If my father could have figured a way to express his disdain in one word he would have. But two were enough. I looked into the little window of my watch, the red 19 rounding the box - Dec. 19th. It would have taken me five days to make it home. Now, though, where would I go?
Suddenly I was no longer hungry. The woman and her daughter were gone from the window. Snow was accumulating on the limbs of trees, telephone wires, window ledges, none of it sticking to the ground. The ground was now nothing more than a great spill, slick and obscure, for which someone, I was sure, would be punished.
An old wreath lay in a trash receptacle, squashed and dry. I reached in and pulled out a gummy stem. I creased my father’s long waxy sheet in several folds, pleated the ends and fleshed it into an upright bag, a luminary. I lit the stem and set it on the curb. At the end of the block I looked back, and it shone there, brightly, the letters of the grease pencil showing through, wavering with the flame.
I was standing in the aisle of the bus. An elderly woman took her hand from my arm; I didn’t realize it had been on me. She smiled and I looked into her holiday broach, sparkling red and green. She said, “Here’s your seat.” I sat, and could not remember having gotten out of it. Had she just guided me? “Thank you,” I said, bewildered.
At the Union Pacific Depot, I pulled the cash from my sock and bought a ticket to Chicago. I was not keen on being anywhere for Christmas but my own home. Stretched out in front of the big register. But that was no longer an option. Maybe I’d give Krebs a call; he liked to go up into the Adirondacks for the holidays. Maybe I’d just get a cabin by myself in the back country. I could rent skis. White fields and blue sky: that’s all I’d need.
The lobby of the train station was a bumper pool castle; people edged along, holding packages aloft, outpardoning one another. I was glad that I’d put the extra cash in my socks. I squeezed my way to a bank of seats. A girl rose from one of them, and I darted toward it. I settled in and unbuttoned my coat. An instant later the girl was back again, smiling tentatively. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you’d left,” I said.
“Oh, that’s OK. I did. I mean, my train’s leaving. I just forgot.” She blushed. And then kneeled to retrieve a small bag under the seat. “Oh,” I said, and rose. She spurted out a thank you and then took my hand. She tossed my duffel bag onto the empty seat and dragged me some distance. All I could do was button my coat.
“My family’s waiting in Portland. It’s Christmas! I’m having a heart attack leaving him.”
“I don’t follow.”
“See, we rode together all the way from Tucson. He’s the nicest man. Old, but nice.” And she turned me by the shoulders so I could see who she was referring to: he, this broad-shouldered, white-haired man, had his arm around my duffel bag, protectively. “You notice he doesn’t have any luggage? He told me,” and she hesitated, “he said he just wanted a white Christmas. That’s all he was thinking: ’Go north, young man.’ He got as far as Oakland. I gave him $20. He gave it back. I slipped it into his coat. Will you be sure it stays there?”
“As long as—”
“I don’t know where you’re going, but you’re a soldier, and he needs, you know. He’s got no family. Snow’s such a simple need.”
“It’s snowing now.”
“Real snow! Oh, my train! Promise me.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I know,” she said and spun away. She turned back. “Oh, and he’s deaf.”
“Huh?”
“Deaf. And, uh, moot.”
“Moot?”
“Can#,t, ya know, speak.”
“You mean-”
“But he reads lips. I swear, just watch what you say under your breath!”
“OK, I’ll—”
“Here,” and she tossed me a thick notebook. I looked at it: Organic Chemistry.
“I doubt I’ll be—”
She took it from my hands, opened it from the back and ran two fingers down the page, “He writes real neat!” On the first sheet, printed in tidy block letters like those on blueprints, was: YOU’RE VERY KIND. GLAD TO MEET YOU, ALSO. And under that: WILFRED FIST-WITHER.
“Wilfred?”
“Yeah, he’s 75 and British.” She patted the notebook. “This is everything we talked about, Tucson to Oakland. It’s yours!”
“But,” and I looked at the ledger, which was filled, front to back, with notes. Jammed with writing. On one side of each page were her notes and on the other, the fine printing of Wilfred Fist-Wither. “But your class!”
“Semester’s over, and I aced the final!” She hopped away, waving goodbye to her confederate as if madly washing a small window with her mittens. Mr. Wilfred Fist-Wither waved back, his smile throwing a narrow beacon that seemed to go out in front of her; she followed it and disappeared out a dark exit. The beacon returned, as if on a spool, and when I looked down to my feet, there it was, quietly humming. And so I traced it up to its source and we smiled at each other, comfortably, his eyes blue and clear and welcoming. And snow-hungry.
