just enough light

(This is part I of “A short story in 5 parts.” I hope you enjoy it.

Unless you were seated on the left side of the northbound coach, looking out the window at just the right moment, you’d miss him. He’s just a silhouette against the snow, a bulky figure, here and gone in a blink as the train streaks by. He comes and goes from view so quickly, even those who catch a glimpse of him wonder if they actually saw someone or just imagined it.

This evening, as he does every evening, Henry Junior stands motionless, just a few paces from the tracks, his gloved hands pushed deep into his Carhartt jacket, his fleece-lined collar up to his ears. This December evening he stands in ankle-deep snow.

Henry Junior inhales deeply as the train approaches, then exhales as the engine roars by, as if the draft is sucking the breath out of him. As the train rockets by, he takes it all in and lets it go with each breath. The smells, diesel and exhaust fumes are quickly replaced by the metallic smell of steel wheels on steel rails and axle grease. The sounds, he stands at a spot where one rail butts into another, and the deafening roar of the engine is soon replaced by the wheels hammering a rhythmic Clat-clat—clat-clat. His eyes are open, but he does not watch the train. He learned long ago not to try to follow the cars with his eyes. Standing 20 feet from the track, it is impossible to see individual cars as they pass. Instead, he holds his eyes steady, relaxes his focus, and peers straight ahead. He empties his mind and opens his senses. The train becomes a dirty silver ribbon, a visceral experience of blur, roar, clatter, wind, and flashes of light.

In the dead of winter, like tonight, Henry Junior stands in darkness.  When he stood on this same spot in the summer, the sun was in his eyes with two hours of daylight remaining. That’s the way it is in the Midwest. If the train is on time, he is out there no longer than 10 minutes, long enough to settle in place and stand at ease for a few quiet minutes. When he hears the train blow its horn at the Highway 49 crossing a half-mile to the south, he turns his head to watch its approach. Once he has experienced its passage, he turns his head to the left and watches its red lights fade into the distance, carrying the sound of the horn as it blasts through the next crossing.

He knows just how much behind schedule the train is running by how long he stands in his spot. If the train is on schedule, it’s clocking about 50 miles per hour past the Bowman stretch. If it’s late, it might be hitting 75. Some evenings, when it’s running late, he may stand for more than an hour. He is not impatient. He knows things interrupt the schedule. On some of those nights of peaceful vigilance, he has amused himself by wondering how long he would stand there if the schedule changed or the route was discontinued. What if the train never came?  Would he just die standing there in his work boots, his feet frozen to the ground?  Would he fall over or just remain erect until someone came long and leaned him over, stiff as a board onto a gurney? The thought brings a chuckle only he hears.

Part II of Henry Junior tomorrow.