Scrabble

*Author’s Note: I’ve only played scrabble once in my life, so I don’t know how many tiles there are or what the rules are. I think you can play it by yourself, but if not, my apologies. Thanks😊

Seven…needy…elephant…tortoise…silve-

The young man pauses, scanning the row of letters before him. There’s an A, a C, and two Es left. All other tiles sit on the board. No more words.

The train jerks and bumps along the tracks, the windows frosty and opaque. Third class is cramped with people; mothers holding fussy babies, Englishmen reading The Daily Sun, a large family of Italians headed home for the Christmas season. The young man isn’t sure where he fits among them – he has no children, no newspaper, no immediate family to visit. Only a battered scrabble board and some chipped letter blocks. 

The trip to Turin was a whim – a break from his drab apartment in Marseille. It’s not a terrible little place, truth be told. Right above a Jewish bakery. The sweet aromas of baking bread and muffins kept away the musty smell from a broken pipe. But there’s no heat, and only one window. Hardly any sunlight got through. So, yes, this trip was a break. Much-needed. 

His game gridlocked, the young man swipes all the tiles into a purple velvet bag and shakes them. They knock together, each one bumping his dry, cracked fingers. They’re sharp, the tiles. One even rips a hole in the velvet. He’ll have to stitch it later. 

In the seat beside him, a stocky man is sleeping, and with every breath sucks in a bit of his big bushy beard. His clothes are rumpled, stained with dirt. A farmer, or so the young man thinks. He’s only seen farmers a few times, on market days in Marseille. Not many country folk come to the city, except to sell or barter. 

The train jerks, sharper than usual, and the farmer awakens. He wipes a trail of spit from his lips, then spots the young man. 

He frowns, bushy eyebrows creeping together. The young man quickly shies away, dumping out the letter tiles and focusing on his new game. But a hand clamps his shoulder –

The farmer stands in the isle, bumping knees with the young man. Sweat pours down his face – yet the car is freezing. Even the young man shivers under his two wool coats, gifts from his grandmother, who lives a quite lavish life in the heart of Paris. 

The young man quickly starts a word on the board – hello. The farmer, however, doesn’t see this. He huffs and grimaces, opening and shutting his mouth like a blowfish. The young man keeps silent. The farmer throws his hands in the air, then knocks the scrabble board to the floor. The young man lunges into the isle, fumbling for the lost tiles as the farmer returns to his seat, smug smile slapped across his face. 

Most of the tiles landed in the same vicinity, but one, a T, skittered behind a leather suitcase. The young man crawls down the isle, hands scraping the rough wooden floors, swaying to the rhythm of the train. People kick at him, boots and high-heels jabbing his sides. He ignores the pain, focused only on the lost tile. 

He reaches behind the suitcase, feeling around, but instead of plastic and sharp edges, he feels skin…and a sock…and –

Suddenly the train slams to a stop, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Suitcases, hat-boxes, spare change, baby rattles – everything flies to the front, onto the floor. The young man rolls forward, knocking his head on the metal base of the seats. He grips his hair – it’s wet with blood – and moans. Finally the rocking stops, things settle down, and the young man manages to stand, gripping the suitcase rack above for balance. 

Everywhere, people are talking, expressions frantic. Little children peer over the backs of the seats, confused by their parents’ panic. Even the farmer has forsaken his anger for fear, rubbing his hands together so hard flakes of long-dried dirt flutter to the floor. 

Some passengers at the back of the car open their windows, sticking their heads out and pointing to something in the distance. Snow swirls in on a sharp breeze, sticking to coats and hats. Soon, everyones’ windows are opened; the metal rails fog and hot breath becomes visible. The young man hugs his coat tighter, waiting for some explanation. 

A conductor comes in and raises his hands. Everyone closes their windows and sits down. He says a few words, then disappears. The young man remembers the lost tile and drops to his knees, fumbling under the suitcase.

Again, he bumps skin and socks, but this time a a face appears above him. It’s an older woman, wearing a hideous brown lace cap, a pudgy baby in her arms. She shoos him away, but not before he snatches his tile, which was wedged between the seam of the bigger suitcase. 

The young man sits back down, but the confusion and fear is still palpable. He unlocks his window and peers out, but the first-class car blocks his view. This isn’t good…something’s obviously wrong, but he can’t tell what. And no one here can tell him either. 