He looked both younger and older than our friend had said, his hair an unblemished white but very thick. His build was enviable, but he had a tremble throughout his right arm. I looked around for a shaving kit, for it seemed as if he’d just finished a shave. I smelled bee balm. The skin on his neck was weathered but taut, and his hands showed a life of labor. His eyes moved deliberately, as if every movement in the great lobby was a satisfaction. And although I didn’t see one, I was sure he smoked a pipe.
He’d already noticed, and so I held the notebook openly on my lap, trying to look cool. He raised a genial brow, as if to say “I’m at a disadvantage.” And so I introduced myself.
I told him I was heading to Chicago. Then who knows. He listened. I spoke for a long time about coming home, not realizing at first how much I needed to. His dabbed his eye. I ducked my hands into my pockets, as I do when I get uncomfortable. Then I pulled out a little ball of paper and laughed aloud. “Once the world’s smallest pamphlet, now a wrinkled mess.” He leaned with interest. “An old woman I was very fond of made this a gift my last week in country. Tiny little thing that I couldn’t even read. In English, but the writing so small, elvish.” I showed him the little wad; it was shriveled, blanched and compressed in immeasurable folds, little more than a mass of cotton fiber. “I left it in my fatigues.” Which then went through the wash!“ He laughed.
I rolled it up sad-faced and aimed for a trash bin. Wilfred reached for my hand. “Let’s have a look,” was his expression. He turned it in his hand, inspecting how the wrinkles were layered, how the folds adhered to themselves. And crease by crease he began to separate the inscrutable folds. Peeling them back, pausing, contemplating, peeling. After five minutes I said, “Really, it’s a bother.” He just smiled and patiently went about the next set of layers, separating them with infinite attention, careful not to tear the paper or spoil the faint ink. Another 10 minutes and I said, “Really, you’ve worked too?” He just smiled at me, beneficently, and kept on working, slowly, as if an old woman knitting, delighted by the task. After 15 minutes he looked up, and I saw behind the weariness of his eyes another message: “I try never to throw anything away.” A half an hour later he smoothed out the brittle paper. There it was, the ink laced and pale, but legible. At least for anyone with a magnifying glass. He nodded to himself as he read the lines.
“You can read that?” He smiled. And then pulled from his jacket a pair of reading glasses. I brought them close to my nose.
“I do not pretend to give such a Sum; I only lend it to you. When you meet with another honest Man in similar Distress, you must pay me by lending this Sum to him; enjoining him to discharge the Debt by a like operation, when he shall be able...” — Benjamin Franklin
Suddenly, a thunderous bang came from the platform. Everything went again into that slow motion tick. From my place on the floor, I replayed all that I’d just seen: first, the rattle of the plate windows, children squawking, eyes drawn toward the platform, eyes turning away from the platform, a few hands to chest, looks of relief. That was on one periphery. On the other, I saw Wilfred Fist-Wither swing his head in a half-pivot, just as I had done. Then bring down his shoulders, leading with the right, just as I had done. Then pounce onto the floor, just as I had done. And there we were, on our knees, slowly bringing ourselves upright, eye to eye, like two men in the same on-deck circle. The boom had been an air-brake and the hard coupling of two cars. If anyone had been watching, we must have resembled a pair of synchronized swimmers.
Wilfred read my face: “I thought you were deaf?” He brought his palm twice to his chest, and I understood. He had felt the concussion, just as I had.
He stood and motioned that he needed a walk, and I signaled as if to say, “I’ll hold your seat.” He winked.
I started reading.
There was barely a single empty page in that ledger. I soon had a dilemma: where to find a pencil and where to find room in the book to put the answers I sought. Wilfred had spent the first World War in the trenches. He was in Belgium during the famous Christmas Eve truce of 1914, when the Germans and Brits crossed lines to exchange gifts and sing carols to one another. Yet there was so much more! Before he returned I raced to buy another ticket for Chicago. For a moment I wondered if he’d even return; then I became afraid that he might have just walked off. He had no bags to return to, nothing for me to guard.
But he did return. And when he did, we sat quietly. Over the loudspeaker came the boarding notice for my train. I stood, he stood, and I could see my departure in his eyes. Then I bent over.
“Oh, here, you dropped this...” I handed him the ticket. “Hey! Looks like we’re on the same train.” I moved rapidly: showed him my ticket, put it next to his in comparison, then wedged it between his fingers. “If we don’t snap to, we may be hoofing it!” And I started to gallop. He followed, open-mouthed, reaching for me with an outstretched hand, my ticket at the tip of that hand, not like a spear, but the prong of adventure.
