Abbeville by Jack Fuller Page A

with a name. As soon as the two of them stepped into the restaurant, he realized he had made a mistake. Luella, who had always before appeared cosmopolitan in her bright white shirtwaist and black skirt, here seemed totally out ofplace. The preening little maître d’ did not even meet her eyes as he suggested that she leave her knitted shawl at the coat check in the tone he might have used to ask her to take off a pair of shit-smeared boots.
    â€œAre you all right?” Karl asked as they were led toward a dark, faraway corner of the restaurant.
    â€œWhy wouldn’t I be?”
    â€œWe could go somewhere else.”
    â€œOnly if you think we should,” she said.
    â€œI don’t think any such thing,” he said.
    The restaurant was lighted by candles, which gave the lacy expanses of the ladies’ white gowns an antique glaze. The menu came in French. He knew a few words from Abbeville, but they weren’t the words that described this fare, so he had to seek the waiter’s help.
    â€œWhy don’t I just bring you some sort of steak,” the waiter said.
    â€œAnd some corn,” said Karl.
    â€œCorn,” said the waiter. “Yes, of course.”
    When the waiter had gone, Karl arranged the napkin in his lap and surveyed the array of implements before him, which seemed extensive enough to perform surgery. Luella said nothing.
    â€œI don’t know why they say this is such a great place,” he said.
    â€œYou really don’t, do you,” Luella said. She reached over and took his hand where it lay next to a rank of spoons. “It’s because people like me don’t come here.”
    They ate as quickly as they could and left. She gave her address to the carriage driver, who headed south and west into precincts of the city Karl had never traveled before. There were sweatshops and small restaurants and greengrocers and block upon block of three-story tenements. At some point he got a whiff of what smelled like the farm, and he wondered if they could already have reached the city’s outskirts. Soon it was stronger than any farm he had ever known.
    â€œThat’s the stockyards,” she said. “You get used to it.”
    She leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
    â€œHere,” she said.
    The carriage rolled to a stop. The horse twitched. Karl jumped down onto the rutted street and came around to help her, but by the time he got there she was already on the way to the rickety steps of her flat.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Karl said.
    â€œYou didn’t know,” Luella said. “I should have.”
    Through the window of the tenement across the street somebody was shouting in a language Karl had never heard.
    â€œWill you be all right?”
    She smiled, put her hand to his cheek, and gave him the slightest, sweetest kiss on the lips.
    â€œNext time,” he said, “I’ll be smarter about where we go.”
    â€œNext time,” she said, “you will be smarter about who you go with.”
    â€œDon’t say that,” he said.
    â€œI won’t have to,” she said. “Others will.”
    In the morning his uncle called him into his office before Karl left for the Board of Trade and his maiden descent into the pits. Karl brought with him a small notebook in which to record his uncle’s instructions.
    â€œYou were with that girl Luella last night,” said Uncle John.
    â€œYes, sir,” Karl said.
    â€œDid you have a good time?”
    â€œShe’s very nice.”
    â€œHave you seen her here this morning?” said his uncle.
    â€œI was a little worried,” said Karl.
    â€œThere is no place for sentiment in business,” his uncle said.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œDo you know why you haven’t seen Luella?” his uncle asked.
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œShe has become much too familiar,” said Uncle John. “I had to let her go.”
    â€œBut I