Spectre

“Excuse me sir, do you mind if we share this cabin with you?”

So stood a woman at my compartment door, holding the hand of a tousled brown-haired boy. He stared so blankly straight at my face, in the typical innocent and bold tendencies of children.

“There seems to be a mix up with our tickets… we’re four doors down and the attendant claims another family reserved ours, from the last stop. My husband is currently figuring it out,” she added, as though somehow this obligates me to disturb my quaint and deliberately reserved room of one for our long voyage toward New York.

Alas, she would be right, though I never inquired why she didn’t bother any of the doors between us. I later concluded it was due to my door being unable to shut properly, leaving a three inch gap, which, to her, may have suggested I was amenable to visitors. A complaint should’ve been well in order despite knowing nothing would come of it, to at least see what the attendants and their solutions could cook up with, but I was too relieved to finally settle in, to sink into the scarce padded cushioning. Paranoia always strangled me between transfers, whether of muggings or missed departures, so indifference prevailed in my rejuvenation.

“Please, please, come in!” I feigned in a hospitality beaten into me since I was a schoolboy, and I wouldn’t be lying if I didn’t find some joy in her relief, holding a poised hand below her collarbone and a timid nod to flash smile clearly practiced in some etiquette school.

“Thank you, thank you!” she resounded, and bent down to instruct her child, “come, the nice man is giving us a place to sit, say thank you.”

“Thank you,” the child repeated, now staring up at the light fixtures absent mindedly.

She picked him up by the armpits and placed him near the window to which he glued upon the passing scenery. She then took careful efforts to sit beside him, gently scooting along to not tear her dress. I was prepared, by this point, to return to my book, but I could detect the mixture of discomfort and mild guilt radiating silently across the table. So, in order to assuage her anxiety, I was fated to play along my hospitality more.

“So, what brings such a young family to New York?” I inquired, pushing my novel away and following the boy’s lead, looking at the passing cows.

“My husband has a job waiting for him there. With a bump in pay we could start saving for his college,” she said, also following the boy’s lead and staring at the passing cows, holding her chin up with one hand and elbow on the table.

“Well, that’s certainly commendable! Though…” and it was at this point I caught myself, avoiding a depressing side tangent on the futilities of college. Trying to substitute for a positive statement proved especially difficult, and then I remembered that I may not, in fact, be capable at all of playing an affable host.

“Though what?” she asked, turning her head toward me, and I could only wonder where all her previous guilt and anxiety went. It was then I gave up on any cunning and talked as I would, feeling an angsty retribution that, seeing this was a compartment I paid for, I am entitled not to be so censored.

“Oh, nothing, just colleges are awfully up in the air nowadays, perhaps,” I admitted, and she removed her elbow and leaned back into the cushion.

“It is all up in the air, isn’t it?” she affirmed, “I do worry about his future, but there’s nothing wrong with starting a fund. Maybe he’ll find himself more like his father in another blue-collar,” she added, and I found myself relieved that my observations weren’t berated.

“Precisely, precisely. You seem to be well aware of the current trends!” I declared, and she giggled at my enthusiasm.

“Oh, I suppose I am. You seem to be quite aware yourself! What brings you to New York, sir?”

Living as a private man so this question was something I’d dread the most, and unfortunately my hospitality role inadvertently prompted it. Sitting there in a still-frame I only wished I never asked her anything, partly because I know this back and forth is but an idle exchange, and I do not like giving up my life or its details on some altar of small talk sacrifice. I refuse it entirely, partly due to my tendency to overshare, or to lose my topics between each tangent turned diatribe, and, ultimately, the deep embarrassment when I am brought to senses, when I am reminded they didn’t ask for any of this. Beyond two sentences.

I envisioned her leaving the compartment in thirty minutes time, which helped ground my response to its proper caliber: a trifling matter.

“Well, it seems your husband and I share the same reason. Off to a new job myself,” I answered, feeling satisfied by the brevity.

“Oh, what’s the job? Maybe you both will work at the same place,” she suggested and, although entirely innocuous, still suffocating.

“Ah, well, I’ll be working in Manhattan amongst the financiers,” I surrendered, seeing as there was no way to dodge the question. I imagine everyone feels a slight embarrassment disclosing their current profession, even if it may not be the case. In this hypothetical majority, I was no different.

“Hmmm, my husband has something lined up as an electrician, so maybe you’ll bump heads if there’s an issue in your building,” she satisfactorily weaved together, and I obliged with a chuckle.

“You know, it’s so strange, your response on the college fund,” she followed up.

“Why is that?” I replied, finding relief that I don’t have to come up with another question.

“I’ve only met one other person before who didn’t care much for college. Everyone else I talked to was always enthusiastic about it, beyond that one person. It bothered me at the time, and I’m glad I didn’t listen to them seeing as I met my husband through the college town. But you reminded me of that, however long ago.”

She stared out again at the window, a little absently. I wasn’t sure if it was my place to probe further, but seeing as I was completely starved of any other conversational thread, I felt there was no other choice.

“Well, I’m glad there are more out there who share my opinion. Where is that person now, out of curiosity?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, “and in fact I don’t even know who they are.”

It was by this point I was feeling a little uneasy, as though I was encroaching on a dark reality, so I searched for ways to veer the conversation elsewhere, or for excuses to leave the compartment and they can have it instead. But she continued.