On the train, as the departure whistle blew, he slid the notebook from my pack and took a short pencil from his pocket.
Next Chapter: The Snowsheds of the High Sierras
Click here to read the entire series
An old wreath lay in a trash receptacle, squashed and dry. I reached in and pulled out a gummy stem. I creased my father’s long waxy sheet in several folds, pleated the ends and fleshed it into an upright bag, a luminary. I lit the stem and set it on the curb. At the end of the block I looked back, and it shone there, brightly, the letters of the grease pencil showing through, wavering with the flame.
I was standing in the aisle of the bus. An elderly woman took her hand from my arm; I didn’t realize it had been on me. She smiled and I looked into her holiday broach, sparkling red and green. She said, “Here’s your seat.” I sat, and could not remember having gotten out of it. Had she just guided me? “Thank you,” I said, bewildered.
At the Union Pacific Depot, I pulled the cash from my sock and bought a ticket to Chicago. I was not keen on being anywhere for Christmas but my own home. Stretched out in front of the big register. But that was no longer an option. Maybe I’d give Krebs a call; he liked to go up into the Adirondacks for the holidays. Maybe I’d just get a cabin by myself in the back country. I could rent skis. White fields and blue sky: that’s all I’d need.
The lobby of the train station was a bumper pool castle; people edged along, holding packages aloft, outpardoning one another. I was glad that I’d put the extra cash in my socks. I squeezed my way to a bank of seats. A girl rose from one of them, and I darted toward it. I settled in and unbuttoned my coat. An instant later the girl was back again, smiling tentatively. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you’d left,” I said.
“Oh, that’s OK. I did. I mean, my train’s leaving. I just forgot.” She blushed. And then kneeled to retrieve a small bag under the seat. “Oh,” I said, and rose. She spurted out a thank you and then took my hand. She tossed my duffel bag onto the empty seat and dragged me some distance. All I could do was button my coat.
“My family’s waiting in Portland. It’s Christmas! I’m having a heart attack leaving him.”
“I don’t follow.”
“See, we rode together all the way from Tucson. He’s the nicest man. Old, but nice.” And she turned me by the shoulders so I could see who she was referring to: he, this broad-shouldered, white-haired man, had his arm around my duffel bag, protectively. “You notice he doesn’t have any luggage? He told me,” and she hesitated, “he said he just wanted a white Christmas. That’s all he was thinking: ’Go north, young man.’ He got as far as Oakland. I gave him $20. He gave it back. I slipped it into his coat. Will you be sure it stays there?”
“As long as—”
“I don’t know where you’re going, but you’re a soldier, and he needs, you know. He’s got no family. Snow’s such a simple need.”
“It’s snowing now.”
“Real snow! Oh, my train! Promise me.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I know,” she said and spun away. She turned back. “Oh, and he’s deaf.”
“Huh?”
“Deaf. And, uh, moot.”
“Moot?”
“Can#,t, ya know, speak.”
“You mean-”
“But he reads lips. I swear, just watch what you say under your breath!”
“OK, I’ll—”
“Here,” and she tossed me a thick notebook. I looked at it: Organic Chemistry.
“I doubt I’ll be—”
She took it from my hands, opened it from the back and ran two fingers down the page, “He writes real neat!” On the first sheet, printed in tidy block letters like those on blueprints, was: YOU’RE VERY KIND. GLAD TO MEET YOU, ALSO. And under that: WILFRED FIST-WITHER.
“Wilfred?”
“Yeah, he’s 75 and British.” She patted the notebook. “This is everything we talked about, Tucson to Oakland. It’s yours!”
“But,” and I looked at the ledger, which was filled, front to back, with notes. Jammed with writing. On one side of each page were her notes and on the other, the fine printing of Wilfred Fist-Wither. “But your class!”
“Semester’s over, and I aced the final!” She hopped away, waving goodbye to her confederate as if madly washing a small window with her mittens. Mr. Wilfred Fist-Wither waved back, his smile throwing a narrow beacon that seemed to go out in front of her; she followed it and disappeared out a dark exit. The beacon returned, as if on a spool, and when I looked down to my feet, there it was, quietly humming. And so I traced it up to its source and we smiled at each other, comfortably, his eyes blue and clear and welcoming. And snow-hungry.
He looked both younger and older than our friend had said, his hair an unblemished white but very thick. His build was enviable, but he had a tremble throughout his right arm. I looked around for a shaving kit, for it seemed as if he’d just finished a shave. I smelled bee balm. The skin on his neck was weathered but taut, and his hands showed a life of labor. His eyes moved deliberately, as if every movement in the great lobby was a satisfaction. And although I didn’t see one, I was sure he smoked a pipe.
