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Originally Published in In Good Company in 2001 (see full publication details at the end of the story)
As I sit down beside her, I don't give the
resemblance much thought, for there are many old women in the world.
And it has happened to me before, especially on trips like this one
where I am traveling alone. I decide that this time I will not be
fooled.
I snuggle down in my seat and
watch the stewards make their rounds offering pillows and corralling
oblong, skittish baggage. Across the aisle a small, old man rests his
slippered feet on a case of Rocky Mount Spring Water, his belongings
piled around him. I think this casualness odd, but trains are new to
me, and the stewards let it go. The Rocky Mount man leans far back in
his seat, so far that his torn sweater slides up over his stomach. It
is flatter than mine, and I just turned nineteen and run track for the
University of Virginia. I'm probably in the best shape I will ever be.
We are ready to leave now, and the tall steward
slides up the short metal steps and slams the door hard enough to allow
my headache, which I lost in West Virginia, to find me again. The
steward's uniform is worn down; he's tired and sulky-looking like an
aging fighter. He ducks his head to move into the car, and I understand
his permanent stoop. With one long gasp, the train begins to move.
I'm
on this train because my flight out of Baltimore lost an engine over
Wheeling. The engine did not merely die, it fell off. I actually
watched it tear free from the wing and plummet. We had to descend very
fast, faster than anyone wanted; even the pilots lost their calmness,
the flight attendants reduced to the same terror that possessed the
passengers. Perhaps I should have waited for another flight out, but I
cannot go back up just yet. The train picks up speed. I had no idea
trains could move so fast. The sensation of floating is intense, far
more so than at thirty-five thousand feet.
I
take in the very young couple diagonal from me. His eyes dart around
her plump, pretty face. Her hair is dirt-colored on top but blonde
where he pushes his nose into, taking long breaths while his hands move
slowly across her shoulders. Her skirt rests well above her knee,
although it is very cold outside. Her denim jacket is much too big for
her. She kisses his neck and I quickly look away, embarrassed.
From
the seat in front of me, a pair of eyes stare. Small, wondering, hazel
eyes bookend the beginnings of a nose, now only a bit of cartilage. The
mouth opens and closes, tiny hands reach into space and then slowly
retract. I never see the eyes blink; they simply stare and look away
and then return.
I get up and walk down
the aisle. I want to ask the steward a question about our trip, but
then decide against it. They are all black and middle-aged; some with
straightened hair that gives the impression it's not attached to their
heads. Their vests dangle down their fronts like ropes of beads.
Suddenly, I am conscious of how I am dressed: pleated trousers;
carefully pressed, thick wool sweater; and leather jacket, rusted and
worn to perfection, which is how I bought it in New York City. My very
comfortable shoes are from L.L.Bean. Heading back to my seat, I can see
that Rocky Mount man has dozed off. His hair is curly and thick with
gray, his skin deeply tanned, the sort of reddish-black tan one
acquires from being outdoors far beyond the limits of pleasure. A long
scar slithers across his cheek and melts into his jaw line.
I see the man and woman whose baby has looked at me. The man reads a magazine, Road & Track I
think, but the light is very poor. No one sees me, not even the young
mother, and I begin to feel foolish for my concerns of standing out.
The mother is restless, it seems, moreso than the baby who still
clutches at air and sways his head to invisible rhythm. She pats his
diapered bottom and looks across at the man. Her hair is long and
straight and the copper color of a dull penny. The face is small and
seems unfinished; the lips carry a smear of orange lipstick. Her
breasts are swollen, and for a frantic moment I wonder if she will
attempt to suckle him right here, but then I see the heads of the
formula bottles poking from the frayed duffel bag beside her. She
frowns at her companion and I think I see her move to nudge him, but
then I am past and again slump in my seat.
I
said I tried not to notice her, but the light flashing outside the
window catches me before I completely fall asleep. I jerk my head
around, but too late. A car's headlights? A descending plane? Who
really knew what we passed in the darkness. It is twelve-thirty. We
have been traveling for almost three hours, and then I see the Psalm a Day Book.
