Ms. Morrow

Holden and the Woman on the Train

I was glad to get on the train and out of the cold. The car was completely empty, with the exception of a battered young man with a bright red hunting. I had caught him tentatively eyeing me as I went to set down my bags. He wasn't bad looking, even with a bruised face. He was a lanky boy, perhaps 18. He wore a tanned leather coat lined with some kind of fur that was still wet from the snow. He slouched in his seat as he carefully observed me. His attention to me, the type reminiscent of my youth, drew me towards him.

The only bags on the rack had Pencey Prep stickers on them. By some chance I had hoped the strange boy might go to school with my son, Ernst. Despite the rudeness of it, my curiosity got the best of me and I sat next to the boy.

''Excuse me, but isn't that a Pencey Prep sticker?''.

''Yes it is''. 

''Oh, do you go to Pencey?"

''Yes, I do."

''Oh how lovely! Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernst Morrow?''

''Yes I do, he's in my class''

It made me happy to think of Ernst. He was my youngest son and I haven't seen him in what felt like ages. My husband and I had decided that he would do better at a boarding school and made the decision to send him to Pencey Prep about a year ago. Initially, I was worried about how'd he'd do there as he's a shy child, and at sixteen, still quite young. Ernst, however, despite my worries, adores his school.

''Oh how nice! I must tell Ernst we met, may I ask your name dear? ".

He said his name was Rudolph Schmidt, a nice name that rolled off the tongue well. I liked this Rudolph and wanted to keep speaking to him. So, I continued to pester him about Pencey as it was the only middle ground between him and myself, asking him if he liked it there.

He went into uncommon detail with his response, discusses the things about the school that I would never have thought to consider; speaking in a way mature beyond his age. I found myself liking the young man; his mannerisms drawing me towards him.

I couldn't help but see Ernst in him; maybe I just missed my son but I couldn't help but compare the two boys' demeanors. They both seemed to shrink into themselves. Ernst is so shy, always slouching and mumbling. Rudolph, while certainly slouchy, was wordier and far less blunt than Ernst. I was always having to tell Ernst off for his rudeness.

Once, I distinctly remember, when he was about 12 I remember my mother, a Danish immigrant, had come to visit. She spoke with a thick accent even after years in this country, making her near incomprehensible to understand at times. Before dinner one evening she had called Ernst over with her heavy speech. She sits him down on the foot stool next to the chair she had attached herself to and begins to serenade him with questions. Ernst, having none of it, looks her dead in the eyes and says to my 75 year old mother ''I can't understand you.''

''Ernst just adores it'' I told him. And it was true, he sent home nothing but good things about Pencey.

''I know he does. He adapts himself very well to things. He really does. I mean he really knows how to adapt himself.''

It was interesting, I had never thought of him as a particularly adaptable child. He was such a sensitive child and had trouble with other child. Rudolph smiled when I told his this. He had quite a nice smile, the expression affecting his whole face in that nice way that it does when people genuinely feel their emotions.

He offers me a cigarette. I was tempted to have one but thought better of sharing a smoke with a 17 year old.

''I don't believe this is a smoker, Rodolph''.

''That's all right. We can smoke till they start screaming at us.''.

I give in and accept the cigarette and he gingerly lights it for me. We watch each other smoke. He did it well for a kid his age. Most teenage boys are too eager for the nicotine and burn down the cigarette without a hint of grace.

Slowly I see a trickle of blood begin to run down his nose. He doesn't even notice it at first. I inform him of this and he pulls out a crisp handkerchief and he begins to dab at the blood.

''I got hit with a snowball'', he explains.

''Did he tell you about the elections?''

No he didn't.

'' The class elections?''

He tells me more about Ernst then, about this story about how Ernst had won class president by a landslide victory. Part of me felt like he was lying to me. Honestly I couldn't imagine dear Ernst as the class president type, and I would like to think that he would tell me about it.

''Would you care for a cocktail'', he asks me.

It was a bit of a ridiculous request, he was very obviously not 21.

''Are you even allowed to order drinks?'' I ask, not trying to be rude.

''Well not exactly, but I can often get them on accord of my height.''

I found that funny, the thought of some oblivious bartender giving this lanky boy alcohol.

I refused him. Thinking better of myself than to drink so late at night.

I asked him why he was going home so soon, as winter holiday didn't start until Wednesday at Pencey. He told me that he was having an operation and his demeanor changed, the smile melting off his face. After that the conversation died down, he no longer seemed up to it. I instead began reading my magazine, pushing my attention into the bright pink shoes the model was wearing.