Date: Tue, 8 Oct 1996 11:44:42 MDT From: Robyn Meta Herrington Subject: SUB:CONTEST: The All-Night Train Ride Home Something nice 'n' juicy and not too big -- calories won't be too much from this one.... Remember: Critiques to ME: rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca and I'll pass them along to the author. ------------------------------------------Robyn The All-Night Train Ride Home (approx. 900 Words) Rushing, I managed to slide through the compartment door just as the train set out from the station. This time of night, morning, actually, I'd have faced a lengthy wait in the deserted station before the arrival of the next train home. Railway stations in these dead hours are haunted, peopled by travelers long forgotten and left behind. The railway car was almost empty at this house and being bereft of any human sounds was oddly unsettling. In the far reaches an overhead light had been put out, offering a private intimacy for a young couple folded into each other, napping in their tight cocoon, the song of the rails a lullaby, the gentle sway of the rails rocking them in their sleep. Sitting, I turned to the window, observing as the night rolls by on display. It has been a long, long day and this halting has allowed weariness to rope and pull me in. An old woman entered the car. I caught her reflection in passing, shining back at me from the window, framed against the black night beyond. She glanced at me, continuing up the aisle. I did not see where she is seated. I sensed her eyes on me. She was curious, for some reason. I glanced down at my clothes, my books; was anything in disarray, out of place, drawing her attention? I saw she'd placed herself in the bench seat in front, facing the back, facing me. Possibly her gaze fell on me naturally, in her line of vision and is not meant to be interpreted as searching. I looked away, though I remained uncomfortable. No, she watched me, still. Was there something wrong with her, causing her to study me so in- tently? I didn't know this woman, I was nothing to her, did she mis- takenly believe me to be someone she knew, someone I'm not? I picked up a book. By ignoring her I would display no interest; entertain no threat. She would be forced to look away. Concentration was impossible. Having read the same sentence over and over I let the book drop. She stared straight at me, making no attempt to disguise her scrutiny. She did not smile, she did not acknowledge me, she revealed no emotion whatsoever. Her attention ignited my skin, the bright red flame spreading upward from my neck to cover my face. The heat of my humiliation branded me with guilt, so naked it was in response to this stranger. I summoned my memory, searched my autobiography for this old wo- man. Seeking her face, name, any sign or reference I have wrapped tightly in my mind for safekeeping, prepared for the day I would call on the memory for further use. I leafed through cerebral files of women, family members, friends' mothers, off-hand acquaintances now year re- moved from me. I could not locate her. The faces of many have faded, the mental paper yellowed and brittle with age. At times the names are only partially discernible. But she is not among these women. I do not know her, she can not know me. Still, she stared. The flame of embarrassment that had burned my skin melted as fear through my breast. She was an old woman, how could she harm me? Yet her searching, intense and total, unnerved me, laid me open to her, at her mercy. I struggled to regain my control, to close down this alarm screaming of danger, invasion. I turned to stare at her, to make an attempt at retaliation. She is old, withered, her clothes and face are tired. Under my scrutiny she did not appear evil or vindictive. Yet she stares directly at me. She never flinched or glanced away. I can not maintain my stare, I felt as a peep- ing tom, observing a life from outside, in a place I did not belong. I can not bring myself to utter a word to her, I will not allow her the sat- isfaction of stealing my voice. The tears are screaming from behind my eyes, demanding release; the pressure too much to withhold them much longer. I did not want to break down in her presence; did not want to offer myself up to her, at her mercy, here but for the taking. As the train approached the first station I found myself desperate for an escape. I could hear the couple behind me, their rustling sounds, grabb- ing cloth, books, metal of some kind. I turned back towards them quickly, prepared to bolt for the door, out into the blackness. I did not know this stop, did not know where I would be, how to go from there. The confusion had become all invasive, I was a victim, helpless, useless in its wake. Shocked, I had turned to find her in front of me, stooped over, exhaling garlic, wine, sourness in my face. "I know who you are, you know. Don't forget." She was shaking a gnarled, arthritic hand at me. Her voice was musky, bearing the imprint of a Mediterranean clime. She backed away and slowly shuffled down the aisle. She disappeared from the train. I did not look back to see if she remained outside on the platform, star- ing after me as I was carried off' finally safe, making my escape into the night. "I know who you are," she warned. I believe she does. ================================================================== -------+++++++-------+++++++ +++++++-------+++++++------- Robyn Herrington Operations Manager, Microforms Services University of Calgary, MacKimmie Library Ph: (403)220-6903 http://www.ucalgary.ca/~rmherrin rmherrin@acs.ucalgary.ca -------+++++++-------+++++++--------------+++++++-------+++++++-------