Ten Journeys

by Various

  “But they check the toilets! I’ve seen them do it on the commuter trains... ”

  Chris smirked. “Relax, man. I have a plan. You see, I do have a ticket.”

  “But... ” Nick squirmed. He’d never cheated on anything in his life. Always paid his bills on time, never accrued any interest on his credit card, never late for appointments. The perfect, impeccable, unimpeachable life. And he’d just thrown his favourite Ralph Lauren tie out of a train window.

  A sharp knock on the door announced the ticket inspector. “Excuse me, sir or madam, I need to see your ticket please.”

  The voice was imperious, no nonsense. Chris motioned to Nick to keep quiet, then called out cheerfully.

  “Just a moment!” Opening the door just enough to shimmy out, Chris greeted the inspector with a bright smile and closed the door firmly. “Sorry. Junk food.” Chris made a face and the inspector smiled in sympathy. She was a short little barrel of a woman, compressed into her regulation polyester like an overstuffed pork sausage.

  “Ticket, please.”

  “Yes, sorry. Here.” Chris fished the ticket out from the depths of the Roots backpack that occupied the window seat. The inspector studied it closely, nodded, and handed it back with a smile.

  “That’s fine, thank you. Have a good day.”

  Chris grinned back, pulling down the handle of the restroom door. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go finish what I started.”

  The inspector, thoroughly disarmed, rolled her eyes and grinned. “Don’t fall in, it’s a long walk back to Toronto!”

  Chris waited until she was tackling the next victim before backing into the restroom. The door closed and locked, the light outside once again flashed ‘occupied’.

  “Well. Aren’t you the dazzling urbanite?” Nick was impressed.

  “Nobody can resist my charms,” Chris retorted.

  “Not even me?” Nick had to give as good as he got. He was a lawyer, after all.

  “Especially not you.” Warm brown eyes burned into Nick’s soul.

  When you’re shoved up against someone in a confined area, you become acutely aware of the physical world. Normally we are separated from each other by what we like to call ‘personal space’. That three-foot-diameter bubble that Da Vinci illustrated to brilliant effect.

  We live in a vacuum, each person suspended in a void of their own creation: untouched, untouchable, alone. And we pretend that’s just how we like it. The reverse is, of course, true. In our automated, vacuum-packed, homogenized, politically correct, morally desiccated world, we live out our lint-free, ready-to-eat, microwavable, lactose-intolerant lives. We don’t reach out and touch someone, unless it’s by text message. And we’re lonely. We crave that most basic of needs, touch. The closeness of another person; the simple warmth of an embrace. To know that we are still human beings.

  Nick softened his stance and allowed his body to mould against Chris. He was warm and Nick allowed himself to feel that warmth, to let it wash over and through him, breaking down the conventions of polite society that had been drilled into him. Don’t get close to anyone. Don’t let anyone in. Men don’t show emotion, it’s a sign of weakness. Find a nice girl, get married, settle down. Don’t upset your father.

  To hell with all that. He was tired. Before he even knew what he was doing, his arms were around Chris. Chris folded into him, grateful. A tiny point of moving space, in the vast expanse of time. What did it matter? Nothing mattered, only this moment. Nick closed his eyes and breathed slowly, evenly. Their breathing and heartbeats merged. Their scents blended together; Nick’s top-drawer Prada cologne, and Chris, who smelled of wild heather and sunshine. “She’s gone,” Chris whispered into Nick’s shoulder, and the spell was broken. A moment that felt like an hour, was over. Nick let out a breath. Chris opened the door a crack, “All clear. Come on.”

  Nick looked around apprehensively, but the inspector was nowhere to be seen. Sitting down heavily in the nearest seat, he felt slightly crumpled. Chris sat next to him. Any notion of personal space was a fading memory.

  Nick looked out of the window. The train was rocking across an impossibly narrow bridge. The landscape had changed from the gentle meadows and farmland of the south. Now, huge granite boulders jutted out from the railway cuttings and the distant patchwork of forest seemed hemmed with dark evergreens. Nick, lost in thought, barely noticed the whistle and the muffled announcement.

