Warm Whiskey in a Cold Ditch: Installment #4

Waiting: Grand Junction


When I returned to the train, I found my father still sitting in the observation car. "You want anything from the store?" I asked.

"There's a store?"

"In the station. You want to get out and walk around?"

He didn't seem interested. "Any idea of how much longer we'll be sitting here?"

"From what I hear, could be awhile. Something about the engines not talking to each other."

"They must be related," he said. "You want a drink?" He handed me his silver flask, something I hadn't seen in years. He used to carry with him whenever we went on family vacations that involved extensive time in the car. He always swore that he never drank while driving, but in the middle of the night once somewhere between Chicago and Michigan I watched from the backseat as he glanced over at my sleeping mother and pressed the flask to his lips. He must have assumed that I was also asleep, but I was never sure if I shut my eyes before he looked into the rearview mirror to see if anyone was watching.

"Is it Scotch?" I asked.

"Yep. Where are your sister and brother?"

I sealed the flask and handed it back to him. "Probably still inside."

"They should've brought their spouses along for the ride."

I laughed. "You didn't bring yours."

"Your mother's been through this enough times." He reached over to the seat beside him. "Look what I found." He handed me a Rhodia notebook, its orange cover smudged with dirt and what looked like strawberry jam.

"Where's this come from?"

"Chicago, from what I can tell."

"You know what I mean. You find it just lying here?"

"A couple seats over. It was there all night, and when nobody picked it up this morning, I started looking through it. It's some kind of travel journal."

The notebook paper was smooth and bright, something a person might use a good pen on. Many of the pages were full, while others had only a short paragraph or even a long sentence. On the inside front cover was a note: "Started by Ophelia in Chicago as a random collection of random thoughts written by random people. Write something here, then pass it on or leave it in a place where someone other than the Amtrak people will find it and throw it away."

"I've been trying to think of something to write," my father said as I turned the pages. "I've been staring out this window trying to come up with an idea. If your mother were here, she'd have every page filled out by now. She loves this kind of thing."

Ophelia started like this:

Once again I have left home, though this time I actually bought a round-trip ticket. I also left a note for my parents telling them that I am fine, that I will call when I get a chance, and that they have nothing to worry about. I had planned to write something on every page here, but I thought it might be more interesting to have other people write things, too. If you have this in your hands, find a pen or pencil and write what you want to write. If all of the pages are filled, please mail the notebook to the Post Office box written below. I will be glad to reimburse you for postage if you tell me where to send the money.

Ophelia's handwriting was beautiful.

"I've read most of it," my father said. "There's some good stuff there, but there's a lot of crap, too. You should write something."

"I don't have a lot to say," I told him. "Maybe Margie."

"You could say that we're never going to get the hell out of Grand Junction, and that we ended up burying your aunt and uncle here." He sipped again from the flask. "You think that's her real name?"

"Who?" I asked.

"Ophelia. You ever know anyone by that name?"

"Nope," I said.

"Neither have I, and I've heard a lot of names. Maybe she liked Shakespeare, or maybe she was just crazy." He stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds, then looked at his hands. "' I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they should lay him in the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night.'"

"That's Shakespeare, right?"

"One of the few quotes I remember. From Hamlet. Ophelia."

I closed the notebook. "You want this back?"

"Not especially. Unless I think of something to write." He stood up. "Let's get off this train for a bit before we go crazy, too."