Night Train

Mack finds himself thinking about it more often than he used to.

Over the years, the memory has popped into his head from time to time, unbidden. It’s something he’ll never forget. Sometimes he gets goose bumps, the hair on his arms standing up.

And despite his advancing age, he recalls it as vividly as if it had occurred last week.

 

Mack stops by his daughter’s house just after noon on a hot summer day to tell her he’s driving down to Missouri.

“What?” Not certain she’s heard him correctly. “Why?”

Mack stands just inside the door and scratches the back of his hand on the two-day stubble of his beard. “I just feel like taking a drive.”

The aroma drifting out from the kitchen is heavy with the pleasant sweetness of apple and cinnamon, a pie baking in the oven.

“Dad, you want to take a drive, you go down by the river or out into the sand hills. You don’t go to Missouri. It must be a thousand miles to Missouri.”

“Seven-hundred-fifty-five to where I’m going.”

“You don’t even know anybody in Missouri.”

“I did at one time,” Mack says.

* * *

Back in the ’60s, you could get on a train in Columbus, Georgia, and a day and a half later step off at the depot of your own hometown, nearly 1,200 miles away.

Mack had done it.

He’d come out of the dining car, duffel bag in tow, the heavy metal door sliding shut with an efficient and forceful clack, Mack checking the sign overhead, confirming it was not a smoking car.

He stood in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the muted lighting, his body shifting with the subtle motions of the train.

He glanced at his watch. Almost midnight. Quiet on this train.

Someone at the far end of the car stood to replace an item in an overhead bag, Mack’s attention captured by the movement, his gaze then working back up the aisle, the car about half-full, many people comfortably spread out, occupying the double bench seats by themselves, couples here and there. Some passengers reading, others in various stages of fitful sleep.

Then he saw her. The seat just to his right, the last seat in the car, her proximity startling him, surprising him that he hadn’t noticed her earlier. A pretty woman, Mack could tell, even in this dim light, staring fixedly through the window. Mack wondering what she could see out there in all that darkness. So intent was she that she had not heard the door close beside her, was not aware of his presence.

She wore a loose-fitting dark blouse over a light skirt, a simple but elegant look, dressier than a typical late-night train passenger. There was something on her lap. A small box, covered in dark velvet. A jewelry box, Mack had thought.

The train passed an intersection, the horn blowing a warning, the blinking signal lights splashing garish red illumination along each row as the car moved on down the tracks.

Enough light for Mack to verify that she was a pretty woman indeed. Not a young girl. Older than he by several years.

Mack wondering what circumstance had brought her to this train, late at night, alone with her thoughts, a small box on her lap.

Imbued with the confidence of youth and the anonymity of the circumstance, Mack decided to find out. “Excuse me,” he said quietly, mindful of those sleeping about them.

When she turned toward him her eyes locked onto his with a directness that gave him pause. Then, more shyly than was his nature, “Would you mind if I sit here?”

Her brow knit slightly at the question, looking out over the passenger car, confirming that there were indeed other places where he might sit.

“If you’d rather I find another seat, I understand.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Mack picked up his bag to move further into the car.

“Wait,” she said.

Mack hesitating.

“You may have misunderstood me,” apologetically. “I didn’t mean I’m sorry that you can’t sit here. I meant I’m sorry that you caught me off guard. I didn’t mean to be rude. I was thinking of something else.”

Still, Mack stood there uncertainly, bag in his hand.

“Please,” she said, moving over to the window, making room. Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” Mack said, hoisting his duffel onto the overhead rack and sliding in

beside her.

* * *

Mack is back outside, not staying long enough to allow his daughter to mount an argument, the snap of the wood against the frame as the screen door slaps shut behind him.

“Phone me when you get there,” she calls from the kitchen.

Mack, already in his pickup, raises a hand in acknowledgement, grinds the key in the ignition, and the big Ram comes to life, his daughter appearing in the doorway, she has some questions now, but Mack has already put the truck in gear and turned out into the street.

* * *

“Are you a soldier?” she’d asked.

“I wondered if the green duffel bag and the white sidewalls haircut would give me away.”

They both smiled at that.

Mack, searching for another witty entrée, came up empty.

“I’m Mack Parker,” he finally said, extending a hand.

“Carolyn Simmons.”

Her hand was warm, her grip firm.

“How long have you been in the service?”

“Over six months now.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s not easy. But there’s something about it. I think I could make a career of it.”

“It’s a noble profession,” she said. Not a sentiment shared by everyone at that point in time. “And you’re on your way home for the holidays?”

Mack nodded.

“Where are you from?”

“Western Nebraska. I’ve got tonight and another whole day on this train.”

