learning how to speak to one another;
and so our mouths will know what to do
when they finally
come together.
I t was not a comfortable place, but it invited sleep nonetheless. It was one of the long, curved benches that stretched the width of the high, vaulted old station, recently restored. Along these benches you felt both small and sleepy, connected as you were, inexorably, with all the other baffled and weary travelers passing through the quiet halls in the morning. It was still early. The light had been lemony and hesitant as Flannery walked over. It was not yet seven o’clock.
Flannery bought herself some sugared doughnuts and a cup of something trying to pass itself off as coffee and waited, sitting under the black arrivals-and-departures board. From time to time it fluttered busily like a flock of doves, wings flapping, letters and numbers passing, until the machinery settled on the information it wanted to impart. Trains to New York. Trains to Boston. A delayed train to Vermont. One, exotically, to Florida, via Washington, D.C.
It was the trains to New York Flannery had to keep her eye on. When she heard “Final boarding call!” for any of the New York trains, it was particularly important that she be alert. On the lookout for that familiar face, that cut of hair.
Three trains left for New York. Then a fourth. The place filled up with duffel-bagged students, hatted and scarved, readying themselves with joy or dread for their families. Flannery moved back several benches so she’d be less conspicuous; she knew some of these people (an Art Historian, a World Fictioner) and didn’t especially want to explain to any of them what she was doing there, bag-free, in her scrappy wool coat, clutching (later, now) a half-drunk bottle of orange juice and a book marked in places by strips of paper.
Her eyelids drifted down. Sleep! What a good idea. Couldn’t she have a brief nap while she waited? Just a little one, darling, as Dorothy Parker might say, just a little one.
Her head dipped down; she jerked it back up in the dull, drooling shock of temporary narcolepsy. Wait! What? Where was she? Had she slept?
“Final boarding call . . .”
And Flannery saw something, or thought she did. A single frame from the movie: black leather jacket disappearing around a corner. Cue chase scene and loud music. She got up in a flurry, knocking over the orange juice, and sprinted after the imaginary jacket. That elusive strip of black leather, she was sure she had seen it: it had woken her, finally, out of her lifelong stupor.
S he ran down the ramp, along a corridor, back up another ramp, and up a short flight of stairs. She was always running, these days.
“Where’s the New York train?” she hollered at a potato-faced man in a uniform.
“Platform Four. Final boarding—better hurry.”
Flannery reached the platform and looked around wildly. Her hair was all over the place, but it was not the time to worry about that. “Anne!” she shouted generally into the November morning, looking up and down the train, because she couldn’t think what else to do, and anything like suaveness or dignity had long since passed her by.
It worked, though.
A face appeared at one of the open doors. No, not a face: the face, the face she had been looking for since before dawn, had been seeing all that long writing night whenever she allowed her eyes for a moment to close. That face. Which, unfortunately, looked more bewildered than charmed, right now.
“Flannery! Are you taking this train?” She seemed to find the idea alarming.
“No, no.” Flannery ran up to her, holding out the book. “I just wanted to give you this. For your trip.”
She knew she must look scattered and unkempt—maybe even a little crazy. She’d hardly slept. But she didn’t care now. Her single overriding goal had been to get this bookmarked book to Anne before she left, and she’d done that, and now the rest didn’t matter and she could relax.
Anne
and so our mouths will know what to do
when they finally
come together.
I t was not a comfortable place, but it invited sleep nonetheless. It was one of the long, curved benches that stretched the width of the high, vaulted old station, recently restored. Along these benches you felt both small and sleepy, connected as you were, inexorably, with all the other baffled and weary travelers passing through the quiet halls in the morning. It was still early. The light had been lemony and hesitant as Flannery walked over. It was not yet seven o’clock.
Flannery bought herself some sugared doughnuts and a cup of something trying to pass itself off as coffee and waited, sitting under the black arrivals-and-departures board. From time to time it fluttered busily like a flock of doves, wings flapping, letters and numbers passing, until the machinery settled on the information it wanted to impart. Trains to New York. Trains to Boston. A delayed train to Vermont. One, exotically, to Florida, via Washington, D.C.
It was the trains to New York Flannery had to keep her eye on. When she heard “Final boarding call!” for any of the New York trains, it was particularly important that she be alert. On the lookout for that familiar face, that cut of hair.
Three trains left for New York. Then a fourth. The place filled up with duffel-bagged students, hatted and scarved, readying themselves with joy or dread for their families. Flannery moved back several benches so she’d be less conspicuous; she knew some of these people (an Art Historian, a World Fictioner) and didn’t especially want to explain to any of them what she was doing there, bag-free, in her scrappy wool coat, clutching (later, now) a half-drunk bottle of orange juice and a book marked in places by strips of paper.
Her eyelids drifted down. Sleep! What a good idea. Couldn’t she have a brief nap while she waited? Just a little one, darling, as Dorothy Parker might say, just a little one.
Her head dipped down; she jerked it back up in the dull, drooling shock of temporary narcolepsy. Wait! What? Where was she? Had she slept?
“Final boarding call . . .”
And Flannery saw something, or thought she did. A single frame from the movie: black leather jacket disappearing around a corner. Cue chase scene and loud music. She got up in a flurry, knocking over the orange juice, and sprinted after the imaginary jacket. That elusive strip of black leather, she was sure she had seen it: it had woken her, finally, out of her lifelong stupor.
S he ran down the ramp, along a corridor, back up another ramp, and up a short flight of stairs. She was always running, these days.
“Where’s the New York train?” she hollered at a potato-faced man in a uniform.
“Platform Four. Final boarding—better hurry.”
Flannery reached the platform and looked around wildly. Her hair was all over the place, but it was not the time to worry about that. “Anne!” she shouted generally into the November morning, looking up and down the train, because she couldn’t think what else to do, and anything like suaveness or dignity had long since passed her by.
It worked, though.
A face appeared at one of the open doors. No, not a face: the face, the face she had been looking for since before dawn, had been seeing all that long writing night whenever she allowed her eyes for a moment to close. That face. Which, unfortunately, looked more bewildered than charmed, right now.
“Flannery! Are you taking this train?” She seemed to find the idea alarming.
“No, no.” Flannery ran up to her, holding out the book. “I just wanted to give you this. For your trip.”
She knew she must look scattered and unkempt—maybe even a little crazy. She’d hardly slept. But she didn’t care now. Her single overriding goal had been to get this bookmarked book to Anne before she left, and she’d done that, and now the rest didn’t matter and she could relax.
Anne
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