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 that come out every 13 years 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 years old, 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. That little apartment housed four, sometimes five, sometimes living 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 the 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 remembered that spring when I visited, but it was already warm, and since the trash bags were still there, I gathered them up to burn the leaves in the fire, watching it with the hose in my hand, realizing my grandparents were getting too old.
When it was time to leave, my great-grandmother swore me to make sandwiches and wrapped 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 man returning to New York City. He had spent the weekend with his mother on a boat on Lake Champlain. He said it was a beautiful little boat. He rolled up his sleeves to show off his tan. But since the boat was small, the accommodations were close. This is how he heard his cousin talking about her boyfriend, and that night, he went up to the V-Berth to sleep and found a note on his pillow. He took the note out of 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, New York State folded beneath us, and I started to cry when I heard the nearby mountains.
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 of was how embarrassed I was to offer this person water as if we were not on a train but walking through the Sahara.
Nevertheless, he politely took it and brought it to his lips, saying, “Wow, nice!”
Delighted by his enthusiasm, I leaned back in the moment when I realized it was vodka as 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 the 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 a long staircase 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, "In August, I am so proud of you, always come, and always stay." Of course, he’s a teenager and will roll his eyes when I give it to him. But he doesn’t know that I wrote it not just for him but for me and Jacob. The crocheted doll, vodka, avant-garde theater, and the night sky.