Christmas in Culm: Three Stories by Vincent C. Martinez
"You see," he said, "like I said before, I thought I was stealing this train to get even with people. But I wasn’t just taking it for myself. I see that now. I saw into that other hallway that’s normally blocked from our view, and I saw how to unlock the doors to travel through it. And now I can show others that other hallway. This train takes us wherever it needs to go, wherever we need to go. Sometimes we’re in other lands, sometimes we’re in other times. We get to see things most people only dream about. Also, if you want, so can you. But only bring those things you need, those things you can’t live or die without. And we could use another hand, a conductor. Our last one decided to get off in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Met a pretty little Mexican lady there and decided to settle down with her. If you want the job, it’s yours."
And the little man turned away and walked to the caboose, looking at the connections between the cars, tapping the wheels here and there. I walked back to the house, shaking, not knowing what to do, but I kept thinking about Philip. I kept thinking about the house being so empty, so quiet, and so cold, even when the furnace was at full blast and when the summers were at their hottest. I thought about how my life had only been given meaning by my small family and by my small job as a glorified secretary. Like I said, I wanted to do something, but didn’t know what to do or where to start. What does one do or how does one start over at my age?
So I made the oddest decision in my life up to that point. I locked every door and window. I turned off and unplugged every appliance. I closed every curtain, pulled my old car in the garage and locked it up. And I grabbed your father's old leather suitcase, and in it I placed a small bag filled with family photos, my father’s old gold pocket watch, my mother’s cameo locket, my Bible, my journal, my fountain pens, and my purse. I bundled against the winter and stepped outside, locking the back door behind me, and carried the suitcase to the train where Mike stood with a smile on his face. "I’ve never worked as a conductor," I said, and he just said, "It’s easy, you’ll like it. Stick around long enough, you’ll be helping me drive the train." Then the tall man—Ray—reached over, grabbed my suitcase, and walked it to the caboose.
"He’ll put your suitcase on your bunk," Mike said. "It’s Ray’s turn to get some shuteye, anyway. Come on up to the front with me." I followed him to the shiny black locomotive that rumbled so deeply I could feel it in my chest, and he helped me up into the cab, where I sat surrounded by dials and gauges. He shut the door and said, "One thing I need to tell you: We don’t know when we’ll be back. We don’t know what time we’ll be back, where we might wind up next week or next year. And if you do come back, you may feel as though you’ve been gone a year but may have been gone two. Or three. And when you decide to step off, we can’t ever come back for you again. So, are you sure you’re ready for this?"
I turned to him and said, "I’ve never been sure I’ve been ready for anything." Mike nodded and smiled. He pressed himself into his seat, began twisting knobs, pulling levers, and checking the dials. There was a snap of brake lines disengaging, Mike slowly pushed on the throttle, and the train inched forward. I watched my house, the house in which I married and raised a family, roll past the windows. I watched the back porch on which your father and I used to watch sunsets recede from view, and soon it was gone as the locomotive rumbled past the trees next to the house.
I looked out over the culm field where you used to play and the hill where your father was buried. I saw old coal mining equipment half-hidden by clumps of weeds. I saw that abandoned red semi-trailer sitting alone in that clearing of birches and pines, and when the end of the railroad tracks came into view, I pointed out the front window, and Mike just smiled and pushed hard on the throttle, and the locomotive surged, pushing me back into my seat. We came to the end of the rails and, instead of plummeting down the embankment, we passed over it, as new rails instantly appeared before us, appearing out of thin air, as if the universe laid the path ahead for us, rail by rail. The trees shimmered like silver, and their leaves changed from summer green to autumn orange and back again.
The train was moving so fast it seemed we’d fly off the rails, but it held firm and rumbled deep and loud. We passed through hillsides and over rivers, rails and bridges appearing and disappearing like ghosts. We passed through towns that were familiar, but not familiar at the same time, seeing buildings that may have existed once and buildings that may soon exist. And even though it was supposed to be daytime, the sky was filled with stars, and we were soon rolling down an incline, past an old lemon tree orchard with a bright red cottage, and then into a dark forest that closed up around us before opening up into a bright, endless field of golden wheat, and Mike looked down at his map and said, "Kansas again."
And we just rolled along.
It has only been one year for me. I’ve seen minarets in Turkey and glaciers in the Andes. I’ve walked on Siberian steppes and through Parisian alleys. I’ve listened to operas in Italy and shamals in Iraq. And I’ve helped so many onto the train. So many people with sadness far deeper than mine could have ever been, so many people looking for escape somewhere and anywhere. So many.
Someday I know I will step off the train for good, maybe back in Pennsylvania, maybe in the dusty streets of West Texas. When I do, it will be my time to do so, and when I do, I will miss Mike and Ray and all of the friends who ride the train day and night. I get so sad when I think about that day, so I’ll put that out of my mind for now. There are just too many things to see and do, so many lives yet to live.
I hope all of you and your husband have a wonderful Christmas. I hope you know how much I love you and how much I look forward to seeing you again. I hope you are not worrying about me and that you know I’m safe and quite happy. I hope when you hear the bell or horn of a locomotive that you will blow a kiss my way, and I hope that you know that even in the deepest sadness, the darkest moments of loneliness and fear, you will see that there is beauty, there is happiness and there is friendship that, if you look hard enough, will make its appearance, if even for the briefest of moments.
All my love,
Mom
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vincent C. Martinez was born in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and obtained his MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Texas at El Paso. He currently lives in the southwestern United States.
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