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The Christmas Zephyr
by David Watson December, 24 1941 Otto grabs the Zephyr’s frosty handrail and eases himself down the steps. He tightens his grip, takes a deep breath and thrusts his head out into the icy wind. The cold dampness smacks him square in the face. With tears from the frigid air welling in his eyes, he sees the fast-approaching lights of Monmouth. They sparkle like polished jewels on the dark Illinois prairie. He slips back into the shelter of the vestibule, pulls out his watch—right on time. He snaps it shut and stoops to pick up the step stool. The high-pitch whine of the engine fades and the streamliner slows. Otto squeezes the stool tight against his chest and leans back, letting his body melt against the swaying train. He closes his eyes trying to block out the worry jabbing inside his stomach. All because of a letter, thinks Otto—a goddamn letter. It arrived in the mail before his run out east—a government letter telling him to report on the day after Christmas. The inhumanity of it all, the day after Christmas, how could they do that? The cold seeps around Otto’s neck, and he pulls the collar of his navy blue jacket higher. He hadn’t told his wife Kitty yet. How was he going break the news? The brakes on the train hiss. More tears sting his eyes, and this time not because of the cold. The Zephyr eases to a stop and the engine’s air horn sounds. The shrieking whistle startles Otto. He bites his lower lip and shakes his head. He smacks the stool against his chest trying to gather himself. He’s got a job to do. He wipes the tears from his eyes, jumps to the ground and places the stool. A soft light glows inside the station. Otto looks through the window. A Christmas tree stands with a slight tilt squashed against a wall. Its branches are covered with silver tinsel thrown in jumbled clumps, colored glass balls hang precariously from bent branches, a child’s paper chain is draped around its crown. Two passengers emerge and stride up to Otto. A tall man with an overcoat wrapped tight at the waist, hoists his travel bag onto the first step. His clerical collar is visible under the lapel of his jacket. “Evening Father,” says Otto. The priest climbs aboard without speaking. A young soldier, his uniform pressed and polished, is next. “Hello, bud,” says Otto. “Is this the train to Fort Madison, sir?” “Yes, of course.” The soldier lifts his duffle bag and pulls himself aboard. Otto turns to the station and sees a young woman struggling to carry a suitcase across the cobblestone platform. A little boy follows her. Even in the dim light, Otto notices the young woman’s bouncy hair, her long, slender legs, her bright red lipstick. He leaps across the platform. “Can I be of some assistance ma’am?” The young woman, Sarah Dressden, nods. Her olive colored eyes meet Otto’s. A jolt of excitement seizes Otto’s soul. He reaches for her suitcase, their hands touch as he slips his fingers into the handle. The corners of Sarah’s lips curl into a smile. She turns, grasps the small hand of her son and the two climb aboard. Otto stands frozen watching Sarah’s figure twist up the steps. The engine’s horn sounds. Otto lets out a low whistle under his breath. He lifts the leather suitcase into the vestibule, picks up the step stool and signals the engineer with a wave from his flashlight. Sarah is waiting inside the warm coach. The train lurches and she reaches out and steadies herself on Otto’s arm. “Thank you,” she says. Otto shoves the suitcase into the luggage rack. “No problem, ma’am.” He bows and notices the diamond ring and wedding band on her left hand. He glances at his own left hand. A gold band fits snug on his finger too. A wave of nausea swirls inside his stomach. The weight of an invisible hand presses on his chest. He labors to take a breath. Otto straightens himself, and before Sarah can say anything, tips his hat and leaves the car. Sarah leads her son down the aisle. She walks slowly, steadying herself against the sway of the Zephyr that reminds her of the roll of a ship. By habit, she chooses the seat at the front. She removes her brimmed hat, letting the curls of her dark red hair fall onto her shoulders. She slips off her black wool coat and turns slowly hoping to catch a lustful gaze. Except for a priest and a soldier boy, the car is empty and both are looking out the window and not at her. Sarah lets her body sink into the plush seat, and her son, without her assistance, climbs into the one next to her. Her husband, Ethan, has been gone only two weeks—off to training camp—and here she is, nearly back to her old self. She looks down at her hand with the rings, wraps