  “This is your stop.”

  “What?”

  “Your stop. Washago. This is where you get off, to go back to Toronto.”

  Nick’s heart began to pound. Go back. He looked up. His palms were sweating. The station lumbered into view. Chris stared impassively out of the window. What do you really want?

  “Grandma, right?” Nick willed Chris to look at him.

  “Grandma. Yeah.” Chris smiled, still staring out at the tiny station house, standing all by itself at the edge of the river. “You know, she used to say to me, if you don’t ever want to be sorry, just do what your heart tells you all the time.”

  “She sounds wise.” But Nick’s decision was already made.

  When you’re seriously attracted to someone, your whole body changes. Your heart beats faster when they’re close to you. You feel hot all over and your breath gets all caught up in your throat. Sometimes when you try to speak, nothing comes out. Those few moments when he held you, you could think of nothing else but what it would be like to be with him, and you fought your body’s response. You could feel how much he wanted you, but you were afraid. All those words that can never be said.

  You twist the beads on your wrist, hoping for an answer. As usual, you have no say in the matter; the choice is his, and his alone.

  “All aboard, stand clear of the doors please. Gravenhurst next stop, Gravenhurst.”

  You stare out at the grey sky. Canada in April is a world toying with the notion of Spring. A day that begins balmy: summersoft air, suffused with the joyful counterpoint of chickadee, robin, redwing, and spring peeper, turns frigid by afternoon. A line of frantic honking geese flies low past a cold day moon; snow will follow. The bare bones of trees shiver with silent mirth.

  It’s ten-thirty and there’s snow on the wind, but you don’t care because the train is pulling out of the station and he is still sitting beside you. His presence is your lifeline and you cling to it, unashamed.

  “Still here then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.”

  “Would you have missed me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Smoke?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  They lurched back to the dining car as the train swayed alarmingly. Nick grabbed at the nearest seat back. “Is it supposed to do this?”

  “Don’t worry. We’re crossing the Severn River, it always feels like it’s going to fall off the tracks.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” They flopped into a window seat. Chris took out a crumpled pack of Camels and handed one to Nick, which he lit and gave back.

  Chris arched an eyebrow. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m a gentleman, remember?”

  Chris snorted. “Don’t gentlemen prefer blonds?”

  “Not this one. Besides, I’m not sure what colour your hair really is.”

  “Nobody is. Not even me.”

  The train wobbled again as it rattled across the bridge. Chris grabbed Nick’s arm. “Look, Nick! Look.”

  Nick followed Chris’ pointing finger. Deep in a forested gully on the other side of the river, a family of white-tail deer stood, transfixed at the approach of the train, then bounding away as it passed.

  “Wow. They’re beautiful.”

  “You won’t see that on Bay Street.”

  “To hell with Bay Street.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Chris grinned at Nick. The train pulled slowly into Gravenhurst station. The pretty station house with its whitewashed wood siding and hanging baskets of
geraniums gave Nick the impression of having stepped back in time.

  “What?” Chris was regarding him with a knowing smirk.

  “Nothing. Well, I was just thinking, how little places like this change. The city just keeps building. More office towers, knocking all the old stuff down, and then you come up here... ”

  Chris nodded. “Gravenhurst hasn’t changed much since Lucy Maud Montgomery vacationed here. She wrote Anne of Green Gables.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” Nick shook his head in mock surprise.

  “I read. A lot.” Chris dragged on the Camel.

  Nick’s cigarette was already almost gone. You’re so bad for me.

  Chris stubbed out the cigarette, and shot a glance at Nick. “I told you, I’m trying to quit. Now let’s eat, I’m starving.”

  “So,” said Chris, in between his french fries. “What do you notice about the landscape up here?”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “The landscape.” Chris licked gravy off one finger. Nick tried not to stare. “What’s different about it? Come on, you went to law school, you should be observant by nature.”