At
first, I can focus only on her hands and the book. Her hands are, as I
remembered them, brown and spotted, forming intricate designs that
resemble the intriguing constellations I studied as a child. The veins
run canal-like up her long forearms. I had forgotten how sinewy she
was, and is even now, as I quickly calculate her to be eighty-one. My
mother had told me stories, which at first I did not believe, of her
strength, her endurance for work, and of the pain that always seemed to
find her. And finally of the hope, the independence that forever
possessed her. The Psalm a Day Book is the most recent version,
ten years newer than the last one I saw her reading. As I sneak a look
at the verse for December 31, I marvel at the circumstances of how I
have come across my grandmother after all these years.
I
look around and all are asleep except for the two of us. Even the tall
steward slumps down in a corner. Without looking outside, I know the
wind is whispering secrets while it runs alongside the car, which I
peer out of, like I am in a foxhole, afraid to raise my head too far.
If it is twelve thirty, we must be near Indianapolis, and I wonder
where she is going.
I finally force
myself to look up from her hands to her neck, which remains long and
slender. With an effort I focus on her face. It is different than I
remembered. The jagged edge of her jaw has partially fallen in, as
though it were a diverted river filling its new route. The hair is long
and the color of bleached sheets, her skin majestically imprinted with
deep lines. But her frame is still lean and unbent. All the old women I
know are bloated and slow, done in by too many babies and a lifetime of
processed foods. My grandmother is none of these things. It is while I
am thinking this that she turns to look at me with neither smile nor
frown. Lasting only an instant, I conclude it is a look of inquiry
only. But as her gaze locks onto mine I recall what I have spent many
years both attempting to bury and struggling to keep alive.
When
I last saw her ten years ago it was December then too. It was snowing
at our home near Lake Placid. For while we lolled the summers away at
my father's place on Martha's Vineyard, we bore the burdens of the
Northeast winter stoically, as had all my father's ancestors. From
upstairs I am listening to the deep tremors of her voice easily
blunting my father's staccato attacks, as a rock skips off the broad
surface of the water, only bruising it. But then there is silence, and
the heavy front door opens and closes. By the time I reach the top of
the stairs she has gone. People often spoke of the resemblance between
her and me: the same dark eyes, jutting chin, and the long, compact
frame. But after that night, the comments grew less frequent. Like a
dying plant, they eroded away until no longer were they or she a part
of my life.
I lie back in the narrow
recess of my seat, close my eyes and listen to Rocky Mount's snores,
which aren't loud, only amounting to a poor whistle, really. The tall
steward's hat bumps against the far wall while baby grunts; this, mixed
with the worrying sounds of his mother, hover over me like a
slow-moving cloud. I hear the pages of the book continue to turn, like
the sound of a lazy wave as it rolls up and dies on familiar shores. I
hunch down further into my foxhole, surrounded by this eclectic
symphony, and I wonder how I could have changed so much that my
grandmother no longer knows me.
This
time I sleep for almost one hour. When I wake I fumble for my bearings,
acknowledging the momentary ignorance of where I am. Hungry, I reach
for my bag of food. That is when I notice she has gone. Barely stopping
myself from running the aisle in panic, I lean out and anxiously look
front to rear. Only the slumbering steward is in my line of vision. I
glance at her vacant seat thinking I can conjure her back by fully
focusing on the slight indentations in the rough fabric. The seat is
still warm, only a few minutes have passed; she had to still be on the
train. Finally, I see it tucked down in a corner of her seat. I touch
the Psalm a Day Book reverently, as though it were a precious
and aged manuscript; she would never leave this. Baby starts to cry,
and I turn to find Rocky Mount staring at me.
His
face is dark against the shadows, a specter, but I clearly see his eyes
circle me, like a high-soaring bird preparing its dive. He glances at
my hands, making sure they are empty. I am much embarrassed by what he
is certainly thinking. Suddenly, I lean across and ask him if he has
seen her. When did she leave? Where did she go? But he is unruffled by
my emotion. Instead, he looks past me down the length of the car,
appearing also to await her return.