both arms around her waist and squeezes. What is she doing? Four years of marriage should have changed her. She thought it had. With Ethan home it was easy to suppress her longings, but now, with him gone… Sarah takes a deep breath. She lets her arms fall onto her lap. She smoothes out the seams of her checked tweed skirt then closes her ringed hand into a tight fist. Why had he enlisted? He knew how she was. He’d get leave and come to see them, he promised. That wasn’t going to be enough. She lets out a low sigh Sarah unfastens the clasp on her purse and pulls out a compact. She flips it open and looks into the mirror. Only, she loves Ethan unlike any other man she has ever known. But when they ship him overseas? What if… a horrendous thought slips into her mind. She grits her teeth forcing it away before it can gain a foothold. She snaps the compact shut, turns and looks at her little boy. Her face softens. He is a picture isn’t he? His cap tucked over his ears, he looks so much like his daddy. The little boy looks up into Sarah’s eyes and for a moment she thinks she might melt. “Can I sit with you?” he says. Sarah nods and her boy climbs over the seat’s arm and into her lap. He slips his warm hand into hers. She relishes the soft touch. She takes her free hand and reaches into her purse. She pulls out a handkerchief, pauses, then wipes the red makeup from her lips. The door in front of the car slides open and in walks Otto. “Tickets please, tickets.” He stops next to Sarah. She pries her boy’s hand free and reaching into her purse, hands Otto their tickets. Avoiding eye contact, Otto punches them and hands them back. He moves to the young soldier, Tyler Burton, who hands him his ticket. “This is the train to Fort Madison?” Otto looks over the top of his glasses. “The last stop on the run.” He hands the ticket back to Tyler who promptly drops it to the floor. Otto fusses with the gold chain attached to his watch. “Your unit shipping out soon?” “Yes, sir, next week.” Otto’s face wrinkles into a frown. That queasy feeling stirs inside again. He winces and tries to shake it off, but it’s entrenched in his gut. He lets out a sigh, then reaches out and slaps Tyler on the back. “Stay safe,” is all Otto can think to say before heading off down the car. Tyler frowns. Everyone’s been telling him the same thing. Stay safe, how the hell is he going to do that? He’s not sure where he’s getting shipped to, but he knows damn well it isn’t to go on some Boy Scout hike. Tyler closes his eyes. It was supposed to be over now. He wasn’t planning on going to war. He should be on his way home for good, getting ready for college, getting ready to live his life, but now… It had been a mistake listening to his buddies. One year in the service, what adventures they’d have. And the girls—girls loved guys in a uniform, they’d be all over us. It all sounded good when they talked about it that summer after high school. But there hadn’t been any adventures. And what girls had they seen? The little time they did have in town, those girls weren’t Tyler’s kind. And now, thanks to the Japanese, the army’s changed one year into two. Hell, the next thing they’ll change two years into four. Four years is an eternity. There was no way around it, his life is over. Tyler picks up his duffle bag and traces his finger over his last name embroidered in the canvas. Instead of coming home for good, his trip is to say good-bye. He sets his duffle bag on the empty seat next to him and sees the priest across the aisle. The priest looks familiar, but Tyler’s not sure. An invisible force seems to pull him to his feet. He moves down the aisle for a closer look. Even though the air inside the coach is warm, the priest is bundled tight in his overcoat. His hands are clenched laid one on each leg. Tyler moves closer. The man’s face is drawn with tight lines, his skin a pale white. “Good evening, Father.” Father McConnell turns toward Tyler and grimaces. He knows what the boy wants. It’s what every soldier boy wants to know since they bombed Pearl. Lord, enough have stopped him on the street. What makes them think he can read their future? He’s an ordained Catholic priest, not some psychic fortune teller. Father McConnell can’t even manage to lift his eyes into Tyler’s face. “I…I just wanted to say…Merry Christmas,” says Tyler. “You too,” is all Father McConnell can think to say. Tyler nods his head and walks back to his seat. Father McConnell turns and looks out the window seeing only his own reflection and the sight sickens him. The years in college and seminary he had done his best. He prayed for guidance. He prayed for a path to follow. But for reasons he can’t explain, his