up a stoop and stand at the top of the stairs, my heart pounding like mad.
I’m sure now that they are all in the grocery store. Not for a second do I take my eyes off the door. Suddenly I realize that I am rather conspicuous, standing there at the top of the stairs. I lean back against the door and try to make myself inconspicuous. I am shivering, not so much with cold as with fright. What will I do if she spots me? What will I say? What can I say or do? I am in such a state of funk that I am almost on the point of bolting down the steps and running away.
Just then, however, the door opens with a bang and three children dash out. They dash right into the middle of the street. One of them, seeing me standing on the stoop, suddenly grabs the others by the arm and rushes back into the store with them. I have a feeling that it was my own little one who did this. I avert my gaze for a few moments, trying to appear nonchalant and disinterested in their behavior, as though I were waiting for someone to come out of the house from above and join me. When I look again I see a little face pressed against the window pane of the door across the way. She is looking up at me. I look at her long and hard, unable to tell if it is she or not.
She withdraws and another little one presses her nose against the glass pane. Then another and another. Then they all retreat into the depths of the store.
A panicky feeling now overcomes me. It was her, I am certain of it now. But why are they so shy? Or is it that they are afraid of me?
Beyond the shadow of a doubt it is fear which grips them. When she looked up at me she didn’t smile. She looked intently to make sure it was me, her father, and no other.
Suddenly I realize how disgraceful is my appearance. I feel my beard, which seems to have grown an inch longer. I look at my shoes and the sleeves of my jacket. Damn it, I might well pass for a kidnapper.
Kidnapper! Her mother had probably dinned it into her that if she ever ran across me in the street she must not listen to me. Run home immediately and tell mamma!
I was crushed. Slowly, painfully, like one broken and bruised, I descended the steps. When I reached the foot of the stoop the door of the grocery store was suddenly flung open and out trooped the whole group, six or seven of them. They ran as if the Devil himself were pursuing them. At the corner, though cars were speeding by, they turned obliquely and ran for the house—our house. It seemed to me that it was my little one who stopped in the middle of the street—for just a second—and looked around. It could have been one of the others, of course. All I could be certain of was that she was wearing a little bonnet trimmed with fur.
I walked slowly to the corner, stood there a full minute gazing in their direction, then marched rapidly towards the subway station.
What a cruel misadventure! All the way to the subway I chided myself for my stupidity. To think that my own daughter should be frightened of me, that she should run away from me, in terror! What a pass!
In the subway I stood in front of a slot machine. I looked like a bum. a derelict. And to think that maybe I would never see her again, to think that this might be the last impression of me she would retain! Her own father crouching in a doorway, spying on her like a kidnapper. It was like a horrible cheap movie.
Suddenly I recalled my promise to Ulric—to see Maude and talk things over. Now it was impossible, utterly impossible. Why? I couldn’t say. I knew only that is was so. I would never see Maude again, not if I could help it. As for the little one—I would pray, yes, pray to God, to give one more chance. I must see her and talk to her. When, though? Well, some day. Some day when she would be able to see things in a better light. I begged God not to let her hate me … above all, not to let her fear me. It’s too horrible, too horrible, I kept mumbling to myself. I love you so, my little one. I love you so much, so much…
The train came along, and as the doors slid open, I began to sob. I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and stuffed it over my mouth. I almost ran to the vestibule where I hid myself in a corner, hoping the noise of the grinding wheels would drown my convulsive sobs.
I must have been standing there like that a few minutes, unconscious of anything but my aching misery, when I felt a hand gently pressing my shoulder. Still holding the handkerchief to my mouth, I turned around. An elderly lady dressed all in black was looking at me with a most compassionate smile.
My dear man, she began, in a soft, soothing voice. My dear man, what on earth has happened