I
pull back, slowly, matching his deliberateness. He has the air of a man
with nothing but time to pass. His thick eyebrows cock upward, forming
a steep-pitched roof. His eyes, which splatter together in red and
yellow hues, bear down on me. It occurs to me that he might not be
well. A stick of gum is carefully unwrapped and slid into his mouth
where it is confronted by worn, yellowed teeth. The chewing is
interrupted by a deep fit of coughing. His body seems to be hollow
because the sounds echo inside of him, like cries through deep caverns
I have visited. Recovered, he smiles at me and his chewing picks up
pace again; the gum is switched from side to side until my eyes grow
quite weary watching. I am reluctantly about to leave him, when he
touches my chest with his finger. "You look like a right nice young
man. Um-hmm. Tell me you is or you ain't and I'll tell you you're a
g.d. liar either way." He laughs and slaps his leg so hard my forehead
crinkles in respect of the blow. His high voice pierces my ears. He
bends down and pulls out a jug with the blue mountain range emblazoned
upon it. "Goddamn this stuff is good. Pure is what it is. Best goddamn
liquid in Carolina, pr'bly the whole country, big as it is. Here!"
He
reaches one out to me and I take it. I rarely drink water, having been
weaned on coffee and my grandmother's kitchen-sink beer. But I do not
want to lose him.
"This woman", I gesture to the seat beside me "did you see where she went?" My intent was to sound as casual as possible.
"I
seen you poking 'round there." His voice drops to a whisper and he
leans toward me. "I ain't saying I never had sticky fingers, but you a
fine young man, pretty things you wearing. You don't look to me like
you need nothing."
He still smiles but also eyes the jug in my hand. I offer it back but he shakes his head, swallowing his gum.
"She's
my grandmother, Iona Sidney Moncure!" I finally blurt out. My heart
pounds as my mouth produces each of the words of her name, sounds I
have not heard in my parent's home for these last ten years.
In
my vision I am not yet ten. The house of my youth is of enormous
proportion, with graceful lawns on which to play. The sturdy clapboard
and stone construction has been standing for 200 hundred years and will
no doubt stand for another hundred or so. It has pockets of warmth but
the majority of it is quite cold. In my vision, I hear my father's
voice, the whine really, as it peals like an old, dying electric saw,
and then falls silent. My mother, who is always at his elbow, an
obedient pet, says nothing. The voice of Iona Moncure drifts lower and
lower until I am finally unable to hear it. As I say the name "Moncure"
the slam of the too-heavy front door cuts me off and I am running down
the stairs. But I am pitifully slow, useless to her. I have since
learned to run much faster. I believe I am now a track star because of
this point in my life where I could not afford to be tardy.
Rocky
Mount man cocks his head at me. His lips climb into a broad smile
eventually spanning his face, yet he says nothing. Frantic that I will
lose him, I turn my head sideways and point to my profile.
"Look!"
I say, with index finger digging into my jaw. "Look, are you telling me
you don't see the resemblance?" I grab his arm, pulling him closer into
the ill light. I scan his features demanding recognition. I am not
about to let him go. He begins to shake his head, pulling his sweater
down over his empty belly. I have finally dislodged him. He takes a
long drink from his jug and begins to nod slowly, then vigorously. The
liquid spills from his mouth; the misdirected droplets cling to his
skin like clear moles.
"Well now I do, I rightly do. Yes! Uh-huh."
He
is eyeing the far end of the car while he talks, and I cringe,
expecting the steward to be heading our way. My hair is cut short on
the sides and lays thick on top. In the style of the day, I wear a
jungle of curls. I await the feel of strong hands entering this
thicket, pulling me back to my seat, perhaps off the train. My hand
slowly traces over my face while I wait. I am proud of my profile. Her
profile. I let go of Rocky Mount man.
When
I turn around my grandmother is only a few feet away, walking,
pencil-straight. A large bag is held tightly at her side, her face
scrubbed clean. She wears gray slacks and low, comfortable, black
boots. Her hair flows carelessly down the sides of her face. I quickly
adjust my long legs to accommodate her passage. Rocky Mount man takes
the opportunity to fade back to sleep, his jug empty. The Psalm of the
Day book is recovered and stowed away, as is her bag; the thin coat is
folded and sat upon. Her hands move quickly, efficiently. I remove my
coat and sweater; underneath, my tee shirt proclaims my membership on
the track team. I wonder if my mother ever had an address to write to.
