forced to do in regard to the actual shit in the city, she should try to ignore the whole affair. Just walk around it. Her responsibility was to become a doctor; that should take precedence over everything. The Bermans and the Greenlys were not her concern.
The rain continued and rivulets ran down her cheeks. She began to walk more carefully, prudently noticing the innumerable piles of dog crap that characterized Beacon Hill as much as the gas lamps or the red brick. She watched where she put her feet and the going was easier. But she could not dismiss her sense of responsibility to the Bermans and the Greenlys so easily. She thought about the age similarity between herself and Nancy Greenly. She thought about her own periods and the several episodes when she had bled more heavily than usual; how it had frightened her and made her feel helpless and out of control. She might have had to have a D&C herself, possibly at the Memorial.
But now she was out of the Memorial, maybe out of medical school.
There was little that was up to her at that point, whether she wanted to pursue the problem or not. It was finished. It embarrassed her slightly to think of the frame of mind she had when she started the affair. “A new disease!” Susan laughed at her own vanity and deluded sense of ability.
Susan strolled down Pinckney Street, crossed Charles Street and headed for the river. As aimlessly as on her Beacon Hill wandering, Susan mounted the stairs to the Longfellow Bridge. The graffiti stood out in bold outlines and she lingered, reading some of the nonsensical phrases, the faceless names. In the center of the span she paused, gazing up the Charles River toward Cambridge and Harvard and the B.U. Bridge. The river was a curious pattern of ice patches and open water, like a gigantic piece of abstract art. A flock of seagulls stood motionless on one of the floes of ice.
Susan did not know what it was that drew her attention to the left, the way she had come. She saw a man in a dark overcoat and hat who turned toward the river and stopped when Susan looked in his direction. She returned to her undirected musing and the scene in front of her without giving the man in the dark overcoat a thought. But after five to ten minutes passed, Susan noticed the man had not moved. He was smoking and gazing up the river, seemingly as oblivious to the rain as was Susan.
Susan thought that it was a coincidence to have two people standing on a bridge on a rainy day in February brooding over the river when as a rule the bridge was deserted even in nice weather.
Susan crossed the bridge to the Cambridge side and walked up the river bank toward the MIT boat house. She felt a little cold as some moisture worked its way into her collar. The mild discomfort was somewhat therapeutic. But presently she decided that getting back to the dorm and a hot bath were in order.
Abruptly she turned, intending to recross the Longfellow Bridge and take the MBTA home. But she stopped. The same man with the dark coat was about a hundred yards away, still staring out over the expanse of the Charles River. Susan felt an uneasiness that she couldn’t characterize.
She changed her plans, to avoid passing the man. She would traverse the corner of the MIT campus and take the MBTA at Kendall Station.
As she crossed Memorial Drive, she noticed that the man began to move in her direction. Obviously it was stupid, she assured herself, to concern herself with some stranger. She had difficulty explaining to herself why she would be so apt to have ungrounded paranoia. She decided that she was more upset than she had imagined. Just to be sure, she turned another corner and walked to the end of the block, stopping in front of the Political Science Library. Trying to be natural, she adjusted the string on her parcel.
The man appeared almost immediately but did not turn into the block.
Instead, he crossed the street and disappeared from sight. But Susan had not convinced herself that he was not following her. There had been the slightest suggestion that the man had reacted to her delaying tactics. Susan mounted the steps and entered the library. She used the ladies’ room and relaxed for a few moments. In the mirror her face reflected a definite uneasiness. She thought about calling someone but dismissed the idea. What could she say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous?
Besides, she felt better and was willing to forget the episode as a construct of her imagination.
Emerging from the ladies’ room, she had regained her composure enough to appreciate the architecture of the library. It was ultra-modern with a sense of serenity and space. There was none of that overbearing stuffiness one associated with old university libraries. The chairs were bright orange canvas. The shelves and the card catalogues were highly polished oak.
Then Susan saw the man again I This time at a very close range. She knew it was he although he did not look up from the magazine he appeared to be reading. He was obviously out of place in the library, dressed in a dark overcoat, white shirt, and white tie. His plastered-down hair had a shiny appearance suggesting multiple layers of Vitalis.
His irregular face was pockmarked from adolescent years of acne.
Susan mounted the stairs to the mezzanine, watching the man whenever she could. He did not seem to look up from his reading. From the outside of the building Susan had noted a connection between the library and the building immediately adjacent. She found the overpass and quickly crossed. The adjacent building was a classroom-office building and a number of people were milling through it. Susan felt more comfortable as she descended to the street floor. She left the building and headed rapidly for Kendall Square.
Since the area was unfamiliar to Susan, it took her a few minutes to find the entrance to the MBTA underground. Just before she descended she hesitated, then she looked around. To her amazement and consternation, the man in the dark coat was about a block away, coming toward her. Susan felt a sinking feeling in her abdomen and a quickening pulse. She also felt undecided about what to do.
A slight breeze moving up the stairs and a low threatening rumble helped her make up her mind. A train was coming into the station. A train filled-with people.
In a partially controlled panic she descended the stairs and entered the shadowy subterranean world. She fumbled for a quarter at the turnstile.
She knew she had several in her pocket, but her mitten made it impossible. She tore off her mitten and pulled out her change. A few coins fell to the concrete and rolled spiraling away. No one got off the train. A few people blankly watched Susan’s uncoordinated efforts at the turnstile. The quarter dropped into the slot and Susan tried to push through. With a gasp she realized she had pushed too soon; the arm of the turnstile dug into her stomach rather than giving way. She let up, and the quarter dropped into the release mechanism. On her second attempt the turnstile turned so freely that she stumbled forward, just managing to keep herself from falling. The doors to the train closed as she ran up to them.
“Please!” she shouted but the train began to pull away from the station.
Susan ran alongside for a few steps. Then as the end of the train slid by her, Susan caught the image of the conductor looking at her through the glass with a blank face. The train receded rapidly into the inbound tunnel as Susan panted and looked after it.
The station was totally deserted. Even the outbound platform on the other side was empty. The sound of the departing train fell off astoundingly rapidly, to be replaced by the regular sound of dripping water. Kendall Station was not a busy station and had not been renovated. The mosaic walls which had once been fashionable were a study in decay; the place recalled some ancient archeological site. Soot covered everything, and the platform was strewn with paper debris.
Stalactite forms hung from the ceiling with droplets of moisture falling from their tips, as if it were a limestone cave of the Yucatan.
Susan leaned out over the tracks as far as she could and peered into the tunnel toward Cambridge, hoping to see another train materialize.
Straining her ears, she heard only the dripping water. Then there was the unmistakable sound of unhurried footsteps on the subway stairs.
Susan rushed over to the heavily grated change booth. It was empty. A sign said that it was occupied only at rush hour, from 3 to 5 P.M. The footsteps on the stairs grew closer and Susan backed away from the entrance. She turned and ran down the platform toward the Cambridge end of the station. At the extreme end of the platform, she once again looked into the darkness of the tunnel. There was only the steady sound of dripping water. And footsteps.
Looking back toward the entrance, Susan watched the man in the dark coat enter through the turnstile. He
