DavidBaldacci.com

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/].