In the Amtrak Station

Written March 1999

She sat alone in the train station, one beat-up suitcase by her feet and a duffel bag on the chair next to her. Dry, blond hair covered her bowed head. She could have been anywhere from 20 to 50 for all anyone could see of her was a large sweatshirt with fingertips peeking through and sweat pants that ended in scruffy men's boots.
She'd been waiting longer than anyone; since 8 am, over 10 hours. She could've seen many people come and go if she'd pick up her head. The man at the ticket window had been watching her every chance he got, and he still hadn't seen her move.
The station was clearing out as a rush of trains were beginning to depart. Still she made no move to follow the crowd.
The ticket clerk, glancing to make sure no potential customers would come to the window in the next few minutes, was about to make contact with her when it happened.
She slowly inched two hands out from her oversized sweatshirt. They were sunkissed a beautiful golden many years ago but now only looked aged and scaly. They had seen too much sun and now maintained a permanent tan even in February. They sat palms up on her lap for a while, the fingers curled so he could see the tan. Calloused palms told of her toil. Her hands had been used for manual work; she was not just someone's wife. Ragged edges rounded off her fingers. Perhaps she was a lot older than he had first imagined. The joints were knobby as if she was already experiencing the wonderful joys of arthritis. In younger days, they would have been the gracefully long fingers of a pianist that could coax wonderful melodies from a grand piano or the delicate hands that skillfully braided the hair of her daughters. She paused a long while before she moved her hands again. Or maybe the man in the station had just spent the time imagining when it had only taken seconds for her to make the next move. Her left wrist turned ever so slightly and the ticket master caught the gleam of light off her watch. Her train must be due soon. He could wait a few minutes more before he approached her.
He had no time to check the train schedules and imagine where she was destined. She had raised her head to glance at the watch and a few strands of hair had fallen away, revealing a small portion of her face. She had a faraway look in her eye. A black stare off into nowhere. A long straight nose above a tight set mouth, pale lips in a half frown. She had wrinkle lines around her eyes and mouth that were visible halfway across the room. Overall, she looked like she was lost, maybe even in a more profound way than not knowing what train to take. Once again, he could not place her age. Her skin had weathered so much and her eyes spoke of depth that could have taken a thousand years to achieve; yet, she had a quality about her that was of a little child.
He glimpsed down at her hands again, resting in her lap. The left palm down, light reflecting off the watch face, and her right palm up, fingers still curled into a loose fist. He first noticed that she wore no jewelry. Any woman he had known had always taken pride in decorating herself particularly wearing rings that cluttered such already marvelous tools. He followed the raised blue veins on her left hand and imagined the lines of fortune on her right. She had to have had an irregularly long life line. He couldn't imagine her love line traveled very far. As he detected a small imperfection on the left ring finger, she pulled her hands back into their sleeves.
He quickly looked up to make sure she hadn't caught him staring, but she was already bowing her head again. A deep cough off to his left turned his head. A gentleman had stepped up to the window.
When he had served the gentleman - one way tickets to Spokane, Washington - he glanced back to the lonely woman waiting for her train. She had raised her head, but was looking in the southeast corner of the building, almost opposite of where he stood. The station almost stood empty. A lot of the business was lost to airplanes. Not too many trains would be leaving tonight. In fact, that train to Washington and another to San Antonio, Texas, would be the only ones arriving and leaving tonight. He couldn't imagine her headed to the hot south amid Mexicans and cowboys. But what could she have to do with the grunge scene in Washington?
He took another look at her scuffed winter boots and decided she would be braving the great outdoors that wild Washington had to offer. A moment of clarity spread through his mind. He almost felt a light bulb go off above his head. Of course, she had lived in Washington in her younger years working in the forestry industry, getting sun-kissed and calloused work hands. And now she was returning once again to where it had all began for her.
He sat back smugly in his chair, crossing his arms and smirking. He was becoming a pretty good judge of character after 10 years of working in this Amtrak station. He could just look at a person and understand their perils. His stare penetrated the back of the woman's head, trying to make her turn around so he could send her a reassuring glance that, Yes, he knew about coming and going and as long as he was here, she couldn't be lost.
The loudspeaker announced the arrival of the train destined for San Antonio, and the attendant flinched when he saw the gnarled hands reach for the duffel bag. So, this mysterious woman was headed south after all. She couldn't be returning home so maybe she was running away. In another instant, he had a full glance at the woman's face, even the right side that had previously been hidden from view. What he hadn't seen before was the bruise that trailed from around her eye to the edge of her lips and back to her ear. He could imagine no object that would leave such a mark except for a few slugs with an angry fist. He only got a second's glance at the damage before she pulled the sweatshirt's hood to cover her head and pulled out sunglasses to cover her eyes. He took one more glance at her hands. The rough working hands, symbolic of her strong nature. He saw her make one more curious gesture before her hands disappeared underneath her sleeves, clutched tightly to her bags. The forefinger and thumb of her right hand were absentmindedly rubbing her left ring finger where a wedding ring should have been.

Copywright 1999 beanpole