Ten Journeys

by Various

  The parking area was full. Tourist buses, station wagons, Land Rovers, garish headwear, picnic baskets, placards, horses, and bedlam. The enthusiasm pervaded the field. Xavier’s shoulders slumped.

  Something connected with his foot near the back wheel of the shark. He bent down and picked up a tape. He rushed over to the nearest bus, its driver slouched against the door, crudely rolled cigarette crushed between his lips.

  “Hey, you don’t happen to have a handheld video recorder do you?”

  Xavier jammed the tape in and clicked the door shut. He flipped the play button and watched the little screen light up.

  “… Others from MonarchWatch will be down too.”

  “All to find out the secrets of a butterfly?”

  Xavier watched until static and white noise filled him. He wiped his hand across his face, rewound the tape, and watched it again.

  9

  What If

  You Slept

  Anne Devereux

  Author

  Anne Devereux is a writer of contemporary, romantic and gothic/fantasy short fiction, has written a Young Adult fantasy novel and also writes poetry and song lyrics. Anne was born in England but has called Toronto, Canada home for a long time. She identifies with Pierre Trudeau as a ‘citizen of the world’. Her favourite things to do are write, read, sing, fiddle around on the guitar, scrabble about in her garden, sunbathe, and generally avoid work. Her story What If You Slept follows the journey of two strangers, both running from their respective daily lives, on a train to nowhere.

  There’s something surreal about a train station. The vast space seems formless and vague, like a Salvador Dali painting. A blank canvas, ready for a portrait of a thousand disconnected lives. You stand alone in the concourse, surrounded by bodies rushing in all directions, like faceless figures from a tangled dream. Your fellow travellers don’t appear to see you; they jostle and bump you without apology or even acknowledgement of your presence. Some even try to walk right through you, as though you had no physical existence at all.

  In Suite 620, all was quiet except for the rustling of paper. Nick sat on the edge of the bed in his ecru Italian cotton pyjamas, raking his hands through his hair (chestnut brown with #35 dirty blond highlights, texturized by Bodie of Mikado Salon), reading and rereading the crumpled page in his lap. He knew this would happen.

  ‘Dear Nick: I can’t do this anymore. I’ve cleared out my stuff from the closet, and I took my CDs. Sorry.’

  He screwed up the paper and hurled it at the bin, where it rimmed and then missed, bobbing sadly on the parquet.

  “Fuck you,” he snarled. What the hell was wrong with women anyway? All this constant whining about self-respect. Men just had to get on with it; nobody threw bake sales for abused men. There were no self-help books for men entitled How to Balance Career and Family. The bathroom mirror showed a damp 28 year old with clear blue eyes and a perfectly straight nose. He rubbed his chin and wondered about shaving. But he’d already called in sick, what was the point? She was gone. He traced her name on the steamed-up glass. He was already beginning to forget the colour of her eyes, but evidently, his body remembered more intimate details.

  The sound of the shower covered his eventual release, but afterwards he felt empty.

  You finger the wooden beads around your wrist. When you’re nervous, your hands just refuse to rest. Should you take up knitting? Awry smile crosses your face as you imagine his reaction. He doesn’t even approve of you wearing wool.

  Irritated, you slide the bracelet off your wrist and unwind it, clicking the beads through finger and thumb like a rosary. You’re not even Catholic. The carriage is comfortable, well lit and airconditioned, with blue velour seating and foldaway tables. There are restrooms and a dining car with white tablecloths and silverware. The eight-hour journey to Cochrane is almost an adventure by train, striking out beyond the city. If you kept going north, you’d hit the Arctic Circle.

  You feel secure, comforted by the capsule-like carriage dotted with non threatening strangers, all going somewhere, purposeful, not owing you anything. You feel safe. Beyond anything else, you feel free. The past few months have been suffocating, feeling as though you were slowly being strangled to death in a sterile, spotless, designer vacuum.

  The apartment was an eternal clean room where any evidence of human biology was persona non grata. Throughout the ten months, your eclectic mix of almost-antique furniture and yard sale finds had been gradually replaced or eliminated. The space you used to call home was now a cool, brushed-stainless steel reservoir of minimalist chic. It was practically Japanese.

