“No, I don’t think so. I’m from New York, I think.”
“Do any of these town names mean anything to you? Do you recognize them?”
“Recognize them?”
“Well, do any of them mean anything to you?”
“I know where they are, if that’s what you mean. I know what towns they are.”
“Bronxville?”
“Yes, I know where that is.”
“Does it mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“White Plains?”
“No.”
“Valhalla?”
“No.”
“Chappaqua?”
“No.”
“Mount Kisco?”
“None of them mean anything to me.”
“How about Katonah?”
“None of them.”
“Croton Falls?”
“I told you...”
“Do you have any idea why this timetable would be in your jacket pocket?”
“No.”
“Are you carrying anything else in your pockets?”
“Yes. A pen and pencil set, and two theater stubs.”
“Legitimate?”
“What?”
“The legitimate theater?”
“No. Movie stubs. They’re movie stubs.”
“Would you remember which movie?”
“Something with Kim Novak.”
“When did you see it?”
“Last night.”
“Well, now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we?” she said, and smiled such a goddamn solicitous social-worker smile that he wanted to punch her in the mouth.
“Are we?” he asked.
“Well, we know you went to a movie last night, and obviously someone was with you, since there are two stubs.”
“I knew that when I woke up this morning,” he said coldly.
“Where was that?”
“In Central Park.”
“Did you know where you were at the time?”
“Yes.”
“Were you surprised? Waking up in Central Park?”
“I don’t remember what I was. I think I was confused. Because I didn’t know who I was.”
“What I meant was—”
“It’s a little eerie walking up and not knowing who you are, you know,” he said sarcastically.
“Yes, I know,” she said sympathetically, and smiled. “What I was driving at was whether the neighborhood seemed strange to you.”
“Central Park?”
“Yes, Central Park.”
“How would Central Park be strange to anyone who lives in New York?”
“I meant the surrounding neighborhood.”
“Fifth Avenue?”
“Yes, if that’s where it was.”
“Yes, that’s where it was,” Buddwing said.
“Did it seem strange to you?”
“No, of course not. How the hell could Fifth Avenue seem strange? That’s a pretty stupid question, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“I mean, I’ve lived in New York all my life; how could Fifth Avenue seem strange? It’s Fifth Avenue, what else could it be?”
“Of course,” Grace said understandingly.
He was getting angrier every moment they talked. Her professional interest seemed to have moved beyond that now, seemed to have overgrown its own bounds and become a directing force. Doggedly, she persisted in shoving him toward a truth he did not wish to recognize. Stubbornly, he resisted. What’s the matter with you? he thought. Why won’t you just accept me? Do we have to go all over this? Don’t you know how much this hurts?
“What’s my last name?” she asked suddenly.
“How would I know?” he answered coldly.
“Well, you seem to think I’m Grace.”
“I’m not sure any more,” he said sharply, hoping to hurt her.
“But Grace what?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said.
“Could it be the same as your last name?”
“Yes, I suppose it could.”
“Is it possible she’s your wife?”
“It’s possible,” he said. “Anything’s possible.”
“Well, is she?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“Then she might be, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, she might be. But she isn’t.”
“How old is she? Would you remember that?”
“She’s thirty-six,” he said. “She looks younger.”
“When did you see her last?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try to remember.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Tell me what you do remember.”
“I don’t remember anything at all about her,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.
“Well, how about your parents, then?”
“My mother has no mouth,” he said, and then frowned in puzzlement.
“What?”
“I mean she has very thin lips,” he said quickly. “When she takes off her lipstick, her mouth vanishes.”
“Is she alive? Your mother?”
“Yes. Wait, I don’t know. I think so. Maybe.”
“And your father?”
“He owns a cafeteria,” he said immediately, and immediately felt confused. She was confusing him, the bitch.
“What’s his name?”
“Isadore Schwartz.” Confusion and anger. Why was she
“Well, there you are,” she said, smiling. “If his name is Schwartz, then your name must be—”
“No. I changed it,” he said tightly.
“To what?”
“Buddwing.” Leave me alone, he thought.
“Well, in any case—”
“That’s not my name, either,” he said angrily.
“Then what is your name?”
“For Christ’s sake, don’t you know?” he shouted.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Must we start with a goddamn argument?”
“Don’t shout at me,” she said.
“Why the hell must we—”
“I said don’t shout. I’m trying to help you.”
“Well, I don’t need your goddamn help.”
“I’m not sure you know what you need,” she said.
“I sure as hell don’t need you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t shout. People are looking at us.”
“The hell with people,” he said triumphantly: if she was at least aware of people as people, then perhaps she would begin to recognize him as a person, too. “Do we have to start with an argument, Grace?” he asked gently.
“Start?”
“Yes, start. Do we have to argue?”
Her face was now very serious, and her voice very low, and she said, “I’m not starting anything. Not with you, mister. You’ve got too many problems.”
“So have you,” he answered, and she looked at him in startled surprise, and he knew he had finally and magically pierced the social-worker armor to reveal the soft and throbbing vulnerable flesh beneath it. She kept staring at him. Something was happening in her eyes and on her face. Something terrible was happening, and he watched it and wished for a moment that it would not happen because he knew that once it did, they would be tied to each other forever.
“My problems are my business,” she said softly.
“Yes. And mine are mine.”
“Okay, so let’s keep them separate and apart,” she said.
“Okay, let’s do that,” he said, and turned from her abruptly and began walking away, feeling he was escaping, feeling an enormous wave of relief.
“Hey!” she yelled after him.
He stopped and turned to face her.
“What are you going to do now?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Well... you can’t just go wandering around.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Because you need help.”
“Every goddamn person on the face of this earth needs help,” he said angrily.