father—but the words were deep within him and Mr. Bair did not hear them. I hate you for what you did to my mother and for what you did to me and for what you’re doing to my sister. You sent my mother away and now she’s dead in a strange city—and it’s all because of you.
The evening paper rustled softly in Mr. Bair’s carefully manicured hands.
I hate you, the voice deep inside Michael continued, because you lied to me about my mother, told me awful things about her that I know are lies... all lies...
His father’s voice lived again in his mind. And the words were there, the words he would never be able to forget: “ Your mother was sick, Michael She had a serious illness which she could not control and which eventually destroyed her. She was a drunk, Michael, a lost and helpless alcoholic—and now she is dead, a victim of her own weakness .”
You never loved her as I loved her, Michael silently accused his father; she went away because you drove her away. She was good and kind and never like you. Never like you...
Michael remembered listening, in darkness, from his bed next to Lucy’s crib, to the violent quarrels they had, to the shouted terrible words ringing through the night rooms and entering his body like a series of small explosions—until he would begin to cry and bury his head under the pillow, trying not to hear...
“Watch sister,” said Leonard Bair, folding aside the paper. “I’m going up to the front of the coach and get us a little something to eat. Don’t you think oranges would be agreeable?”
Michael nodded and Lucy said, “Yes, thank you,” softly, looking down at her lap. She sat primly on the green velvet seat like a solemn toy doll, serious and unsmiling.
“Very well,” said Mr. Bair. “I’ll return shortly.”
When the compartment door slid closed Lucy raised her dark eyes to Michael. “Tell me about her again, please. Will you? Will you, Michael?”
The boy looked at his sister, at her large, clear eyes and pale face and he thought: She’s older, too, like I am. Father’s made her that way. She looks seven, but she’s not like other seven-year-olds.
“Please,” Lucy prompted. “Tell me, Michael.”
“Well,” he began, “when you were a baby she’d pick you up and hold you for hours, just singing to you and rocking you in her arms.”
Lucy was silent, watching her brother. The train had begun to move, sliding out of the station over the steel rails, gathering momentum, but the little girls eyes did not waver from Michael’s face.
“She used to take you out for long walks and lots of times she’d let me push your carriage if I promised not to run or bump you over curbs. Don’t you remember her at all?”
“No,” said Lucy in her soft child’s voice. “Not any. I wish I could, like you can, Michael. Oh, I wish I could.”
“Her eyes were like cool water,” he told his sister, “deep and full of sadness. And she loved us, Lucy I know she did. No matter what father tells you, she loved us both.”
The compartment door opened.
“Well,” said Leonard Bair, sliding it closed again. “That didn’t take long.” He handed an orange to each of them.
Michael began to strip away the thick rind, mechanically, not really wanting the fruit but knowing he must accept it. He repeated the process for Lucy.
“Can’t understand why people choose to spend hard-earned money on an airplane ticket when a train will do nicely,” said Leonard Bair. “My father always traveled by rail. Right to the day he died. Sensible. Civilized. Lets you see the country.”
Michael listened, and told himself, someday I’ll fly in a plane. It must be wonderful... like a bird... free in the sky. I’ve never been free to do anything. Never.
Beyond the train window, the countryside was flowing past, city outskirts giving way to open farm country: A pattern of browns and greens checkered by, and the sun, moving rapidly down the western sky, was beginning to glare
The evening paper rustled softly in Mr. Bair’s carefully manicured hands.
I hate you, the voice deep inside Michael continued, because you lied to me about my mother, told me awful things about her that I know are lies... all lies...
His father’s voice lived again in his mind. And the words were there, the words he would never be able to forget: “ Your mother was sick, Michael She had a serious illness which she could not control and which eventually destroyed her. She was a drunk, Michael, a lost and helpless alcoholic—and now she is dead, a victim of her own weakness .”
You never loved her as I loved her, Michael silently accused his father; she went away because you drove her away. She was good and kind and never like you. Never like you...
Michael remembered listening, in darkness, from his bed next to Lucy’s crib, to the violent quarrels they had, to the shouted terrible words ringing through the night rooms and entering his body like a series of small explosions—until he would begin to cry and bury his head under the pillow, trying not to hear...
“Watch sister,” said Leonard Bair, folding aside the paper. “I’m going up to the front of the coach and get us a little something to eat. Don’t you think oranges would be agreeable?”
Michael nodded and Lucy said, “Yes, thank you,” softly, looking down at her lap. She sat primly on the green velvet seat like a solemn toy doll, serious and unsmiling.
“Very well,” said Mr. Bair. “I’ll return shortly.”
When the compartment door slid closed Lucy raised her dark eyes to Michael. “Tell me about her again, please. Will you? Will you, Michael?”
The boy looked at his sister, at her large, clear eyes and pale face and he thought: She’s older, too, like I am. Father’s made her that way. She looks seven, but she’s not like other seven-year-olds.
“Please,” Lucy prompted. “Tell me, Michael.”
“Well,” he began, “when you were a baby she’d pick you up and hold you for hours, just singing to you and rocking you in her arms.”
Lucy was silent, watching her brother. The train had begun to move, sliding out of the station over the steel rails, gathering momentum, but the little girls eyes did not waver from Michael’s face.
“She used to take you out for long walks and lots of times she’d let me push your carriage if I promised not to run or bump you over curbs. Don’t you remember her at all?”
“No,” said Lucy in her soft child’s voice. “Not any. I wish I could, like you can, Michael. Oh, I wish I could.”
“Her eyes were like cool water,” he told his sister, “deep and full of sadness. And she loved us, Lucy I know she did. No matter what father tells you, she loved us both.”
The compartment door opened.
“Well,” said Leonard Bair, sliding it closed again. “That didn’t take long.” He handed an orange to each of them.
Michael began to strip away the thick rind, mechanically, not really wanting the fruit but knowing he must accept it. He repeated the process for Lucy.
“Can’t understand why people choose to spend hard-earned money on an airplane ticket when a train will do nicely,” said Leonard Bair. “My father always traveled by rail. Right to the day he died. Sensible. Civilized. Lets you see the country.”
Michael listened, and told himself, someday I’ll fly in a plane. It must be wonderful... like a bird... free in the sky. I’ve never been free to do anything. Never.
Beyond the train window, the countryside was flowing past, city outskirts giving way to open farm country: A pattern of browns and greens checkered by, and the sun, moving rapidly down the western sky, was beginning to glare
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