“You see, long ago I had a little blog, detailing whatever fancied me. I would write about how I made hummus today, how I’m doing in my classes, my opinions on Victorian times. I enjoyed seeing my blog grow and grow, and would surprise myself reading past entries. How I different I wrote a few months ago!”

“I left an email for anyone to reach out, whether they had corrections or additions however. I must confess, it wouldn’t be ridiculous to also reason that, by revealing this part of me, maybe someone would be interested in the more real aspects of me. Who I really was. Because, in a way, the blog held the parts of me no one in my life ever bothered to know.”

She got out of her trance and realized what she was doing, almost abhorred with herself and scurried to say, “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to bore you with these details! Sometimes I get lost in these things,” she murmured dejectedly.

“Who doesn’t love some Victorian history!” I encouraged, indicating I was listening with interest.

“So did this person reach out to you through email?” I then obliged, seeing myself condemned. She hesitated, but I gave a nod and gestured with my hands for her to continue.

“Well, yes, they reached out to suggest a correction on one of my Victorian entries. I mixed up the dates, I think. They added a few complimentary remarks, maybe to soften the correction, and to their credit it did, and I replied to that and they would reply back and I was surprised to find myself in this exchange all spawned from a simple correction. And, as you now know, it was here my confidante also suggested the unreliability of college; that it wouldn’t be too late for me to drop out, if I so pleased, to avoid the debt at least.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound quite realistic either, does it?” I added, “Seeing as there aren’t many lucrative alternative paths for young women such as yourself, in this day and age.”

“Exactly! I informed my confidante the same way…” she trailed, staring down at the table, most likely replaying the last few mails in her mind.

“Well, how did it end then?” I inquired, feeling relieved there wasn’t anything too dark about it after all.

“Well, after I informed him I was a woman, he sent me a convoluted email apology. I thought it was obvious from my blogs that I was likely a woman, but leafing through them upon reflection — and when he first reached out to me — maybe it wasn’t that obvious to someone who isn’t familiar with how men and women write.”

At once I broke out in cold sweats.

“Perhaps he was too fixated on corrections to take an honest account of who was behind the posts, I don’t know. Whatever it was, he was too embarrassed and felt wrong, felt like this was encroachment, a betrayal. He declared he couldn’t continue the correspondence.”

It can’t be, I thought.

“That was it. I tried to convince him that men and women can be friends, that he did nothing wrong, but I never heard from him again.”

She looked up at me and shrugged, though it seemed like she was shrugging away a feeling too. And she especially popped against the ragged cushion velvet, her shoulders slumped and seemingly relaxed after enough conversation, her locks gently lain and slightly tousled the same as her toddler.

Surely she couldn’t be the same woman I emailed so many years ago.

“Well, perhaps it wasn’t meant to be then, was it?” I stammered. “Out of curiosity, how long did this correspondence last?”

“Oh, it was a few months, over a fall semester. It had to be in the later half of the year, as they were quite insistent to always make a celebration of the holidays. That we must fight for any ounce of happiness if we are to have it,” she reflected, looking at her child with a smile.

I kept myself composed even if my feet started tapping anxiously.

“Well, it didn’t seem like he fought much, did he?” I chuckled, wiping my hands on my trousers. She laughed with me.

“Maybe so,” she sighed, still smiling.

“Did you ever want to hear anything from him, after the last email?” I prompted, realizing that she would never recognize me.

“Oh, I can’t think of anything. Sometimes I wonder what would’ve happened if we continued mailing, whatever his reasons were. But I don’t think there’s anything more to say,” she concluded. The toddler tugged on her sleeve, pointing to the field of horses galloping. I followed along, wondering where they were running toward.

We heard steps approaching and with three raps upon the compartment door so her burly husband slid it open.

“The attendants themselves aren’t sure what to do, even though I showed the receipts!” he confessed, evidently frustrated. Immediately he took the open strip of seat next to me.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

It was at this point the woman turned to me, as though I would have the answer. And, alas, I unfortunately did.

“Fret not, good sir, you are all the welcome to sit here,” and he had a big smile and grabbed my sweaty hand and shook it violently.

“That’s fantastic! Thank you! I’ll go tell the attendants,” and he bolted away.

“Thank you,” the woman followed, and even if I felt vaguely manipulated, so again seeing her bow her head with a flash smile I couldn’t be all that angry.

The rest of the travel went along without a hitch. I inquired more about how they met, how it is to work as a electrician. The boy, you could be certain, stared out from the window, enthralled by the American plains.

We got off the train, and the man scribbled a phone number, assuring that if I ever had any wiring trouble he’d help at no cost. The woman was busy with the child and doublechecking all of their luggage was together.

They gave a few more thanks, and we bid farewell, and I pocketed the number even if I debated throwing it away.

By the time I arrived to my arranged apartment leasing, all furnished, so I sat down and doubted it happened at all. I opened up my email archive and located the draft I wrote however many years ago, some few months after, right when I broke it off with a woman I was seeing. Reading through it I could feel the tepid excitement and recalled fondly how much I enjoyed sending these letters. It never was an effort. Reading through her three mails sent after my apology pained me all the same.

Before I lost myself more in a past severed, so I deleted the draft and, with enough Scotch, deleted the rest of the correspondence too.