30 Pieces of a Novel (17 page)

They get off at the next stop; the policeman says, “Let's go where we can hear better,” and leads them upstairs to the area near the turnstiles, and he has the woman go through it again and then says to Gould, “Now's your time, sir, how do you answer her charges?” and Gould says, “What I started telling you before but said completely to her on the train before: it's ridiculous, I'd never do it. I didn't, period. I can appreciate why she'd protest, though, if she thought something like that happened, for it's awful when men do that to women on trains—anyplace. I can also understand, if it's happened to her before or even if it hasn't, why she might think I did it on purpose—that it just felt to her as if I did. But I swear, if my body did touch hers, and I'm not even sure it did, it was purely by accident and nothing else. As I told her, it's just not what I do. I'm married, with young children and a good job—I know those aren't valid excuses; the most deeply married man and best father and worker and religious person and everything could be a psycho on the side—but I'm not, and more than that I can't say,” and the policeman says to her, “Ma'am, I don't take sides. You say this, he says that, and it's up to me to listen. Now I heard you both and I'm going to say what I'm going to say. You really don't have any witnesses to it, so it ends up being your word against his, and I don't think you'll get anywhere with it,” and she says, “I know he put his body intentionally to mine and so does he. He's a good liar. He had plenty of space to go around me, but no, he turned to me, not with his back but his front, something I caught out of the corner of my eye but didn't have the time to stop it. And next he squeezed into me as if I was his little doll or something—his girlfriend or wife that he says he has—and I'd like it. Well, I didn't like it and I want to make charges against him, big charges. I want to stop all these creepy bastards like him from riding back and forth on the subways and trying to stick themselves against women and smaller girls and every kind of female and the rest of it.” She's almost screaming now, and the policeman says, “Lady, calm down please. Okay, you want to make charges, we can do that, but you'll have to come to court once his case comes up, you know. You don't, for no good reason, then the charges are dropped and can't be renewed. Even if you don't come to court for a good reason—sickness, or your kid's sick—” and she says, “I have no kid, and I'm not married; I'm on my own, which is another—” and he says, “I was giving examples. Then the case is postponed for two months or so, even more if there's a big court overload,” and she says, “Don't you worry, I'll be there the first time,” and the policeman says, “Okay, so I guess we got to go to step two, and I want everybody to remain peaceful, calm and nice,” and starts to fill out a report, asks Gould for identification, says he'll get a court notice in the mail when to appear. “Same with you, miss, and I'll see you both there. Okay, now we're all free to go,” and Gould says, “I'm going downstairs to continue my ride, I hope that's all right,” and the policeman says, “Sure, it's what I said,” and the woman says, “So am I. I'm not staying here waiting for him to get the next train first and my missing even more of my time,” and the policeman says, “So how about us all going downstairs together, since that's my direction too,” and they walk downstairs and stand on the platform waiting for the train. Gould says to the policeman, “I'm not trying to show anything by this, but if you don't mind I'd like to move a ways down the platform so I can save the embarrassment for this woman and me, or just uneasiness, of being in the same car,” and the woman says, “It makes no difference to me if we're in the same car so long as this officer's there with us,” and the policeman says, “I'll get in the same car with you two—I did plan that—but I'll have to start circulating my presence throughout the train and, after a stop or two, the train system in general, if you know what I mean. So why don't you,” he says to Gould, “just to make life easier for us, get in with me, and if Miss Pizeman wants, she can get into another car. I think that's the best solution,” and she says, “Why?” and he says, “Because I think so. Because I know what I'm doing. Because if I'm with him you know nothing can go wrong between you, from whichever end it comes,” and Gould says, “Nothing could go wrong again from my end. I didn't do anything before and I wouldn't do anything now,” and she says, “That's what you say, but you lie on one and we're supposed to believe the other?” and the policeman says, “I already assumed nothing would go wrong now. I was only trying to come up with a compromise that'd make this woman feel a bit easier. But if you think”—to her—“you want me in your car and him to be in another car and he agrees to it, though he's not by law obligated to and I can't insist he do it since he's not acting in any way as if he's about to get out of hand—” and she says, “One or the other, I guess; I don't care. Just so long as you're with one of us. But what happens if when you start circulating he comes to the car I'm in, after you're out of mine or when you're off the train entirely?” and Gould says, “I won't go into your car. You don't seem to understand that you're the last person I ever want to be in the same car with. So whatever car I get into, I'll stay there, but we have to make sure from the start we're in different ones.” Platform's crowding up, some people have moved closer to listen to them, and the policeman says, “Please, folks, what you see's not anybody else's business, so move it,” and Gould thinks, This is awful; besides that, it's embarrassing. You got to get yourself away from here before she says something that makes you say something and then she's sure to come back harder and you'll give even more in return, to where you're in big trouble again and with everyone watching, and looks at the wall with the station's name on it and says, “Jesus, I can't believe it, but I don't even have to get on the train. This is my stop, and in all the confusion before I didn't know it,” and the woman says, “Sure it is,” and the policeman says, “So why don't you leave then, sir,” and she says, “You just want to separate us, don't tell me; well, good,” and Gould says to them, “But it's the truth; I don't know how I can prove it, but it is,” and the policeman says, “Don't prove, just go where you have to and if I'm not on some other thing that day and the woman here doesn't drop the charges before then, I'll see you,” and Gould says, “Thank you,” and, to the woman, “Believe me, miss, I'm sorry for the misunderstanding between us, for that's what it was. And I hope, in the next few weeks, you can see to dropping the charges, because they're—” and she says “Bullshit,” and he says, “No, really, I was going to say—” and she says, “And I said bullshit, bullshit, do you hear? Bullshit!” and the policeman says, “Please, lady, don't make it more,” and Gould says, “Thanks again,” and touches him on the arm and goes upstairs, thinking, I've never touched a cop before.

