Chapter 8D

Perhaps, when I awoke groggily at my Mama Rose's house that Saturday morning, July 2, 1955, I had been dreaming of my father while asleep in that room. I had little else to hold before me as a model of what I might do and how I might behave when I went to Union Station later that day to say goodbye to Martha. I wondered how Steven Senior might handle it: he was a hero, a winner of the Air Medal, two Purple Hearts and the Silver Star. He had faced the terror of war with the Nazis twenty-two times. He had readily attempted to hold together a bomber's landing gear with little more than his bare hands. If he could do that, then as his son I could certainly hold my own at Union Station.

I rode to the Tremont Cafe with Grandma Rose and ate a big breakfast there. I left just before eleven o'clock and walked two blocks to Union Station. It was a gaudy Romanesque building of massive proportions, a relic of the Gilded Age, with a vast main lobby graced with chandeliers of clustered, gigantic warm-white globes. The atmosphere was so much quieter than I would have thought; I expected a noisily milling crowd and a rush of people in all directions. Instead, all was quiet and sedate, with few people waiting on the long rows of curved mahogany benches.

Martha sat in a pleated black skirt and white blouse near the newsstand in the center of the lobby. She was reading a magazine. At the sound of my footsteps she looked up and smiled, put her magazine aside, and rose to meet me halfway. She gave me a long warm hug.

She whispered a happy "Hi, hon." And I almost choked. But I showed little of it. Heroes didn't cry. The sons of Silver Star winners didn't cry. In the movies, neither William Holden nor Bogart did that sort of thing.

Evelyn was there, and another girlfriend whom I didn't know but whom they introduced as Tasha. So I was unable to say much of what I wanted to say--and at any rate, I doubt I would have said anything anyway.

Martha told me she had sold her car. When she told Mr. Buchanan about it before leaving, he had been bitter and unrelenting. There had been some angry shouting. He would support her in Memphis, but not in New York. New York was golgatha, sin city, filled with queers and commies and perverts. If she wanted to teach, she could teach just as well in Memphis and then find herself a husband and raise a good Christian family. Everybody in New York was a drug addict, the mafia owned everything, and anyone who wasn't a mobster was a Puerto Rican, a wetback or a Jew. Even staid Evelyn, who now sat waiting unhappily with Martha and her friend in the station, thought her stepdad's ravings were little more than strident hysteria, and she thought New York certainly could not be nearly so awful.

My concern for my own problems vanished when I noticed that Martha herself, keeping up a good front of cheer and optimism about claiming her future, sat holding my hand hidden from the others in the folds of her pleated skirt. She held on tightly, almost frantically. Again and again she gave my hand a tight squeeze, and now and then she would rub her thumb nervously and firmly across my knuckles. At first I thought she was doing it for my comfort; after a while I could sense the tension throughout her body. But others were present, and there was little I dared say, even in a whisper, lest they notice.

At one point Evelyn mentioned that the announcement for the train's departure would be heard soon, and she and their friend jaunted off to the ladies' room. I sat with Martha and looked around at the vast railroad station that I knew so well and where I had spent so many weekends roaming and playing. Those weekends were followed by a trip back home to the Lauderdale Courts, where Martha lived next door.

I heard her say beside me, "Steven, I'm scared."

I turned to find her looking down at my hand, which she grasped and rubbed nervously. "I'm really scared. I didn't think I would be this scared. I wish my father were here. But he's long gone. It's been so long since he died. I know Mr. Buchanan was spouting nonsense and superstition. I never thought he'd explode that way. I sometimes think I understand why he dislikes what I'm doing... but I had no idea he would hate me so much. It scares me. I can't even let Evelyn see, she's so strong and so successful and she fits in so well. But even Evelyn had to lie to him about coming here with me. He thinks she's at her office. It scares me. I don't know why."

I whispered, levelheaded and all grown up. "I'm not scared."

She looked up at me with thankful, loving eyes.

I said, "I'm proud of you. You earned this. You deserve it. And after you leave here today, you'll be in a place where you can be yourself. Mr. Buchanan won't be around to make you feel like a criminal for being yourself."

Her eyes shuttled quickly to one side and she whispered, "Evelyn and Tasha are coming back." She gave my arm an extra squeeze and, looking down, she sent me a secret smile. "Thank you, hon."

Within five minutes the cathedral-like walls rang out with the echoes of the departure announcement. Groaning and sighing, Martha and Evelyn and Tasha grabbed the baggage and we all walked to the departure gate at one end of the lobby. Before us the trains waited, hissing and steaming and whistling. It was near the end of the era of the long passenger railroads, and the line of Pullmans was not as long as I remembered from a few years earlier. But the black porters were still there, smiling and polite and spry, asking "Can I see your tickets, please ma'am? Here ya go, Miss, the porter'll take those bags for you, ma'am. George, these are for car 4111." It was still the age of tipping caps and friendly smiles.

We walked together to the start of the waiting platform, where the sun blazed down on us in the open air. Beyond that point, only ticketed passengers could venture down the platform walkway.

"'Bye, sister," Evelyn whispered tearfully as she gave Martha a close and affectionate hug.

Then her girlfriend took her hand and looked in her eyes and tried bravely to smile, saying "Martha...", only to break up angrily and sob, "I'm gonna miss the hell outta you!" They clutched each other and Martha whispered something in Tasha's ear I couldn't hear above the hissing steam of the waiting trains. In response, Tasha nodded and stepped back.

Then Martha came over to me with a courageous smile and reached out for me to come to her for a hug. I went to her and she grabbed me like a big watermelon and almost lifted me off my feet. I felt certain there was no danger at all that Martha would cry, but I still wondered if I could hold myself together so well. I was barely taller than she; her lips, as usual when we embraced, were just below my ear.

She laughed and whispered, "I won't cry if you won't."

"I won't," I said.

And then, her face on my shoulder, she started crying. Almost in terror, I wondered if the others noticed. They had, but not in the manner I feared; Evelyn gave a sad little smile and said something to the other girl and pointed to me, as if explaining about me and Martha. Reading her lips, I saw Evelyn mouth the words "grew up together", and the other girl nodded as if she understood. That, at least, is how their conversation appeared to me.

But my concern was about Martha's crying. With a deep breath and a sudden straightening, she stepped back and wiped one eye hastily with a bare hand. "Damn, I didn't think I would do this."

I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and a gentle smile that said it was okay.

"You behave, cowboy. And write to me." She kissed my cheek quickly and turned away. Unstopping, undaunted, she smiled and waved to the others and made her way down the length of the train. Two or three times she turned as she walked, one time shouting to us, "You people write to me, or I'll come back!"