  Nick coughed. Chris took a french fry and dangled it, long artistic fingers twirling just enough to get a quarter-inch of gravy, then expertly nibbling the end off, before biting the fry in half with perfect white teeth. But it was the surreptitious lick of the lips that made Nick dizzy.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Uh... yeah. Sorry.” Nick frowned and stared out of the window. The Muskoka towns of Bracebridge and Huntsville followed in quick succession. Another river, another rickety bridge. “It’s um, rocky. And there are a lot of rivers and lakes. And the trees are different.”

  “Well done, Einstein.” Chris gestured out of the window. “We’re now on the Canadian Shield. It’s a solid sheet of pre-Cambrian rock, mostly granite, left over from the last Ice Age. As soon as you cross the Severn and enter Muskoka, everything changes.” Chris leaned across the table. “Here. Eat.”

  Nick meekly took the offered french fry. It felt like some kind of strange mating ritual. He sat passively as Chris fed him one at a time. He’d never done this before, not even in private. He felt the eyes of other passengers on them, but he didn’t care. For the first time in his 28 years, he felt free, like he’d been bound and gagged all this time. It was the tie, it had to be the tie.

  Severn, Muskoka, Fairy Lake, Big East River. Chris knew the name of every town, village, lake, river, and highway. Even the trees had names.

  “See,” said Chris, pointing down into a deep ravine. “The bushy ones are Scots pine, the dark, shaggy-looking ones are balsam fir, and the really tall ones with the wide arms are white pine.”

  “Branches, you mean,” Nick interrupted. “Trees don’t have arms.” He took a swig of coffee.

  Chris shot him a look. “You’ve never hugged a tree, have you?”

  “No.” Nick slumped back, defeated. “Doesn’t it scare you, being up this high?” Changing the subject, an old lawyer’s trick. It usually worked like a charm.

  Chris looked out of the window. The sheer rock walls of the ravine plunged down to the dark, forested bottom where a creek meandered, a sparkling reflection of the faraway sun.

  “This doesn’t scare me. People scare me, sometimes. My grandma always told me, don’t be so afraid of dying, that you forget to live.”

  Chris turned the basket of fries around and around, while Nick pretended not to notice that his elegant, delicate fingers were trembling like the aspen leaves in the valley below.

  “Did he hurt you?” Nick was out on a limb, and he knew it. But he had to ask.

  “Only emotionally.” Chris replied, as though that made it all right.

  “I’m sorry, about before.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Before. In the toilet, I’m sorry.” Nick fidgeted in his seat.

  “You’re sorry for what? For getting frisky?”

  Nick flushed. “I didn’t mean to, I just, there was no room, and I... ”

  “There’s no need to apologize. I liked it. In fact, if you wanted to do it again... ” Chris shrugged and gazed out of the window.

  Nick frowned. “Are you hitting on me?”

  “Do you want me to?” Chris arched an eyebrow, and Nick’s stomach flipped.

  Choose.

  “Yes.” Nick swallowed hard. His voice sounded hoarse and far away, and all he could hear was the pounding of his own pulse.

  “Last one,” said Chris, lightly.

  “What?” Nick’s throat had closed up barely getting the word out.

  “Last fry.” Chris regarded Nick with amusement. “Wanna share?”

  “What do you mean?” Nick already knew, but wanted to hear him say it.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never done this with spaghetti.”

  Nick could only manage a nod. Chris held one end of the fry lightly between those white teeth and offered the other end. Nick bit, and swallowed, and bit, until there was nowhere to go but Chris’ lips. Nick’s heart was pounding in his ears. Chris waited patiently for Nick to take what was being offered.

  Does time stop when you hold your breath? Dark brown eyes framed by long black lashes; full lips, waiting. Nick’s mind was on hold, so his body took over, surrendering his mouth to the devastating softness of Chris’ lips. The first taste was salt, then coffee, tobacco, and finally a warm deliciousness. Nick ran his fingers through Chris’ hair.

