it.
“Wait, Clara!” he calls again breathlessly.
She glances over her shoulder to see him stepping recklessly into the road to get to her.
“Jed, no!”
A car swerves to miss him. Its horn emits an old-fashioned
ah-ooga
in unison with another high-pitched whistle from the train, sounding much closer this time.
Oh, Jed, be careful
.
She turns away, knowing there’s nothing she can do… knowing, too, that his life isn’t in danger.
He’ll be okay
.…
Today
.
Swept by helplessness, she forces herself to cover the last stretch of sidewalk to the depot.
The whistle sounds again, loudly, drowning out Jed’s urgent shouts.
She mounts the steps to the platform two at a time as the big antique locomotive pulls into the station. She’s vaguely aware of curious stares from the cluster of people waiting there: a few businessmen dressed in overcoats and hats, and several uniformed soldiers who shoot curious—and appreciative—stares in her direction.
She can again hear Jed calling her name.
Don’t look back. Whatever you do, Clara, don’t look back. Just get on the train
.
It slows to a stop.
“Clara, just wait one second!”
His voice is so plaintive. She starts to look over her shoulder for him. Maybe, if he’s close enough, she can grab the suitcase and tell him good-bye.…
“Need a hand?” One of the soldiers, a red headed guy with a freckled face and a friendly grin, materializes at her elbow, obstructing her view of Jed.
“I’m fine,” she protests, but he ushers her onto the high step.
There’s nothing to do but move from there into the smoky, crowded car with the other boarding passengers.
The train begins to move again, and she leans toward the nearest window, hoping for a last glimpse of Jed.
Why, she has no idea. She just wants to see him one more time before he disappears forever.
For a moment, the deserted platform is all that’s visible in the sliver of glass between the large hats of two women seated by the window.
Then, through a thickening curtain of falling snow, she spots him.
He’s poised on the depot steps, still holding her bag, searching the train windows as though he’s looking for her.
She waves, a futile gesture, and feels ridiculous when she catches the red headed soldier looking at her.
“Good-byes are tough, aren’t they?” he comments.
She merely nods, closes her eyes, and inhales the smoky air deeply, trying to steady her nerves as the train chugs away from Glenhaven Park…
And Jed Landry
.
And, please God, 1941
.
If she opens her eyes, will she wake up at last, back in her own century?
“Miss?” Somebody touches her arm. “Take my seat.”
I’m definitely still dreaming
.
She knows it even before she opens her eyes to see a young uniformed soldier standing and gesturing at the mohair cushion he just vacated.
On a modern-day commuter train, the seats are cushioned in stiff vinyl, and nobody offers one to a woman unless she’s enormously pregnant, or elderly.
She slides into it gratefully, thanking him. He tips his cap and steps away, down the aisle, past the red-haired soldier who helped her up the steps.
In the process of lighting a cigarette, he catches her eye and offers the pack.
She shakes her head.
He comes over anyway. “Are you Jed Landry’s girl? I saw him chasing after you back there at the station.”
Jed Landry’s girl
.
Why does the quaint phrase immediately send a ripple of pleasure through her? And why can’t she quite bring herself to tell him that, no, she isn’t Jed Landry’s girl?
She hears herself asking instead, “You know Jed?”
“Sure. I went to grammar school with his brother, Gilbert. Jed was a coupl’a years ahead of us. He’s a good egg.”
She smiles faintly at the quaint phrasing. “He is a good egg.”
The soldier sticks out his gloved hand. “I’m Walter O’Mara.”
“Clara McCallum.” She shakes his hand politely, wondering why his name sounds so familiar.
Walter
“Wait, Clara!” he calls again breathlessly.
She glances over her shoulder to see him stepping recklessly into the road to get to her.
“Jed, no!”
A car swerves to miss him. Its horn emits an old-fashioned
ah-ooga
in unison with another high-pitched whistle from the train, sounding much closer this time.
Oh, Jed, be careful
.
She turns away, knowing there’s nothing she can do… knowing, too, that his life isn’t in danger.
He’ll be okay
.…
Today
.
Swept by helplessness, she forces herself to cover the last stretch of sidewalk to the depot.
The whistle sounds again, loudly, drowning out Jed’s urgent shouts.
She mounts the steps to the platform two at a time as the big antique locomotive pulls into the station. She’s vaguely aware of curious stares from the cluster of people waiting there: a few businessmen dressed in overcoats and hats, and several uniformed soldiers who shoot curious—and appreciative—stares in her direction.
She can again hear Jed calling her name.
Don’t look back. Whatever you do, Clara, don’t look back. Just get on the train
.
It slows to a stop.
“Clara, just wait one second!”
His voice is so plaintive. She starts to look over her shoulder for him. Maybe, if he’s close enough, she can grab the suitcase and tell him good-bye.…
“Need a hand?” One of the soldiers, a red headed guy with a freckled face and a friendly grin, materializes at her elbow, obstructing her view of Jed.
“I’m fine,” she protests, but he ushers her onto the high step.
There’s nothing to do but move from there into the smoky, crowded car with the other boarding passengers.
The train begins to move again, and she leans toward the nearest window, hoping for a last glimpse of Jed.
Why, she has no idea. She just wants to see him one more time before he disappears forever.
For a moment, the deserted platform is all that’s visible in the sliver of glass between the large hats of two women seated by the window.
Then, through a thickening curtain of falling snow, she spots him.
He’s poised on the depot steps, still holding her bag, searching the train windows as though he’s looking for her.
She waves, a futile gesture, and feels ridiculous when she catches the red headed soldier looking at her.
“Good-byes are tough, aren’t they?” he comments.
She merely nods, closes her eyes, and inhales the smoky air deeply, trying to steady her nerves as the train chugs away from Glenhaven Park…
And Jed Landry
.
And, please God, 1941
.
If she opens her eyes, will she wake up at last, back in her own century?
“Miss?” Somebody touches her arm. “Take my seat.”
I’m definitely still dreaming
.
She knows it even before she opens her eyes to see a young uniformed soldier standing and gesturing at the mohair cushion he just vacated.
On a modern-day commuter train, the seats are cushioned in stiff vinyl, and nobody offers one to a woman unless she’s enormously pregnant, or elderly.
She slides into it gratefully, thanking him. He tips his cap and steps away, down the aisle, past the red-haired soldier who helped her up the steps.
In the process of lighting a cigarette, he catches her eye and offers the pack.
She shakes her head.
He comes over anyway. “Are you Jed Landry’s girl? I saw him chasing after you back there at the station.”
Jed Landry’s girl
.
Why does the quaint phrase immediately send a ripple of pleasure through her? And why can’t she quite bring herself to tell him that, no, she isn’t Jed Landry’s girl?
She hears herself asking instead, “You know Jed?”
“Sure. I went to grammar school with his brother, Gilbert. Jed was a coupl’a years ahead of us. He’s a good egg.”
She smiles faintly at the quaint phrasing. “He is a good egg.”
The soldier sticks out his gloved hand. “I’m Walter O’Mara.”
“Clara McCallum.” She shakes his hand politely, wondering why his name sounds so familiar.
Walter
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