{"id":819,"date":"2008-09-11T10:43:43","date_gmt":"2008-09-11T14:43:43","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=819"},"modified":"2008-10-19T16:41:41","modified_gmt":"2008-10-19T20:41:41","slug":"the-boy-the-boys-mother-the-two-trains","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2008\/09\/the-boy-the-boys-mother-the-two-trains\/","title":{"rendered":"The Boy, The Boy’s Mother, The Two Trains"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"His time as a boy had passed many years ago. But, he suspected, he would always and forever be The Boy. His mind would ever run like two trains on two parallel tracks at once, one inside his head and the other outside, the trains always synced up, The Boy always and effortlessly stepping back and forth between the two, roaming the cars, visiting the locomotives, sounding the whistles, liking the way the views from the two trains mirrored each other but were never the same. He recognized his voice in each train, though the voice was different.<\/p>\n

So when The Boy\u2019s mother called that Wednesday night, he was both surprised and not surprised to find himself with one foot in each train.<\/p>\n

Outwardly, The Boy carried on his half of a thirty-minute conversation as though nothing was unusual. They talked about his mother and stepdad\u2019s annual two-week trip to Maine, to a camp which The Boy and his siblings had never seen, would never see. The drive would be, as always, a long one, over eight hours, and at age seventy-seven his mother could be forgiven (even by his stepdad) for wanting to split the drive across two days. So they talked about the place the two travelers would spend Friday night this year; they talked about the places the two travelers had spent Friday nights on the last few trips north, in the last few years: about how this one had closed, this one had changed hands and was now owned by strangers The Boy\u2019s stepdad didn\u2019t think he wanted to trust, how they\u2019d finally found this new Friday stopping-over place on the Internet and it sounded nice, little cottages, friendly innkeepers.<\/p>\n

They talked about the logistical details: how much clothing they\u2019d need to pack, and how much warmer or cooler the weather would always be than The Boy\u2019s mother and stepdad had predicted. They talked about the meals the two campers would have at in the dining hall at the campground, how much fishing The Boy\u2019s stepdad would be able to do, how many books his mother could read and needlework projects she could start, put aside, and sometimes finish in two weeks.<\/p>\n

And they talked about things besides the upcoming vacation. They talked about The Boy\u2019s siblings, about his niece and nephews. His mother had finally, after over forty years, announced to her pastor that she would not be teaching confirmation class any longer. What will you be doing with all your free time?<\/em>, The Boy teased his mother. He knew what the answer would be, in general terms, before she even spoke: Well, I still teach the weekly Bible study<\/em>, she said, and I think I might go back to visiting people from our church in the hospital, I always liked that<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The Boy was sitting during the conversation on the deck of his home, nearly a thousand miles distant from his mother. The door from the living room to the deck was open a few inches, allowing the cats and the new dog freedom to come and go onto the screened portion where he was sitting. So part of the conversation turned to the new dog, the adjustment to household routines, the psychological turmoil in both the cats\u2019 and the dog\u2019s heads which came from suddenly sharing living quarters with alien species. I can\u2019t wait to get down there to see her<\/em>, said The Boy\u2019s mother, speaking of the new terrier. She sounds so cute and funny<\/em>. Yes,<\/em> said The Boy, she\u2019s all that<\/em>, and he went on to share some examples: the stuffed squeaking toys, the late-night walks around the darkened neighborhood, the new dog\u2019s pint-sized ferocity as she barked at threats which didn\u2019t exist.<\/p>\n

\"\"Then as they talked, The Boy suddenly became aware of flashing red lights on the country road which he could see from the deck. He could hear the rising warble of a siren, the way the tree frogs silenced respectfully the way they always did.<\/p>\n

His mother heard it, too. Sounds like a fire<\/em>, she said, the simple observation masking a silent question: You\u2019re safe, aren\u2019t you, son? You and The Missus?<\/em><\/p>\n

And for a moment The Boy\u2019s mind suddenly lay bare as he watched it, one foot planted in each locomotive. Yeah<\/em>, he said from the one train, not sure if it\u2019s a fire truck or maybe an ambulance, I can see the lights, and you know how you can hear just about everything going on outside here once it gets late enough<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Meanwhile, The Boy in the other locomotive was thinking back. He was remembering all the times he\u2019d heard his mother\u2019s voice laugh girlishly, as it had when she\u2019d first picked up the phone tonight: excited by the upcoming trip, eager to share the details, happy for yet another easy reason for the two of them to talk. He was remembering the times when he\u2019d heard her voice at the front of a Sunday-school class, when she\u2019d burst out laughing when The Boy caught her saying something mildly devilish, the way she\u2019d said, simply, all those hundreds of times decades ago, Pass your father the salt<\/em>. He was remembering the way she\u2019d made her voice do just this on a thousand occasions gone by: the surface comment on something of the moment, the undertone which said, I can\u2019t help you anymore, son, are you sure you\u2019re all right?<\/em><\/p>\n

The Boy\u2019s mind and his eyes clouded over for a split-second as he caught his breath and forced himself to step from one train to the other, although he knew it wouldn\u2019t last (yet last just long enough).<\/p>\n

Well, Mom<\/em>, he heard himself say, I\u2019ve gotta go, I see that the dog\u2019s ready for her walk and I gotta go and I know you and my stepdad have probably got lots of packing to do yet<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Yes<\/em>, she agreed, yes, we do<\/em>. There was the familiar (thousand-times-rehearsed) volley of awkward sentence fragments, Have a safe tr—<\/em>, We\u2019ll have cell phones—<\/em>, You know I\u2019ll be thinking—<\/em>, You know I\u2019ll be thinking of—<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Then the pause.<\/p>\n

Say hi to The Missus<\/em>, The Boy\u2019s mother said, you know we love you both<\/em>.<\/p>\n

We love you, too, Mom<\/em>, The Boy heard himself say, have a good safe fun trip!<\/em><\/p>\n

And then the goodbyes.<\/p>\n

Beneath him, between his outspread feet, the cinders rushed by in the nighttime air. The wheels clacked rhythmically on the rails. The Boy leaned one way and another, never in danger of losing his balance, both savoring and terrified by his suspension, apparently, in mid-air while traveling at high speed to a destination he still couldn\u2019t see. His grip tightened on the door frame to either side. His breath quickened, his throat knotted, vision blurred, as the wind blew past his head. He looked down.<\/p>\n

At his feet sat, quietly, a normally hyperactive small dog, looking out at the dark with him, again hearing the tree frogs and the crackle of tree branches and leaves in the wind.<\/p>\n

The Boy reached down, skritched the dog behind the ears a couple of times. Then he depressed the Talk button on the telephone, superfluously, the conversation already past. With something verging on a sigh, he stood up and he resumed his journey: back and forth, stepping first aboard one train and then the other.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

His time as a boy had passed many years ago. But, he suspected, he would always and forever be The Boy. His mind would ever run like two trains on two parallel tracks at once, one inside his head and the other outside, the trains always synced up, The Boy always and effortlessly stepping back […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,14,16,38,15,247,599],"tags":[61,440,441,442],"class_list":{"0":"post-819","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-everyday-life","7":"category-01_intheblood","8":"category-themissus","9":"category-backwards","10":"category-family","11":"category-ruminations","12":"category-perfect-moments","13":"tag-memory","14":"tag-vacations","15":"tag-home","16":"tag-dogs","17":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-dd","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/819","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=819"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/819\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":827,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/819\/revisions\/827"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=819"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=819"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=819"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}