The Visitors
Page 28
—That was the reason, Una.
—So you’re in love with this woman, Jim.
—I’ve never been happier, Una.
—Live with me in Berlin, Jim. You and me. No one else. You don’t need to live here anymore. This is a heartless country. I’m seeing someone in London, but we’re not suited.
The hand stopped stroking the quilt. I reached my hand across and laid it lightly on hers. I didn’t even think twice.
—I’ll go with you, Una.
—We’ll be very happy together, Jim.
—I know we will, Una.
—I miss you terribly, Jim.
—And I you, Una. I’ve never once stopped thinking about you.
We flung some of the pillows onto the floor.
Later we ordered up ribeyes, desserts, a bottle of champagne, and bottles of red wine. We never left the room.
I woke around ten the next morning. Woke to this old ache. One never too far away. One you never put a name to, but connected to there, and to them. And I dressed, packed, straightened Una’s shoes, and did a mediocre job of tidying the room. My hand was on the doorknob when she spoke.
—You’re leaving me, Jim.
—I have to, Una.
—I know you do, Jim.
I looked at my watch.
—A train leaves after twelve, Una.
—Won’t you turn and look at me, Jim?
I shut my eyes and squeezed down hard on the doorknob.
—I want to very badly, Una, but I won’t. I can’t.
—I understand, Jim. We’ll see each other again.
I opened my eyes and turned the doorknob.
—You never know what might happen, Una.
• • •
I saw him the moment I stepped out of the cab across from Union Station. He was leaning against one of the pillars. His back was to the street. People moved around him the way a rock diverts water. The worn and soiled backpack. The height, the build, and the stubborn gray hair. I crossed the street, went up the steps, and laid my hand flat on the backpack, like to surprise an old friend. He turned quickly. He was no more than thirty-five. I didn’t know what to say. And so I asked if he needed money. Blurted not asked.
—Fuck you, mister. You’re not from here.
He spat on the pillar then turned and vanished into the station. I went down to the footpath and smoked two or three cigarettes before I went inside. Then inside I discovered that the train to Michigan was gone, and there wouldn’t be another for some time. But a train to New Orleans was leaving shortly. I eyed the stops. I’d been to Memphis, though not the other places. I wanted to visit Centralia, Illinois. I knew it from the Woody Guthrie song about the mining disaster that happened there in the forties.
My fingers are weak
and I cannot write,
Good-bye, Centralia, good-bye.
What was August like in Centralia? There were monuments to the dead miners to see. Was there a nice river? I’d walk around the town for a few days then get back on the train and head south to New Orleans. Such a shame I’d never visited there. And so I headed to the City of New Orleans platform, but I lost my way and found myself on the California Zephyr platform. This train went through the Rockies and ended up in San Francisco. I’d seen the Rockies once at night from a car window. Sarah was at the wheel, but I’d never seen the Sierra Nevada, Donner Lake, or San Pablo Bay. Those names sounded magical among the rushing strangers, like each one came at me like a javelin. But I somehow managed to purchase a ticket to San Francisco. When I returned from the ticket window, the train was boarding. I joined the line. I remember being eight people away from the man in the uniform punching the tickets. I remember when I was five. And when I was four. And when I was three. At two I slipped out of the line. This big dude behind me muttered something about some folks never being able to make up their darn minds. I looked him in the eye and said that immigrants were like that. Then I went and boarded the train back to that town in Michigan.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am grateful to the Whiting Writers’ Awards, The Story Prize, Colgate University, the University of Cincinnati, and Ohio University.
And I am especially grateful to Paul Slovak and Leigh Feldman.