I thought I would share one of my short stories. I enjoy working and reworking my writing. I suppose you'd call revising a hobby for me. It's a what I do to decompress.
The day my father died working on the rail in Charlesbourg,
I took his red cup—given to him for ten years working the rail—out to the woods
for a drink.
I’ll say to the innocent face of that boy that what was in it was
hot chocolate. Because I wasn’t quite there yet, a boy not ready to admit I was
stepping off a cliff.
Inside was the warm whiskey dad hid in the back of the shed near the
radiator, so mom couldn’t find it.
I took it out for a drink. Dad always used to do that, when things
went bad. He was right; soon it all felt better.
I slept the day away, and woke up in my bed. Mom must have found me.
She never mentioned what I’d drank. I guess when dad died, she just didn’t need
the bother. I came down the stair, hoping it was all a dream, but the absences
of dad’s coat and the smell of pancakes cooking on a Sunday, was a sure sign it
was all real.
I found the cup on the counter and filled it with stale burned
coffee, that had been sitting since the day before when dad filled his thermos
to head off to work.
The farm wouldn’t run itself, eggs had to be gathered.
No doubt my older sister had gone off to grandmothers or some
friends house. I could hear mom crying in her room, I hesitated a minute,
wondering if she’d want me to come in. If I did, no doubt she’d want me to cry.
I wondered if I’d left any whiskey in the shed. Perhaps dad had another bottle
somewhere? The nausea and headache were not bad enough to negate the warm ease
it gave me.
I marched out sipping the horrid black liquid, before dumping the
last of it on the shriveled mums that were discarded on the porch outside. As I
did a tiny shard of a memory reared its ugly head, going out with dad and Margret, my older sister, to get them for mom’s
birthday. Tears threatened to seep from my eyes, wrecking my resolve. Crying
was no use. Dad told me it was best to pick up your tools and work until you
forgot. If that didn’t work, I figured, I could drink it away. Dad never said
that, but it seemed like a solution. It certainly worked the day before.
That was twenty years ago today. I held up the photo walking across
my office and pinned it to the bulletin board.
“Milton, this is car 6 we have a shoplifter in Arrow’s….”
I sighed, not bothering to answer. It was times like this, that I
missed the whiskey. No doubt the shop lifter was some snotty city kid. They
were coming in since the factory shut down in town. Many of them thought the
countryside was a good retreat from angry parents. They would hang out in
cabins in the woods. Unruly gangs of them would walk into shops, or would head
to cheap burger places, looking for companionship among the locals, or more often
something to do. That's something to do almost always led to trouble. Otherwise
it might end in something useful, resembling hard work.
“Milton, this is…”
I rushed to the desk, picking it up before they finished. “I’m here.
I’m on my way.”
I got into my cruiser, sweat pouring down my brow. The department
could barely afford the gas, why would they bother fixing the air conditioner?
Arrow’s used to be Willy’s. I walked through the door with the red
paint chipping off the ledge revealing the metallic green of yesteryear. I
could see myself at twelve and a half, stepping inside, demanding a job. At the
time thinking I was quite the man. I was hardly able to hide the fact that my
heart was racing, and mind swirling. I told old Willy Roberts I was fifteen.
He’d seen me every day, probably since I was no higher than my dad’s knee. He
didn’t believe one word of it. He gave me a nod anyway. Whiskey wasn’t a cheap
habit, on an allowance of twenty dollars, every couple of weeks.
“What seems to be the problem here, miss?” I looked to the register.
The teen in her bright red uniform could have been just as easily the culprit, judging
by her scowl.
A woman near stood, arms folded beside a scraggly dark-haired teen,
looking every bit the future criminal. His hair hung down over bushy eyebrows,
his face was pointed and his eyes were large and puppyish. In fact, he was all
together like some scrappy stray dog, only uglier and without half the cause
for sympathy.
The woman waved a hand over the pile of petty cigarettes and candy,
that caused this mess. “He took them, then tried to run. I was glad my husband
was in the lot. He grabbed him before he could get away.” She pointed to the
window where Mr. Andrews stood outside, in the heat, finishing his smoke with
sweat soaking the back of his gray Union-freight shirt.
“Well, it’s good he was.” The words came from my mouth automatically. It would have been no different to me if she
hadn’t bothered. Insurance could pay for petty theft and save me the trouble.
“Come along son,” I ordered.