  You’d noticed his display of oddly obsessive-compulsive behaviour of late: flicking the light switch off and on, off and on, off and on until you screamed at him.

  At night, he tossed in wild nightmares, dripping in cold sweat. More than once you’ve had to shake him awake, trembling in fear as he violently thrashed around in his sleep.

  The carriage door slid open with a crash, snapping the single occupant out of his reverie.

  “Fuck!” Nick’s bag slid off his shoulder and onto the floor, followed in short order by his BlackBerry. Upon hitting the linoleum it broke apart, the batteries skidding under the opposite seat.

  “Fuck, shit, goddammit!”

  Nick kicked the disembowelled remains of the BlackBerry, untangled himself from his coat and scarf and tossed them into a corner. He flung himself into the nearest seat.

  “Um, you OK?”

  Nick looked across the row of seats. He was in no mood for company. “Yeah. Yeah. No. Not really, no.” He laughed, to himself rather than to the stranger sitting opposite him. Another spike of rage tore through him and he fumbled frantically for the broken bits of BlackBerry, scrambled them all together in his hand and hurled them at the carriage door, where they shattered into fragments of blue plastic. The Rogers logo skittered cheerfully on the floor. “Fucking piece of shit!” Nick spat, then slumped back into his seat.

  “You want a Valium?” The stranger grinned. Nick looked up, a little chastened now that his anger had vented.

  “Sorry. I’ll be OK in a minute.” He ran his hand through his hair.

  He could feel those eyes watching him. Oh yes, he’d noticed. Dark espresso-brown, long black lashes, a subtle trace of eyeliner. He shook himself. Don’t.

  “You really don’t like that thing, do you?” the voice persisted. Cynical, cavalier, slightly amused.

  “I hate it. I hate everything about it. What’s it got to do with you, anyway? Mind your own business, I’m in no mood for smart remarks.”

  “I noticed.”

  Nick put his head in his hands. He was just looking for a bit of peace. The other cars were full of mums and kids, wailing babies, assholes talking loudly on cell phones, gossiping teenagers, chattering housewives who didn’t take a breath in between words.

  The train clunked over a switch. Nick looked out of the window and took what felt like his first breath in an hour. He was suddenly aware of the painful throbbing in his head.

  “Uh, sorry, this is going to sound rather stupid,” Nick said.

  “You want to be alone? I can move. Just ask.”

  Nick shook his head. “No. I mean, yes, but no.”

  “Yes, you want to be alone, or no, you don’t want me to move?”

  Nick stared. “Um... ”

  “You were going to ask me a question, I think.”

  “Jesus! Yes. Sorry. Where is this train going?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  “You just got on a train, and you have no idea where it’s headed?”

  Nick stared at the floor. “Yeah. That’s about it, yeah.” He wanted to cry. I’m lost. The brown eyes shone with private amusement.

  “Well, you might want to get off at the next stop then, because this is the Ontario Northlander, it goes all the way to Cochrane.”

  “Where?”

  “My point exactly.”

 
“And you’re going there, I suppose?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  Flippant. Infuriating. “What’s there?”

  “Abig statue of a polar bear. Tim Hortons. And my grandma.”

  Nick suppressed a giggle. “Your grandma?”

  “Nothing wrong with visiting your grandma once in a while. It’s a very relaxing trip. Although maybe not for you,” the stranger said, glibly. A smirk, then a frown in Nick’s direction, followed by the curious arch of an eyebrow. “Where did you mean to go?”

  “What?”

  “You got on the wrong train, obviously. Where did you mean to go?”

  Kind. Concerned. Patient. Stop it. Don’t be so nice to me. “Uh, I don’t know. Nowhere. Anywhere. I just ran for a train, any train. I jumped on the nearest one.”

  “Wow. Did you rob a bank?”

  Nick was silent.

  “Look, I didn’t mean to pry. But if you want to talk about it, it’s cool. I’m a good listener. And I have cop friends.”