Would my grandmother even be aware of my accomplishments? I silently
curse the metamorphosis of my body over the last ten years. Growth that
I had been so proud of now only hampers me in the cruelest way. But my
name has not changed, and I quickly search through my pockets for
identification. I find my driver's license, but I can conceive of no
plan where that item is thrust in front of her. Thinking the matter
through, I almost do not feel the slight tap on my shoulder.
"Where are you on to, young man?" Her voice has retained its strength, her speech its directness.
"Denver."
I settle down, immediately comfortable with the elegant face, her
interest in me. She nods, digesting the news of my destination. I have
hope now, for I have known her to play this game before feigning
ignorance of her relation to me. Once when I was six she did it so well
that I ran screaming for my mother, convinced that it was not an act,
that perhaps I was someone else, trapped in a house with a strange
woman. Did I perceive a smile quivering on her lips?
"Denver?
Oh, I've been to Denver once, but I didn't like it, the air you know,
so thin. You have to squeeze every drop of oxygen out of it, and my
squeezers aren't so good anymore." She touched her chest. I remember
she has only one lung, the other being lost to cancer some years before
she left us.
For a long time she had
smoked a thick, man's pipe, which upset my father especially when
quests, business associates really, were in attendance. He would listen
in silence through dinner while she told stories of her already, long
life. She had been young when so much was unexplored. Not like now,
when one so easily becomes a pathetic spectator of life's events. When
she sat down on the floor with her pipe in the living room - where the
guests arranged themselves on massive sofas and sipped their drinks -
my father would clench his teeth and refuse to acknowledge her
presence. Whether it was summer parties at the lake house, Thanksgiving
dinner for fifty or a small gathering of important folks, this silent
battle would take place between my father and Sidney Moncure, and it
was rare that he would best her. The guests were usually embarrassed at
my father's behavior, but their emotions never approached the
humiliation he felt because of this superior intruder, sitting
Buddha-style on his thick carpet. That his own followers found her more
interesting than him was unforgivable.
"Now
Charleston, now there's a town that'll rehabilitate even a lost soul.
Those are roots; damn fine roots I will say history and respect on
every block. And along the Shenandoah, take your breath away, I don't
care how many times you see it. But Georgia," (her voice drops and her
thin ears quiver) "now there's a place . . .. Well, that's past now.
"I've
been on many a train, you know. The monstrosities they have today, well
ask me and I'll tell you they're just too damn big. Almost like getting
on a plane, which is something I just won't do, ever. Know why?" I
shake my head. "Planes tempt you to go to places you don't really want
to. Had a friend, long dead now. It was all she could talk about, was
going on a plane to Africa, going on a plane to Africa. Finally, after
her husband dies, she up and goes. I see her a couple weeks after she
gets back. I say 'Shirley, how was it?' She looks at me and she says,
'Well, how was what?' As if she goes to Africa every Tuesday. 'Oh, you
mean Africa?' 'Yes,' I say, 'Africa.' I mean to give her another minute
to cough it up or I'm taking my coffee somewhere else. 'Well,' she
says, 'it was all right except for it was too hot, and there were
animals everywhere.' I look at her like she's crazy, or a fool and she
is and I say, 'Shirley, that's why people go to Africa, why'd you go?'
'Oh,' she says, 'I never did anything like that before, so why not?' So
I tell her there's nothing at all wrong with doing something new before
you pass on but I say 'Shirley, there's plenty you haven't done right
here.' I know it was the plane that did her in, and on top of that, she
gets airsick. I told her to go by train next time. And you know what
she says? 'Why, you can't get to Africa by train.' Like I said, I took
my coffee somewhere else."
I squirm
around in my seat so I can watch her entire face move while she talks.,
We could be hidden upstairs in the attic room, with kitchen-sink beer,
listening to the rain beat down on the roof, letting the wind speak to
us from the chimney. Her eyes held the faraway look so familiar to me.
I had listened to her for entire afternoons as she spoke of her
childhood, first in Virginia and then in Georgia, of the farm she and
my grandfather worked, of Civil War battles fought by her grandfather
and great-uncles. She cleared her throat and went on.