He walked out in front of me and I put him in the back of my
cruiser. Shutting the door, locking him in. I stood outside, catching the last
spare bits of breeze, before ducking in myself.
The kid in the back was sweating and red faced by the time I started
the car, but he said nothing. He at least could keep his mouth shut. It was a
step up from most of the riff raff that blew through my station. This was usually
the turning point for a kid, assuming it was a first offense. Scared witless,
they would beg off, never to be seen by a cop again. Either that or they were
some snot nosed and spoiled kid. Their parents would end up being called. Suddenly
aware of what their kid was doing with their free time, they would leash them
and take them home. In the end though it was usually up to the parents.
You could always tell the apologetic ones, embarrassed by their own
flesh and blood, from the sardonic spoiled folks. The ones that made every excuse
in the book for their angel. Those almost always ended up back in the stations.
Until they outgrew petty misdemeanors, graduating to full on prison terms or eventually
found better things to do with their time.
It was exactly five minutes and ten seconds back to the station. I
couldn’t help but count. Uncomfortable situations always made me count the
length of time I would be forced to endure. Used to it was an easy way to
comfort, ‘only ten more minutes of school than I can have a drink’. ‘Once I
finish my shift, it’s 88 steps from the door to the car. I have 18 ounces of
whiskey left, and only 24 hours of time before I get paid’. Now I could only
count the time until I was back under the cool air, and able to pull a wad of
big league chew out of my desk, for a bit of relief. Straight sweet sugar could
give me a burst of energy. Sometimes it was enough to push me to get a frozen
coffee, from the gas station. If not I had to endure the black molten lava, I
made each morning. Given my dislike of black coffee, why I still made it only
caused me to question my sanity.
“Come along, son.” I marched him ahead into the station, naturally empty, since
my last partner married and moved to Fresno.
I had no desire to ask for help, nor was the town in a financial situation
to provide. “Well, do you have a name. I
need to call your parents.”
The boy narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
I chuckled. Silence was a unique tact. “Alright, if you won’t talk,
I’ll have to book you.” I reached for my keys and started to the nearest cell.
“Matt Laur,” he squeaked out. His accent registered normal to me. City
kids always had strange shortened words, with heavy Hollywood imitation
accents. “I guess you’re from here, I’ll have to call your parents. Laur? Are
you Mathew Laur’s son?”
He nodded, looking down at the floor.
“Sorry about your dad.”
“Could you not tell mom?” He looked up teary eyed.
“That’s no good. Next time your mom goes into the store, she will
know.” You don’t think old lady Andrew’s will keep her trap shut. She knows
everyone, I’m surprised she didn’t say first thing who you are.”
“Me too. If she was going to say she would have just called mom, not
you.”
“True. Still, well let me think about it. What’s with stealing candy and cigarettes? Your
dad didn’t smoke?”
“Not when mom could see him. She always pretended she didn’t know.
He’d come in smelling like tobacco and she’d blame the other guys.”
“Alright, I’m going to let you off with a warning. Do it again and
I’ll…” I looked about the shabby office if I wasn’t mistaken, I had at least a
couple packs left. I pulled from the draw a box of cigarettes. “If you tell
your mother…” I hesitated, holding up the box.
“No thanks,” he groaned. They're not the same kind. I wasn’t going
to smoke them just burn them in the car it… mom drove and she let the windows down. Now it
smells like leather seats and hot mud. It used to smell like… well you know… Dad
and I he’d take me to get some pop over at the drug store when we’d pick up grandpa’s
prescription.”
I shrugged the sentiment was not unfamiliar. I couldn’t recall which
of Laur’s boys Mathew was. The elder Laur was a sharp nosed, weasely looking man,
but a good fellow. He did his service in the armed forces before he retired to
be a minister. None of his boy would drink and smoke or so they let on. I knew
at least the eldest went on a three-week vacation in the mountains out in
California. Around here that was code for rehab a few towns over.
“Well, if you want the truck to smell the same you best keep your mother out of
it. How old are you? “Fifteen.”
“Is your mother, Amy Laur?”
“No, she kept it Clay. Don’t know why. Laur’s a better name.”
I shrugged, he wasn’t far from it, the Clays were back bush hippies.