He gathers the scrabble board and tiles, clutching them to his chest, and stumbles to his feet. There’s got to be somewhere he can go…a bar car…a drink would be good. Or ten. 

This train isn’t fancy enough to have separate bar cars – so first, second, and third class share one, a spacious area with plush seating and a jolly bartender with a wet rag slung over his shoulder. Men and women drink cocktails at the bar, lounge at tables, staring out the windows, even though their view is obscured by snow and frost. These are all first-class passengers, the ones who can afford luxuries like drinks and pool.

The young man sits at the end of the bar, near the third-class entrance. He points to a bottle of scotch, the cheapest type, on the shelf’s top tier, then sets out his scrabble board. But the bartender slaps it with his rag and shakes his head. The young man frowns but puts the board away. 

Though the chandelier casts diamonds of light on the blue-and-red walls, the bar is stuffy. If there were plants, even a sad little fern, it might brighten the place up a bit. But there’s only glass and wood and a jukebox in the corner, its music vibrating the floor. 

A glass of scotch slides in front of the young man. He gives the bartender a tight-lipped smile, then sips the drink. It really is cheap. But it’s the best he can afford till he makes Turin. 

The first-class door opens, a blast of cold air sweeping the car, and a girl steps in. She’s around twenty, her long blonde hair fanned around her shoulders, a blue beret snug on her head. She crosses to the bar, turning heads, and slides onto the stool beside the young man. 

He drops his gaze to his hole-ridden boots, blushing when he feels a tap on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up. The tap comes again. 

This time, the young man peeks over the collar of his coat, smiling slightly. The girl smiles back, mouths ‘hello’, then orders. Minutes later, the bartender slides her a Tom Collins. She goes to pay, but he refuses the bills. On the house, apparently. Go figure. 

The girl turns to the young man, head cocked, and gestures to the scrabble board. Asking about it. The young man points to an empty table by a window. They go and sit, drinks and all. 

The young man spreads the scrabble board across the table, so the girl can reach, then dumps the letter tiles in a little pile. The girl looks confused, but the young man doesn’t worry. She’s understand soon. 

H, P, I, M…he uses almost half the pile. Almost done…

When he’s finished, the young man looks up, eyes wide. The board reads – “Hi. I’m Princeton.”

The girl looks from the letters to the young man, Princeton, then back to the letters. Princeton taps the board, then pushes the tiles toward her. She takes the hint, creating her own sentence –

“Can you hear me?”

Princeton shakes his head. The girl’s jaw goes slack a bit. 

More letters. Another word. Deaf?

Princeton nods. Assembles more words. Know sign?

No. I’m sorry.

Alright. Didn’t expect you to. 

Shouts sound outside the window. Princeton listens intently, then cocks his head. What happened?

Avalanche. Trapped for few hours.

Princeton sighs. He wouldn’t mind the delay so much if the train wasn’t so stuffy. His leg jiggles under the table. Hell, if he could just get off…except there’s nowhere to go. 

He scraps the letters and starts anew – Your name?

Juliette.

Nice name.

Thanks.

The jukebox starts another song, this one with short, punchy vibrations. Too fast. Princeton drums his fingers on the table, out of time to the music. 

Juliette furrows her brow. What’s wrong?

Princeton points to the jukebox. Fast. 

Fast is good.

Not now. Nervous.

Juliette mouths ‘oh’, then goes over and sticks a quarter in the jukebox slot. She presses #5, replacing the short vibrations with long, lyric ones. Smooth jazz. Princeton nods along, taking deep breaths, stilling his frantic leg and fingers. Jazz is his favorite.

Juliette sits back down and rearranges the board. Do you play scrabble?

Yes. I’m very good. 

Are you?

I think so. Princeton closes his eyes, swallows, then opens them again. Jazz helps his nerves, true, but if the train doesn’t start moving soon, he might freak out. That’d be embarrassing, especially in front of a girl.

He stares at the board, entire focus on the words. That’s all he can manage right now. Where U from?

London.

College?

Oxford.

I’m at Sorbonne. 

Major?

Arts.

Like writing?

No. Arts. Painting. 

Oh. Cool. Mine is history. 

Nice.

Princeton drains the last of his scotch the same time Juliette reaches the bottom of her Tom Collins. She chews a few ice cubes, then sets down the drink. The jazzy song ends, and a thin man with wire glasses picks a new one, something heavy in bass and drums. 

Princeton fidgets with his glass. He’d turn off the music, but that’d be rude. Not a chance he wants to take.