"When
I was very young, I would sit with my mother in the caboose, but that
never seemed to satisfy me. It wouldn't do until I had been hoisted
into the crow's nest so I could see from up high where we had just come
from. That seemed so important to me back then, not so much now. I
believe I've ridden on every part of a train you can imagine. I even
climbed into an empty hopper car on a bet. Ruined my best dress, but I
did it!" She laughed.
"Some of my
mother's friends accused me of being a witch, because I could tell them
what they were thinking and answer them before they ever had a chance
to say anything. They never did figure out they said the same durn
things every day of their lives. 'How is the weather? How is the
kitchen garden doing? How is your daddy? Why I think this winter will
be colder than the last, don't you? Of course, that eldest boy of
Lily's will always be no account, and you can quote me if you want to.'
I swear, some of them went to their graves thinking I was Lucifer in a
skirt and pigtails. So what's got you headed to Denver?"
I
look past her out the window, taken aback at this change in focus. I
can feel my face growing warm, as though I had drawn too close to a
stove. My mouth goes dry. I play with the ring this girl has given me,
but my fingers tremble. My grandmother eyes the small circle on my
finger and then touches my cheek, turning my face towards her.
"Let
me tell you a little something. A long time ago I put myself on a train
and traveled for twelve hours, from Carolina to Florida, to be with
someone I wanted to be with. When I got off that train, I was hot,
bothered and within a cat's whisker of getting back on and going home.
But I didn't, and we stayed together for twelve years, and God knows
we'd still be together if he hadn't upped and died on me. Everywhere I
go now, I go on trains because I'll go to my grave knowing that I never
made a better decision, and it was all mine to make or not. And I know
if that train ride hadn't been so durn miserable I would've gotten back
on it and gone home, and missed the best stretch of my life."
I
listened quietly. My parents believe me to be at school studying up for
next term. My next installment in progress in a carefully planned life.
I am deceiving them, and it makes me nervous and distant. And all
because of this girl I met at a track meet. A woman of long limbs and
depthless endurance who runs almost as fast as I do. I believe I love
her, and yet my hesitation, my uncertainty, grows stronger with every
mile we travel.
I think of my mother.
The irony of my life in comparison to that of my grandmother's has
always existed in the shallow surface of my mother's watery blue eyes.
She knew she had forsaken the opportunity to live the independent life
of her mother in order to marry a man of means, to have a good, secure
life for her children, for me. I have no such restraints blocking my
path. And her disappointment slowly grew as I unexpectedly turned out
to be my father's son, despite my outward appearance. I know she
carries the belief that I have betrayed her, that I have somehow made
her life pointless: I look like Iona Moncure, but I am not her. I am
Roger Adams' son, from the top of my soaring ambitions down to my
values that are sunk through the bottom of this train and rooted deeply
into the sleeping forms of the Adams' line.
My
grandfather, Roger Adams Sr., died of cancer. For a long time he lived
at Saranac Lake with what they thought was tuberculosis. He now resides
in the family vault at our home along with centuries of other Adamses.
We are also related to the Massachusetts Adamses, but so far removed
that my father no longer brings it up despite the appeal it held for
his obsession with such matters. I suppose we all will join up there in
the vault sooner or later, which troubles me because there aren't many
of the Adamses I really care for. What I can't explain yet is the fact
that I am traveling to see a woman whom I know my father would not
approve of. I turn to my grandmother.
"I'm
going to meet someone." I actually start to blush. "A girl. I met her a
year ago. And I love her." My voice cracks as I say the words. I want
to say that I love this woman next to me, my grandmother, yet my tongue
is stayed by an instinct I feel but do not at all understand. "We're
going to be married." I glance at her kind, attentive face. "My parents
do not know." She stretches a withered hand out and rests it on top of
mine, which suddenly trembles under the weight of what I am
undertaking, of what I have just confessed. I am suddenly aware that
the responsibility for what I am doing is mine alone and it is a
paralyzing notion.
"Would your parents
approve of your bride-to-be?" Her hand holds me firmly, pumping
strength and resilience into my bloodless body. I take a moment to look
over at Rocky Mount, but the darkness envelops him now, although his
light whistle continues to gently surround us.