“Amy Clay.” I squinted. I could see her face, vaguely from my muddle junior
high memory. A sort of washed up flower child. She never did deem her and her
family as a local bunch, but more of the upper crust artsy types. Destined to
live in high rises in Manhattan, and had somehow lost their way, and ended up
in Hicksville. But my memory of her could have just as well been clouded, by
the half pint of whiskey I had stashed in my backpack. It seemed all my
youthful memories were tainted by clouds of hateful people. Everyone was worse
or angrier, than they seemed now. It was the effects of alcohol poisoning, or so
my new-found conscience told me.
“You can go, but if it happens again, I’m…”
“Hey, my dad had a cup like that.” He pointed to the picture on the
board.
“Yeah, I pulled that picture out last night. After the railway
explosion, it reminded me of my dad. I guess you and I are in the same boat,
son. My dad died on the job as well.”
“He’s got a green one too… I guess. He had. I don’t know what
happened to it.”
“Probably got rid of it. You don’t keep the five-year ones. They are
bad luck.” I nodded, as the vague memory of my uncle saying that, a month after
dad died. He took the green cup off my dad’s high shelf and pitched it in the
trash.
Matt left swiftly out the door. My day ended with nothing, but that
clank, as I hung the cell keys back on my belt. I started for home in earnest. Mini
would take the office overnight. She was a fair enough officer from what I had heard.
I never waited around to meet her at the door. Leaving the coffee pot brewing
and the station doors unlocked, I took my phone and picture and headed out.
Matt was just passed the parking lot as I came out. He stood with a
gathering of three other kids. They were just off school, no doubt. They headed
toward the town center. That’s where you found the local kids. They’d be in the
street, eating candy, or drinking pop, while talking big, and pairing up for a
Friday night.
When I was a kid, I never had
time for it. Dating and movies, it was a waste of money best used for drinks. The
local track team held my attention for a little while. But I couldn’t run
wasted, and I couldn’t get wasted while running. The adrenaline drew up
unpleasant thoughts. I quit before I met any real competition. I headed the
same direction as Matt briefly before veering to the left.
Margret had gone off to the city for more schooling. Mom died a few
years after dad. Cancer was a grueling task master it took her piece by piece.
First her hair, then her weight, and finally, after days in hospice it came for
the rest. If it hadn’t been for the
whiskey I would have died alongside her.
My sister had the unfortunate kind of nature, that makes you want to
fix the world’s problems. When mom died, she decided she would someday cure the
world of cancer, and every other ailment that came along.
She threw herself into school after dad died. After mom died, she
threw herself into medicine. I didn’t have the head or the moxie for that.
When I got desperate enough, after years of drinking and brute labor,
making a farm run, I finally decided if I had managed this long to keep out of
jail, or any kind of trouble, that the quietest and safest place on earth in a
town, like this, was in the police station.
I did my training with as much ambition as I’d given my first job. A
need for money, led me to do just enough to keep on the up an up with the
management. With no desire for promotion, I set out on my career path in
earnest.
I passed the rail station, still quartered off, with yellow tape. A
large segment was in ruins. Three vans were parked close and a few cars scattered
the makeshift parking area. FBI, CIA… It didn’t matter much to me. Out of
towners were assigned to investigate. Only the sheriff had to put up with them.
I could keep my head down and pass unnoticed.
If not for my uniform, I wouldn’t have felt obligated to look up.
But I nodded their direction and started passing. No sooner had I tapped the
gas than a slender, agent trotted my way, waving an arm to halt me. The woman
neared her heels on the grassy pasture sunk and made a slurping noise. The
smell of wet, swampy mud met my nostrils, as I rolled down my window a bit more.
She made way up the small ditch to the road. I glanced toward the tiny gravel
bridge that would have saved her the muddy mess, that was now stuck all the way
up to her ankles.
“Officer, Milton?”
“That’d be me, ma’am?” I nodded trying to be polite. I really didn’t
want to look at the railway let alone be stopped here. The track butted against
the end of my farm. I could recall a half dozen times drunk and wishing I was
never born. I would stand on the rail waiting just hoping that a train was
headed my way. I tore my eyes from the mangled remains, of track and train. I focused
them on the matter at hand. Her ebony skin was dotted with greenish mud and
sweat was making her face-makeup run. The whole scene was a bit like looking at
a movie, where the city goes from civility to barbarism. Where dressed up, businesspeople,
are doing things that you know they never would have worn a suit for.
“I’m Patricia Goil. The sheriff told me that your father started
working for the railway around twenty years ago.”