She shook her head sympathetically. “I don’t have quite that long. I get off between St. Louis and Kansas City.” She named a town that Mack had not heard of.

Mack had been to Kansas City once. “All those fountains in Kansas City,” he said, eager to impress her with his worldliness. “I read that Rome is the only city in the world that has more.”

Neither of them had been to Europe, though both hoped to go at some point in their lives.

They talked about the pros and cons of urban life, and discovered that even though both of them had grown up in rural areas, they expected to one day live in a city.

They talked about the rigors of train travel — why is the food so expensive anyway? — the frustration that these local passenger trains would often, for no apparent reason, pull over and stop in the middle of nowhere.

“I suppose they have to let traffic clear at some point further up the track.”

“I suppose.”

She was a paralegal out there in Missouri.

* * *

Mack, at 71 years of age, drove straight through. He’d stopped at his house on the way out of town, threw some things in a bag. Got there a little after two in the morning. Checked into the Motel 6, right off Interstate 70; they’d left a light on for him.

He’s been in this small town before.

He’s passed through it. That dark night many years ago. The train had stopped for no more than a minute or two.

Mack lying on his back in bed, staring up at the ceiling, tired after the long drive but still too wired to sleep. His mind wandering back over all those years. Mack had been 22 at the time.

* * *

“Are you going to become a lawyer?” he had asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, her expression suggesting it was a subject she had considered before without resolution. “I think I might.” Nodding to herself as if she may have made a decision at that very moment. “I’ll have more time now.”

Mack not knowing how to interpret that remark.

The huge steel wheels of the train churned methodically, relegating each passing mile and each passing moment to history, Mack settling in, entirely at ease, charmed by the manner of his seat mate, lulled by the melody of her voice.

“Do you have a girlfriend back home?”

“No,” Mack said, then not certain how that would be interpreted. “I’ve had a lot

of girlfriends …”

“I’m sure you have.”

“Just not anyone special … right now.”

“Well, there’s one thing you won’t have to worry about. Maintaining a relationship from long distance. It’s not easy to do.” As if she spoke from experience.

They talked easily, like long-time friends. Mack at one point, glancing at his watch, surprised that more than two hours had passed.

Neither bothered by the lateness of the hour.

“Where are you stationed?” she asked.

“Fort Benning, Georgia. It’s near Columbus.”

She brightened. “That’s where I’ve been the last four days.”

“You’ve been at Fort Benning?”

She nodded.

“Why were you there?”

She lifted the small box that had remained in place on her lap, as if that were an answer to his question.

Mack’s initial curiosity as to its purpose had been diverted by their conversation.

“I’m not sure what that is,” Mack said.

She lifted the hinged edge of the padded box and it sprung silently open, a light blue satin background in the interior, two military medals snugged into recessed molds that held them firmly in place, side by side.

Mack had been in the Army less than a year, and though he’d never seen either medal, knew what they were, their significance.

A Purple Heart and a Bronze Star, with a V for valor. Small to look upon, tastefully simple, yet powerful objects of symbolism.

Mack looked from the medals to Carolyn, her face reflecting pride overlaid upon a trace of sadness as she viewed them once again.

“My husband,” she said.

* * *

And almost 50 years later, to the lulling hum of the air conditioner at the Motel 6, Mack slides into sleep.

 

The desk clerk had recommended Art’s Cafe for breakfast. Mack is there now and, despite some misgivings at the plain exterior, he finds it to be a warm and friendly place, the pancakes and coffee as good as you’ll find anywhere.

He’d started his search that morning before he left the motel, checking the phone directory for her name. Nothing there. This development neither surprising nor discouraging to Mack. A beautiful woman like her. All these years gone by. It wouldn’t be logical to assume she hadn’t remarried. If it were to play out that way, Mack would stop in, say hello to her and her husband, let them know he was just passing through.

* * *

Mack, at a loss for a moment, then asking her permission to look at the medals more closely.

She handed him the delicate case that validated the sacrifice her husband had made.

Mack examined them respectfully, a new soldier, moved by the precious remnants of a veteran soldier’s life.

Mack handed the case back to her.

“They invited me to Fort Benning for the ceremony,” she said.

“When did …?” Mack pointed at the box.

“Four years ago,” she said.

“Four years?”

“They didn’t find the bodies right away,” she said. “They’d been on patrol and his squad got cut off from the platoon in an ambush. When it was over, they couldn’t find them.”

Mack nodding solemnly. “Sometimes that takes a while.”

“Then a year after that, a survivor who had been injured in the same ambush made a recovery. Told everyone the details of what had happened. Eight men dead. But their actions had apparently saved the rest of the platoon.” And here she made a gesture to the box on her lap, the lid still open, the smile on her face tinged with sadness. “And my hubby was a hero.”

