“How much longer until you see her?”
“Until I can afford a passage on the ferryboat.”
The rain shows no sign of letting up. It continues to strike the side of the tollbooth, making a rasping sound as if on the television white noise had replaced William’s program. Catherine stamps her feet against the cold. The attendant offers to brew more tea. Catherine refuses. She no longer wants to take anything from him. The attendant folds his arms across his chest, leans against the wall and gazes outside into the bleak, monochromatic day.
Catherine again glances at the attendant’s wedding ring. The gold band is likely valuable, perhaps worth enough to secure his passage on the ferryboat he’d mentioned, so that he could join his family. Had she known him better or been certain it wouldn’t offend, Catherine would have asked him why he didn’t sell the ring. Considering this suggestion shames her. This man isn’t like she is. He had sacrificed his entire life’s happiness to secure the happiness of his family. He had sent them across a sea so that they might have a future while only able to make half the journey himself. She can predict his reply to her suggestion: that he’d rather never see his wife again than present himself to her impoverished and having pawned their last shared possession. The joy his wife would feel on their reunion would soon temper when she imagined the indignity of him hawking his wedding ring. There is a moral hollowness, which all through her life Catherine has suspected herself of and learned to conceal. Her well-cultivated instincts tell her not to suggest to the attendant that he try to sell the ring.
“What if it doesn’t let up?” she asks, her eyes fixed on the rain and what seems to be some immovable point in the distance.
“It will eventually.”
They stand next to one another and William remains perched on the stool in front of them. Minutes pass. There is the sound of approaching thunder. The terrier begins to yip skyward, turning circles, as if chasing some invisible pursuer. Static clouds the television screen, and then overcomes the image altogether as the brunt of the storm passes above them and scrambles the signal. Without anything to watch, William glances at his mother. “Are we still meeting Peter?”
That the weather would keep Peter away had not occurred to Catherine. She reaches into her pocket, removing her phone. She has no messages and debates whether to call him. She surmises that Peter is with Murat but wonders what has delayed him. Perhaps Murat has convinced Peter to abandon her. Perhaps the weight of meeting her husband has proven too much for Peter. Then of course there is the truth about William. Would Peter care? Catherine had always thought the fact of William’s adoption would simplify his relationship with Peter. After all, her son isn’t Murat’s by blood. Peter wouldn’t have to contend with having betrayed William’s father. Everything but blood is erasable. Without blood William could be one man’s son as much as another’s.
The attendant glances at the phone in Catherine’s hand. “Let me step outside so you can have some privacy for your call.” He takes his waterproof jacket from its peg on the door. Catherine refuses, insisting that the weather outside is too bad, that she doesn’t need anything.
“No, no, you have your private business,” says the attendant. “It’s no trouble. I should really check the drains around the lot. They often clog and then flood over.” Before Catherine can say more, he is out the door. She can feel William staring up at her. His look falls like an accusation, as if he were asking his mother why she couldn’t convince any good man to stay, no matter how insistent she was. Spurred on by this look, she dials Peter.
It rings, but no answer.
She tries a second time and then a third. While she listens to the ringtones she wonders how she could have allowed herself to become dependent on Peter, so much so that she can’t even get out of this tollbooth without his help. He had offered her money, which she had refused. Now she can’t afford even a cab, and if she had money for a cab, where would she go? Home is no longer an option, neither is Peter’s apartment. She stands, motionless, with the phone to her ear. Each ring that passes unanswered sounds like a jubilant ridicule, a chiming laughter that proclaims all of her weaknesses, all of the many ways she has made a mess of her life. She wants so desperately for Peter to answer, for his voice to interrupt and claim the line. When she tries a fourth time, there are no rings, not the slightest hope that he will pick up. Her call goes directly to voicemail.
Catherine tucks her phone into her pocket. Her first instinct is to step to the window, which is right above where William sits, and to look out into the storm in search of the attendant. Then she hears the toes of his rain boots striking the threshold as he knocks the mud from their soles. The door swings open. Rivulets of water pour through the creases of his rain jacket and pool on the floor. He rushes to close the door behind him in an effort to shield Catherine and William from the weather outside. When he appears, Catherine feels as if a weight she had not yet noticed is suddenly lifted from her chest. An involuntary smile forces itself upon her.
“Let me help you with that,” she says, grasping the attendant’s jacket at the shoulders while he makes an awkward turn in the cramped tollbooth and frees his arms from the sleeves.
“Thank you,” he says, nodding sheepishly.
She imagines it has been some time since anyone has taken care of him and she can feel her power to grant him this. She takes the wet jacket by the hood and rehangs it on the peg behind the door. She offers to make him tea. Again, he thanks her. When he stands in the corner, she insists that he sit on the canvas stool he had taken out for her. She then asks him where to fill the electric kettle. He tells her that he has another water bottle in his bag. When he motions to get it for her, she won’t hear of it. She rummages through his personals, quickly removing the bottle. She sets out a cup for him, places a tea bag in it and waits for the water to boil. William continues to watch his television. Aside from the program’s low rhythms the tollbooth is quiet.
Catherine stands across from the attendant. Chilled from the storm, he begins to rub his hands together, blowing into his clasped palms to warm them. She flirts with the idea that he might help her, that if Peter never answers her calls the attendant might care for her, at least for a bit.
His tea is ready. Catherine pours his cup and steam uncurls across its surface. The attendant nods gratefully. When he reaches for the tea, she carefully passes it to him. Then she notices something on his hand. The rainwater has left a stain around his ring finger. Before Catherine can get a better look, the attendant sits back on the stool and begins to sip his tea. A green color faintly bleeds onto the attendant’s dark skin. What is it, she wonders. Each time he raises his cup to his lips, Catherine stares. The attendant smiles self-consciously in return. He asks if she is sure that she doesn’t want a cup of the tea for herself. She only shakes her head, refusing his offer with silence while she continues to puzzle over where this stain has come from. Then she realizes—the color is seeping out from his wedding ring, which isn’t gold after all, but rather forged from some other, less valuable substance, which would have sold for nothing and taken him nowhere.