Horseplay
on the sidings; steel toed feet crunching in the trap rock. They chased
him around the rail yard at the sand pits. He ran around the end of a box
car, right into a fast locomotive. They took his broken body to the
Hospital. He had a stroke, too. His spine was severed; he would never walk
again and would only have partial use of one arm. They stood at the foot
of the bed, shoulder to shoulder; the ones who had caused it.
We’re
sorry we’re sorry.
How
do you feel, David?
How
do you feel now?
They
pushed their hands down in their pockets.
They were truly
ashamed.
He said
nothing.
He lay
paralyzed in a hospital bed for years in the house by the tracks that led
from the sand pits, the house he’d built with his own hands, many years
ago. Sunny days passed; stormy days passed. Mary and Frida took care of
him through the years. Each day trains passed by the house coming from and
going to the sand pits. And every time one went past he was terrified;
with his one good arm he’d pull the covers up to his neck, and he’d see
them. They stood in the sound of the passing train. They stood at the foot
of the bed, shoulder to shoulder; the ones who had caused
it.
As he’d done the last hundred
times, he looked away before they came, but still he saw them. He didn’t
listen, but still he heard them.
They pushed
their hands down in their pockets.
They had done
this before.
We’re sorry,
old man.
They had said
this before.
We’re very very
sorry.
They had said
this before—
They repeated
this the whole time the train rolled by.
He said
nothing, just shivered in the bed until the train, and the men, were
gone.
Mary! he’d cry out.
Frida!
They came and
wiped his fevered brow. It’s all right David, they said. It’s all
right.
One day, Mary
and Frida were out on the porch, drinking brandy as usual, smoking and
laughing. Talking of men they had known; talking of sex they had
had.
Suddenly Mary
glanced toward the sand pits.
Frida, she
said.
What?
Look.
Two men came up
the tracks from the sand pits. They were dirty and greasy and longhaired
and skinny. They came off the tracks and stopped up against the
porch.
Ma’am, said the
taller of the two. Could you spare us some water?
Why sure, said
Mary, rising. They eyed her as she went in the house for
water.
Have a hard day
in the sand pits? said Frida.
Yes
Ma’am.
She brought out
glasses of water. They came up on the porch.
Their hands
went in their pockets, and then came out.
The suddenly
dropped water glasses rolled off the porch into the
mud.
Inside, David
lay in the bed. The quiet swirled around him. He was thinking of a better
time. A time when he could walk and run. He rose and went and ran around
the house; again and again and again—until he heard it
coming.
A train was
coming.
Once more he
lay helpless in his bed. With his good arm he pulled the covers up to his
neck. The train came up beside the house; the two men appeared. They stood
in the sound of the passing train. They stood at the foot of the bed,
shoulder to shoulder;
the ones who had caused it.
As he’d done
the last hundred times, he looked away before they came, but still he saw
them. He didn’t listen, but still he heard them.
They pushed
their hands down in their pockets.
They had done
this before.
We’re sorry,
old man.
They had said
this before.
We’re very very
sorry.
They had said
this before—
But this time,
they repeated nothing; they stepped toward him.
Their hands
came from their pockets.
The last train
passed slowly by.
And with that, the
trains were gone forever.