I nodded. Thirty years ago, was correct. I was ten when dad died,
and the cup for ten years of working there was new. I pushed the thought away,
it didn’t matter and saying that aloud seemed like a silly thing to do.
“I get the impression,” she continued, “that this is not the first
time the railway was sabotaged, a similar incident happened before.”
Two rail accidents in thirty years, if that warranted an investigation,
I supposed I was correct in my assumption that joining law enforcement in Charlesbourg
would be a cake walk.
“Yes, it seems that way. Although I was under the impression the
last time it was deemed an accident. Heavy rain washed out the rail and the
inspectors got slapped with a lawsuit.”
“Where did you hear that?” She cocked her head.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I was ten at the time.” I closed my eyes,
unable to recall. I gave the most expedient answer I could think of. “My mom
said that.” I nodded wishing I had
driven on by, without a word.
“Well, I’m under the impression that there were no charges filed,
but I do think that sabotage was eventually considered the most probable cause.
Someone switched the rail, getting the train on the wrong track.”
“I’d say that’s the most likely explanation.” I started to roll back
up the window, she placed her hand on the door. If I could have a word, perhaps
with some of the locals? Someone like your mom who would recall the events?”
“I… well, mom is dead. My sister was only a bit older than me, but
there are plenty of locals to ask. Anyone here for that long would probably
recall something about it. Why not try Mrs. Andrews? She works at the grocery.”
“Thank you.” She seemed somewhat grateful for the assistance. With a nod and a smile,
she worked back down the hill.
I started my car forward, rolling up the window a little as I did. I
let the cool air blow across my face turned the radio up to full blast, and
headed for home. It would be a long night without anything to drink. I could at
least allow the sounds of blues, and dry beer commercials, drown out the feeling
of dread that came with every tick of the clock.
It would be ten hours, and
six minutes before I could be back at my desk. That was twenty steps from my
car to the house.
Ten steps to the fridge where I could retrieve the case of pimento
spread that I made the night before. Slathering it on bread only ate up ten
seconds of ten grueling hours. Fixing a
new batch for the next night would take up 16 minutes. It shouldn’t take that long,
but I made a great effort to hide the can of red peppers in the very back of my
cabinet at the top. That way I would be forced to get the step ladder to dig it
out. I always bought the kind that took a can opener, and mine skipped and cut
unevenly, eating up an extra five minutes to get into the can.
Once it was made, it was exactly ten after seven. I turned on the
nightly news, that way I skipped the headlines and first commercial break. Otherwise,
it felt as if I’d already seen the whole thing.
I frowned to find the man across my screen, was not Sandra, the
usual newscaster. I flicked off the television and ate in silence at first, but
the void of the dimly lit room, and the noise of my own chewing frustrated me.
I flicked it back on, only to find myself in the middle of a car commercial. The
air in the room stifled any desire to rise from my chair and test the radio. Going
for a drive would eat up the money I was saving for soda pop. I had decided a
week ago to replace my drinking habit for a new drinking habit. The shot of caffeine,
I figured, might at least negate the need to pour coffee each afternoon. That
was before I found out how much a coke costed now. Nothing at all like my
boyhood days, when I could pick up a pop for a quarter, and if I was in a mood
I would walk down to the Pioneer Village, where the machine was broken. It
would drop out a couple every other time. I got lucky that way more than once,
I could drink one than and save the other to pay off my sister for holding a
bottle of booze in her dresser drawer.
The clocked only ticked slower.
If I could just fall into bed when I reached home, and sleep twelve hours
instead of eight, but my internal clock was preprogramed. It was beyond my
control. Since I stopped paying it in shots, it stopped doing as I commanded. Now
I was lucky to get eight hours of sleep.
More than likely I would end up jumping awake, in a cold sweat from
some dream, I couldn’t even recall. It was times like that I wanted to go and
sit on the tracks. For a week now, though, I knew it would do me no good. The
train was out of commission, and if I sat on them now, I would have to walk an
extra three miles. That time always lessened my resolve, that and not knowing
the train schedules, in the next town over. Before when I went down to the
tracks, I knew in the back of my mind that the train would never round the bend
until a half past three. Or if old Lanky Johnson was having a bout of the crud
it would come at 3:45. So, I would sit on the track at four o’clock pretending
to want suicide and wondering if some passerby would even notice. The lack of
drink was starting to make me face the realities. Thinking I had sat on the
tracks wanting suicide was one of those rose-colored realities that whiskey
kept me believing.
