“Oh, that one.”
“Yeah.”
“But it’s not a line.” he said.
“I’m Grace, huh?” she said, nodding.
“Yeah.”
“Mmm,” she said. She kept nodding. “And you’re Seymour.”
“Well, no, I’m not Seymour.”
“Then who are you?”
“I don’t know. Who do you think I am?”
She shrugged. “You’d have to tell me a little about yourself before I could even guess. How old are you?”
“Thirty-nine. How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“What were you doing at the dock?”
“Meeting a friend. Well, an acquaintance really. He’s in the Peace Corps, and he just got back from Africa. He used to be a social worker, you see.” She paused. “That’s how I know him.” She paused again. “I’m a social worker, too, you see.”
“Oh, that’s good,” he said.
“Why?”
“Well, you’re probably very good at interviewing.”
“Yeah... well... mmm,” she said, and shrugged. “You’re married, aren’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I can tell.” She paused. “I’m always getting involved with married men. I don’t know what the hell it is.” She shook her head. “Do you have any children?” She shook her head again. “Never mind, don’t answer. You’ve probably got six of them.” She paused, studying him. “What do you do for a living?”
“Is this the interview?”
She smiled. “Yeah, sure, this is the interview.”
“I’m a pretty bad subject,” he said. “What do you think I do for a living?”
“Let me see your hands.” He held them out to her, and she looked at them briefly, and then dropped them, and was thoughtfully silent as they began walking again.
“Do you know what a tort is?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a civil wrong or injury to a plaintiff.”
“What’s a misdemeanor?” she asked quickly.
“Any crime that isn’t a felony,” he answered.
“And what’s a felony?”
“A crime punishable by death or imprisonment in a state prison.”
“What’s the maximum penalty for burglary?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” Buddwing said.
“Okay, what’s the name of the most popularly used reference book on evidence?”
“I don’t know.”
Grace nodded in disappointment and studied him again. She seemed to be preparing a further list of questions in her mind, and then suddenly she asked, “What’s a catheter?”
“A hollow tube.”
“What’s it used for?”
“For draining off body fluids.”
“Is morphine a depressant or an excitant?”
“A depressant.”
“What about codeine?”
“An excitant.”
“And scopalamine?”
“Is that a drug?” Buddwing asked.
“Yeah, well, skip it,” Grace said. She thought for a moment, and then asked, “Who wrote Gone With the Wind?”
“Margaret Mitchell.”
“Who published the book?”
“I don’t know.”
“What are the names of some New York publishers?”
“Doubleday, Random House, Macmillan...”
“What are pages?”
“Pages?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean pages? Like in a book?”
“Never mind,” Grace said. “If the market is bearish, what does that mean?”
“Weak.”
“What’s it called when it’s strong?”
“Bullish.”
“What’s the current quote on A.T. & T.?”
“I don’t know.”
“General Motors?”
“I don’t know.”
“I.B.M.?”
“I don’t know. What’s an A and R man?” Buddwing asked.
“What?”
“An A and R man.”
“I don’t know,” Grace said. “What is it?”
“Ah-hah,” Buddwing said, and they both laughed.
“All right, I give up,” she said. “Is that what you are? An A and R man?”
“Nope.”
“Then what are you?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know anything about myself.”
“What?”
“I don’t know who I am,” he said, and shrugged almost cheerfully.
“Really?” she said, and stopped on the corner suddenly, looking at him with what he realized was professional interest, a social worker’s curious, sympathetic, detached, probing look.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she said.
“Yes.”
“About not knowing who you are, I mean.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“You’re not kidding me? I mean, this isn’t part of your line?”
“No. No.”
“Mmmm.” She kept studying him thoughtfully, nibbling at the inside of her mouth. “How long... when did this happen?” she asked.
“This morning. When I woke up.”
“Mmm. You just don’t know who you are, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Mmmm.”
He could feel the professional interest completely overwhelming whatever other interest had previously existed. He felt a bit put out by this new turn of events, as though he had suddenly become a client in her case load rather than a person. He did not want to be a client; he wanted to be himself. And he had thought Grace, of all people, would certainly see him as himself, rather than as some damn stupid client in a case load. He knew immediately that he had to get her off this track, had to swing the conversation back to its main topic, which was, after all, a man and a woman on a street corner: Out here, Miss Jones, a man is a man and a woman is a woman.
“Look,” he said, “let’s not worry about—”
“Haven’t you got any identification on you?” she asked.
“No. But I wish you wouldn’t worry a—”
“And no money, you’ve already told me that.”
“That’s right. Listen, do you think we could—”
“Do you have anything at all that might—”
“I don’t see what difference—”
“—help to identify—”
“Look, couldn’t we just forget it?”
“But I want to help, you see.”
“Yes, but...”
“I want to help,” she said, very softly.
“Well...”
“Are you carrying anything that might—?”
“I have an address book with a telephone number in it,” he said wearily.
“Have you tried calling the number?”
“Yes. She doesn’t know me.”
“Who would that be?”
“A woman named Gloria Osborne.”
“Would you mind if I called her?”
“What good would that do? I went to see her. She doesn’t know me.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“No.”
“Do you know where we are?”
“Sure. We’re on Broadway.”
“What city?”
“Oh, come on, Grace. New York.”
“Why do you think my name is Grace?”
“You haven’t told me it isn’t, have you?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Well, you haven’t told me what it is. I mean, if it isn’t Grace.”
“Mmm,” she said. “Do you live here in New York?”
“I think so.”
“Would you happen to remember where?”
“No.” Buddwing paused. “I have a New York Central timetable in my pocket, if that means anything.”
“Oh? May I see it?”
Buddwing shrugged and handed her the schedule. “Oh my, there are a great many towns on the line,” she said gently, professionally. “Is it possible you’re from one of these towns?”