He starts a new sentence. Where U going?

Alps. Ski trip. 

Ah.

Family has a house. 

I’ll bet they do. 

A brief moment of silence, then Princeton taps the board. Want to go somewhere else?

Where?

I don’t know. Third class?

Juliette hesitates, then says – I’d rather not. 

Why?

I’m a little scared. 

There’s nothing scary back there.

It’s nothing personal.

There’s nothing scary. 

Please, don’t get mad…

Princeton huffs. Then why are you sitting with me?

You’re nice. 

I’m from third class.

But you don’t act like it…

Maybe you’re just too proper.

Why are you mad?

Princeton shakes his head, lip curling, and dumps the letter tiles back into their bag. He tucks the scrabble board under his arm and stands, gaze flicking from Juliette the jukebox to the frosty window. Out there…

Juliette’s on her feet now, grabbing Princeton’s hand. She tries to push him back into his seat, but he shakes his head. No. No, he can’t stay here. It’s too cramped, too hot, too loud. The silence is crushing him. 

Wait. Juliette mouths. I’m sorry…I’m…”

But whatever else she says, it’s lost on Princeton. Her lips move too fast. 

Princeton points back to third class, then turns leaves. Somehow, he feels Juliette following him. No clue how, he can just feel it. 

The windows are open again in the third-class car. Princeton doesn’t blame them. Even in winter, the shut-in, crowded car is hotter than an oven. First class has air conditioning. They pay for that luxury. Third can barely pay for a meal. 

He keeps walking, through a dining car, sleeping quarters, cars and cars of storage, till he reaches the caboose. A narrow railing bars the end, and a ladder leads to the roof. Sharp winter wind bites his bare skin, snow obscuring his vision. He looks behind him. Juliette’s still there, brushing imaginary germs off her light-blue dress. 

Princeton clenches his jaw, then grabs the ladder and starts climbing, praying he doesn’t lose his grip. The freezing rungs burn his bare fingers, but he ignores the pain, climbing up and up and up. 

At the top, the wind is so strong he topples over. Princeton pulls himself into a sitting position but doesn’t dare stand. This is fine just like it is. 

Yet, through the wind and snow, Juliette appears, her hair messy and tangled and the blue beret gone. It must’ve blown off, away down the track. Princeton feels a pang of sympathy. It was a very nice hat. Hope it didn’t cost too much. Not like she.d be breaking bank for another one. 

She sits beside him, spitting hair from her mouth and tucking loose strands behind her ears. A bit of sunlight peeks through the cloud cover, shining pinkish-red on the bright, white snow. 

A hand covers his. He looks up at Juliette. She mouths – “I’m sorry.”

Princeton pulls his hand away. Juliette takes the scrabble board and spreads it across the  train roof. The wind is dying, and the snowfall’s thinner. More and more sunlight streams through the clouds. Juliette dumps out the letter tiles and forms a new word –

Talk to me?

Princeton frowns, but moves some tiles. Why should I?

I said sorry. 

Saying and meaning are two different things. 

Juliette starts to make a new word, but pauses. She shakes her head. 

What?

She sighs. I’m sorry. I was wrong. 

Damn right you were. 

Hey. Don’t get mad. 

Sorry.

Juliette looks out over the valley, at the mountains stretching toward the quickly-clearing sky. She moves some tiles – My world’s different from yours. 

Is it?

Yes. Juliette bites her lip. No. I don’t know. 

Red sunbeams slice through the clouds, bathing the valley in orange-pink light. The snow glistens on the slope, but further down, the valley becomes green and lush, small farms peppered among tiny farmhouses. Cows and sheep munch the grass, no more than little dots. It looks like the paper village Princeton made as a child– tiny enough to hold in the palm of his hand. 

He breathes deep, drinking in the sight. His chest feels lighter now, somehow. Less stuffy. 

Back to the scrabble board. I don’t think it’s different. 

What?

Your world. 

Trust me, it is. 

Well, we’re seeing the same sunset. From the same roof. 

Yeah…

Everything’s the same. 

I guess…

No classes up here. 

Yes. That is nice. 

Princeton gazes up the tracks. The avalanche was quite bad. Men work diligently with pickaxes, chipping away at snow and ice covering the tracks. If they work through the night, the obstruction should be cleared by morning. 

Princeton puts his hand over Juliettes and stares out at the valley. The blood-red sun sinks behind the mountains, pulling all light down with it.