"Yes," I lie, and then there is no going back.
I
sense immediately that she does not believe me. Like my father, I
cannot reveal the truth consistently. It is like a cog out of place on
an otherwise efficient machine; I feel a sharp hitch at times, which
forces the truth to remain hidden. Unlike my father, I am a miserable
liar. At barely nineteen, I feel myself rotting away inside. Already my
dreams have slowly faded into slim hopes, weakening. She starts to pull
her hand away; I feel the tension releasing. I can no longer detect the
bump of her pulse. But then she seems to think better of it, and her
hand remains on top of mine. Her grip tightens. The decade of her
absence from my life evaporates under the touch of her fingers. She
knows that I am capable of so much more. I believe I know that I must
create those opportunities.
I pull out
the jug Rocky Mount man has given me. I have two plastic cups in my
pouch and she takes one. We touch glasses and nod our heads toward one
another; the formality causes us to giggle. We look around, but there
is no audience at five hours before even a streak of dawn will come.
The concoction goes down hard with me; I realize, with a certain
gratification, that Rocky Mount man has refilled his jugs with
something far stronger than spring water. My grandmother walks hers
down casually. This libation isn't new to her I imagine. For hours, we
talk of things important to each of us, as though we had never been
apart. Three more cups apiece and the jug is empty. She glows with
pride as I match her round for round. My bigger body gives me the
advantage I lacked ten years ago. I sneak over and pinch another jug.
The whistles continue, but I swear I see Rocky Mount man looking
straight at me. And yet, he lets me be.
* * * * * * * * *
"My
father would not approve of what I'm doing," I say into my last
glassful. The train has long since stopped for me. In my new vision we
are floating somewhat unsteadily on the surface of the aquarium in my
old bedroom. It is a place I have not seen for almost a year. All the
fish died long ago, but my mother keeps clean water in it. She has
always been good at this, conjuring up the illusion of life, of
normality, when there is really none to be had. She is the official
caretaker of the Home of Adamses, I suppose. Uneaten fish food lies on
the surface like debris from a tiny shipwreck. I am sure she wishes I
would come back, but that is just her wish. "I did not mean to lie to
you," I continue, "but I was unsure of what exactly to say, what with
knowing you, but not knowing you." I am confusing myself, so I dig my
tongue inside the glass, searching for a few more drops of Rocky Mount,
killing time. "You know, I am trying," I say. My hand shakes, but this
time she does not move to steady it. Her pulse has faded from my touch,
but it is still in my memory, blunt and strong.
I
scratch my head and lean out into the aisle. I reach over and return
the empty jugs to Rocky Mount man. He no longer sleeps; he is watching
the dawn awaken the sky with splashes of orange and red. It has been a
long time since I have seen the sun rise, though I see it in my sleep
all the time. I wonder how old Rocky Mount man is. I expect he is older
than my grandmother. He looks over at me. His eyes appear to have the
colors of the dawn imprinted upon them, as though his eyes were empty
until filled with the catch of the new day. He looks down at the two
empty jugs and smiles. Something occurs to me, and I reach in my pocket
and pull out some money, which I start to hand to him. He shakes his
head fiercely. I continue to push the money towards him; I meet his
eye, tell him he must take it. Slowly, his hand reaches out, takes the
money and deposits it into his wallet, which is really two pieces of
vinyl taped together. I bent the five singles in half so he would not
see the hundred underneath.
Rocky Mount
man is a patient soul; I know he will live much longer than me. He does
not smile now, but continues to watch me as he places the empty jugs
back in the case. Perhaps he has some secret well where he fills his
jugs. Perhaps it is only a matter of a large tub and grain alcohol with
certain other things mixed in. I tell myself I will never again travel
without a jug of such elixir. My headache is gone after five hundred
miles. I look past him at the sprawling dawn now about half-finished
its shift. I try to see the spectacle the way I think he would, but I
soon give up. I am not tolerant enough; my eyes remain empty.
It
is seven thirty now, and the stewards are slowly working the aisles,
retrieving pillows and blankets. I begin to long for a sleeper car. I
am tired of being around all these people, exposed like I am. I want
doors and walls enclosing me, but I'm sure all the sleepers are taken.
