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Train

It runs through the mind

By Rachel McCaulleyPublished 2 years ago 10 min read
1

Charlie pulled his hat and gloves out of the closet. He carefully wrapped his scarf around his neck and tucked the ends inside his coat. Inside the kitchen, he watched his mom spread peanut butter on two slices of bread and wrap the sandwich with plastic wrap. She filled a thermos with hot chocolate and placed it inside his lunchbox with the sandwiches. Charlie put his lunchbox inside his backpack and cinched it shut. “Where are you off to today, Charlie?” she asked, as she zipped up his jacket and wiped a wet thumb at his cheek. Charlie ducked his head.

“I’m going on a journey,” he said. Charlie’s mom smiled. He was such an imaginative boy.

“Well,” she said. “You’ll need these sandwiches for sure.” Charlie smiled. He gave her a quick hug. Outside, the crisp winter air bit the tip of his nose and he pulled his scarf up around his face. The snow made a crunching noise under his boots as he walked a well-worn path into the woods. On the way he stopped to look at the many curiosities he’d come to know and treasure. There was the cardinals’ nest, abandoned now but they’d be back soon enough to herald the start of spring. There was the fox den and a little past that the rabbit hole. They never came out at the same time. Sometimes Charlie would glimpse the fox’s bushy tail as it slipped back into the den or ran away to hide behind a tree. The rabbits were friendlier. He could walk almost right up to them before they hopped away now.

He passed the spot where Mr. Whittle used to put his traps. Charlie didn’t like the traps. He threw so many sticks in them that Mr. Whittle finally gave up. No doubt he’d moved them somewhere else, Charlie thought. He’d look for them later, but now he had to hurry. About half a mile later and Charlie saw the old worn sign. Pitted and faded, it still stood tall in a little clearing among the trees to mark the tracks. Nearby there was a low, smooth stump. Charlie sat down and plopped his backpack next to him. He pulled out his lunchbox and opened it up. As he ate his sandwich, he watched the trees for signs of the occasional squirrel or bird brave enough to venture out in the cold. He sipped his hot chocolate and waited.

A twig beside him snapped and Charlie turned to see a girl sit down beside him. He smiled and handed her one of the two sandwiches left inside his lunchbox. “Thanks, Charlie,” she said. They sat in silence, waiting, the girl nibbling the sandwich and Charlie sipping his hot chocolate. A rustling on the other side of the tracks made them look up expectantly. A boy the same age as Charlie appeared from out of the brush. He waved excitedly and called out. Just then the tracks began to hum. Charlie and the girl waved their arms at the boy.

“Hurry,” Charlie called. The boy broke into a run and hopped over the tracks. He stopped on their side, his hands on his knees breathing hard. Charlie slapped him on the back. “Good show, Jimmy!”

“Look,” the girl said. “Here it comes!” The nose of the train was just visible far down the tracks. Charlie scooped up his lunchbox and tossed it into his backpack. He cinched it tight and slung it onto his back, securing it on both arms. The three began to jog along the tracks as the train chugged closer. The conductor passed them and blew the whistle long and loud. Charlie ran hard and dug his feet into the snow with each step. He reached out his arms and gave one final push with all he had in him. His fingers closed around the cold steel of the ladder. “Oof,” he said as he swung into the metal. He laughed as the air stung his cheeks and the wind tried to take his hat. “Here,” called the girl. She reached from inside the box car. Charlie grabbed her hand and held onto the side of the box car with his other hand. “One, two, three,” she yelled and Charlie leapt from the ladder into the car. They laughed as the three of them fell to the floor and laid there as they caught their breath. After a moment, they sat up to watch the scenery fly by. Charlie opened his backpack and offered the boy the last sandwich. After a while, he pulled out a checker set and the three took turns playing as the train chugged along.

At the first whistle, they packed up in a hurry. Each one took their place at the box car door and waited. “Here we go,” murmured Charlie and he prepared to jump. He knew what to do. He had to time it just right to land in the soft dirt before the road. And he had to roll so he didn’t hurt his legs. There was the switch pole. Charlie counted. One, two, three, four, five. He jumped as far out as he could, landed in the soft dirt and rolled. When he came to a stop, Charlie sat up and shook the dirt from his hair. “Alright?” he called to the boy across the street. His friend lifted a hand, then turned and jogged off. Charlie waited for the train to pass, then looked eagerly across the tracks. She was there, a wide grin on her face. One quick wave, then she too turned and jogged off.

Charlie adjusted his backpack and started down the street. Mr. Whittle’s hardware store was just a couple blocks up the road. The bell above the door chimed as he entered the store and made his way to the counter. He folded his arms on the counter and waited. Mr. Whittle peeked around his office door from his chair. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Hmm. That time already, huh?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Charlie answered.

“Alright then. You get the back door and the store lights. I’ll lock up back here.”

