I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the train window as I headed south toward Lynchburg. When the train slows down enough for the wheels to bounce off the tracks, I can hear the screams of cicadas from the dense green brush of June and think about time.
I once took a train from Montpelier to New York City. I was 18, living in a small three-room apartment stacked with my roommate, where shimmering eye shadow crumbled on the edge of the sink and high heels were scattered by the door. In that little apartment, four or sometimes five of us lived on top of each other, putting soy sauce on eggs, doing strange things, paying rent in cash, earning dollars from back pockets, and looking for change on the street.
I traveled to my grandparents' house on weekends. I slept in the attic, tucked under the eaves, with lace curtains filtering the sunlight and a yellow crocheted doll hanging on the bed. In the fall, Pop would scrape all the leaves from the maple tree and put them in big black trash bags, lining them up against the foundation of the house, coiling around like a big shiny black snake. I remember that spring when I visited, it was already warm, but the trash bags were still there, so I gathered them up and burned the leaves in the fire, watching it with the hose in hand, realizing my grandparents were getting too old.
When it was time to leave, my great-grandmother swore me to make sandwiches and wrap pickles in wax paper. She wanted me to take the crocheted doll, but she said she wanted me to stay in bed the next time I visited, and she liked that answer very much. "Well, at least take something to drink," she said. "It's a long trip."
I saw her go back from the porch to the kitchen, and I saw the screen door slam behind her. She picked up a mason jar from the sink, tightened the lid, and put it in my bag.
A few hours later on the train, I sat next to a guy returning to New York City. He had spent the weekend with his mother boating on Lake Champlain. He said it was a beautiful little boat. He rolled up his sleeves to show off his tan. But the boat was small, so the accommodations were close. This is how she heard him talking about his boyfriend to his cousin, and that night, he went up to the V-Berth to sleep and found a note on his pillow. He pulled the note from his duffel bag and showed it to me.
Jacob, I thought you stopped being gay. It’s a disgrace to us. You can catch the first train in the morning. - Mom
“Goddamn, I’m sorry.” I didn’t know what to do. He was twice my age, and now as we took the train, darkness fell around us, and New York State folded beneath us, I started to cry.
I reached into my pack and pulled out the mason jar. My great-grandmother had packed it for me. I often found the silence unbearable, so someone had to do something heavy, and I said the name Jacob to someone I knew. Some?
He smiled and said definitely. I handed it to him, and all I could think was how embarrassed I was to be offering this guy water as if we were not on a train, not in New York, but walking through the Sahara.
Still, he politely took it and brought it to his lips, saying, “Wow, nice!”
Delighted by his enthusiasm, I leaned back as I realized it was vodka when I tasted it on my lips. The 16 ounces filled the cap right up.
When the little town came and went outside the train window, Jacob and I giggled over the vodka. He told stories about all his artist friends in the city, vibrant, colorful, and fun lives. He talked about art shows and avant-garde performances.
I couldn’t tell if Grammy was trying to pack the mason jar of liquor or if she thought it was water like I did, but Jacob and I arrived at Union Station. He flagged a taxi for us, and we went to a little theater in the west, where we climbed the long stairs to meet his boyfriend, and the three of us saw what I can only describe as the best show. It was born with three tentacles married to a clock, but it was all in French, so I’m not sure.
Tonight I arrived in Lynchburg, driving my truck through the night, past Spout Spring and Appomattox, to pick up the son I stayed with my parents. That night, the West Side had two cicada broods. And I wonder where Jacob is and if he’s still in love. I wonder about his mother and if she felt lonely after sending her son away, like a foolish boat.
I wrote a note to my son trapped in my pocket. It says, "August, I’m so proud of you, always come, always stay." Of course, he’s a teenager and will roll his eyes when I give it to him. But he doesn’t know I wrote it not just for him but for me and Jacob too. The crocheted doll, vodka, avant-garde theater, and the night sky.