By this time, our attitudes had become polarized: Arthur stuck to his position while I insisted that I not miss my reader appointment. The discussion turned into a debate as to the merits of the other person’s “giving in.” This made Arthur an even more stubborn proponent of his proposal that I stay in Midtown with him, while I dug in on the other side, claiming that were I to miss this reader, I would be finished at Columbia. We wasted half an hour in this way.
“Well, if that’s the way you want it, so be it,” I said. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” I felt that I was being abandoned but shrugged it off and began to move forward as though I was part of the crowd. And so I was.
Arthur had now left me. I could feel that; his smell, his voice, his presence—all had disappeared. I would have to take the subway back up to the campus by myself. So why did I not just get into a taxi? The mentality of scholarship students figures here. We did not even think of taking taxis—a blatant waste of precious funds. My stubbornness was a factor, too. I didn’t realize that the ordeal ahead of me would take on an almost mythic cast.
I began to walk in the direction of what I thought was the subway entrance. As I walked, I held my arms out in front. That must have looked silly to the people around me, now on their way home from work. My hands and forearms came up against suited elbows and women’s backs although most of the people must have known to give me a wide berth.
There is always a spark of kindness in this world. A woman asked me where I was going. I said that I was trying to reach the subway. She asked what was wrong. I told her nothing was wrong.
“Clearly, something is wrong.”
“No. I’m just having a little difficulty seeing. If you could point me in the direction of the subway, that would be a big help.”
“I can, but if you’re having trouble seeing, how would you know how to even walk there?”
The woman seemed young, but she had a throaty voice. As she walked along with me, she touched me here and there to make sure I did not step too widely out onto the street. “I’ll find it,” I said.
“If you’re sure you’ll be okay, then I’ll tell you,” she said. “But you have to promise me that you’ll be okay. That you’re up for it. It’s not an easy thing.”
“I am. I will be.” She gave me the directions. She explained how many steps this way and then how many steps that way. I did not know how she knew how many steps would lead me to the stairway down to the track, but she seemed to know.
“I’m going to walk on,” she said.
“Okay,” I said, but I did not want her to leave.
I felt my way along the edge of a building until it disappeared and the street became quieter. It was a smaller side street, and no one was on it even though it was a busy time of day. As I walked farther along, I felt as if the street were sloping downward, but at least it was easier to navigate. I placed my arm against flat brick walls and continued. My foot went into the breast of a pigeon; it chuckled and moved out of the way. A rush of sadness came over me, not for myself but for this lowly creature. My hands now felt gritty from pressing them against buildings.
I came to an intersection I needed to cross. I walked into a man’s chest, bounced off, and fell to my knees. “I’m sorry,” I said.
He reached down with one hand and lifted me quick as a jump. “No, it was me,” he said. “It happens all the time.”
“What happens?”
“I take up too much space,” he said. “It’s hard for me to get around. Not that I can’t move—I can, but other people seem to fall into me.”
I didn’t know what this man was talking about. I knew only that he was a giant, well formed.
“I’m a fighter,” he said. “So I guess in some regards, it’s good.”
“A fighter? You mean, a boxer?”
“Yeah.”
“That must be hard.”
“It’s hard to get beaten on every day. That’s no fun. But winning is fun.” He had a light voice. I would never have guessed that he was a fighter.
“You seem to be having some difficulty,” he said.
“No,” I replied.
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe a little. It’s just that I can’t see. That was why I knocked into you. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Really,” he said. “Perhaps it was my fault. Though, sometimes no one is at fault.”
I didn’t know what he was saying. It was like talking to a ghost. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that I’m not myself. Can you tell me where I am?”
“New York,” the man said.
“Am I close to Grand Central Station?”
“Very close. Right across the way there.”
“Can you point me in the right direction?”
Then the man did something amazing. He took me by the shoulders and turned me right in the direction of the station. It was such a gentle movement that it was hard to believe he was a fighter. I could hear the noise of a crowd coming from over there.
“Thank you,” I said.
I left him and walked across the street and into the station. I found a railing and hung on to it as I made my way down. The railing was rock-steady, and the anger and desperation I had been feeling in my stomach were gone for a few moments because I knew the railing would always be there. It had
