For good or bad, we were delayed in Grand Junction. “Something about the computer,” the conductor said. “The engines aren’t communicating with each other. Don’t go far.”
Where would we go? Uncle Frank and Aunt Harriet were in no hurry, and though I could no longer see my father’s face through the window of the observation car, I didn’t think he was in a hurry, either. Margie found me leaning against a wall and asked if I wanted one of the apples she had bought. I took it, polished it against my shirt, and took a bite.
“You and Steven must’ve copied that from Dad,” Margie said.
I considered my toothmarks in the apple. “Probably.”
“You staying out here?” The wind had picked up, and Margie pulled her arms to her chest.
“Getting kind of crazy sitting on that train,” I said. “How’s Dad?”
Margie shrugged. “Kind of like you—tired of the train. A couple of candy-ass men.”
Dad had spent thirty-five years as a plumber in suburban Chicago. Steven and I grew up as plumber’s helpers, but neither of us loved the trade in a way to make a living at it, though we were happy enough spending summers in high school taking our father’s money when the jobs were big enough. Steven went straight to college in Boston after graduation, and he has been happy enough in a white-collar world. Margie went on to become some type of brain doctor, and from what she says, she’s been quite successful. I went on to become a little bit of everything—not especially successful, but not especially unhappy, either.
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