Two strangers look for love on the train across the country.
They say America is filled with many guests, too impolite to go home. So they stay on, while the polite ones leave. Andrea was polite against her wishes. Her year in Nebraska had been sponsored by Rotary International-- and it was over. She leaned her head against the cool pane, but the train's rocky sway made it bump. The bar car was not comfortable.
He sat in the opposite aisle, three seats west on the eastbound Broadway Limited. He saw her blue jeans, the Budweiser tee shirt, and her quiet demeanor. Silence attracted him, not because of mystery. She looked vulnerable, and he lived off the vulnerability of others. Not that he was aware of it, nor would he be for another ten years. He was a vulture for caring; he needed to be cared about.
They were traveling alone, together across America; a ball of red and white screaming into the dark blue. There was still some time, some time to go. And as they went, he had no way of perceiving the way America hovered above her as she sat staring back at the vast westness. Looking, as Hans Brinker, for a hole in some Allegheny Mountain dike. Looking for some young American man, lonely with purpose.
Andrea wanted a lonely young man; lonely, because she was almost out of America, and she didn't have time to sift through another person with a lot of attachments; young, because she didn't want anyone with a lot of history.
In two days she would be back in the Netherlands, a country with plenty of history. She would go shopping in Naarden, attached to her mother, looking for slightly overripe fruit and vegetables that had been discounted. Where there was a small bruise, her mother would cut it out before serving it to the children.
Andrea would look for a young man with just such a small bruise. She didn't have time to find the exact ripeness. She was going back to Holland, and Nebraska seemed awfully far away now. Her year as an exchange student was compressed into a single, final moment. She needed something exciting to bridge the gap, or act as a lens to open that year back up.
What is Holland compared to Nebraska? A bit of earth stolen from the sea? America is an ocean looking for a profit from the energy of a wave. Her country is a grocery store filled with quaint streets, sweet tales like candy for a little girl. That Holland was some other time, some time ago, and she had become a woman. Or would, very soon. She wanted to return to Holland as a woman. She wanted to return wearing her sister's look the morning after her honeymoon.
Andrea saw him glance over the top of his book. She smiled. She knew she was just a hint on the plump side for American tastes, but her face could be made to look strong, hiding something deep, more than superficial than jazzercise and Women's Day magazine. A smile was the proper response. A smile would not betray her accent, which while improved, after a year in Nebraska, was still very noticeable.
He went back into his book, but she knew he had consumed her smile, tasted it and digested its meaning. His face betrayed a certain ironic humor, lips tight and almost bruised.
Andrea's beer can was nearly empty but she waited, watching as he sipped at his own, tilting it higher until his Adam's apple stretched like a beak. When he set the can down, it clinked hollow. Andrea rose and walked to the bar, knowing he wouldn't be far behind.
His own empty, he thought it propitious she should walk over to the bar at the same moment. He stood behind her, measuring his thoughts.
"Can I buy you a beer?"
Andrea turned, smiling her international smile. He ate that one, too. "I would like that." She watched as he calculated her accent. The bruise disappeared for a moment from his face. He seemed pleased with himself.
"You're Dutch."
His intuition frightened her for a moment. It bespoke a complicated nature, one not easily compromised. He might be too smart to be lonely. She smiled.
"Yes, and you?"
The question caught him off guard, and the bruise was reinstated. He was not complicated, only intuitive.
They walked back, both relieved that someone had sat in his chair. He retrieved his book and sat next to her. They talked. She told him how far away she felt from Holland, her parents, and the good people in Nebraska. He seemed to understand. He was leaving the train in Ohio in the morning. She was going all the way to New York. There she would meet her brother for a day, then fly with him to Europe.
They fell silent. Somewhere in the rumpled conversation they agreed to wait for darkness. All this without actually describing their feelings. It may have been the Broadway Limited, but they were in the bar car, and their unspoken decision seemed to bring the other persons to life. She didn't mind. She could feel the time begin to stretch out again, a sleepy lion in the sun of their being together.
A classical pianist sat at the small spinet wedged into the middle of the car. He tried his best to entertain the crowd, but gave up after half an hour. A drunk took his place and toyed with the ivories, trying to make melodies. He failed as miserably as he was drunk. He didn't, however, give up. Odd notes wandered through the car without cadence or coherence. The night bore on in contrapuntal disarray.
The drunk drove most of the crowd back to their respective cars where they huddled, safe from the noise. The bar finally closed at midnight. Alone, finally she looked right at him.
"I wish," she said in her best Nebraska accent. "I wish I had thought to bring a blanket. I forgot how cold the train gets at night."
"I'll sit right next to you," he said without a thought, "And I'll think warm thoughts."
How could she refuse his generous offer? It seemed to fill him with a purpose he lacked earlier. She had cut out the bruise.
She waited for him to fetch his bag before she curled into the seat next to the window. The armrest dug into her hip and she murmured a soft complaint. He smiled audibly and performed an act of American magic, flipping the armrest up between the seats.