The clock struck ten. I hadn’t watched the news, but had lost myself
in thought. It was Sandra’s fault I gave it up. One night after drinking
through my lunch break, I hit the signpost with the cruiser and she came on
television showing the wreckage, and the words that came from her mouth were
scathing.
“No witnesses were on the scene, but it was believed to have been
done by a drunk driver. Local law enforcement, asks for anyone with details to
come forward.”
This was followed by a piece on the horror of drinking, and what it
does to the liver. Complete with a doctor, who had pictures of drunk driving
deaths, and liver disease victims. Sickened, I tossed the bottle out the window
where it shattered, and liquid gold spilled down the storm drain. To this day,
I wished I had bad aim and had tossed it in the grass, where I could safely
retrieve it once the wave of fear had passed. Instead, it was gone and with it
my excess earnings. Between rent and car not to mention all the other bills it
was a week before I could again afford to replace it. By then I’d been through
the worst of it, and images of blackened livers were burned into my eyes.
I fell asleep at half past two. That was six hours of sleep, “not
enough,” I grumbled chastising myself for allowing excess hours to pass unfilled
with productive activity. I was halfway waiting for Sandra to come on the screen.
It wasn’t until the comedy show was on, and a commercial for the next night’s newscast
played, that I was at ease enough to rest.
I rose at two to four. Unable to sleep more I paced. I could go to work, but
then breakfast would be completely thrown off. The deli didn’t make up egg
sandwiches until five. “The diner.” I spoke half to myself and half to the
clock that ticked away, uncaring at all, about what torment it gave me.
I showered and dressed. Tonight, was laundry and tomorrow I would shop. I
looked forward to grocery day. It ate out three hours of my ten at home. I
could catch the end of the news and fall into bed.
I started the car in the cool summer morning. Its headlights were
like eyes peering out below a thick fog.
I hesitated, driving in this kind of murky black reminded me too
much of the nightmares that haunted my dusks.
I was back momentarily that same boy in his red coat wandering
through the haze of a foggy autumn dawn, working my way ever closer to the
train tracks. I could hear the whistle blow deep in the still frost, the smell
of oil and the rush of warm wind as the train blew passed, then I would jump
awake.
I shook the thoughts away. Turned up the radio. Some Latin tune was
playing a sultry sound. I didn’t want to hear it. I flicked the station to some
witless pop star singing of fun times and dancing. I pulled out of the driveway
without another thought, but the diner.
I would skip passing the railway and go straight to the main road. Reliving nightmares didn’t seem desirable and
I was already hungry.
“Nellies” Flashed in red letters on the top of the building. I
dodged the semi’s parking lot, nodding to Mr. Andrews. He always started his
morning there. Before his daily delivery to Nortown. He could be seen there again every night with
his wife having dinner.
I took a seat at a booth somewhat awkwardly.
A waitress came my way. “Egg sandwich,” I stated before she had time to
introduce herself.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said, passing my table and
taking the order of the couple just beyond me. I was crimson, I was sure, and
slightly breathless. The room was stuffy, and music blared from the nearest
speaker.
Andrews sat down across from
me with a couple of other fellows. “Yeah, you should have seen her. She comes around
at dinner time right in the middle of my show and pounding on the door asking
questions.”
“Two accidents, years apart.
That’s just a waste of time,” one of the others near spoke between swigs of
coffee.
“I guess now-a-days, they have to call in the big wigs for stuff
like that. Can’t have the locals handle anything anymore.”
“Feds from Washington think
they know it all. Coming down to little towns for a train accident.”
I squinted toward the twig of a man speaking, hunched over a menu,
his voice was so brittle it could break should he need to raise it.
“Why, when I was a boy a train would go off those rails once a year.
Of course, there were a lot more trains back then.” He looked as old as that. He
looked so much like my mother had the year before she died. She was so frail I
would have feared a hard wind would blow her away. But as scrappy as ever the
man talked on of the horrid Washington types, and city folks infiltrating our
small town. He wore his grey uniform with the factory logo in bold red. Most
had lost their jobs, save those with the most seniority. They could stay on
until retirement at the end of the year.
“Hello there,” A chipper voice spoke.
