ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Chaiti Sen was a teacher in New York City for ten years before relocating to Austin, Texas. She has an MFA from Hunter College, where she studied with Peter Carey. Her work has appeared in ColorLines Magazine and Asia Pacific American Journal.

Northeast Corridor

By Chaiti Sen


At noon on June 19th, Leonard stood perspiring in his gabardine suit at the corner of 32nd Street and Seventh Avenue.  That morning he had not packed a suitcase, so he was wearing today what he would wear tomorrow, ignoring the question of toiletries, which struck him as a delightful gesture of non-cooperation. It was unwise because now his hands wanted to carry something and be anchored down.  He occasionally shoved them in his pockets where puddles of sweat gathered in the grooves of his palms.  Across the street was Pennsylvania Station, which seemed to float towards him like a massive glacier.  He once heard that a glacier’s movement was caused by the displacement of its base as it collapses under its own weight.  That unconfirmed detail had been lodged in the corner of his brain for nearly thirty years.

He rubbed a throbbing ache at the back of his neck. His eyes drifted above the pillared portico to the enormous clock set in a stone wreath.  It was roughly ten minutes after twelve.  He moved his gaze to the female figures of Day and Night leaning casually on either side of the clock, their hips seductively thrust to the north and south, the ruffles of their luxurious robes sculpted over the curves of their lovely bodies.  It calmed him to fixate on the statues, amazed at how much movement can be coaxed out of a block of stone.

He waited for some traffic to pass, then fought a surge of nausea as he walked across the street to the entrance of the station.  There he paused amidst the Doric columns which rose like redwoods over a stone canopy.  He placed his palm on one that felt cool and smooth, hoping it would settle some of his anxiety.  Eventually he gave up and sat down at the base of the column.  He tried to appreciate his present surroundings. He was lucky to be in this great city, to not have to raise his children in a time of upheaval, to not be separated from them through war and strife.

It was quiet here, a sanctuary nestled between the commotion of the street and the frenzy of the station.  He reached for his cigarettes, and as he pulled the carton out of his pocket, his fingers brushed the folded subpoena.  His shaking hands made it difficult to keep his lighter steady.  He imagined rolling up the subpoena, putting it in his mouth, and lighting it.

He had received the subpoena and the news of Robert’s suicide on the same day.  Neither came as a surprise to Leonard, and he found himself asking Emily what difference it would make if he never had another play produced.  He was never fanatical about his work; Robert knew that.  He could still write on an amateur level, casting his children,neighbors, or blacklisted actors, and directing it in his backyard.  He could always get a sales job and with Emily’s income they would be all right.  Emily looked at him, smiling wanly and nodding, until she put her cheek against his and quieted him down.

Emily knew it was not the loss of his livelihood that frightened him.  He could not quite put his finger on what really scared him.  Davis told him the committee would easily dismiss him.  Considering Robert’s obviously agitated testimony, all Leonard had to do was come off as innocently bewildered.  Then, Davis assured him, the worst that would come of all this would be one wasted and unpleasant afternoon. 

After his cigarette, Leonard stood up and let his hands fall to his sides.  He faced the smoky glass doors, holding his breath, as if he was going underwater. 

And then he was in the vestibule, looking down a set of marble stairs to the Grand Waiting Hall. As he descended, the fluorescent awning of the ticket counter came into view, appearing to Leonard like a flying saucer crashed into the side of a Roman basilica.  .  Only when he reached the bottom could he see the glorious lunettes, with dusty beams of sunlight streaming through their glass panels.     

In the vast Waiting Hall, people kept a respectful distance from one another.  There was a drone of voices and footsteps, people appearing and disappearing in Leonard’s peripheral vision.  The ticket counter stretched in a zigzag across a good length of the Waiting Hall, blocking off the old marbled entryway to the concourse.  Leonard found himself on a path towards a man with a pink face knotted with wrinkles, bumps, and protruding veins.  A thin layer of gray hair covered his scalp, and when Leonard approached the counter he was met with two dewy blue eyes that were dwarfed by a pair of thick brows.  On his jacket the man wore a pin that read Q. O’Dwyer.

“Two tickets to Washington,” said Leonard.

Q. O’Dwyer breathed through his mouth as he pressed some buttons.  He looked up and gently slid the tickets across the counter. “Two tickets to our nation’s capital,” he said.  There was a touch of nostalgia in his voice.

“Do you know it well?” Leonard asked. He took his time finding his wallet.

“I was there after the war. You going to meet Eisenhower?”