  A voice over the P.A. system announced the next stop, but noone was listening.

  The first time you kiss someone, it’s like unwrapping a gift. You’ve admired the pretty paper, read the clever card, and now it’s time to undo the ribbon and see what’s inside. A simple touching of lips could never suffice to define what a kiss is. You offer an intimate part of yourself to another person for them to sample. You open the door to your soul, and invite them inside. At first the touch, taste, scent and then beneath all that, the things they try to hide: gentleness, vulnerability, fear, pain. Your body responds to the touch and you pray to the old gods who watch over such matters that you will be allowed to keep them, for just a little while.

  Nick closed his eyes. Across the carriage, an elderly lady tutted, but he didn’t care. There was no point in hiding anymore. Nick was sinking down, down into a deep ocean from which there was no return. Then, like sunlight on dark water, Chris brought him back. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

  “What?” Nick’s head was spinning.

  “When you were a little kid. What did you want to be?” Chris spoke softly, as though sharing a secret. Their fingers entwined of their own accord on the tabletop that separated them.

  Whispered words between kisses suddenly seemed so normal. Outside the window, the green forested world sped by.

  “I don’t know.” Nick couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Brown eyes smiled into blue.

  “Come on, don’t tell me you wanted to be a lawyer when you were six.”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “Well?”

  “I, um... ” Nick closed his eyes as Chris stroked his hair. “I loved horses. My aunt had a farm, and I was fascinated by the farrier, you know, the blacksmith. I used to hang around while he shoed the ponies. Then one time, he taught me how to make a horseshoe. My parents sent me there every summer, so they could take off to Paris without feeling guilty. I learned all about the forge, how to work iron; I loved it. So yeah, I think I wanted to be a blacksmith.”

  “You think?” Chris traced a finger along Nick’s jaw.

  Somewhere in the back of Nick’s mind, he registered the fact that the train had picked up speed and was rattling along the tracks at a breakneck pace. A wall of green flashed past, punctuated by occasional blue. “Well, yes, I know I did. I was good at it, too. Heck, I made half the metal art in my condo.”

  “So why didn’t you?”
<
br />   Nick sighed. “My father. He didn’t want me working with my hands, said it was blue-collar work. Didn’t want any son of his having to use the tradesman’s entrance.”

  Chris made a face. “And a lawyer is better?”

  Nick laughed. “You have to understand, it’s a dynastic thing. My father is a crown prosecutor, and his father was on the bench. It was expected of me. He was even disappointed that I went into corporate law. Seven years of school just to push paper around an office. Thought it was a cop-out.”

  “You’ve spent a lot of time trying to live up to him, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And now?”

  Nick felt a sudden burn at the back of his eyes, which was ridiculous. He hadn’t cried since he was eight years old. He clenched his jaw. “Now? What do you mean, now?” Why does my voice sound so angry?

  “I didn’t mean to push, I’m sorry. Forget it.” Chris looked down, fiddling with the wooden beads around the slender wrist that still wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Nick took Chris’ hands in his. “It’s not you, it’s me. I always end up hurting the people who care about me.”

  “Is that what your girlfriend said?” Dark eyes, deep and unfathomable, gazed at the wooden beads.

  “The only thing she cared about was my bank account.”

  “Maybe it was because she didn’t know who you really were.”

  Nick ran his hands through his hair. “How could she, when I didn’t even know?”

  “Do you know now?” Chris ran a finger across Nick’s lower lip.

  “I think I’m getting closer.”

  “North Bay, this stop, North Bay.” The train, which had been hurtling through space as though it wasn’t even in contact with the tracks, suddenly slowed with a whoosh and glided to a stop.

  “Rest stop.”

  “Huh?”

  “Rest stop. The train stops here for half an hour. We can get out, stretch our legs, that kind of thing.”

  Nick looked out of the window. The station was smack in the middle of town, surrounded by bustling streets, restaurants, traffic.

  “Of course, if you prefer, we can always go back in the restroom.” Chris raised an eyebrow.