CHAPTER 4
ELOISE O'HARA
“This is a map of the United States. It’s extra, so feel free to keep it,” said the stranger, looking steadfastly at Franklin.
“Why, how kind of you, madam!”
“May I introduce myself?” she replied.
“Benjamin Franklin, at your service,” said Franklin, and now the compartment really was quiet. Their seatmate had folded his newspaper.
“Eloise O’Hara,” said the lady with the maps.
“A pleasure, madam.”
“No, the pleasure is mine, sir.”
Edward held out his hand, “Edward Blank, Ms. O’Hara.”
“Pleased to meet you, and you sir: my apologies for this way I have of reaching over you,” she said to the seatmate.
“Oh, that’s all right. Don’t worry about it,” replied the stranger, embarrassed.
Edward asked, “Are you a regular on this run?”
“Yes, I get on at Cannondale. I’ll look for you tomorrow in this car,” and she turned to go back to her seat.
As their view continued to be limited to the blurred walls of the below-ground right-of-way, Edward decided to return to the earlier thread, and said, “In your time, New York was a bustling center of activity and population, just as it is now, but it ended only a half mile or so from the Battery. In the century that followed yours, it completely occupied the island. What’s more, across the East River, Brooklyn grew up as a city just as large, and the Jersey ports of Hoboken, Bayonne and Newark bustled on the Hudson’s opposite shore.”
But Franklin had other ideas. “What do you think of her?” he asked.
He was obviously referring to Ms. O’Hara, so Edward replied, “Very intriguing. I look forward to joining up with her, perhaps tomorrow. We could look for her when we get on …”
But now he felt he had gone too far, if not with Franklin, then with fate. How could he plan on another commute with Franklin, as if it would be this way from now on?
The other of course sensed this. “Yes, it is troubling isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, I should have been more sensitive.”
“No, no. We must not stifle our conversation, much less our thoughts, for fear of broaching unpleasant subjects. Who knows? Perhaps by examining such questions as, ‘Will there be another day like this?’ we will uncover some means of getting me back, perhaps some means even of controlling the process.”
Meanwhile, Eloise balanced herself with a hand on the seatback grab bars and moved back down the aisle. Fortunately, she had an aisle seat that morning, so she did not have to disturb any more newspaper readers. And more important, she did not have to interrupt her own thoughts, even to utter an ‘excuse me.’
They had boarded at Wilton, but had settled in several seats in front of her, so she had been waiting for some pretext to approach them. The quiet commuters made it possible for her to overhear the discussion of U.S. geography, and she had the road map because of an article she was editing, so she seized the opportunity. For there could be no doubt about it, this was Franklin.
Of course, she recognized, in thoughts that ran right alongside, that this absence of doubt must be interpreted, according to all prevailing standards, as detachment from reality. But why consign one’s self to insanity without at least investigating?
The one thing that gave her hope was that she’d seen Edward on the train for many months. It was a thin hope, to be sure. It wouldn’t even take a psychologist to conclude that they merely shared the same delusion. But at least it was something to go on, a starting place.
What worried her was the same thing worrying Edward and Ben, that, when she looked for Edward tomorrow, he and Ben might not be there.
For a moment, she thought of Edward. She was becoming curious about him. Someone who shared the same delusion. Even if Franklin appeared only the once, mightn’t it be a good thing to get to know him?
Then a cold thought: had she fallen for a gag? Were the two of them at this very moment shaking hands over their success in taking in at least one commuter? Could they be recording their escapade? A wire, even a hidden camera?
But what of it? It would be fun to be the butt of such a joke, wouldn’t it? She had nothing to fear from the public exposure. A copy editor’s fate was decided in much more anonymous ways. She closed her eyes to let the roll of the train bring on sleep, and told herself that at least here was something, undoubtedly trivial, but something, to look forward to tomorrow.
;
“This is a map of the United States. It’s extra, so feel free to keep it,” said the stranger, looking steadfastly at Franklin.
“Why, how kind of you, madam!”
“May I introduce myself?” she replied.
“Benjamin Franklin, at your service,” said Franklin, and now the compartment really was quiet. Their seatmate had folded his newspaper.
“Eloise O’Hara,” said the lady with the maps.
“A pleasure, madam.”
“No, the pleasure is mine, sir.”
Edward held out his hand, “Edward Blank, Ms. O’Hara.”
“Pleased to meet you, and you sir: my apologies for this way I have of reaching over you,” she said to the seatmate.
“Oh, that’s all right. Don’t worry about it,” replied the stranger, embarrassed.
Edward asked, “Are you a regular on this run?”
“Yes, I get on at Cannondale. I’ll look for you tomorrow in this car,” and she turned to go back to her seat.
As their view continued to be limited to the blurred walls of the below-ground right-of-way, Edward decided to return to the earlier thread, and said, “In your time, New York was a bustling center of activity and population, just as it is now, but it ended only a half mile or so from the Battery. In the century that followed yours, it completely occupied the island. What’s more, across the East River, Brooklyn grew up as a city just as large, and the Jersey ports of Hoboken, Bayonne and Newark bustled on the Hudson’s opposite shore.”
But Franklin had other ideas. “What do you think of her?” he asked.
He was obviously referring to Ms. O’Hara, so Edward replied, “Very intriguing. I look forward to joining up with her, perhaps tomorrow. We could look for her when we get on …”
But now he felt he had gone too far, if not with Franklin, then with fate. How could he plan on another commute with Franklin, as if it would be this way from now on?
The other of course sensed this. “Yes, it is troubling isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, I should have been more sensitive.”
“No, no. We must not stifle our conversation, much less our thoughts, for fear of broaching unpleasant subjects. Who knows? Perhaps by examining such questions as, ‘Will there be another day like this?’ we will uncover some means of getting me back, perhaps some means even of controlling the process.”
Meanwhile, Eloise balanced herself with a hand on the seatback grab bars and moved back down the aisle. Fortunately, she had an aisle seat that morning, so she did not have to disturb any more newspaper readers. And more important, she did not have to interrupt her own thoughts, even to utter an ‘excuse me.’
They had boarded at Wilton, but had settled in several seats in front of her, so she had been waiting for some pretext to approach them. The quiet commuters made it possible for her to overhear the discussion of U.S. geography, and she had the road map because of an article she was editing, so she seized the opportunity. For there could be no doubt about it, this was Franklin.
Of course, she recognized, in thoughts that ran right alongside, that this absence of doubt must be interpreted, according to all prevailing standards, as detachment from reality. But why consign one’s self to insanity without at least investigating?
The one thing that gave her hope was that she’d seen Edward on the train for many months. It was a thin hope, to be sure. It wouldn’t even take a psychologist to conclude that they merely shared the same delusion. But at least it was something to go on, a starting place.
What worried her was the same thing worrying Edward and Ben, that, when she looked for Edward tomorrow, he and Ben might not be there.
For a moment, she thought of Edward. She was becoming curious about him. Someone who shared the same delusion. Even if Franklin appeared only the once, mightn’t it be a good thing to get to know him?
Then a cold thought: had she fallen for a gag? Were the two of them at this very moment shaking hands over their success in taking in at least one commuter? Could they be recording their escapade? A wire, even a hidden camera?
But what of it? It would be fun to be the butt of such a joke, wouldn’t it? She had nothing to fear from the public exposure. A copy editor’s fate was decided in much more anonymous ways. She closed her eyes to let the roll of the train bring on sleep, and told herself that at least here was something, undoubtedly trivial, but something, to look forward to tomorrow.
;
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