“Nice that they invited you down. That they had a ceremony in his honor.”

“They invited the families of all eight. Seven of them were represented.”

Mack wondering what circumstance had prevented the family of the eighth from attending.

“The commanding general of the post met us, showed us around the base.”

“Did they take good care of you while you were there?”

“VIP treatment. Stayed in nice guest suites. Meals at the Officer’s Club.”

“The Officer’s Club.”

“Yes. Ironic in a way. If my husband had been with me, we wouldn’t have been able to go there. He was a sergeant,” she explained.

“I’m in OCS,” Mack said, and when that didn’t appear to register with her, added, “Officer Candidate School.”

“Well, if I ever visit, you can take me back to the Officer’s Club.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“How long does it take to get through OCS?”

“Six months.”

“Tough training, I suppose.”

“Almost a 50 percent dropout rate.”

She patted his arm. “I don’t doubt for a minute that you’ll get through it.”

Mack tingled at her touch. Flattered to be in the company of such a woman, far more sophisticated than the young women he had known to this point.

* * *

Mack chats with the waitress at the register as he checks out. The weather. How the football fans out here think the Chiefs will do this year. Does the town have a law firm?

The waitress laughs. “You aren’t going to sue us over a bad meal, are you?”

They both chuckle at the humor.

“We just have the one. A three-person office. They do a good job though. I think we’re lucky to have people of that caliber in a small town like this.”

“I used to know someone from here … many years ago … she was in the legal profession.”

“Run the name by me, I’ll let you know if she’s one of ours.”

The waitress doesn’t recognize the name.

* * *

“And after OCS?” she said.

“Well. An infantry platoon leader. There’s a pretty short list of assignment possibilities.”

“Vietnam.” Not a question.

Mack nodded.

“Will you be able to shoot another man?”

Mack surprised by the directness of the question.

“Yes.”

“No reservations?”

“At the moment you have one another in the rifle sights, there won’t be any time for reservations.”

“I suppose not.”

Quiet as they both considered it.

“What do you think about them? The soldiers on the other side?”

“I think they’ll be trying to kill me.”

“Will they be that much different from you?”

“No,” Mack said, without hesitation. He’d spent time considering this very subject. “I think there will be young kids there who believe they’re doing the right thing. There will be career soldiers, practicing their profession. There will be sons and husbands, fathers, brothers. They’ll have hopes and dreams. Some of them will be realized, some won’t.”

“I’ve thought about it a lot over the last few years,” she said. You and I seem to see it the same way. I’ve even wondered about the man who shot my husband. Has he survived? What is his life like? Does he have a family? Do friends think of him as a good man?”

Mack shaking his head at these unanswerable questions.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mack. “It is.”

“Yet when you meet each other on the battlefield …?”

“We’ll both see the enemy.”

Another intersection, another small town, streetlights casting faint illumination on shadowed storefronts, empty streets.

“Was the ceremony nice?” Mack asked. “At Fort Benning?”

“Very impressive. Honor guard. Bugler.”

Her eyes misted slightly at the recollection.

“I thought I was immune to this,” she apologized. “This … emotion.”

“It’s normal,” Mack said. “What you’ve been through.”

“It’s been so many years. I never really grieved for him.”

Mack uncertain what to say.

“At first, I didn’t really believe he was dead. When they confirmed it, all that time had gone by. Could I really cry about it then?”

“It would have been a normal reaction.”

Shaking her head. “At that point, would I have been crying for him, for what he’d gone through?” She looked at Mack with a sad expression. “Or would I have been crying for myself?”

“Either reason would have been justified.”

She smiled wistfully. “I’m not a schoolgirl anymore,” she said. “I picked myself up and moved on.” Another smile at Mack. “Doing pretty well too — until now.”

“I’m sorry if it’s something I’ve said.”

* * *

“She’d lost a husband in the war. Vietnam,” Mack tells the waitress.

The waitress shaking her head. “A sad time,” she says. “But I can’t recall this particular person.”

Mack takes a leisurely stroll down Main Street. It’s a small town, the business district fronting Main Street for four blocks and extending down two side streets. He sees a sign in the window: King & Associates, Attorneys at Law.

They have been in business for over 20 years. Cordial, but none remember Carolyn Simmons. They’re eager to offer their services if it might be a legal matter.

“Just an old friend,” says Mack.

* * *

“It’s nothing you’ve said. You’re a handsome young soldier, getting ready to go to war. It just takes me back.”

“Well,” Mack said, reaching over to touch the box on her lap, inadvertently touching her above the knee, her surprise at the unexpected contact mirrored in her eyes in the instant before she realized it had been unintentional.

