Warm Whiskey in a Cold Ditch: Installment #17

“You want anything to eat?” my father asked.

I was looking through a window on the other side of the train than I had been in the observation car, but nothing seemed any different.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Are you being polite, or are you really not hungry?

“I’m really not hungry.”

“You should go find your brother and sister,” my father said.

“I saw Margie a little while ago.”

“Hard to see how the five of us could spend so much time apart on this train,” he said.

“None of us particularly likes sitting still,” I said

He laughed. “That’s true! Used to drive your mother and me crazy when the three of you were little. Seems like we spent half our time looking for one or another of you.” He turned his head to look at me, and his voice dropped. “You were the worst, though. You know that. You never quite grew out of it.”

“Steven’s the only one of us who actually ran away from home,” I said. Which was true: he’d packed a small backpack with clothes and books, walked into the kitchen, and announced to the rest of us that he was leaving home. To their credit, my parents let him go. When he returned a couple days later, nobody said a thing.

“I guess we all run from things at some point,” my father said. “Steven just got it out of his system early.”

“Margie’s never left,” I said. “She’s pretty stable.”

“No, she never actually went anywhere. But during her freshman year of high school she threatened to leave nearly every week. She and your mother used to go at it like wildcats.”

“I don’t remember that,” I said.

“I do. Your mother would end up crying in our bedroom, and Margie would end up crying in hers. I tried talking to them both a couple of times, but they made it clear I had nothing to offer. Now they’re great friends.”

“What was it like with you and Uncle Frank?” I asked.

“Best of friends and worst of enemies,” he said. “Different than you and Steven. You two seemed more stable together. Uncle Frank and I would beat the crap out of each other in the morning, and by bedtime we were buddies again.”

“That therapist you and Mom sent me to asked me what I thought about you and Uncle Frank,” I said.

This seemed to pique his interest. “What the hell did she ask that for?”

I shrugged. “I don’t remember the details. Something about the male role models I had. I told her that Steven was my real role model, and she found that odd—that I would see my little brother like that.”

“For the record, it wasn’t my idea to send you to a therapist.”

“You blaming Mom?”

He chuckled. “Nope. I just said it wasn’t my idea. I’m not saying that I didn’t end up agreeing with it.”

“I never trusted her,” I said.

“Your mother?”

“The therapist.”

“I’m not sure I did, either.”

“She was nice enough, but I didn’t know what I was supposed to tell her.”

My father processed that idea for a moment. “I think you were supposed to tell her whatever you wanted to tell her. Your mom and I were just worried about you. For a long time we thought that we’d done something wrong.”

“You didn’t,” I said.

“We didn’t know that,” he said. “At least, we didn’t know it for a long time.”

“I’ve never blamed anyone for anything,” I said. “I just get nervous sometimes. Especially when there are a lot of people around. And I’ve never gotten used to strangers.”

“You afraid you’ll not hit the mark with anyone?” he asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “Peggy always said I was just born afraid.”

“Peggy was a good woman,” he said.

I thought about Peggy then. A few days before she left, we were lying in bed and listening to a light rain. “Things are going to be so much different,” she said. “Things are always different,” I said. She turned onto her side and stared at me. “What does that mean?” “Nothing,” I said.

My father shifted in his seat. “You still have that notebook?”

I handed the Rhodia to him.

“You write anything?” He leafed through some pages.

“Not much of a writer,” I said. “That’s another thing I had to do with that therapist—write things. She thought it would help me express my thoughts.”

“Did it?”

“Nope. But I made up a lot of stuff just to keep her happy.”

“There’s a lot of stuff in here,” he said. “Ophelia seems to have found a way to get people talking about things.” He read something, then he cleared his throat. “Here—Ophelia wrote this, too.” He handed me the notebook. “Read this.” He touched his finger on a short paragraph.

From Thoreau’s On Walden Pond

I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows.

“What do you think?” my father asked.

“Ophelia sounds lonely,” I said.

“That’s not Ophelia writing,” he said, “it’s Thoreau.”

“Still, Ophelia put it in here. It must have meant something to her.”

“Maybe,” my father said. “But if that’s what she believes, she’s not saying that she is lonely. She’s saying that it’s okay to be alone—that it is not the same as loneliness. And maybe a person can feel very lonely even when there’s a crowd of people around.”

“Maybe I should re-read it,” I said. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

My father stood up and stretched in the aisle. “I’ll be back. I’m going to go refill my flask.” He patted the pocket of his shirt.

“They don’t sell that on the train,” I said.

“I was a Boy Scout,” he said, “and I was prepared. I’ve got a half gallon of the stuff in your brother’s duffle bag. I just have to find your brother.”

When he was gone, I looked through the notebook and saw that though many of the passages were in different colors of ink and had been signed by different people, the penmanship was similar to Ophelia’s. The train lurched, and it seemed we had begun to move. Soon enough, though, we were motionless again, and I set off to find my father.