“I was interested in seeing you reading Steinbeck,” the man said, when the drinks were served, and he tipped the waiter one dollar (“Goddamn! this cat’s Howard Hughes himself!”), and had mixed Estelle’s drink for her. She waited for the conversation to approach the “Negro problem.” “I do a bit of reading myself, when I get the chance. I can’t think of anything, anything at all, as great as that.” He had finished his beer in three large gulps. He wiped the foam from round his mouth with the tip of his tongue, like a cow would, fast and efficiently. He held up his hand to order again, and the moment his hand was raised, the waiter was upon him like a wasp.
“Yes, boss?” he asked. And before Mister Boss could say a word, he asked, “Same again?” This was even before Mister Boss had said yes. “Good!” the waiter said. The drinks came. He again mixed Estelle’s, held it to her to taste, gave the waiter another dollar tip (“Goddamn! this motherfucker’s loaded, baby! He’s sure itching for them pants tonight, too!”), and took a large mouthful of his beer.
“As we were saying …”
The conductor’s voice boomed through the train, “Orillia! next stop Orillia! Next stop for Orillia!”
This was the man’s stop. This saved her. This made him finish his beer and his conversation. The passages along which they had to walk were shaking, and often, he rested his hand on her hips gently, to steady her, but he left it there long after the train had straightened out on its long parallel lines. “Allow me! Let me! Allow me!” and he reached a passage that was dark; and the train was not even heaving, only his heart and his lust and his desire and his bravery; and he put his arms out, and grabbed her and pulled her close to him. And he planted his mouth, smelling like beer kegs, over hers. In a flash, she could feel his tongue searching for something inside her mouth. It had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, that she did not have time to push him off. “C’mon, babe! Just a little one.” But she got him off her. And when he was off, she let loose a slap which hit his fat cologned jowls like leather hitting cement. “You bitch!” he cried. “If, if-if-if, if you weren’t a woman …” She was frightened. The passage became desolate. But she tried to appear brave.
“Don’t you have to get your bags?” she asked him. And she walked away in the opposite direction. …
The conductor met her to say that he had been looking for her: her roomette had been selected. When she reached it, with the bed already pulled down and made, she dropped on the bed and cried. She was very sad and very frightened to be in this country. But what does a bloody white man think he is? What he think a woman like me, is? What the hell he thinks I am, still a slavewoman, or a child, this day and age? Godblindthemall! She tried to pull herself together. She sat down and tried to enjoy the ride before getting into bed, to sleep. That wasn’t so bad a thing to cause me to sulk and make myself depressed and miserable from here to Timmins! She unpacked her nightgown (the conductor, or somebody else, had brought her valise from the other part of the train), and prepared to read Mrs. Macmillan’s letter since she did not want to hear any more about Mister Steinbeck; and since she would be meeting Mrs. Macmillan soon; and because too, she wanted to see if she had overlooked anything of importance to herself, any pointer of what living in Timmins would be like. She could find nothing in it to interest her, one way or the other.
Someone knocked on her door. It startled her. The person was trying to open the door. Estelle scrambled to put on her housecoat. “Just a minute, please.”
The knocker shook the door lightly. She wondered whether it was the man who tried to kiss her, in the passageway. She opened the door. It was the black waiter who served them a while ago, in the club car. He stood foolishly in the doorway for a while, but soon he controlled his slight nervousness and smiled. Estelle smiled, sweetly and genuinely. She did not reject nor welcome the company. But it was good to know somebody was checking to see whether she was safe.
“I came to see if you need anything.”
“Oh, that’s all right.”
“I saw you just now. In the car. Drinking. With that fellow. First, I thought you were his wife, or something.” In his profession, in his job, he must have seen many similar situations, she thought. She decided to let him talk. If you let men talk, they would soon betray the wolf’s nature beneath their gentleman’s attire. “I am a West Indian. From Grenada. I think you’re a West Indian, too. Heard your accent. Lemme guess. Not Jamaica!” But he had already guessed, and decided that she was from Barbados. He could not mistake the dialect. He knew all this, but he wanted to give the impression he was really thinking about her well-being. But he had come with one thing in his mind. He and his waiter-friend had wagered five dollars that he would “lash her tonight, man! it take me no more than one hour to get in her pants, man!” He was to bring back some thread of evidence to show his friend. His friend asked, “What kind o’ proof you going give me, nigger?”
The waiter-nigger laughed in his face, and said, “I coming back in half-a-hour, with my hands smelling like pussy, ’cause I not going
