LAST STOP

There isn’t anything more romantic or purely luxurious than train travel. I thought that. I used to think that. As I was growing up, I experienced that. As I stared out the train window, I searched my memory for why I’d thought that. I couldn’t remember.  My mind was protecting me, I knew, because if I allowed my thoughts to focus, I’d come around to thinking about what I’d done, the mess I’d left behind.

I didn’t dare look away from the scenery as it flashed by, lest anyone near me get the mistaken impression that I wanted to talk. I took in the graffiti gallery that covered the large, otherwise nondescript buildings that, from the rear, could have housed anything; factories, warehouses, businesses of any type.  And while the fronts to most establishments strive to stand out and appeal to the buying public, behind the scenes they’re all pretty much the same.  Garbage.

That’s how I felt. I’d always tried to appear as the person I’d been raised and was always expected to be, a model of perfect upbringing or, better still, simply follow in my older brother’s footsteps, who was as nearly perfect as a human being could be. That’s what everyone said. I was to be the female version. That outward appearance of mine certainly served to hide any of my own garbage from view. Not that I could avoid it.

As the miles sped past, my thoughts wandered about on their own and I stumbled upon one of my earliest memories of a train trip, one with just my mother and me. We were riding Amtrak into Grand Central Station to catch a Broadway show, or maybe it was to enjoy the festive holiday window displays. Maybe both. There was a time when young women could take a daughter by the white gloved hand and have a day of adventure on their own without fear or hesitation.  Due to my young age, the fine details of our excursions were lost, but I do remember being on my best behavior so that I would be rewarded with a scoop of my favorite fresh peach ice cream at a soda fountain we always visited when in the city.

“Excuse me.” And, just like that, I was back.

“Do you happen to know what the next stop is? I wasn’t paying attention.”

I shook my head and turned back to the window. I did not trust my voice. The last thing I wanted was to break, not now anyway, not yet.

As it was, my lower lip began trembling as an unwelcomed thought snuck through. “You can’t ever go back.”

I forced my gaze back to trash littered yards, decaying dumpsters, broken and rusty chain-link fences. I closed my eyes as I allowed a new memory to enter my mind.

The Glazier Express. Honeymoon. Holding hands, smiles, wine in the afternoon.  This feels wrong, is wrong. I have made a terrible mistake. I am terrified. Trapped. Well, it’s too late now. I don’t even know why it’s wrong; I just feel it. I know it. Stop. You’re just tired. It’s jetlag talking. Everything will work out. All you have to do is be the best. That way you can’t be faulted or criticized. You know how to do this. We can be happy. He was tired, too, when he said those things. He didn’t really mean them.  Heaven knows I’m not perfect. I just have to try harder. I can make this work.  

 And then the gorgeous, spectacular scenery pushed all the doubts aside and I gave myself over to the experience, the romance, the Alps, the majesty. It was, after all, the opportunity of a lifetime, even if it was fraudulent. I threw that dark thought on the back burner, along with the others.

I need something to be understood here before we go any further down the line. This doubt, the nudge that has accompanied me most of my life, was not at that time strong enough to overtake the desire I held for what I had been taught to want and aspire to.  I’m not convinced though that it was the marriage, the house, the children, the career, if I’d had a calling for one, that drove me. Truth be told, I was a damned good wife, according to formula.  The fact that I had such a difficult time having children was not so much a failing, as I saw it, but a secret relief. And, by then, I was good at pretending to care.  Depression and disappointment was embedded within the fabric of my being anyway. I just had yet to discover how it had gotten there.

I came to as I felt the train slowly screech to a stop. I could sense bags being lifted, bodies making their way to the doors. I watched as people of all sorts were coming and going. They all seemed to have something in common that I couldn’t relate to, not at that moment anyway. Purpose. What was mine? Did I even have one? What was I doing here?

As I shook my head to erase the thought, another took its place. That time I ran away from home. This is a slightly painful one. Necessary at the time. I can still see my father in his pajamas watching from a window, as a boy I’d only recently met picked me up in the driveway and drove me away. My dad bore the same smoldering rage he’d displayed fairly nonstop throughout my teenage years. I never had a chance.  I couldn’t please, I had no voice, I had to go. It was brave of me to take that stand, it was unavoidable under the circumstances.