Leonard saw O’Dwyer’s broad pink-gummed smile and knew seconds too late that he did not react to the question appropriately.  Instead, after a long delay, he answered “No. Not the president.”  O’Dwyer had clearly lost interest.

“I am going on official government business,” Leonard added.  He felt a need to continue talking while he looked for his wallet. 
O’Dwyer raised his two caterpillar brows.

“I’ve been subpoenaed, you see.”

And that, presumably, would explain why Leonard could not carry on the kind of good-humored small talk that normally accompanied tedious transactions.  He winced and reached into all of his pockets again for his wallet.  Finally, he pulled it out of his jacket and took out twelve dollars, placing it on the counter and apologizing for the delay. 

“You must be rather important,” said O’Dwyer.  He covered the money with his thick fingers and took it away.

Leonard let out a laugh that was dangerously close to a cackle.  “Not at all.  I’m a writer.”

“Aaah! The pen is mightier than the sword!”

“I don’t know,” said Leonard. “I’m much more frightened of the sword than the pen.”

Then O’Dwyer chuckled.  He leaned forward.

“If you ask me, it’s the inmates running the asylum down there.  They wouldn’t know what’s good for the country if it bit ‘em in the ass.”

It was not at all what Leonard had been expecting.  Before he could react, O’Dywer returned to his professional posture and said, “Good luck to you, son.”  It was Leonard’s cue to go, so he stepped back clumsily and opened his mouth, but not knowing what to say, simply said  “Thank you.”  Then with more conviction he said it again. Then, accepting that there would never be a satisfactory conclusion to this interlude, he turned around and walked towards the newspaper kiosk at the far end of the Waiting Hall.

But he couldn’t stop his mind from replaying the scene, not knowing what to make of the statement.  What’s good for the country, he had said.  It could mean anything or it could mean nothing and simply be an impulsive bit of anti-government rhetoric.  The kind of thing these union men have in their repertoire.  It didn’t mean that he believed in Leonard’s innocence, or had any understanding of the alleged crime.

At the kiosk he bought a newspaper, quickly reading the first headline before allowing his mind to return to Mr. O’Dwyer, and the moment the man said, “Good luck to you, son.”  Leonard tried to remember his expression, the tone of his voice.  It seemed sincere.  Certainly it was sincere.  Sympathetic. 

By now Leonard was disgusted with himself.  Why did he elevate everything to such a goddamn monumental level?  He resolved not to think about it from that moment forward.  He would be grateful for the kindness, and use it only to boost his confidence.  It was 12:35, and he needed all the confidence he could muster.

He folded the newspaper in half and walked to the concourse, which he loved almost as much he loved the Gare du Nord in all its dilapidated glory.  Here, he never tired of the billowing ceiling of trellised steel and curved glass.  Leonard got lost for a moment in the stark contrast of black steel and white light.

He chose a seat at a bench by the West Gates where Davis could find him easily.  He placed the newspaper on his lap and began reading.  9 IN SHOW BUSINESS BALK AT QUERIES ON COMMUNIST TIES.  Davis had advised him to plead the Fifth on any political inquiries, but Leonard questioned the strategy until Davis became exasperated.  Leonard argued that if one selectively chose to plead the Fifth to some questions and not others, the implication was that the answer to those questions would have been incriminating.  Davis did not have a convincing counter-argument, but nevertheless tried to school Leonard on how the committee saw things, while Leonard insisted that the committee’s objective was not to find spies but to alarm the American people, who were already deeply frightened. 

Finally Davis threw up his hands and said, “Why don’t you just tell them everything?  Tell them everything they want to know!”         

Leonard tried to read the article again.  One of the 9 was Charlie, whom he had worked with years earlier.  He lit a cigarette and squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds. The concourse seemed strangely quiet.  This was one of the few spots in the station where one could be still, side by side with others.  Next to him an attractive Negro woman sat with a small child, a boy of about four, but they were so involved with each other that it was impossible to hear what they said.  Across from them sat an older man wearing a flannel shirt and fisherman’s cap who seemed keenly interested in the people around him, turning his head and staring for long intervals at various neighbors, including Leonard, as if he were studying the night sky through a telescope.  On another day Leonard would have gone over to find out where he was from and get his story.  He was somewhat saddened to miss the opportunity today, but his thoughts were in quicksand and he needed to get a hold of them. 

