Genre: Historical Fiction
Location: A railroad station
Object: A bag of rice
Tick
Tock
Swish, swish, swish went
the attendant’s broom, slowly sweeping up bits of trash and dust in front of Adam’s
polished black boots. He had never before
cared about the appearance and upkeep of his shoes. Before the war. Before Germany. Before Hitler made a mess of the world. He had fifty-seven minutes until his train
departed.
It
was difficult to get comfortable on the hard bench, not designed to hold a
sitter longer than the time between trains.
He took several deep breaths and when he closed his eyes, all he could
see was her, in a white dress with flowers in her sunset hair. The guests all standing around, smiling, laughing,
a few with tears slowly streaming down their happy faces. He had sat in the back. He needed to see it with his own dry eyes.
He
looked down again and looked at the ticket clutched in his hand. Forty nine minutes. It had become wrinkled and sweaty with nerves
from leaving his home for the first time.
The train would take him to a boat and then to another country. He was going to fight a war. He was leaving his family. He was leaving her.
He
shook his head and tried to shift his thinking from her being his and something he was leaving to just
another person that he once knew before the world fell apart. He looked up at the clock above the ticker
reading off the arrivals and destinations.
Forty minutes.
Beside
him sat a bundle of rice. It was tied
with a yellow ribbon. When the short
white-haired lady handed it to him at the entrance to the church, he thought
how heavy such a small thing could be.
It felt like it was full of rocks, not rice, and if it had been he might
have stayed to throw them. But it
wasn’t. And he didn’t. He had heard the words and the promises and
the vows and then he couldn’t take it anymore.
He had stood up, crouched and shuffled with quiet apologies to make for
the exit. He didn’t want to see the
kiss. He didn’t want to see the
rings. He didn’t want to hear the
applause for the life he was supposed to be living. Besides, he had a train to catch and a war to
fight. It was clear this one was
already over.
Someone
had a left yesterday’s copy of the Daily Missourian on the seat next to
him. He picked it up. Thirty-three minutes. Over
two million men called to serve. But
not him, not her husband. He bore some
condition, something about being legally blind.
He shifted in his seat again, a woman and her screaming infant sat down
behind him. He wondered if she would
notice if he switched seats. Thirty-two
minutes.
He
got up, and started pacing back and forth slowly in front of the wooden bench. Again he looked up to the clock and then down
at his wristwatch. It took him twelve
seconds to walk slowly from one end of the bench to another. He did it twenty times. His shoes were new and made a hollow click-clunk, click-clunk reminding him of the heels his mother wore on Sundays,
cooking dinner and washing dishes and setting the table and making sure his
father’s glass never emptied. He
couldn’t yell if he was drinking. Twenty-eight
minutes. He wouldn’t want any of it to
spill.
The
baby’s wails started getting louder, echoing off the high ceilings and marble
floor. He looked over at the mother,
bouncing the red-faced child feverishly on her lap. He thought about Evelyn’s children. Twenty-two minutes. He wondered if they would look like her, if
they would have her same auburn hair, her large eyes, her temper. He wondered if they would be born slightly
blind too, if their father would shelter them from anything hard and ugly in
the world.
Fourteen
minutes. He sat back down, smoothed his creased
pants, picking a bit of lint from his knee.
Seventeen minutes. He decided he
would become a war hero. He would go to
war, and if he must, he would die trying to protect her and her future children
and her blind husband. He would be
honorable.
The
baby continued to cry, louder and louder, its face now turning splotchy and purple.
It wasn’t inhaling enough air to compensate for its sobbing. He stared straight
ahead thinking it would be better to hear screeching planes and wailing sirens
and guns and bombs than her explanations and promises to remain friends. Maybe he would hear screaming women and
children. Nine minutes.
He
heard the low train whistle and everyone around him shuffled towards the platform. Five minutes.
He got up too, pulling his sack filled with standard clothes and socks
and bars of soap and a picture of his mother and a rosary she made him promise
to pray. He checked his ticket
again. He would be on a beach in France
in less than twenty-four hours. Three
minutes. And as he turned to leave, he
saw the bag of rice sitting there. He
picked it up, untied it and poured it slowly out as he walked to the train. The five or six pigeons that had been innocuously
milling about the popcorn stand suddenly swarmed the trail following his heavy
feet. One minute.
He
boarded the train, took his seat and stared out the window at the birds pecking
and clawing and consuming every last grain.
The train began to move. Adam
would land on the beach the next day, wade in the water, and take only one step
on the sand, and at about the same time that a bullet hits him in the stomach,
his intestines spilling out into the water, the pigeons’ stomachs would be
bursting within them, their cooing turning to squawking and then finally going silent
as their bloated bodies fell to edge of the tracks.
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