That train trip felt right. I was on my own. I’d kept in touch with my mother so she wouldn’t worry. I had a little money saved and the boy I was with was more a friend than anything. We jabbered on like brother and sister about our hopes and dreams. We bolstered each other and filled in all the gaps our families could not. It was a glorious time. The train took us to a relative of his, a cool older brother – this was the sixties – who let us in and left us alone. We could stay so long as we cleaned the place for him and ran errands at his direction. Meals were scant, as I remember, and after a week of peanut butter and corn flakes, I called my mother and asked if it was safe for me to come home. She assured me it was. My father’s demeanor had turned quiet, I had made my point. I was forever content to be deemed the family disappointment. We never really reconnected after that until sometime following my divorce. Even then, we never advanced far beyond civility. 

The lights had turned on in the train car, which meant it had gotten dark out. I’d barely noticed. I glanced at my phone and realized I was hungry. I should be. I left my jacket on my seat and headed to the club car.  

When it came my turn to order, I asked for a club sandwich and a vodka tonic. After I paid for my meal, I glanced around the car looking for a place to sit. There was an empty seat at the far end of the car, set off a bit farther than the other tables. Still feeling awkward and disjointed, I collected my drink and sat by myself. I took out a brochure and pretended to read.

Just as I was starting to decompress, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Through the window I could see a figure outside on the landing adjoining the next compartment. I didn’t pay a great deal of attention. Just then I was called away to pick up my sandwich.

When I returned, there was a boy sitting at my table. He appeared to be young, but not a child, just small.

“Uhm, hello?”

The boy looked at me as if he were about to say something. Before he could, the same door he’d come through swung open and a female conductor entered the car and headed straight for us. She pointed a finger at my guest.

“Nuh uh, you stay! You’re not getting away from me this time.”

Sizing up the situation as quickly as it was happening, I took a chance.

“Hi, good evening. What’s happening here?”

“This boy’s avoided me one time too many. He either shows me a ticket or he’s off at the next stop.”

I reached into my pocket.  “How about a credit card?”    

I could feel both sets of eyes on me. “Do you know this child?”

“It's my understanding $30 will get him anywhere he needs to go, is that correct?”

The frowning conductor nodded begrudgingly.  “I’ll be right back.”

I examined the kid sitting across from me. He looked like he’d had a long day, but was not completely neglected. He was wearing a relatively new dark green tee-shirt, faded black jeans and sneakers. His dark hair was clean, though it needed cutting and combing. Mostly, he just looked alone.

“Are you here with anyone?”

The kid looked at me and shook his head.

“What’s your name?”

I strained to hear him.

“Kyle.”

“Well, Kyle, I'm Jo. Do you want half?”

Kyle eyed me, hesitant. But I know a hungry kid when I see one,

 “Go ahead. I don’t mind sharing.”

I put half the sandwich on a napkin and pushed it towards him. 

“Thanks.”

When the conductor returned with the credit card reader, she looked at me.

“You sure about this?”

I smiled and handed her my card. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

Another sandwich and a couple water bottles later, I could see the boy had loosened considerably, as had I, so I asked just one question.

“So, Kyle, what’s your story?”

After a fair amount of fidgeting, he came out with it. 

“My family doesn’t want me.”

I waited, patient.

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

I watched as Kyle waved a white flag from somewhere deep inside. He took a breath and I lean in slightly, prepared to listen closely.

“I have this friend. We hang out together all the time. His name is Matt and we just get along. I don’t have a lot of friends. I’m lousy in school and my parents ride me about it all the time.”

As I listened to Kyle talk, my own situation slowly began seeping into my consciousness. I willed it to stay put as I focused on the boy’s words and the story behind them.

“Basically Matt and I had this big fight. My dad walked in on us fighting, We broke a lamp and some stuff. Matt said a few things he shouldn’t have and my dad threw us both out.”

I gave him a minute to collect himself. When he didn’t continue, I offered, “I imagine there’s a bit more to it than that?”

Kyle stared at the space between his hands on the table.

“Do you have anyone else that you can talk to? Really talk, I mean?”

“Freddie. She’s my neighbor. She lives with her mom and we’ve known each other since we were little.”

Long time then. I smiled to myself. This boy’s got a long road ahead. 

“So, what’s the plan, Kyle? Have you got one?”

That’s when the barrier completely came down.

“I can’t go home. Now Matt hates me. I was going to my grandma’s but she's the only one that loves me and I don’t want to spoil it. She’s all I’ve got now.”

Something came over me then, and I spoke to this young person I'd never met before as though he were more important to me than anything else in the world. I looked him straight in the eye.