  Managing a smile, Nick let out a deep sigh. “My girlfriend left me. I just, I guess I kinda snapped. I didn’t go into work this morning. I just ran all the way here, and jumped onto the first train I saw.”

  “And you broke your little corporate toy.”

  Nick grimaced. “Corporate leg-iron is more like it.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your name. Or did you leave that behind as well?”

  “Nick. Pleased to meet you, um?”

  “Chris.” A smile, a handshake. Polite conversation. “So what do you do that’s made you so neurotic?” Chris grinned disarmingly. Nick felt a strange sensation in his knees.

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Ah.” Chris nodded. “That explains a lot.”

  “What are those?” Nick pointed to the wooden beads on Chris’ wrist.

  “Worry beads.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. Look, try it. Just slide them between your fingers. Very calming. Helped me quit smoking, in fact.” Chris took off the bracelet and uncoiled it, handing the beads to Nick. Their hands brushed together. Don’t touch.

  The train trundled on. Nick gazed out of the window at the endless suburbs, sprawling out of control over what was once prime arable land, now a seamless patchwork of semis and townhouses, and shopping centres. They passed through North York, Vaughan, Richmond Hill, Newmarket. All just the same.

  “Subdivision Hell.”

  “What?”

  “You’re really quite rude, you know. I was just making an observation.”

  “Sorry.” Nick looked down at his hands. He needed a cigarette. Badly.

  “Makes you think of that old Cree proverb, doesn’t it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re doing it again. No wonder she left.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Forgotten her already, then. That’s good. A step forward.”

  Nick felt nauseous. He shook his head pitifully.

  “Some lawyer. Your girlfriend! She left you. Which is why you’re on a train to nowhere, with me.”

  With me. Nick’s head began to spin. “What proverb?”

  “‘Only when we have cut down the last tree, and paved over the last blade of grass, will we realize that money cannot be eaten’.”

  Nick nodded. “Yeah. Progress sucks.”

  “Which is why you’re a lawyer, presumably.”

  Ouch.

  “So you’re getting off at the next stop, then?” Chris asked.

  “I don’t know. Where’s the next stop?”

  “Washago.”

  “Where in the wide world of sports is that?”

  It was Chris’ turn to stifle a giggle. “Just south of Gravenhurst. Muskoka, you know, cottage country. Your clients probably own half of it.”

  Nick sighed. He’d had his fill of lawyer jokes.

  “You’ve never been north of Eglinton, have you?”

  Those eyes again. Twinkling. Ironic. Stop flirting with me. “Actually, I used to spend summers at Pickle Lake, just outside of Haliburton. So yeah, I have too been north. Well, not as far as your polar bear, but... ” Nick felt Chris’ eyes on him. He swallowed hard. His mother’s voice nagged at the back of his mind. Don’t upset your father. Get yourself a girlfriend. Think of your career. For God’s sake, don’t upset your father.

  “Come with me,” Chris said.

  “What?”

  “Come with me. To Cochrane.”

  “How far is it?”

  “The end of the line. Eight hours. Well, seven and a half now.”

  Nick looked at his watch.

  “Why not?” Chris urged. “What have you got to lose? You’re already running away from everything.”

  Eight hours with you. The silence fell softly between them and settled like the spring mists coating the faraway pines.

  Nick rested his chin in the tuck of his palm, and watched as the endless drear of the suburbs flicked past, then melted into the lush rolling pastures of rural Ontario. The early morning world seemed drenched in browns and greens. Chris’ eyes traveled to the same spot on the horizon, and they seemed to coast there in an unfocused rendezvous, soaring across the tops of sugar maples, down into misty green valleys, dodging along the banks of rushing streams, flashes of sunlight through pine stands, and up again into the clear sky. Their eyes met at the same moment, brown into blue. “Want a smoke?” Chris suddenly blurted out.

  Nick stared. His heart gave a little hiccup. “You said you’d quit.”

  “I lied.”

