217 Babel Street | Harry's Taxi
H arry had taken to just sitting there in the cab, waiting, hoping for a glimpse of the young lady. He was fascinated. It was the way she had smiled at him that first time, that first fare, tipsy as she was and fumbling with her purse and then dropping the coins everywhere. Just like Edna. Edna's clumsiness, Edna's lovely smile.
They had not seen their younger daughter for over seven years now. Every so often a postcard would arrive: Paris, Rome, Thailand, New Zealand, India. She was still searching for herself, whatever that might mean. He wished that she would come home, just long enough to see Margaret, before she... before she...
Harry sipped coffee from his flask. In the early days of the sickness he could hardly keep from crying; now he felt dried out, empty, although it filled him with guilt to admit so. He had never loved any other woman, only Margaret.
A figure moved in the flat's window, and a few minutes later the front door opened. It was her. He watched from the shadows as the young lady walked by, and then followed her in the rear-view mirror until she turned the corner and disappeared. He was going to start the engine when the strangest feeling came over him. He felt suddenly cold, shivery, aware of every slow beat of his heart. He could hear a voice, Margaret's voice. The touch of her fingers on his skin, his neck. She was asking for him, calling for him.