Cabin Sixty-Three

One thousand and one. One thousand and two. George Frohmer counted along to the sound of the clickety clack playing in his head. A stiff jostle shook him, and his eyes flashed open. He held his wristwatch to his face. Six thirty a.m. again. Monday, the twelfth of August. His gaze shifted to the seat before him. The same blonde woman with paper dry skin sat in it. The fox fur trim of her mauve coat wrapped tight around her neck as she stared ahead. Unmoving and silent. The conductor in his blue and gold uniform hovered above him; arm outstretched holding a ticket stamp. Frozen in time. The other passengers: the baby screaming on its mother’s lap, the balding man, shoving a suitcase in the overhead compartment while papers hung mid-air where they’d slipped from the space, the old woman in the straw hat and flowered shawl, and the bright yellow parakeet in the little gold cage on her lap; all were soundless and still. The only thing moving, living besides himself, was the eternally changing landscape through the train window. It twisted and turned until his scrambled egg breakfast forced its way up his throat. A bright sunny meadow in full spring bloom here. A narrow, sleet covered bridge spanning a black bottomless pass there. All changing in the blink of an eye or the flip of a switch, like his slide projector for the history class he taught. He’d lost count of the times he’d closed his eyes; certain when they opened, he’d be back safe in his four-poster bed while his wife, Betsy, snoozed peacefully beside him. Every time, he found himself on this train. In this seat, while the vehicle careened along its everchanging track.

George buried his face in his hands to sigh, then rose to explore as he had a hundred times before. Perhaps he’d missed something? A previously unseen exit, or a button to push. Maybe if he tried one more time, he could open one of the windows and jump. If he had the courage to.

He pulled horn-rimmed glasses from the breast pocket of his tweed suit, giving them a rub before placing them carefully on his nose. He leaned closer to the conductor. Squinting to read the name on his brass pin.

“Ronald.” George said aloud. “Funny, I would have picked you for a Calvin. Oh well, either way, sorry conductor, Sir, still no ticket.” He stared out the window. “What have we got today? Snow? That’s new.”

His knees wobbled with the rhythm of the train. Ahead of him the lights in the dining car flickered through the transition door. He stepped carefully around the balding man and mess of luggage on his way to the door. The train hopped and he fell against the wall. With a grunt he heaved the door open and stepped onto the transition. The silvery metal of the seal closed in around him and the cars swayed. Sweaty palms gripped the sides of the wall. He looked down to his feet. By the inch of visible ground beneath them, he knew the train had wandered onto a bridge again. George hated bridges most of all.

Gravity pulled him sideways as the train rounded a curve. The two cars he stood on jumped and rumbled. The eggs rose in his stomach again. He dug white knuckles further into the walls and pushed himself forward; eyes squeezed shut. Each thud of his footsteps fell like lead on the grated metal floor. He wrestled his curiosity but lost and opened his eyes in time to see out the window. Dark blue water swelled far below the train. It swirled; thrashing at the wooden legs of the rickety bridge they traveled on. He shut his eyes once more and threw himself against the door to the dining car. He smushed his face against it fumbling blindly at the handle.

At last, it turned. He stumbled into the car and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, patting his wet forehead. The car was sunny and bright. Pink flowers dotted the grass outside. The delicate green blades swayed gently and though no animals were visible, a faint chirping wafted into the car. Barely audible over the steady clacking of the train. He turned back to the door. Darkness and blue water stirred beyond. He’d forgotten the one rule he’d learned about the train. He could never go back. Was that why he couldn’t find an exit? He made a mental note to go to the cabin cars behind him instead of the dining car first thing the next day. Should he find himself still on the train.

George rolled his neck and straightened his tie. This car was his favorite of all he’d investigated. Cherry wood paneling lined its walls and soft pink velour drapes framed the view outside. And it was always sunny. Not a storm or darkened bridge in sight.

He marched to a glossy table inhabited by a plump woman in a flowered dress. Across from her, a gray-haired gentleman with handlebar mustache and an eager look plastered on his face.

“Good morning, Sally.” He said to the attendant bent over the table with a glass of liquor in her hand. “Don’t tell Betsy, but you’re looking quite pretty this morning.” He turned to the couple at the table and nodded. “Agnes. Doctor Freudenheimer. Aren’t you two looking chipper!” He bowed. “What’s that Doctor? Take your drink?” He watched the iced cubes bob in the glass in Sally’s hand. “Well, I don’t mind if I do!”

He pulled the tumbler from her grasp. Her finger brushed against his and he recoiled. It was inhuman. Not cold, not warm, but lifeless all the same. He hesitated to drink, but he’d done it every day since he’d first found himself on the train and it hadn’t hurt him yet. He threw his head back and downed it in one gulp and slammed the empty glass down on the table. Doctor Freudenheimer’s mustache quivered from the force.

“Thanks Doc!”

Across the car was a bench occupied by a man in pinstriped pants and a young boy dressed in ragged old knickerbockers. The boy disturbed him. His dull brown eyes and dirt covered face always followed him. George shuddered. He looked to the paper the pinstripe man was holding and his brow furrowed. He bent and cocked his head to one side. His mouth gaped when he read the date.