He gets the summons a month later, saying he has to appear in court on a day a month from now, and his wife says he should get a lawyer, and he says, “No, I thought it over and I think it's better I go without one and declare my innocence and take the consequences. Since it's only my word against hers, unless she comes up with a witness who's prepared to lie, and I don't see how she could get one, I'm sure nothing will happen to me. Besides, I don't want to pay for a lawyer, and I feel confident about it because I'm a good defendant. I don't come across as guilty and I do as penitent for even the minor crimes or misdemeanors or whatever that other people are guilty of,” and she says, “I don't understand,” and he says, “I meant—what was I talking about before?—what are you referring to, I mean?” and she says, “What did you mean by ‘penitent for other people's crimes and misdemeanors'?” and he says, “Just that I make a good case for taking on the burdens of the world, so to speak, the mini to major minor ones; is that any clearer?” and she says no, and he says, “Let me see. That these crimes and things exist—preying on women and girls in subways, for instance, as she accused me of—and I can't believe she went through with it and didn't do what I'm sure the policeman that day was suggesting and that's to drop the charge—but anyway, is wrong, though don't look at me as someone who does them,” and she says, “If you think that makes it clearer, you're mistaken,” and he says, “Don't worry, I'll get it right by the time I have to appear,” and she says, “I don't know; I'm worried,” and he says, “Don't be; I'll look well, speak well, dress well, and they'll know right away I couldn't have done it, besides there being no witnesses.” He's wanted to tell her, a few times, that he thought of her rear end a second or so before he pushed into the woman, but that'd make him out a liar and then she'd insist he get a lawyer. And he doesn't know if he really did it intentionally because he thought of his wife; he only might have or he might have seen the woman's curvy body from behind and some impulse took over—of course some impulse, but that's something he'd also never admit to her, except maybe after this was long over with—and he brought up the image of pressing into her simply to have a greater impetus to push into the woman. Oh, it's getting too confusing and it happened so fast that day and he forgets so much of it and maybe he should forget it for now. That wise? Why not? Because one day of ignoring it won't hurt and some good idea or strategy about it might even come out of his unconscious in that time. One thing he wants, though, is his wife to come to the courtroom with him; she'll make a dignified impression and it'll be in his favor, he thinks, for the court to know she's behind him. He'll ask her tonight or tomorrow when they get up, and he's sure she'll agree.

They go to the courtroom that day and the woman doesn't show, nor did she notify the court she wouldn't be there, and the court clerk says he'll send them both a second notice to appear in a month or so, and if she doesn't appear and gives no reason beforehand why not then the case will be dropped, and Gould says, “The transit policeman who took down the report from her and me said it'd be dropped the first time if she didn't show up and gave no reason why she didn't,” and the clerk says, “That's not how it's done and the police officer couldn't have told you that. They handle these cases every day, so they know better,” and his wife says, “Excuse me, sir, but I believe the policeman did tell my husband that. Anyway, it's exactly what Gould told me the day this all took place and he came home after the incident. Or called from downtown, rather, his voice quivering, he was so distressed at what that woman had accused him of; and I could tell by his voice and what he said, besides knowing him so many years, that he didn't do,” and the clerk says, “I'll put it to you this way, Mrs. Bookbinder. If the police officer informed your husband that, he was wrong,” and she says, “All right, that's good enough, I'm no one to tell you your business and the law; thank you.”

He doesn't get another summons to appear or any notification why. He wants to write the court about it—to find out if the whole thing's been dropped, for one thing—but his wife says, “Best to let it disappear by itself entirely. By writing them you may encourage them to think they dropped something they shouldn't have, and next thing you know the second summons will arrive in the mail, and this time she'll come to the proceedings, and who knows what could happen then?” That night she says, “There's something I never asked you but several times wanted to,” and he says, “No, absolutely, I didn't intend to stick my damn thing against the woman's rear end; it just happened. You know trains,” and she says, “Boy, you really know you've been married a long time when your spouse starts answering your questions before you ask them,” and he says, “I'm sorry, finish; what was it?” and she says, “I don't have to; you said it. But if you had, you know, done what she said you did, it does happen, and though it would have been wrong it wouldn't have been the worst thing that ever took place. It's not as if you pulled it out and waved it and then mashed it into her. People get crazy urgencies sometimes. We're not all made perfectly forever, so occasionally we follow, no matter how good and sensible and moral we are, our most immediate fancies and urges,” and he says, “You mean impulses,” and she says, “Yes, but the rest too. You're a horny guy a lot—lascivious, might be a better word, sexy—you don't try to be; it's the way you're made. I know that because of how you behave with me and also the way you look at other women sometimes, eyeing the pretty or shapely ones when they pass, staring at their breasts and butts, and at the time who knows what you're thinking?” and he says, “When? When do I do that?” and she looks at him, and he says, “All right, I do it sometimes,” and she says, “So I'm saying if you had done what that woman asserted you did, once in ten to fifteen years on a subway or bus, I don't think it would have been that terrible a thing to do, since I'm sure these urgencies or impulses have been in you to do it lots of times, not that that excuses it,” and he says, “But I didn't do it; I've never done it. The idea may have popped into my head a few times, but it's not the way I act to women—taking advantage of the uncomfortable conditions of a crowded subway car to get a quick feel or rise,” and she says, “Anyhow, that's good to know, that you have that kind of restraint while still being a very horny and lustful guy sometimes,” and he says, “But you knew that, didn't you, about the restraint?” and she says, “No, I told you, I wouldn't have been surprised or even angered if you had done that to a woman on a train once or twice in the last twenty years, but not to a girl.”