Then I slap my face because I realize that my grandmother would
probably like a sleeper too. She is over eighty; she has earned
privacy, the comfort of a mattress. I turn to her to ask if she would
like that. Yet my eyes are blurry from the drinking binge and I can
barely make her out. I suppose that sleep still possesses her. I have
to keep reminding myself that she is very old now. I turn away.
We
are now in Missouri, St Louis just behind us. The fields are clogged
with snow. Corn and wheat silos rise high above the whiteness: barren
lighthouses amidst the frozen water. I am glad the clouds are gone
because the dawn steadily infiltrates, touching each of us,
strengthening us. Baby reaches for the particles of dust that are
revealed by the shafts of light. Rocky Mount changes sweaters, the new
one has no hole, so I figure he will be getting off soon, maybe when we
reach Kansas City. The small station stops take a few minutes only,
seats are vacated, new owners are found. But I sense Kansas City will
be a more involved effort. Many will get on and off. My surroundings
will totally change.
I want to ask
Rocky Mount if he is jumping ship here. But he is back watching the
sky, though the dawn is now completed, as far as those things go. I
find myself growing irritated at his preoccupation with these daily
occurrences. He is the only one who knows my connection to my
grandmother, and I have not really talked to him about it. But he has
allowed me Rocky Mount when he did not have to. I have paid him for it,
but I have not really thanked him. I worry if I have offended him.
I
have not wanted to confront the issue, but I am preoccupied with Kansas
City because I know that is where my grandmother is getting off. I am
ashamed to say that while she slept I found her ticket in the special
compartment inside her hand-sewn Iroquois handbag. After I replaced it,
I realized that I did not look to see where she was coming from, and
now I am too afraid to try again. I have not thought of what I will say
when she rises to go. I do not want to draw her out, because I am
afraid of the reasons she would have for not acknowledging me. But then
she is a wise woman. I will let her sleep; I am confident something
will happen.
I do not remember my
grandmother ever mentioning Kansas City. What was important with her
was understanding the places she had been, not indexing them for idle
conversation later on. She could recall vividly the bloom of the
dogwood and crepe myrtle; the beauty of the Georgia spring; the craggy
smell of the James River in summer; both the vast breadth and delicate
complexity of the Appalachians. I know of these things also, but only
because of her. I do not want her to leave this train without me, but I
cannot stop her, not now. I am not that strong.
We
begin to lose speed, and the bustling of the stewards picks up. I
almost reach for a seat belt to strap tight, thinking about the planes
in which I've landed, about the lost engine and the too-fast descent.
Neither Rocky Mount man nor my grandmother stir; they do not even move
when we cruise into the station. I do not disturb them. I figure the
stewards will set matters right; yet I cannot bring myself to
participate.
When we stop I quietly get
up and walk forward. I know we will be here for about thirty minutes. I
walk down the metal steps into what I suddenly realize is a new year. I
cover my face from the cold air though I really don't feel it. The wind
never stops blowing here, I've heard, because there are no trees or
much else to stop it. Once we pull out again, I think I will end up
traveling to the dining car. I will eat hot buttered rolls and drink
coffee and watch the states whirl by as we make our way to Denver. I
would like to do that with my grandmother, and as I climb back on, I
can't help feeling a kernel of hope that such might be possible.
When I return to my seat, she is gone. Everything, Psalm a Day Book,
her Iroquois bag, even the slight impression on the seat has vanished
with her. I am not surprised. In fact, I was expecting this to happen.
I turn to Rocky Mount, but he is gone as well. I have been fooled
before, but not this time. This time it has come true. As I look out
across the fields of winter white, my skin tingles and my hands grow
restless. I feel the touch of my grandmother's fingers as she gently
turns my face to hers, as though gazing into a mirror of my own future.
A place this train is taking me, without hesitation.
© 2001 by David Baldacci
Publication Information
Baldacci, David. "Visions." In Good Company.
Vol. 3. Ed. John Pence. Palmyra, VA: Live Wire Press, 2001. 3 vols.
For more information, visit the Live Wire Press Web site at [www.cstone.net/~padler/].
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