VALENTINE
TRAIN
By
Sheila Ortego McLauglin
“Who’s
in there?” says the lady in the blue
shoes.
“Some
girl, the one on the train with that skinny guy in the green shorts—you know
the one?”
The wind outside
is howling, rattling the pebble-glass window above where I sit. It’s true, I’m hiding in the bathroom of the
Lamy train station, my feet drawn up to the toilet rim, my arms wrapped around
my knees. I’m trying to breathe quiet so
no-one can hear me.
“Yeah,
that really tall guy.”
“Uh
huh, that one. And he looked like he was
about to pop the question, when some
bimbo…”
There’s an
abrupt pause, like they rethought the fact that they’re in this tiny,
two-staller bathroom with me and a bunch of other ladies, and that the bimbo
might be in here too. I crane my neck to
see under the door. Oh thank God. She’s not here. I can tell from the shoes.
Then whoever it
is goes on, this time in a stage whisper that everyone else and I can still hear. “…some bimbo in platform heels barged in
on them and starts talking non-stop – it looked like she made him forget what
he was doing.”
“Are
you sure she’s still in there?” says an
elderly-sounding lady.
“Oh
yeah. She’s in there. She’s got her feet pulled up. I saw her through the crack in the door.”
“Did
she say anything?”
“Nope. She’s really upset. The guy tried to follow her, but she didn’t
answer when he called. He’s in the
parking lot now, checking to see if she’s out there.”
They’re out there
standing single file for the only other toilet in this old building. That wind outside is whipping the grit out of
the old red-brick walls, and there’s the sound of water running through the
fancy white radiator pipes next to the sink.
Like the tears that keep dripping off my chin. I’m just waiting for the Santa Fe Southern
Railway to pull its big old black train out of here, with Jacob on it, so I can
escape.
“Young
lady,” says the elderly-sounding one. “There are fifteen of us and we only have ten
minutes before the train boards. Can’t
you come out?”
I still don’t
answer. Pretty soon this crowd will
clear out. I draw my knees closer to my
chin and read the stuff scratched into the walls. “Love you, Max! TRUE LOVE FOREVER!” Yeah, sure.
Maybe for you.
“Proposing
on a Valentine’s Day train was a good idea,”
says elderly lady. Pretty
romantic if you ask me.”
“Bullshit,”
says somebody who sounds like she might
be more comfortable in the men’s bathroom.
“A bunch of red heart balloons and chocolate doesn’t cut it if he can’t
even tell the bimbo to get lost.”
“Shhh! The bimbo might be in the line outside.”
“I
don’t give a shit if she hears me,” says
man-bathroom lady. “Dyed red
hair. Low cut blouse with fake boobs.”
The door slams
again and somebody pees like a horse, flushes, slams out, and runs the water in
the sink. Somebody peers at me through
the crack in the door; must be elderly lady, ‘cause her skin’s all wrinkled
around the eyeball.
“Honey,
do you want to talk about it?”
“Oh
God, I really have to GO!” says somebody,
loud.
I can’t
apologize, since I don’t want to admit I’m in here. I know it’s pathetic, but I wanted my
engagement to be perfect. And how do I
know what’s up with the bimbo? He was
late picking me up that one night, and he always liked redheads. Besides,
he’s supposed to make the whole thing romantic.
And now it’s ruined. For one
thing, he started the proposal TWICE and chickened out both times. The first time, he was fumbling with a box
that I knew must have a ring in it. Then
a red-heart balloon floated by, and the string slapped him in the middle of the
forehead! And even though he’d been
about to pop the question, he took his hand off mine to get that string out
from between his eyes…
The toilet’s
flushing again.
“She’s
waiting for him to get on the train and leave when it takes off again, I bet.”
“Oh
Dear,” says elderly lady. She makes that grunty noise ladies make when
their bladder is full. “I don’t
think I can wait that long.”
“Suck
it up,” says man-bathroom lady, and
elderly lady sniffs loud enough for me to hear.
I feel bad for the
ladies, but why wouldn’t I be waiting for Jacob to leave? He stuffed that box back in his pocket, like
he’d never pulled it out! That gave me
the clue he didn’t want to go through with it.
Why should it be so hard? He knows
I love him. Maybe he doesn’t love me as
much as I love him. I was just wondering
about that when the train people stopped by to say the champagne and chocolates
were being served, and we should go up to the rooftop so we could get a better
view. I thought it was going to be nice, but it was just a view of a bunch of
dirt and cactus. I notice another
scribble on the wall: “Eighty percent of
married men cheat in America. The rest
cheat in Europe.” I sob, loud, then slap
my hand to my mouth.
“I
think she’s crying,” elderly lady says.
Why wouldn’t I
be? I’d gotten my faith in Jacob back enough
to follow him to the top of the train.
It had been very loud, with the grinding and creaking and the whistle
blasting. We sat down again on those nice
wooden seats on the upper deck, and the wind whipped our hair around so it was
hard to talk. But I was glad because he got
the box out again.
