My Trains

    School was out by a quarter-after-twelve. Every day, I would walk outside the school building and smoke would shoot from behind the line of trees, so I knew that Pa and all of the other factory men were hard at work. Pa explained that the smoke was a sign of a good economy.
    “If it weren’t for that smoke, we’d be on the streets,” he’d say, raising my eyes to his with a single finger dug under my chin, “Understand?” I didn’t understand but nodded like I did.

    Ma would come home from the piers just before Pa and she would have tar under every one of her fingernails and a solid layer of soot covering her face. She would come in the door, shut it behind her quick, and pull the blinds down to the floor so light couldn’t get in. Most days I forgot what she looked like without layers of dirt covering her face. She’d take off her work cap, smiling in my direction, and I’d remember as soon as I’d forgotten.

    Every day, Pa would come home, sore and dirty from spending time at the factory all day. He’d kick his tall leather boots to the side of the door and he’d go straight to the cupboard, find a shot glass and pour something as thick as syrup into it. When he swallowed it, he’d make an ugly face and sometimes I’d laugh. The more times he did that, the redder his face would get, and the redder his face would get, the more likely he was to push Ma around and after that, it wasn’t so funny anymore so I’d go downstairs and take my trains with me. It was important that the people on the trains got where they needed to go.

    Always in a hurry, Ma was. She’d give me a big kiss and she’d run to the den and in 10 seconds flat she’d be back and changed into her denim to work the dishes like Pa’s there telling her to. She’d work from her elbows, scraping the plates with steel and drying them after with her ruined, blue terry cloth. Right after cleaning the sink, she would get to folding Pa’s work clothes up on the line just outside the back door. Then she’d fold mine. Then hers. She did all of this under the tarp that Mr. Ferris from next door lent us to keep away all of the ash. I watched all of this from the table while my trains were getting refueled. 

    

    Occasionally she’d look back in the middle of her cleaning, flex her arm upward like she’s pulling a conductor’s horn and let out a roaring choo-choo. I’d laugh, and let my stomach burn, and Ma would join in and the house would be filled with our voices. We’d barely hear Pa stomping mud off of his steel-toe boots at the door.

    Every day, I would go outside and watch ash fall from the clouds of smoke above our town near the water. Ma said it reminded her of the snow up North. She said they would catch it on their tongues and dance in it. Ma said they’d make angels and igloos and she said it was Heaven, or as close to it as she’d ever been. The ash was salty and smelled like Pa’s boiled eggs but I stuck my tongue out anyway. I wanted to get to Heaven.

    “There’s no sense in that type of play,” Ma scolded, brushing the ash from my coat, hiding a smile. Pa didn’t hide smiles. Pa didn’t smile. He was always too tired; too tired to talk about the trains, the passengers, or where they were going.

    Sometimes Ma would crawl into my bedroll with me, long after Pa retired to his. Long after the passengers met their destinations and the conductors with their families at home, and long after the trains were stationed.

    “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be on one of those trains?” She’d say, holding the trains up to the lamplight. Pa’s snores could be heard across the house, and we’d laugh under the blankets so Pa couldn’t hear us. Then she’d wrap her arms around me and we’d fall asleep just like that, sharing the bedding with my trains and I.