Charlie skipped through the store and checked the back door. It was always already locked anyway. He walked along the store wall and flicked the light switch. The back half of the store went dark. He walked up the dim aisle toward the front door. Mr. Whittle came out of his office, hat in hand. “All secure?” he asked. Charlie gave him a thumbs up. “Well, lets go then.” He held the door and Charlie flicked the light switch for the front of the store on his way out. Mr. Whittle jangled his keys and locked up. “So Charlie, how’d you get up to town today?” he asked.

“The train, like always,” Charlie answered. “Hey, where’d you move those traps?” Charlie asked. Mr. Whittle glanced down at Charlie, then he turned to look down the street toward the old, crumbling tracks. The road was blocked off just past them. The crossing was in such disrepair no one dared to even drive over them anymore. Sometimes on a still day Mr. Whittle’s mind would drift and his memories would bring back that high whistle and the chug, chug, chug of a passing train, just like when he’d been a boy and his dad had managed the shop. He shook his head and glanced down at Charlie again.

“What traps, Charlie? You ruined them,” Mr. Whittle said and began to walk down the road toward his truck. Charlie skipped after him.

“You moved them, I know you did.”

“You have your secrets, Charlie and I have mine.” Mr. Whittle opened the truck door and Charlie hopped inside.

“But I told you, Mr. Whittle, I jumped the train.”

“And a pig flew by just now. Did you see it?” Mr. Whittle chuckled as he shut the door. They rode quiet, listening to Mr. Whittle’s radio program. It was a news story today, about a woman who had rescued all 12 cats from a fire in her apartment building. They called her a real life cat woman and she was going to get a key to the city. “Here you are, Charlie,” Mr. Whittle said as he came to a stop in front of Charlie’s cabin on the edge of town. It was a modern cabin, only a little rustic, but a fair clip from the town square. Mr. Whittle’s was just a bit further down the road. His cabin was older. He still cooked in his fireplace. Rabbit stew most likely, thought Charlie and he made a face at Mr. Whittle.

“I’ll find those traps,” he said.

“You’re as likely to find those traps as a train is to travel those tracks,” Mr. Whittle said.

“But –“

Mr. Whittle cut him off. “Off you go, now,” he said. Charlie sighed and jumped down from the truck. His mother waved from the cabin door.

“Thank you, Jimmy,” she called and Mr. Whittle tipped his hat.

“Train again,” he called to Charlie’s mom. She shook her head and put her arms out for Charlie. Mr. Whittle’s truck left a cloud of dust in the air as he drove off. His mother pulled him inside and shut the door. She helped him take off his winter things.

“Go clean up, dinner is almost ready. Chicken noodle soup. It will warm you up after that long walk all the way to town,” she said.

“But I didn’t walk, mom. I rode the train,” he said. “I still want the soup,” he added.

“Of course you do. Clean up, then.” She shook her head as he went to wash up. Maybe she shouldn’t have told him so many stories of that train. The tracks were still in service when she was a girl. When Mr. Whittle was a boy, too. They’d hike into the woods and run along the train, wave to the conductor as he blew the whistle for them. Sometimes they’d even jump on, hard as it was, and ride into town. Oh well, she thought. Let the boy have his imagination. She went into the kitchen and dished out the soup.

Later, after she’d tucked Charlie into bed with a glass of water and a book, she bundled up in her coat and hat. She breathed deep as she stepped into the crisp night air, her breath trickling back out in a cloud. The snow crunched as she walked through the snow and broke the freshly frozen crust. It wasn’t too hard to follow the trail Charlie had made from his many passes. She slowed as she neared the tracks and put her hand out on the old sign to catch her breath. She was surprised to find it still standing at all after all these years. All these years, she thought and closed her eyes. When she opened them she could see the sign as it used to be, the metal glistening and straight, the black lines fresh. She blinked and the sign was as it stood now, the x bent, the pole leaning. She sighed and sat down on the stump. The wind whistled through the trees. She reached out and felt the steel of the old track. Slowly the cold metal started to feel warm beneath her hand and the whistling wind became the trill of a far-off train whistle. She chuckled to herself. What tricks a winter night can play on the mind, she thought.

But then her hand, and then the very ground, began to vibrate. A shrill whistle broke the silence, much closer this time and she leapt to her feet and stumbled backward, tripping over the low stump. She stared in disbelief from the ground as a train chugged past, the wind whipping her hat from her head. A crewman waved to her from the caboose and then the train was gone, with nothing but some waving branches to show for it. Hesitantly, she reached out and touched the track. It was warm, still vibrating slightly. But as she sat there with her hand on the track, the metal cooled beneath her fingers and stilled, until it was as frozen as the ground beneath her. She looked down the length of the track and with each blink of her eyes the track appeared more and more broken, until it was just crumbling rails once more.

She smiled to herself and stood up. Charlie and his imagination. That’s all it was, of course. As she turned and headed back down the path, she heard what sounded like a little girl’s laugh, but of course it was just her own, remembering the joy of childhood.

Fantasy
1

About the Creator

Rachel McCaulley

I began writing poetry at the age of 12. Since then, I’ve written short stories, plays, news articles, a novel, and even a pilot for a tv show. Nothing feels quite the same as putting just the right words together in just the right way.

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