He’d already noticed, and so I held the notebook openly on my lap, trying to look cool. He raised a genial brow, as if to say “I’m at a disadvantage.” And so I introduced myself.
I told him I was heading to Chicago. Then who knows. He listened. I spoke for a long time about coming home, not realizing at first how much I needed to. His dabbed his eye. I ducked my hands into my pockets, as I do when I get uncomfortable. Then I pulled out a little ball of paper and laughed aloud. “Once the world’s smallest pamphlet, now a wrinkled mess.” He leaned with interest. “An old woman I was very fond of made this a gift my last week in country. Tiny little thing that I couldn’t even read. In English, but the writing so small, elvish.” I showed him the little wad; it was shriveled, blanched and compressed in immeasurable folds, little more than a mass of cotton fiber. “I left it in my fatigues.” Which then went through the wash!“ He laughed.
I rolled it up sad-faced and aimed for a trash bin. Wilfred reached for my hand. “Let’s have a look,” was his expression. He turned it in his hand, inspecting how the wrinkles were layered, how the folds adhered to themselves. And crease by crease he began to separate the inscrutable folds. Peeling them back, pausing, contemplating, peeling. After five minutes I said, “Really, it’s a bother.” He just smiled and patiently went about the next set of layers, separating them with infinite attention, careful not to tear the paper or spoil the faint ink. Another 10 minutes and I said, “Really, you’ve worked too?” He just smiled at me, beneficently, and kept on working, slowly, as if an old woman knitting, delighted by the task. After 15 minutes he looked up, and I saw behind the weariness of his eyes another message: “I try never to throw anything away.” A half an hour later he smoothed out the brittle paper. There it was, the ink laced and pale, but legible. At least for anyone with a magnifying glass. He nodded to himself as he read the lines.
“You can read that?” He smiled. And then pulled from his jacket a pair of reading glasses. I brought them close to my nose.
“I do not pretend to give such a Sum; I only lend it to you. When you meet with another honest Man in similar Distress, you must pay me by lending this Sum to him; enjoining him to discharge the Debt by a like operation, when he shall be able...” — Benjamin Franklin
Suddenly, a thunderous bang came from the platform. Everything went again into that slow motion tick. From my place on the floor, I replayed all that I’d just seen: first, the rattle of the plate windows, children squawking, eyes drawn toward the platform, eyes turning away from the platform, a few hands to chest, looks of relief. That was on one periphery. On the other, I saw Wilfred Fist-Wither swing his head in a half-pivot, just as I had done. Then bring down his shoulders, leading with the right, just as I had done. Then pounce onto the floor, just as I had done. And there we were, on our knees, slowly bringing ourselves upright, eye to eye, like two men in the same on-deck circle. The boom had been an air-brake and the hard coupling of two cars. If anyone had been watching, we must have resembled a pair of synchronized swimmers.
Wilfred read my face: “I thought you were deaf?” He brought his palm twice to his chest, and I understood. He had felt the concussion, just as I had.
He stood and motioned that he needed a walk, and I signaled as if to say, “I’ll hold your seat.” He winked.
I started reading.
There was barely a single empty page in that ledger. I soon had a dilemma: where to find a pencil and where to find room in the book to put the answers I sought. Wilfred had spent the first World War in the trenches. He was in Belgium during the famous Christmas Eve truce of 1914, when the Germans and Brits crossed lines to exchange gifts and sing carols to one another. Yet there was so much more! Before he returned I raced to buy another ticket for Chicago. For a moment I wondered if he’d even return; then I became afraid that he might have just walked off. He had no bags to return to, nothing for me to guard.
But he did return. And when he did, we sat quietly. Over the loudspeaker came the boarding notice for my train. I stood, he stood, and I could see my departure in his eyes. Then I bent over.
“Oh, here, you dropped this...” I handed him the ticket. “Hey! Looks like we’re on the same train.” I moved rapidly: showed him my ticket, put it next to his in comparison, then wedged it between his fingers. “If we don’t snap to, we may be hoofing it!” And I started to gallop. He followed, open-mouthed, reaching for me with an outstretched hand, my ticket at the tip of that hand, not like a spear, but the prong of adventure.
On the train, as the departure whistle blew, he slid the notebook from my pack and took a short pencil from his pocket.
Next Chapter: The Snowsheds of the High Sierras
Click here to read the entire series
The Citizens' Say
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