  Nick struggled to his feet and followed Chris, who had bolted down the narrow compartment like a rabbit from a snare. Nick tried not to notice the slim hips in faded Levi’s, the impossibly long legs and slender body, the tie-dye T-shirt and long, wild layers of black hair with oddly placed bleached strands. He tried not to notice, like he tried not to smoke.

  “This is it.” Chris slid open the door to the dining car.

  “I didn’t know they allowed smoking on these trains?” Nick looked around at the other patrons, and loosened his tie.

  Chris made a face. “Only in here. What the hell are you still wearing that for? Dump it, for God’s sake. You actually look like a lawyer.”

  Nick grimaced at the joke, slid his tie off, and paused for a moment, staring at it. He thought about all his other ties, hanging in sad single file in his closet. A tie for court, a tie for client meetings, a tie for dates with girls he didn’t like. Something inside him burned. Nick’s heart pounded wildly as he crumpled the tie into a ball and tossed it out of the window. “Good riddance.”

  Nick watched helplessly as it caught on a tree and flapped in the wind like a defiant rebel flag. A mild panic gripped him, and he clutched at the nearest seat back.

  “Here.” Chris offered a cigarette. They leaned on the window ledge and inhaled deeply.

  “Oh, thank God!” exclaimed Nick, exhaling smoke with his eyes closed. Chris smiled knowingly. “Back in a minute,” said Nick, as he rested the precious cigarette carefully in the ashtray and headed to the toilet at the end of the compartment.

  You inhale the sweet nicotine and the burn hits the back of your throat just before you breathe it down. It’s been so long. You’re not allowed to smoke in the apartment because he’s allergic, and besides, filthy habit, ashtrays stinking up the place and residue staining the paintwork.

  You lapsed once. You had to have just one, out on the balcony where you thought he wouldn’t notice, but he did. All you remember is the shouting, shouting all the time. Your hands start to tremble and you curse under your breath. Stop it, stop it, you left him, you’re strong. But you know you’re not strong and your hands start to shake so violently, you drop your cigarette on the floor.

  You blink back the tears that are pricking your eyelids and swallow hard. Don’t. Don’t let him see. A warm hand covers yours, firmly, stopping the shaking in its
tracks. You let out the breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

  “Hey. Hey, you OK?” Nick covered Chris’ hand with his own. “Your hands are shaking.”

  “It’s nothing,” he mumbled, turning away. Nick’s hand maintained its grip. Chris shivered, although it wasn’t cold.

  Nick settled himself into the opposite seat, and plunked a cup of double espresso in front of him. Chris took a deep breath, let it out all in a rush, then gave a shrug. “I left my boyfriend. This morning. No big deal. I’m just, my hands start to shake, and I can’t... ”

  Nick took a gulp of his coffee, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s OK. It’s going to be all right. Hey, look at me.” Nick glanced around quickly. The other patrons of the dining car seemed engrossed in their own lives. He took Chris’ hands in both of his and held them under the table. Chris stared at him, wide-eyed, lower lip trembling slightly. “Now listen,” Nick began in his best lawyer-advising-client voice.

  “Sshh!” Chris wrestled free of Nick’s grasp.

  “What? I’m not trying to... ”

  “No. I don’t mean that.”

  Nick whipped his head around. “What?” He could hear a muffled bell ringing and a stamping of feet.

  “Get your ticket out. The ticket inspector is here,” Chris said, matter-of-factly.

  “Fuck!” Nick jumped up from his seat.

  “What?”

  “I don’t have one! I don’t have a ticket.”

  “You got on a train without buying a ticket?” Chris muttered.

  “I told you, I just jumped onto any train. I was fucked up this morning, I wasn’t thinking!”

  “Well, they won’t buy that excuse.” Chris scowled.

  “What am I going to do?” Nick hissed under his breath.

  “Come on, I have an idea. Here, follow me. Quickly!” Chris got up and dashed to the other side of the dining car. “Here. Get in.” Shoving Nick into the restroom, Chris scoped out the other passengers, then slid in sideways and locked the door. “Breathe in!” Nick obediently sucked in his gut, not that he had any, and gave Chris as much room as possible, which wasn’t a lot, in the tiny toilet built for about half a normal person.