Sometimes, Leonard imagined himself leaning back in his chair, cool and suave, deflecting the committee’s interrogation with sheer cleverness.  He imagined himself saying, at the very end, “If anyone I know has designs to overthrow the government, you have nothing to worry about.”   He tried the line out on Emily and she thought it was funny.  She threw her head back and laughed, as if he were courting her for the first time.

But Leonard was not cool and suave, nor had he ever had the ability to win a political argument.  He only had certain instincts, certain prejudices and sentiments that attracted him to certain ideas.  He wanted the world to be different, not this cauldron of savage chaos.  Surely if there was the possibility of something more egalitarian, some way in which one’s destiny did not depend on the accidental circumstances of one’s birth, it seemed to Leonard worth investigating.  All he dared was a little investigation. 

Davis suddenly appeared beside him, his stout arms squeezed into a too slim jacket. He was out of breath and dabbing a handkerchief on his forehead. Davis had a friendly, comforting, pasty face that did not match his personality in the least.

“This fucking station.  It’s like crossing a football field.”

“You’re out of shape, Davis. You’re going to have a heart attack.”

Davis nudged Leonard over and sat down, acknowledging the headline with his eyes.  “Did you read about Charlie?”

Leonard looked at it again.  “It says they balked.”

“Don’t worry about it.  Charlie was a member.”

“What is balking, exactly?  I don’t think I’ve ever been coached in balking.”

Davis looked towards the West Gate.  “Tell me you got the tickets.”

“I got them.”

Leonard handed them both over.  “Why don’t you hold onto them?” asked Davis.

“I’d rather you.”

Davis sighed and took the tickets.

They sat without talking for a few minutes.  Davis held a silver cigarette dispenser and with the touch of a button he released two cigarettes, taking one for himself and offering the other to Leonard.  Leonard offered his lighter.  Now within their cocoons of smoke they were free to ignore each other, Davis tapping on his briefcase and Leonard pretending to read the paper.  Another article about Hungary, the execution of Nagy, which Leonard could not read from start to finish.  He had no interest in the power plays in the Cold War; as much as the seesawing of American and Soviet imperialism in the atomic age troubled him, he did not have the patience to study it.

A man’s voice pulsed though the loudspeakers.  Their train was boarding at West Gate Track 11.  There was a flurry of activity around them, and as the announcement continued, Davis rose laboriously to his feet.  “Let’s go.”

But Leonard remained seated.   

“Let’s go,” Davis ordered.  “We can’t miss this train.”

Leonard held his arms out, wanting to grab Davis’s hands like he would Emily’s when he really wanted her to understand.  But having nowhere to rest his hands, he let them drop back to the bench.  He had nothing to say.

There was panic in Davis’s eyes.  “I went out on a limb for you, Leonard.”

“I can’t go,” said Leonard. “I can’t balk. You said I would perform dismally.”

“If you didn’t follow my instructions,” he exclaimed. “We have to get on that train.  You can’t stand up the committee.”

Leonard frowned.  “What will they do to me?”

“Don’t be an imbecile, Leonard.  For God’s sake how does anyone put up with you?”

“You don’t go either.  Send them a wire.  Tell them I changed my mind.  We could publish a statement.”   

“Do you think this is a joke?”

“I know it isn’t a joke.”

Davis picked up his bags and walked a few steps before returning. “I’m telling them you didn’t show.  You better go home and think about your next move.  I am not your counsel anymore.” 

Without waiting for a response he turned and hurried toward the gate.  He watched Davis disappear down the stairs into the underbelly of the station.  Leonard imagined himself doing what he had come here to do, standing up, running after Davis and joining him on the train.  In reality, he was frozen, planted permanently there like the marble pillars of the waiting hall.  He felt like he’d been there forever and would remain there forever.  Then he looked around, stunned by his sudden solitude.  Everyone had gone to meet the Northeast Corridor train, bound for Washington.  The benches were empty. 

At 1:08 the train pulled away.  Under his feet he could feel the vibration of the train’s slow passage out, the friction of its wheels against the tracks, a muffled screeching, the full impact of the sound barely softened by the concrete floor. 

Leonard looked at the magnificent ceiling.  Often it seemed to him that this whole room would just rise into the sky like a hot air balloon.  It astounded him, the ingenuity behind it.  He did not think about how he would get home, or what he would tell Emily, or what manner of accusations they would hurl at his empty seat in the Old House Office Building.  Instead, he thought of how the journey of humanity was brimming with infinite possibilities.  There was no telling where it would end, or if it would end.  How wonderful if it never ended.



Published April 2009