calling never came. He should have never taken his vows. The bishop was wrong, being ordained hadn’t changed anything. His heart, instead of softening, had grown thick with callus. Father McConnell looks over his shoulder at the young soldier fidgeting in his seat. He turns back and lets his chin fall onto his chest as if to pray, but it’s too late for that now. The humiliation of being wrong, of being a failure, was too much…too much. He sighs and tries to swallow, but has no spit. In a short while, it will be over. He’s gone over his plan for months. He places his hand on the breast pocket of his coat and feels the square envelope resting over his heart. When Christmas Eve Mass starts at St Catherine, he’ll have time to slide the letter under the Monsignor’s door without being noticed. The Monsignor won’t understand, but at least he’ll know how to deliver the news. From St. Catherine, it’s only a short walk down the street to the river. How many times he’d made the trip when he was a kid? He’d cut across the city park, down the alley next to Krueger’s hardware store and follow the dirt path behind McGuilly’s bait shop until he came to the double decked girder bridge that connects Iowa to Illinois. Father McConnell squints looking out the window. The train is up alongside the river, the girders of the double-decker tower above the river. Bright lights from the bridge shine into the blackness of the Mississippi illuminating chunks of ice floating in the current. On the edge of the structure, he makes out the jutting steel platform, where as a kid he used to dive from into the river. The railroad men would yell at him and his buddies. But, they’d just lie in the weeds along the bank and wait for them to leave. It was a safe place to dive, deep water, but you had to be a strong swimmer to get out of the current. Father McConnell feels a hard hand on his shoulder and his insides lurch. He turns his head. It’s the soldier boy. “Excuse me, Father, but I think I know you. Aren’t you John McConnell?” Tyler sits down in the seat next to Father McConnell. The door of the car slides open. “Next stop, Fort Madison,” says Otto. He looks at the young woman who has fallen asleep with her son on her lap. He nudges her gently and her eyelids flicker open. “Fort Madison’s the next stop ma’am.” He pulls out a red-striped candy cane from his pocket. “For your son?” Sarah smiles. “What do you say?” “Thanks,” squeaks the little boy, and he reaches out and takes the candy cane. Otto tips his hat and moves out the back of the car. Standing in the vestibule, he sees Fort Madison casting a hazy glow. Specks of light, lit homes and street lamps rising on the river bluff, seem to fly like burning embers into the sky. He feels the train slow as they twist on the lead up to the bridge. Otto moves down the steps, and clinging to the railing feels something soft and cold bounce off of his cheek. He thrusts his hand into the wind momentarily then yanks it back. Glistening snowflakes cling to his navy blue sleeve. Snow on Christmas Eve, thinks Otto, what a nice gift. The Zephyr pulls to a stop in the siding next to the station. Otto jumps to the ground and places the stool. The young woman, clinging to her son’s hand, climbs down the stairs. “Merry Christmas,” says Otto. The young woman doesn’t answer, only smiles. Otto watches as the two disappear in the swirling snow. The priest is next standing in the vestibule. His face is stained with tears. “Is everything okay, Father? Can I call you a taxi?” Otto is about to climb aboard to help, but the young soldier grips the priest around his shoulder, whispers something in his ear and helps the man down the steps. “Thank you sir, but I’ll make sure the Father makes it home.” Otto nods and listens to their feet scrunch in the new fallen snow, then climbs back onto the train. He walks through the whole train like he always does at the end of a journey and returns to the last car of the Zephyr. The engine falls silent and the lights in the train flicker before going out. The bells of St Catherine ring out in the distance calling the town to Christmas Eve Mass. Otto flips open his watch. Kitty will be in church, and she won’t be expecting him. He’ll make it on time if he hurries. Won’t she be surprised. He eases himself off the train feeling the smooth railing slide against the palm of his hand. He stops and looks one last time at the Zephyr. He was a good conductor wasn’t he? No matter what happens, at least no one could take that away from him. Otto steps into the falling snow that, for the moment, covers the world’s imperfections in a soft blanket of peace. |
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