“Jee-sus,”
says man-bathroom lady.
“Well,
you don’t have to be taking the Lord’s name in vain!” says elderly lady.
“Lady,
I’m god-awful sorry, but I really need to take a piss.”
I wish they’d
just be patient. Like me. I’d been sooo patient, and I’d thought it was
paying off! He said “Open it,” so I
did. That’s when the next thing went
wrong. Turns out it wasn’t a ring box
after all, just the kind of gift box you’d get from a cheap souvenir store,
with a folded paper inside. I started to
look at it, but then he grabbed my hand.
“Amy?” “Yes, Jacob?” I said. And
that’s when SHE came into the picture.
The bimbo.
Now somebody’s
run out of toilet paper.
“Ladies,
can you hand me some TP?”
“Are
paper towels okay?”
“Yeah,
I guess.”
There’s the
sound of a pile of paper towels being rolled out and I see a hand pass under
the door of the stall next to me.
“Thank you,” says my stall
neighbor, and then there’s more door slamming.
But it’s quiet behind the door, like when you’re too self-conscious to
pee. I can smell Midnight in Paris
perfume. It must be elderly lady, and
she seems to be taking her time on purpose.
“Jee-sus
Christ,” says man-bathroom lady.
Now there’s a
man’s voice just outside the bathroom.
“Is
she in there?”
Oh crap, it’s
Jacob.
“Oh,
she’s in there all right.”
They must be
holding the door open or I wouldn’t hear him so clearly.
“Amy,
come out! I need to talk to you.”
Thanks a lot,
ladies.
“Amy!”
Dammit, his
voice is really close now. Did they let
him all the way in? I can’t believe he
would actually come into a ladies’ bathroom!
“I
wanted to ask you to marry me, but it got all screwed up.”
“What’s
going on?” says some new lady. Somebody with clacking shoes. The bimbo.
“Oh
HI THERE,” she says, I presume to Jacob,
all honey-voice.
“I’d
clear out if I was you,” man-bathroom
lady says. So did Jacob follow the bimbo
in here?
“Lady,
I’m sorry,” Jacob says. “I just don’t remember you. Now if you’ll excuse me –“
“I
was prom queen the year I met you!” the
bimbo’s protesting.
“Amy! I don’t even remember her – she’s
nobody. I’m sorry!”
Now he ignores
her. Not like in the middle of our
engagement, for Pete’s sake. More
shoe-clacking.
“What
do you mean, nobody?” bimbo says.
“Get
lost Bitch,” says man-bathroom lady. Then there’s some shuffling, like
man-bathroom lady is tossing her out on her heels.
“You
were the head trombonist!” bimbo yells,
from somewhere beyond the outer door.
Who knows if he heard her – he just keeps calling out to me.
“I
know I shouldn’t have given you just a picture of the ring in that box– it’s
just that I ordered it on E-Bay and it hasn’t come in yet!”
Wow. He’s still here. He didn’t follow her. Still, I’m not coming out.
“E-Bay?”
somebody asks. “Really?”
The stall door
opens and shuts again. Man-bathroom lady must be having her turn,
and it’s like an elephant peeing, it’s so long and loud.
When Jacob calls
me again, he sounds really sad.
“Amy,
please come out.”
“Amy,
come on out,” the Greek chorus of
remaining ladies echo.
I’m still not
answering. I check out one more thing
scratched into the stall: “Love is what
you make it.” That makes me cry all over
again.
“I
guess she doesn’t want to, young man,” says elderly
lady.
I hear the outer
door close, and then there’s dead silence, except for that god-awful wind. The train whistle blasts and the grinding wheels
start up, and I know it’s finally leaving.
A few more minutes go by and then the noises aren’t so loud, just some
chugging as the train pulls out. Even
the water has stopped running through the radiator pipes. I lower my feet – cautiously. I guess he’s really gone. Probably back on that darn old Valentine
Train by now. I click the latch open and
start out, horrified by the reflection of my puffy, self-pitying, tear-stained
face in the mirror. I splash water in my
eyes and blow my nose, then peek out the door.
It’s safe. I make my way out of
the station house and onto the tracks.
I smell the
gritty exhaust and think of all the times my life has been like a train
station, with all its comings and goings, every time ending with somebody
leaving me. The red caboose, all
cheerful with its shiny windows, winks at me one last time before I lose sight
of it. I see an escaped red-heart
balloon rising into the sky, and feel all the more sad for it.
It’s fast, when
it happens. There’s a tugging at my
waist from something or someone behind me.
Then I smell his smell, like starch and new blue jeans. He spins me around and I can see, this is the
Jacob I know, or should know. The one
who would never lie to me. He’s not like
the others, after all. He grabs my
shoulders, as if he’s not going to let me get away again, and looks me right in
the eye.
“Amy,
will you marry me?”
This time he’s
not distracted at all. His voice is
strong and sure, and he’s looking at me with so much love, despite how ugly I
must look, puffy face and all. The tears
well up again, and I can’t even bring myself to speak. So I just nod.
