Moonlight splashed across the rocky crags, its soapy-dishwater gleam pouring down steep slopes to scrub stalwart boulders and haggard brush before pooling amid the scattered scree of gravel embankment. Waiting until the train’s shadow passed, the cleansing glow seeped onto the tie-tracked twin rails to polish that soothing smoothness of cooling steel, then suddenly spilled over the other side and cascaded into the frantic, darkening river below.
A solitary young man balanced on the rear observation platform, shifting his weight in time with the basso rhythm of his meticulously restored 1950’s Streamliner-Age Pullman Elite, an inherited afterthought coupled in tandem to Amtrak’s California Zephyr, all transfers pre-arranged, taxes and fees paid. Only from the back of a train like this can one linger to observe whence he’s come, his trust in where the journey leads invested in those who’ve traveled this way before, his destination still blind to the unblinking eyes of a young man’s increasingly tenuous faith.
He brushed dust from his dinner jacket, then turned for another glimpse into the elegantly appointed interior, still trying to imagine his grandparents dancing there so long ago, their honeymoon celebration a shared journey aboard this gift custom-built by a young railroad baron for his new bride. Now some half-century later, the youngest scion of generations who once blazed trails across America couldn’t help but stare longingly through those original panes of etched glass, searching the past for his own future even as he envied the wonder those newlyweds must have shared for whatever lay ahead.
Alas, the only couple he could see were dear old Fritz and his wife, Cora, he turning the wine and setting out hors d’oeuvres while she carefully arranged a floral centerpiece. Coming out of retirement for this trip, the mischievous pair of old codgers still managed to look dapper in their crisply pressed uniforms, ensembles striped in burgundy and teal, a jaunty cap atop Fritz’s pate the accent of authenticity. One other passenger sat off to the side, the young man’s fiancée side-tracked by a data-stream charging across her laptop screen, a beautiful young woman chasing connections amid the runaway frenzy of constant change that stretches beyond a simple mountain pass.
The young man shook his head and sighed, then leaned over the railing to watch that blur of railroad ties transform into ticking distance markers, each reminding that a soul caught unawares can venture so far the wrong direction that it’s no longer worth trying to turn back. Only when he fixed his eyes upon the horizon did he manage to conjure the brief illusion of stillness, a moment to consider the truths he’d proven too eager to leave behind.
Fritz appeared at the door, cap in hand, his gaunt face and sharp eyes sad. “Cora’s legs are giving her fits again, sir, so she’s retired for the night. Will there be anything else?”
The young man gestured for the old man to join him at the railing, both bracing for a long curve that lay ahead. “Fritz, maybe you should disembark at Denver and take her home.”
“If I may be frank, sir, I believe that would disappoint Cora terribly.” He leaned closer, as if revealing a secret too personal to share with curious canyon cliffs. “Back when the master sought to employ a married couple, we claimed to have been wed more than a year. Truth be told, we were still engaged, so we hurried a simple ceremony only days before departure. Though no one suspected, that became our honeymoon trip, too, and now after fifty precious years, you’ve given us this chance to celebrate our golden anniversary just the way we began: crossing America in the service of your family.”
The young man congratulated him with a handshake, then glanced inside where his fiancée stabbed furiously at her keyboard. “I suspect my ladyfriend’s enchantment with this adventure has waned. In the event she confesses a preference to cut our travels short, I should leave, too, but you and your bride would be welcome to continue on without us.”
Streamers of old man’s moonlight-silvered hair snapped in the tailwind as that droning clack-clack of iron wheels counted off miles of steel rail. “That is quite a generous offer, sir!” he said at last, “but I believe this leg of the journey should end for us, too, when our presence no longer serves your needs. In truth, it weren’t just this old car whose utility you restored, if only for a time.” As the track straightened again, he pushed back from the railing and stood tall.
“Go see to your bride, Fritz,” the young man said, watching until the old man disappeared into one of the private compartments up front. He turned back as the narrow canyon opened into a wide valley. Skittering patches of moonlight splashed onto the rear platform, there to buff the classic tuscan-red finish to a modern sheen. He felt very old-fashioned, his simple desires a throw-back to an earlier age, the lonesome man as alone and outdated as a 1950’s Pullman chasing Amtrak connections amid the runaway frenzy of constant change that stretches beyond a simple mountain pass. Removing his dinner jacket, he wandered inside and kissed his fiancée on the cheek, then urged her to join him for chilled shrimps and stuffed mushroom caps.
“Now don’t be too disappointed,” she said, ignoring the invitation, “but I just made arrangements to attend that presentation in Atlanta. I’ll need to fly out when we reach Denver.” Watching for his reaction, she added, “Come with me and we’ll try to squeeze in some time together afterward, maybe prowl the Underground.”
“But I’ve promised tours for several vintage-train buffs at upcoming stops,” he said, the bigger truth lost in that mitigating glare of regal art-deco fixtures posing against hand-hewn mahogany panels. She would understand appointment obligations more readily than some vague notion that somehow he must let an old man and his ailing wife continue serving him until the final stop.
“This really was an interesting, if quirky, idea,” she said, “but it’s gone on too long. We’ve wasted all our time just getting from station to station, trapped wherever those boring trains take us. I’m more the explorer type.” Her eyes darted toward the laptop, but she desisted.
“Not so long ago,” he said, “my people took pride in blasting tunnels and bridging rivers and trellising canyons, calculating and testing the best possible routes to lay track for all who might follow. Sure, I like to explore, too, but there’s much to be learned by starting where others already found their way, then seeing what we might discover ourselves.”
“But it’s not like we’ve been heading anywhere in particular.”
“I thought we were,” he said, looking toward those rear windows, the interior light too bright to allow even a glimpse of whence they’d come. “I’d hoped that ultimately we’d find our way home.”