Mack cleared his throat, moving his hand to gently touch the precious box. “You’ll always have this. A memory of him. A reminder of his bravery.”

This attempt to comfort her is backfiring. The resolve, the self-control that Mack had observed and determined to be an integral part of her character wavering, her eyes welling, surprising both of them.

Mack reached over to wipe a slow-moving tear from her cheek, and she reflexively placed her hand over his and pressed her face into it. Mack put an arm around her shoulder and she leaned into him, sobbing silently now. For her lost husband, Mark imagined. For her lost family. Her body convulsing quietly as the sorrow she had sealed inside for more than four years escaped.

Mack wrapped his arms about her, holding her closely, and she leaned into him as the train moved onward through the darkness.

Her silent shudders lessened. Mack pulled back slightly, brushing another tear from her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Her face in this dim light like that of a young girl. Mack’s heart ached for her. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

And he kissed her on the cheek.

* * *

Mack walks the streets of the town. A pleasant place. Small but thriving. The businesses and homes in a good state of repair.

Not unlike Mack’s hometown back in Nebraska.

The passenger train no longer stops here. The train station has been closed, remodeled, and reopened as a flower and gift shop.

The city park is shaded and cool. Mack makes the walk back to Art’s Café and buys a sandwich that he takes to the park to eat.

Saddened to think that she may not have realized her career dream.

So many do not.

* * *

She turned her face upward to his, so naturally. Mack tentative at first, not certain as to the propriety of what was about to happen.

Their mouths met gently. Mack enveloped in a warm surge of emotion. One kiss. Lingering. Only one.

Mack released her. They looked deeply, silently, into one another’s eyes.

Then Mack, with a tenderness he had never experienced, held her gently until they fell asleep.

* * *

It is the city librarian who remembers her.

Mack has stopped in because it is a pleasant and quiet place and the lady behind the desk is quick to recognize him as a stranger and makes certain he feels welcome.

He mentions his purpose in town, almost in passing.

“I knew her,” the librarian says.

Her break is coming up at three o’clock and Mack invites her out for a cup of coffee, back at Art’s, Mack almost a regular there by this time.

“She moved west,” she says. “Maybe 30 years ago. California, I think.”

She had no family here. The librarian doesn’t believe she’d ever remarried.

* * *

He was awakened by her movement some time later, the first hint of daylight making itself known through subtle streaks across the eastern horizon. She was stirring beside him, a sense of urgency, whispering in Mack’s ear, “My stop. I have to get off here.”

Mack, disoriented at awakening, initially not comprehending what she had said. Carolyn moving about, gathering her things, Mack hoping irrationally that she wasn’t really preparing to get off the train. Inexplicably finding himself incapable of telling her that he did not want her to leave. Realizing he did not know this woman, with whom he had shared intimate moments of his life, well enough to ask that of her.

Minutes later the train hissed to a halt, the pneumatic doors rolled open, then closed, that quickly, the train shuddering as it began to pull away from the station, somewhere in the middle of Missouri, Mack waving dumbly through the window as her image receded on the empty platform, a wistful smile on her face, sadness showing through it, Mack wondering if it had been a dream, wondering as he watched her disappear into the murky grayness of pre-dawn whether he had seen tears in her eyes.

Wondering if they had been for her lost husband — or for Mack.

Years later, thinking of it, he still had no way of knowing.

Mack had never shared the encounter with anyone. It was too personal to make known to others who may have demeaned its significance.

* * *

Mack, only an hour from home, slides the gearshift to “park,” hits the button to lower the driver’s side window, and turns off the key. He can’t believe they haven’t put an overpass at this intersection, the big coal trains out of the Powder River Basin in Wyoming tying up traffic for 10 or 15 minutes a dozen times a day.

Three engines, and behind them over a hundred cars, each weighing 115 tons. The train lumbering past Mack at the rate of a glacier inching down a mountainside.

Mack leans against the headrest and closes his eyes, the metronomic snick and clack of the heavily laden cars over the rails lulling in a way, if you can get past the aggravation.

His wife gone now these 30 years, a victim of cancer.

Carolyn Simmons gone too.

 

A horn honks behind Mack, and he snaps back to the present with a start.

He’d nodded off. The last car of the coal train is disappearing down the track.

Mack turns the starter and his pickup coughs to life.

He switches on the wiper to clear the windshield. It must have sprinkled while he dozed.

The reluctant scrape of rubber on dry glass startles him.

And he wipes his teary eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt and drives on.

 

Mack stops at his daughter’s house. She greets him with raised eyebrows, expecting an explanation for his recent absence.

“I think I’m going to take a drive,” Mack says. “Out to California.”