 “Kyle, I want you to listen to one thing I have to say. And you can take it or leave it, it’s up to you. People who love you, really love you? It doesn’t matter what you do, what you say, what you are. You could be the biggest fuck-up on the planet and they’ll still be there for you.”

 Kyle didn’t look at me but I could tell he was listening.

“Do you know anybody who’s perfect? Do you even know what that is? Does anyone? How about you, Kyle? Do you see perfect in your future?”

I saw him smirk and shake his head.

“What fun would there be in that?”

That made me laugh. We were getting somewhere. We bantered back and forth for a while about small stuff. I saw that it was getting late. The club car was nearly empty.

“Where are you going, Jo?”

Now, that’s the question I wasn’t prepared for. I had no answer.

“That’s okay, it’s not my business. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe people change or are they one thing and that’s like, it.”

“You want to know something, Kyle? You ask good questions.”

It felt pretty good, I admit, when we both smiled. It may be a poor substitute for an actual answer, but it would have to do.

“Now, let me ask you a question. Why did you talk . . . to me, I mean?”

“I just knew I could. I thought, I felt I could. I don’t know why.”

I think I do, I thought to myself.

“Well, I’m glad you did. You’ve got decent instincts.”

The silence that followed felt deliberate. I waited.

“When Matt made a move on me, I hit him. I mean I really attacked him. I wanted to hurt him. I don’t know why. It’s not how I really felt, I just . . .”

“You didn’t know what else to do.”

“I hate myself.”

“Well, that’s a colossal waste of your time.”

“I don’t know who I am.”

Ah, there it was. 

“Kyle, I have a suggestion for you.”

Kyle was a spent, pathetic pile of boy sitting before me. He looked no more capable of running away than did the chair he was slumped into.

“You just found your purpose.”

“What, to beat up people who try to kiss me?”

“Ha! No. What do you think?”

“I haven’t got a clue.”

I smiled. “I think you do.”

“Oh, right. To figure myself out? Is there a book on the subject?” 

“I don’t think so, but some reading may help guide you along the way.”

“You mean I can’t just push a button?”

“I’ve yet to find one. No one ever said life was supposed to be easy, right? But at least going in knowing that helps a little.”

“Make it easy? Nothing is.”

“Well, you might start by going easier on yourself.”

I could see Kyle chew on that for a while. I checked the time.

“Last stop is in about an hour, so we'll have to get off. I was thinking, since you have no place to go . . .”

Kyle yawned. “I've changed my mind. I think I’ll try my Gran’s.”

Oh.

“Well, good. Do you have a way to get there?”

“I’ll call her when we stop. I’ll be all right.”

I dug a few bills out of my pocket and reached over the table.

“Please.”

Kyle forced a smile as he slowly took the money. 

“How do I . . .”

“You don’t.”

He nodded as he pocketed the cash. I stood.

“Let me get my jacket and we can wait for the last stop together.”

“Jo?”

He looked up at me.

“Thanks. Really.”

“Well, this may come as a shock, but I think you helped me as much as I helped you.”

“I did? How?”

“Let me get my jacket. I’ll be right back.”

I worked my way through the passenger cars back to my original seat. The kid really did ask good questions. I didn’t have a ready answer for that one. I felt better but hadn’t yet pinpointed why. I had made an important decision though.

It hit me during our exchange that I had no real identity either, certainly not as defined by anything around me.  The only times I had felt genuine was when I was alone, and still. Then I was just me, on my terms, and I felt content.  When I compared myself with all the standards known to man, I had no place there. I realized that my place in the world had always been inside myself. I liked the honest me, just be-ing. Leave the expectations at the door and I was home. That wonderful boy in the club car had helped free me from all the constraints I had ever chosen to believe and accept, and that had always left the real me behind.

I could breathe. And I had decided that I would return and right as many wrongs as I could. At least try.

When I re-entered the club car, the chair Kyle had been sitting in was empty. I felt a twinge of disappointment, as if I had lost something valuable. I checked the other door and thought perhaps he was using the restroom. I’d wait. In 15 minutes, we’d reach our stop. I turned to the table and saw a napkin with writing on it tucked under a salt shaker. I sat down and reached for it.

All It said was, “Thanks for being here.”

I sat and stared out the train window until we pulled into the station.

“Last Stop!”

I stood, stretched, and smiled. Not for me, it isn’t.

THE END