* * *
As morning’s first light fired the massive orange coals of Boulder’s foothills, the young man followed his fiancée down onto the station platform just outside Denver. The rest of her baggage left aboard, she shouldered a travel satchel and offered him a brief farewell kiss. He tried to hold her longer, but she pulled away; and he knew that she’d disembarked long before this mountain pass and its rocky, moonlight-washed crags, before the stone-walled tunnels and river-washed bridges and canyon-spanning trellises, even before the timeless rail-banded plains where contentment tracks its course only as far as each new generation of young lovers dares imagine. She disappeared into the frantic, darkening crowd, her taxi waiting, a disenchanted young woman’s itinerary reduced to chasing connections from one airport to the next.
The young man sighed, then stood there lost halfway between everywhere, a solitary soul left to field questions from curious Amtrak passengers gathering to admire the classic Pullman that would follow their own modern cars into the rising sun of an unconsidered day. Many lost interest quickly, the past irrelevant to their own journeys, but a few lingered for a brief walk-through tour before hurrying back to reclaim their own window-view seats offering postcard images of milestones passed.
That’s when another young lady appeared, this one setting a padded case on the platform, her eyes wide at the sight of a fully restored 1950’s Pullman. “I was afraid I’d missed you,” she said. “Mom called as I was leaving, and ever since Dad died, well, sometimes she just needs to talk . . .”
“There’s still time,” he said, meaning before the train leaves again, though it seemed that maybe he’d spoken of something more. Curious about the case, he asked, “Are you traveling somewhere?”
“Me? Oh! Um, no. I brought this to show you.”
Inviting her aboard, he picked up the case, then followed her up to the rear platform and through the doors whose etched-glass windows show whence travelers come. He set her parcel on the dining table, then watched in fascination as she unpacked several small boxes.
“Dad was a model-train fanatic,” she explained, setting up a yard-long stretch of H-0 scale straight-track, “who took me to all the collectors’ conventions ever since I was little. He even tried building some himself, but . . . well, these are the only ones he got to finish.” She started to open the first box, then hesitated and set it down, searching his eyes, maybe worried that revealing something so personal might prove a mistake.
“The old rail-car we’re standing in was built by my grandfather,” he told her quietly. “He died before I was old enough to remember him, but Grandma saved the Pullman all these years because she wanted me someday to recreate the first trip they took together fifty years ago—though she never explained to me why.”
“Maybe she hoped you’d figure that out.”
“Well . . . maybe, but I’ve not had much luck so far.” Gesturing toward the box, he added, “May I help?”
She studied him for a moment, then allowed a hint of smile, so he held the box steady while she used both hands to lift out the miniature version of an old-style passenger locomotive sporting a cow-catcher. He noticed a pronounced bulge in front of the cab—
“That’s a K-4 series!” he gushed, amazed by the precise detail.
“With the oversized fire box,” she announced with a flourish, “of a Belpair-design boiler built only by and for the once mighty—”
“The Pennsylvania Railroad!”
He watched eagerly as she set up the tender car and placed a “crummy,” the classic eight-wheeled wood caboose, farther back on the same track. She removed the last box, opened the flap, and held it just beyond his reach, her teasing smirk hinting at surprises too big to carry in any single case.
"No way,” he said, holding his breath.
“Yes way,” she said, removing a tuscan-red 1950’s Streamliner-Age Pullman.
She placed it on the track, then activated the precisely modeled Type-E hand-clasping couplers to join it first to the tender up front, then to its companion caboose behind. Fritz and Cora emerged from their compartment, the old man helping his bride into a seat, both clucking admiration for the intricate handiwork.
“All my life,” the young lady breathed, “I was fascinated most by the older models. As a little girl and, well—” Blushing, she turned to look out the window. “Okay, even now—I’ll admit it—I sometimes catch myself imagining how it might feel to climb aboard and set off across the country, traveling in grand style like they used to, but it would have to be with—” She caught herself, reluctant to say more.
“I’ve imagined the same thing—only, with no models of my own all I could do was look at photographs.” Glancing toward the old codgers, he added, “Then it turns out my family had retired a perfect example of the real thing. I used to think if I could just find . . .” He fell quiet, too, suddenly embarrassed.
“Well!” Fritz said, nudging Cora, then scurrying toward the kitchen, “I think a celebratory champagne-omelet breakfast is in order.”
“Oh,” said the young lady, “I really ought to go.”
“But how can you,” asked the young man, “until you find out if this could be anything like what you imagined?”
“Is it—is that even possible?”
Fritz appeared with champagne flutes and a bottle for Cora to pour while he placed a CD in the stereo. The syncopated strains of Pat Metheney’s “Last Train Home” filled the air as they slowly left the station and built up speed, four travelers toasting the next leg of a neverending journey, their destination always a question of faith.
Unsure of his intent, the young man found himself taking the young lady’s hand, then holding her in his arms as they danced in time with the basso rhythm of a meticulously restored 1950’s Streamliner-Age Pullman Elite, the gift he would someday give his new bride to celebrate their own honeymoon, newlyweds served in grand style by the perfect example of mischievous old lovers proud to mark fifty-plus-two years together with one final trip, Cora gadding about in her newfangled electric wheelchair, Fritz chasing after her in his striped uniform of burgundy and teal, a stolen embrace their very own accent of authenticity.
And for many years to come, that young couple would find themselves watching those mountains from the rear observation platform, growing older together as the soapy gleam of moonlight splashed rocky crags and poured down steep slopes before pooling amid the scattered scree of remembrance. By morning, sunlight would spill onto the tracks, firing the timeless imaginations of another generation of lovers even as it polished the soothing smoothness of cooling steel in anticipation of those who might yet pass this way.
* * * END * * * |
