From My Booth, Cherry Peak

From my booth, I can see Cherry Peak among the hills. This morning, Cherry Peak is covered in a light mist, so I cannot see it. I wait for the sun to break the mist, checking occasionally. Guests begin to arrive before the sun crests, and it is cold, autumn. And from my booth I watch them. A tight-lipped woman passes me on the way to wait for the third car to Buxton. She knows where she is going and does not need a ticket, so does not stop at my booth. She is the third to arrive at the platform that morning, earlier than usual. The fourth and fifth are two young people whom I have never seen. Just passing through, I imagine. I guess correctly where they are going, but I let them ask and tell me about their plans nonetheless. Maybe twenty people are on the platform now. I have lost track. Our town’s first grade teacher arrives then, just as she does, and has done every Saturday since she arrived in Armington two years ago. She only ever purchased a one-way fare the first time she had come to the station. She is dressed in a floral-print dress with stockings. She has flats and a small bag around her shoulder. I watch her and wonder where she goes each Saturday. I wonder, too, whether she wonders about me. I hope that she does, but hope never lasts long. I notice the warmth of the day, and, from my booth, I can finally see Cherry Peak.

My trainee arrives and is shown to my booth. She tells me her name is Meredith and that she is excited to be working with me. I tell her that the next train to Buxton will be arriving soon, and she asks me what my name is. Fortunately, she does not ask any further questions. There is a lot to train her on and, I remind her several times, the train for Buxton is arriving soon. I explain the ticketing system while guests arrive at the platform. Meredith asks me why it is that so many guests walk past our booth without purchasing a ticket. I tell her that most guests regularly travel their routes and have purchased monthly tickets online. She asks me if I know any of them, and I tell her that I only know their faces and that I am familiar with several from town. 

There is a closed sign in front of me, and I watch Meredith dispense tickets to guests from my seat. When a guest asks a question that she is not suited to answer, she explains, smiling, that her coworker, me, may know. She then explains to me the guest’s question, still smiling, and I respond directly to the guest. When the next guest arrives at the counter, Meredith moves swiftly to print him a ticket. Then she asks what he will be doing in Kensington, and he tells her that his oldest daughter goes to school in Kensington and that he will be visiting her for the weekend. She asks if he recommends it, and he says that he could not recommend it more. She sighs and says that she must go. The man, who has never been a regular train rider, but whose face I know well, is now smiling as Meredith wishes him a safe journey. I realize that it had never occurred to me that this man could be a father, but I do not let the thought stew. I make a note to remind Meredith that questioning the guests in that nature is frowned upon. 

The train leaves and I tell Meredith that the next one will not arrive for another hour. She asks me what we do, and I tell her we wait. I look again at Cherry Peak. The clouds have cleared. It is a sunny day, and one of the first cold ones of autumn. I notice Meredith take her jacket from the hanger and walk to the booth’s door. I ask her where she is going, and she tells me that she is going onto the platform. I ask her why, and she says that she wants fresh air. I tell her that it is quite cold, but she says that is okay. Her arms are wrapped around herself as she paces up and down the platform slowly. I can see her breath, and I imagine she regrets her decision to have left the booth. Of course, it is perfectly acceptable for an attendant to walk wherever he or she wishes in between trains, but I cannot think of any reason to do so other than to relieve oneself. I make a note to remind Meredith that there is an espresso machine in the booth, and several books too.

When she returns, she asks me when I began living in Armington. I tell her that I was born here, and that I have never lived anywhere else. She asks me what it was like to grow up in such a small town, and I tell her it was pleasant. When she asks what country, if any, I would like to visit, I tell her that I had never considered the question and that I do not have an answer. She tells me to pick one, so I say France because it is the first one that comes to mind. She tells me she loves France, and asks if I speak French. I say no, and I ask if she does. She says no as well and that she hopes to study it in Paris. There is a long silence then, and we wait for the 2 p.m. train to arrive. 

The early afternoon is always slow, and I tell Meredith that. We have not sold any tickets, and there are only a few people on the platform. She says that in that case, she will join the guests on the platform. I tell her that it is not advised to leave the booth before a train has departed, and she asks me if it is against the rules. I tell her no, and she leaves the booth. 

She again walks with her arms crossed, and I note how unprofessional it appears. The platform is long, and the few people on it are scattered all the way across it. At its end, there is what appears to be a father and his daughter. She is a child, and she stands on a bench while her father holds her hand and checks his phone. I notice Meredith looking at them from a hundred feet away. The man seems consumed by his phone and pulls his hand away from his daughter to write something. A few moments pass, and the girl slips and falls from the bench. She begins to scream, and the father looks back, puts his phone down, and gets down onto his knees. Meredith runs to find him leaning over his daughter. I cannot hear what they say, but I see Meredith begin to run back to the booth. She lunges open the door and asks where the first-aid kit is. I point to it without saying anything. She grabs it and runs back to the father and daughter. Blood runs down the child’s face when she is righted, and Meredith nurses the wound. A crowd forms, so I can no longer see the child nor the father nor Meredith. 

Ten minutes later, the train comes and the passengers board. The man and his daughter are the only guests that do not board. He is still on the ground and is hugging his daughter. Meredith has a hand rested on the man’s back. I see them rise and the man takes the daughter in his arms toward the parking lot. Meredith watches them go, then she buckles the first-aid kit before walking slowly back to the booth. She enters and sits but does not say anything. We do not speak the rest of the day.

That night, I lay awake in bed, replaying the moment of the accident. I watch Meredith move quickly. I hear the child screaming. And I see myself sitting in the booth. I remember that last year, as the last train arrived at the station, a man standing in front of my booth had a heart attack. He was okay – resuscitated and ambulenced away. I had not left the booth in that instance either.

I arrive at the same time the next day and see the first train off. When I see that it is past 10 a.m., I grab my jacket and walk into the station to find the station’s manager. I ask him where Meredith is. He is reading the newspaper and does not look up. He tells me that she has decided that it is not a good fit and that she will not be returning. I leave his office and walk back to my booth. As I do, I wonder how she could know that it would not be a good fit. I wonder if it could have been the accident. I wonder if it could have been something that I did or said. But any concern over Meredith and her decision fades when I get to my booth. It is warm now, and from my booth, I can see Cherry Peak among the hills.