December 8th, 1934

“But that’s impossible!” He said aloud. “I was born in 1934!”

He stumbled into the man, stunned that his hands reached straight through to the bench. He jumped to his feet brushing his arms as he watched the man turn to ash and disintegrate before his eyes. He turned back to the table. Sally’s hand was gone. Beneath her, a dusty pile of charcoal; growing as decay festered and feathered up her arm. A panicked wail escaped his lips. He stared down at his hands, trembling, but intact. The car bounced. He looked back to the door. The darkness penetrated it, racing across the floor. The train gathered speed. He ran for the front of the car, bracing himself for the next vestibule.

Instead, George rushed head long into a darkened car full of menagerie animals, stuffed and hanging on the walls. A hanging lantern swung over the wooden plank floor illuminating a path. It was not a car he’d been in before. He labored to remember his daily routine. Waking in the passenger car, moving to the dining car, then to the bar car, and on to the locomotive. With the abyss eating through everything behind him he had little choice but to follow the path. He lit a match from his pocket, straining to see in the nothingness ahead. There was no door, but a tunnel. A familiar voice resounded from the opening. Bobby Darin singing "Beyond the Sea". He smiled at the memory of sharing the first dance to the song, with Betsy, at their wedding five years ago. He walked with trepidation after the music. Tropical plants and trees grew on either side of him. He pushed back banana leaves as he followed. Ahead of him disembodied voices.

“Three cc’s.” A gentle feminine voice said.

“Thank you, Betsy.” A man replied.

George’s ears pricked. “Betsy!” He yelled. He pushed aside more branches. “Betsy!”

He ran full speed into the jungle. The voices faded and he collapsed on a rock with his head in his hands. The air filled with hibiscus and the sky lightened while the sun rose, backwards. He lifted his head. A young girl stood several yards away beside another train car door, dressed in a white swimsuit and swimming cap. He hadn’t noticed her a minute before. He blinked. She remained like a statue in front of the door.

He waded through another vestibule and into the next car; greeted by a bland beige hallway with red carpeting and one door that read:

Cabin Sixty-Three

George looked back. The darkness gobbled through the jungle and the backwards sunrise.

He sighed. “Well here goes nothing.”

Beyond the door a swimming pool spanned the length of the car. At the end, perched on the diving board, was the little girl. Humid air, heavy with chlorine, clung to him. The voices returned.

“Mrs. Lacey, I’m Doctor Calvin. We’ve stopped the bleeding on his brain, but I’m afraid we’ve done all we can do for now. It’s going to be a wait and see situation.”

“Thomas is a good boy! He’s only nineteen!” Her sobs echoed through the pool car.

George peered around. He was alone. Laughter reverberated from the rafters. The walls vibrated with it. His heart raced. The laughter rushed past his leg. He jumped. The girl stood at his side.

“I’m Molly.” She said and held a hand to him. Her blue eyes penetrated him with pinpricked pupils.

He took her hand. “I’m…”

“I love to swim.” She shoved him with surprising strength.

He clawed for the surface of the sludge water. Gasping for air. Every nerve of his body on fire from the bitter cold of the pool. The voices garbled on. Mouths-full of muddy water flooded his throat and filled his nostrils. Molly pulled him further into the muck while he kicked at her. With one final kick he freed himself from her tendril fingers and swam for the surface, coughing for air. He glared back into the water. She crouched at the bottom of the pool. Her face twisted into a macabre smile. The car shook again. He struggled through growing waves to the end of the pool while the car swerved on its track. Bits of plaster fell around him, further thickening the murky water. The abyss easily inhaled the pool with ever increasing speed. He pulled himself from the water. A slithery hand sprung from the froth and wrapped around his ankle.

“I want to swim!” Molly shouted at him.

He tore at his own pantleg, desperately trying to free himself from the grip of her nails. He pulled with all his might. The darkness wrapped itself around her feet. She screamed and let go. George fell backward onto the floor. His chest too cold and sore to take in air. He crawled along the wet stones of the floor and reached for the door handle.

“I am so sorry the other woman didn’t make it.” The woman’s voice returned.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s the sixty third fatality we’ve had at that intersection this year. Poor lady was heading home from her eighty eighth birthday celebration.”

The conversation faded into the nothingness. George pulled himself, exhausted, through the door into the locomotive. The engine lurched once more toward a bright light. Headlights. He found himself in the engineer’s seat. His hands on the steering wheel of a car. Picking up speed on a dark icy hill. In a flash he read the street signs of the intersection.

George St. Frohmer Ave.

He pumped the brakes, but they were no use on the steep incline. He slammed head on into the car in front of him. His lights shown on the driver for a moment. A frail elderly woman with paper dry skin and fox fur snug around her neck. In the light, her blue eyes widened, the pupils turning to pinpricks. Her car spun out and tipped over the railing of the bridge. His head slammed forward into his steering wheel and back up to the head rest. In front of him, the dark sleet covered bridge and the impending water beyond. A train whistle wailed in the distance. His eyes fluttered shut and his head slumped.

One thousand and one. One thousand and two. George Frohmer counted along to the clickety clack…