Andrea couldn't see his face in the darkness, but she could feel his warmth traveling up her spine. Her left side became chilled and she turned to warm it against him. His hand lay idly on the seat, a hunter's hand, a soft trap awaiting prey.
She slid her own hand from between her knees and allowed it to glide gently to his pentangular snap. It nestled there gratefully. Together, their hands continued the earlier discussion, softly wrapping ideas in wordless signals. Andrea murmured another quiet complaint, and he turned himself into a pillow, carefully drawing the chill from her shoulders with his caressing, hunting hands.
Then her mouth was open, drawn by his sonar. She broke from the kiss and put her cheek against his chest, tasting the salted heat of his flesh where the shirt was open. A child mumbled across the aisle just as his hand touched her exactly where she had wanted to be touched. She touched him back, pleased by his sharp intake of breath. She suddenly wished they had been able to find an empty sleeping car.
"Pity I didn't think of getting more private accommodations." His whisper burned her ear like a flame. She kissed him again to push him back to thinking. She didn't want him to talk, just so he touched her everywhere she wanted to be touched.
Holland be damned, she thought. Hans Brinker wouldn't need silver skates in America, where water dare not freeze unprofitably. And this was going to be her last America, a ball of red and white fire screaming out of the blue. That Holland was some other time, some time ago. It had sent her here as a little girl, lonely and without purpose. America had looked at her quizzically, wondering about her wooden shoes, wondering why she wore the same footwear as American girls.
Now, America was beneath them, attached to the rails that guided them, hung their glide eastward. There was freedom in travel, in swift movement. She was no longer Dutch, and he had never answered the question of his nationality. The answer was obvious. But they escaped the obvious by hurtling along through the night, creating a vacuum that held Holland and America at bay, at arms length.
She touched him until the hunter had been captured, and he touched her until she exploded into sleep, the panicky arc releasing her into the safe pillow of his arms.
A child's laughter brought her back to the train. The sun struck her sharply and she squinted away from the window. Her shoulders were stiff and chilled, and her back ached from the indentation between the seat backs. The child sat across the aisle, staring at her sleeplessness.
"Where are we? She growled, half a continent away from Nebraska.
The child looked at the mother questioningly. The woman smiled. "I believe we're nearing Pittsburgh."
"Pittsburgh, Ohio?" Red, white and blue echoes held Andrea's voice to a whisper.
The child clapped hands with glee. Everybody knew Pittsburgh was in Pennsylvania. The mother quieted the child. "We're in Pennsylvania, now. We left Ohio some time ago."
Confused, Andrea walked stiffly to the washroom. Once inside, she leaned against the sink, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and red. Where her sister had looked fresh and fulfilled, Andrea felt empty and pale. Then, she remembered how her sister had held on to her new husband's arm. How the husband had wrapped her sister within a casual, possessive embrace. They had made a public pact that even the daylight supported.
Andrea's lips were dry and felt overly large. She looked again into the mirror. The upper lip was swollen fat; a bruise was developing, and he would never see it. He had left before she awakened, taking her victory with him, leaving her alone.
Later, she would tell her brother that America was nothing compared to Holland. Nothing but a large, sprawling, bruising continent that couldn't help but succeed. She preferred Holland's tight, intense caring smallness; where the ball of red and white fire never disappeared into the blue. In America, Hands Brinker would have pawned his skates, taken the money, and run.
She told her brother all this with the quiet of an already acknowledged lie.
"We left Ohio some time ago."
The woman's words were following her across the ocean. Andrea sat rigidly upright throughout the overnight flight. Her brother offered his shoulder, but she only shook her head bitterly.
He snored softly beside her. While she dozed off once or twice, she was awake to see the sun creep over the watery horizon. Her brother's face was strangely slack in sleep, and she was embarrassed to think the American had probably looked at her the same way.
She wanted not to care about the American, which she decided she would now call him. She had wanted to share a moment of suspended animation together, but his sudden departure now made that impossible. At least for her.
She had given him her international smile and he had profited from it; taken the profit from her waves of emotion. She had pretended to be vulnerable, and became so. She had responded to his need for caring, but she needed to be cared about also. How could she be sure he cared when she was left with only empty sunlight? And a bruised lip.
Her brother opened his eyes to find her staring at him. He smiled with semi-conscious embarrassment. A red spot appeared on his cheek where he had been leaning on the seat. It looked like a birthmark. Then a bruise. She smiled victoriously.
This is the trade paperback edition of the mythopoeic paranormal novel recounting the attempts of one Danny Blue and his friends to come to terms with a series of unusual events in his life. A Kindle eBook edition is also available.
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They say America is filled with many guests, too impolite to go home. So they stay on, while the polite ones leave. Andrea was polite against her wishes. Her year in Nebraska had been sponsored by Rotary International-- and it was over. She leaned her head against the cool pane, but the train's rocky sway made it bump. The bar car was not comfortable.