I looked about, expecting to find the waitress, with a clipboard in
hand, for an order she hardly needed to write down. Instead, I was met nose to
nose with a small framed, black eyed toddler, appearing as unhappy to see me as
I was her. I looked up to the woman at her side, clutching her hand.
I nodded. “Is there problem ma’am?”
“Oh, no I’m Amy Clay, Matt’s mother. I just saw your car out front
and wanted to say thank you. My son… Well,” she lowered her voice to a whisper,
“certain people can’t keep their mouths shut.”
I shrugged, “It’s a first-time offense, and just a warning. I don’t
think you need to worry. Want to join me?” I waved her to the opposite bench
and sending the girl ahead she slid in.
As soon as she was seated, we were joined by the waitress. I blurted
my order over a chorus of ‘cake, cakes’, from the girl across from me.
The woman laughed. “My daughter will have the pancakes and I’ll have
the egg sandwich as well.”
The waitress smiled and left. I shifted
in my seat somewhat regretting my own manners. I looked at the clock. If I was
late for work my day would be thrown off. It was twenty steps from the table
back to the kitchen and ten minutes to cook the eggs and pancakes. I mentally
counted, but not knowing what went on behind the closed kitchen door, and
unable to view the entire restaurant, and how many were awaiting orders I knew
it was just a guess.
“Well, I did want to thank you. My son has not been the same since
his father died. I didn’t know he’d taken up smoking and certainly stealing
never occurred to me. He gets an allowance. And why is he stealing candy of all
things?” She shook her head.
I stared back somewhat curious as well. The cigarettes I understood,
but I’d forgotten the candy. Maybe I’d let him off too easy? “Well, don’t make excuses for him.” I stated, before
I thought it through.
She stared back with a mix between anger and puzzlement.
“Not that you would. I just mean that’s what happens to parents of
kids who go bad. Most times their parents make up reasons rather than
punishments. Not that you would, I was just saying.”
“Matty was a bad boy,” The small girl said, with a singsong tone, that
was bound to be making her brother cringe, assuming she did it at home as well.
“Catherine, stop that,” her mother’s voice was firm.
“Well, I’m sure it won’t happen again, not if you use that voice.” I
stated as the waitress approached laying plates of steaming dishes in front of
us.
Amy laughed. “Yes, with the three I’ve had to perfect my ‘mother's
voice’. I guess you never would have thought it back in school. That would end
up a mom.”
“No,” I agreed. The smell of the pancakes filled my nose. Chills ran
down my arms. “I want ten.” My childish voice echoed in my head. “Ten cakes. I
bet I could eat ten.”
“You could not,” Margret huffed. My sister didn’t understand my
appetite. Every Sunday mom laid out pancakes in front of us. Three apiece,
butter on top, and syrup dripping down. Every Sunday until dad died. After that,
it was eggs. I would gather them up cook them and serve them. Most went uneaten
and unacknowledged for weeks, but I followed the routine, until finally, slowly,
mom joined me for breakfast, then after a while, my sister came around.
I shook the memory away, focusing full attention on the woman in
front of me. “No, you didn’t seem the mother type in school, but then who did.”
I shrugged.
She looked up with a wide smile. I blinked. She was nothing like the
girl I knew. Now her face was lightly plump, with a light blue glint in her grey
eyes. Her skin glowed with the heat of the day. Her hair was whisked up to the
top of her head, in a tight comb, looking like an amber waterfall. As stray
curls worked their way loose, she brushed them from her eyes, with a gentle
hand. Her thick glasses and flowered braids were gone now. No longer the flower
child, sprung up in inclement soil, she was every bit the small-town farm girl,
with sun tanned rough arms, and a face to match. I looked back somewhat
impressed with what time could do.
“Well, I best be off, I stated, as the clock crept nearer to six. I
wrapped my sandwich in a napkin, then dropped money and a tip for three.
Twenty steps back. Or was it ten? I started to count walking to the car,
but notice I didn’t care. My mind was still on the pair in the diner, and the
smell of hot cakes lingered. I had to be rid of it. I walked, letting the smell
of diesel fuel and fresh cut grass fill my nose and clothes.
“Railway train 10 07…” That was a father's number, I muttered,
getting into my car. I drove to work listening to the same pop music, or it all
just seemed the same. I arrived early, meeting Mini at the door. She nodded. “I
guess I can take off, if you’re early?”
“That sounds like a plan.”
“I made coffee.”
I frowned, looking at the half pot. “I should have stopped at the
station for a sweet one.”
