I headed south towards Lynchburg when I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the train window. As the train slowed enough for the wheels to bounce off the tracks, you can hear the screams of the cicadas every 13 years coming out of the dense green brush of June, and think about time.
I once took a train from Montpelier to New York City. I was 18 years old, living in a small three-room apartment with roommates, with a glittering child's shadow crumbling on the edge of the sink, and high heels scattered by the door. In that small apartment, there were four, sometimes five, of us living on top of each other, putting soy sauce in eggs, doing strange things, paying rent in cash, finding change in the back pocket, and wandering the streets.
I traveled to my grandparents' house on weekends. I slept in the attic, hung under the eaves, filtered sunlight through lacy curtains, and hung a yellow yarn doll on the bed. In the fall, Pop would scrape all the leaves off the maple tree, put them in a large black trash bag, and stand in line at the foundation of the house, coiling it like a shiny black snake. I remembered that spring when I visited, but it was already warm, yet the trash bags were still there, so I gathered them and burned the leaves in the fire, watching over it with a hose in hand, realizing my grandparents were getting too old.
At the time of departure, my great-grandmother swore as she made sandwiches and wrapped pickles in waxed paper. She wanted me to take a crocheted doll with me, but said she wanted me to stay in bed next time I visited, and she liked that answer very much. "Well, at least take something to drink," she said. "It's a long journey."
I saw her return from the porch to the kitchen, and saw the screen door banging behind her. She picked up a Mason jar from the sink, screwed the lid on tight, and put it in my bag.
A few hours later on the train, I sat next to a man heading back to New York City. He had spent the weekend with his mother, who had a boat on Chautauqua Lake. He said it was a beautiful little boat. He rolled up his sleeves to show his tan. But the boat was small, so the accommodations got close. That's when he heard her talking about her cousin's boyfriend, and that night, he went up to the V-Berth to sleep and found a note on the pillow. He pulled out the note from the duffel bag and showed it to me.
Jacob, I thought you stopped being gay. It's a shame for 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 we were on the train, darkness falling around us, New York folding beneath us, crying as we passed the mountains nearby.
I reached into my pack and pulled out a Mason jar. My great-grandmother packed it for me. I often found unbearable silence in silence, so I told someone who needed to do something heavy, and I said the name Jacob that I knew. Some?"
He smiled and said definitely. I handed it to him, and all I could think of was offering water to this person as if we were walking the Sahara, not on a train, not in New York.
Nevertheless, he graciously took it and brought back a bee, saying, "Wow, nice!"
Delighted by his enthusiasm, I wet my lips with the jar and realized the moment when I tasted myself, vodka. 16 ounces filled the cup right.
When the small town came and went outside the train window, Jacob and I giggled at the vodka. He told stories about all the artist friends in the city, vividly telling stories about the colorful and interesting life. He talked about art shows and avant-garde performances.
Whether Grammy was packing a Mason jar of Mason jar liquor or thought it was water like I did, Jacob and I arrived at Union Station. He flagged a taxi for us, and we went to a small theater in the west, climbing long stairs to meet his boyfriend, and the three of us saw the best show I could ever tell. It was born with three tentacles married to a clock, but all in French, so I'm not sure.
t onight I arrived in Lynchburg in the cool and drove my truck all night, passing through Spout Spring and Appomattox to pick up the son I stayed with my parents. That night, West Side was a broad transition of two cicadas. And I wonder where Jacob is and if he's still in love. I wonder about his mother and if she felt lonely on the stupid boat after sending her son.
I wrote a note to my son trapped in my pocket. "In August, I am so proud of you, always coming, always staying." Of course, he's a teenager and will roll his eyes when I give it to him. But he doesn't know that he wrote it not only for him but also for me and Jacob. Crocheted dolls, vodka, avant-garde theater, and the night sky.