“Oh, if you prefer sugar and cream we could always…” Her words
trailed off. I guess she knew by now I didn’t care about the coffee, or the
room in general.
“Anything overnight?”
“No, but after you left yesterday an agent came in. She wanted to
talk to you. She said, it was about the train wreck we had a few weeks ago.”
“Train 10 07 crashed yes, I know.”
“Yes, it was strange because she said that that was the same rail
number that crashed…”
“I know. My father died in that crash, the first one.”
“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry!” Her voice raised slightly causing me to
meet her eyes. The soft browns were a mix of youthful girlhood and hardened criminal
defense lawyer. She had worked for years in the city, before retiring to this
town, devoid of anything but petty thieves and the occasional drunk.
“Well, anyway, she said she would come in later, and she hoped to
talk to you.” Mini pulled off her work shoes and slipped on a pair of sneakers,
then made way to the door. Handing me the keys to the cruiser in passing. “Oh,
and I got a call from Sargent Boyar. He says they might be able to fix the AC
on the cruiser next week. But you best roll the windows down, it’s going to be
a scorcher today.”
I sighed. The heat in the car
was a good reminder to keep away from the whiskey.
She went out the door and I pulled back out the photo of my former
self, holding my red cup with its railway marks on the bottom. That day I
hadn’t meant to cause that much harm. I only wanted it all to stop. I shook the
thought away.
Tacked the picture up to the board, and settled at my desk. I tried
to picture myself before that day. Nothing would come, but the smell of
pancakes. At ten that’s all I really cared much for. The rest, the big stuff
was all routine. It was unchangeable in my mind. I didn’t know the big stuff
like dad coming home could change. But with one slip it did, and I was eternally
that boy in a red coat, with my father’s cup full of his brew, that no one ever
talked about. Going out to gather eggs, to establish a new routine, to replace
the old one. But nothing ever set back right. I broke something when dad died
and nothing was the same.
The phone rang, causing me to jump. It was 2 already. What had I
done with the hours? I looked about locating my phone ringing and shaking.
“Three missed calls?” I shook my head. “This is what I get for not drinking,” I
grumbled. “Hello?”
“Milton? Is that you?” Margret’s voice had a sound of desperation in
it.
“It’s me, yeah. What's the matter, sis?”
“You didn’t answer. I thought… Did you hear about the train wreck?”
“Yeah, it’s all over town. I—”
“Milton, you didn’t…”
“Didn’t what?”
“Have you had your dreams again Milton? Remember when you were— “
I hung up the phone, launching it against the wall. It cracked and
fell with a soft thump onto the ratty beige carpet.
Outside I could hear the hum of an engine and rake of tires over the
gravel lot outside. Before long footsteps neared. I looked toward the cells to
one side of the room. Leaving the keys to the cruiser on the desk, I walked to
the door with emergency exit flashing in neon red over it. I walked out
At 3:45 the train would come down the track, at home at least. Here
I didn’t know. It could be 4:00 or 5:00.
I sat down with my red cup clutched in my fists. The smell of hot whiskey,
wafting up from within, could almost bury the warm smell of hot cakes, from
some restaurant near.
I couldn’t help thinking back to Amy. In a different reality, maybe
she would have been nice to get to know. But I had wrecked her routine as well.
Her husband would not be back home at 6 pm each night to spend time with her
and her three children. It was all the better, anyway; The practical stranger,
I had met at the restaurant, was nothing like Amy Clay the flower child. She
could have been a whole different person.
It was on the morning of a cold autumn day. I half sleeping pulled
on my coat. Dad would have to work, Sunday just wouldn’t be the same if dad had
to work. Mom might not make hot cakes and my sister said she was spending the
weekend with friends, so there was little reason to do a family thing. That’s
what mom said.
I dreamed that night I went out to the railway. I only pulled the
switch. The train conductors would get all mixed up. They would have to change
the schedule if someone messed up the tracks. I was sure I dreamed it all. I
got up the next day, and dad went to work, but he didn’t come back. This time I
had the same dream. I went to the tracks and pulled the lever, but this time everything
in my routine stayed the same. Despite my dreaming, I couldn’t go back. I drank
the contents of the cup, sirens blaring in the distance, drew me somewhat to my
senses, but the warm drink stole away any worries. The ground shook and the
sharp sound of the train whistles blew.
THE END
