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But to return…

After obtaining his ticket, pocketing it with that old man’s whole-hand-into-the-pocket gesture, and picking up the small bag, Alfred shuffles heavily a few feet from the ticket window to a bench which faces the gate to Track 2 and the clock over it. The station is empty except for Alfred and the Stationmaster. A couple ceiling lamps glow dully. A bare bulb umbrella’d by a green metal shade brightens harshly the Stationmaster’s small office. The station smells of musty wood.

Alfred puts his bag on the bench and sits down beside it. As he sits, he sighs, as though the mere act of sitting is an awful strain on him. Once seated, he sighs again and gazes straight ahead of him at the Track 2 gate, his cap in his lap.

Behind him, the Stationmaster writes something in a large elongated ledger, and as he does so, glances up at the clock over the Track 2 gate. 9:29. “Nice evenin’,” he says.

“Yep, nice enough at that,” says Alfred. “May rain tomorra.”

“Low pressure area movin’ in, I hear tell.”

“Yep, Good for the crops, though,” says Alfred.

“Been doin’ much fishin’ lately?”

“Nope, I ain’t. Been too blamed hot for fishin’.”

“What d’ye catch mostly?”

“Oh, smallmouth. Bluegills.” All the while, Alfred continues to stare at the gate to Track 2, sitting slumped and expressionless, his cap in his lap.

“Oh, that so? Fish for bluegill, do ye?”

“Yep,” says Alfred. “They’re small, but they make good eatin’.”

“Yep, so they do. Well. And how’s the family?”

“Cain’t complain. Wife’s been a bit poorly, but she’s gittin’ on better, now the summer’s come on.”

“Oh? Ain’t been nothin’ serious, I hope.”

“Nope,” says Alfred. “Jist female troubles.”

“Them’s pretty fine lookin’ vittles,” the Stationmaster continues, his voice pitched slightly louder. “Your wife put ‘em up for ye?”

Alfred fumbles nervously in his bag, produces a greasy brown paper sack. From it, he now draws an apple, an egg, a jackknife, and a small chicken leg wrapped in wax paper. He puts the apple, the knife, and the egg in his upturned cap, drops the paper sack beside the bag, and unwraps the chicken. It has already been partly eaten. His hands are trembling. “Yep,” he says faintly. “She’s one good cook.” He hesitates, then bites resolutely into the chicken.

“That’s a lucky man who’s got him a good woman and good food and good work,” the Stationmaster says.

Alfred tears off a bite of chicken leg and chews it slowly, absently. So far, he has not veered his gaze from the gate to Track 2. The clock above it reads 9:33. He stops chewing, opens his mouth as though to speak, but does not.

The Stationmaster looks up at him through the ticket window. After a moment, he says: “And a…”

“And a…” says Alfred, his mouth still full of half-chewed chicken leg. But his eyes are puzzled and he does not continue.

“And a good…”

“And a good wife!” cries Alfred. Both men laugh. Alfred re turns to his chewing. “Well, it looks like the old 10:18 will be in on time tonight,” says the Stationmaster, returning to his ledger.

“Good,” replies Alfred. “Good. Don’t wanna git home late. Not on a Sattiday night.” He wraps the leg of chicken in the wrinkled wax paper, returns it to the paper sack, along with the apple and the egg. The apple has a few bites taken from it and the cavities have turned brown. It has been a long time since the apple has been tried. The egg is still whole. He reopens the canvas bag on the bench beside him, peers inside, stuffs the paper sack back into it, closes the bag. He sighs. Then he notices the jacknife still in the cap in his lap. He stares sullenly at it. Then, suddenly, as though terrified, he grabs up the knife, reopens the bag, thrusts the knife inside, snaps the bag shut. Visibly shaken, he sits back and, staring once more at the Track 2 gate, continues to chew mechanically on his unswallowed bite of chicken leg.

Both men are silent for a while. The Stationmaster, finally, closes his ledger, squints up at the clock. 9:42. “How’s the tomaters doin’ this year?” he asks.

“Aw, well as kin be expected. Need a—look!” Alfred spins suddenly around to confront the Stationmaster, his pale blue eyes damp as though with tears. “Don’t ye think this time I could—?”

“Need a little…,” intones the Stationmaster softly, firmly.

Alfred sighs, turns back toward the gate, works his jaws over the chicken. “Need a little rain,” he says glumly. “Whole area could use some rain,” responds the Stationmaster. Just then, at 9:44, the door of the station bangs open and a man stumbles in. He is tall and thin with uncombed dark hair, a couple days’ growth of beard. Khaki pants, gray undershirt, tennis shoes, the laces broken and reknotted. He introduces with him a large odor of stale alcohol, and his eyes, though blue and as if thoughtful, focus on no fixed thing. He lurches for a bench, misses, smashes up against a wall. Leaning there, he breathes deeply, his eyes rolling back.

Alfred, all the while, is watching him. His face has blanched, his hands quaver. The Stationmaster is watching Alfred.

“Belovéd!” cries the intruder, grinning foolishly, heaving himself away from the wall. He weaves. “The su’jeck f’my dishcoursh is…” He slams back against the wall again, gasping brokenly. Alfred watches, paralyzed. “The su’jeck… the su’jeck… aw, fuck it!” and the man careens away from the wall, collapses over the back of the bench nearest him.

Alfred glances anxiously at the Stationmaster, who is still observing him calmly, back at the tall man folded over the bench, up at the clock (9:54), back at the man.

The stranger slowly lifts his head, braces himself half-erect with his hands against the bench, looks toward Alfred, but blearily, without focus. “Our father,” he cries out, then sucks the spittle off his lips and swallows it, “our father whish art ‘n heaven… ‘n heaven… is eating hish own goddamn chil’ren!” And, staring down appalled at the bench under him, the man vomits all over it, rolls off to the floor, lies there with his hands over his face.

Alfred, chewing frantically, fumbles with the bag, looks up at the clock. 10:01.

The man on the floor shudders, then with great effort pulls himself to his feet. His eyes cross and a string of vomit drips from his mouth. He wipes his mouth, then drops his hands limply to his sides. He twitches as though with unresolved retchings. His face is white. The stubble on his chin glistens. He takes an uncertain step toward Alfred, pauses, takes another. Alfred unsnaps the Hag. “So help me!” cries the tall man, focusing that instant on Alfred — then he reels, his eyes rolling back, and topples over toward Alfred. Alfred drops the bag, reaches out, catches the man in his fall, eases him to his back on the floor. In the excitement, he has unwittingly swallowed the bite of chickenleg. He looks guiltily at his own hands, then down at his feet. His lower lip is trembling.

“Alfred!” scolds the Stationmaster. “Alfred! Shame, shame!

There are tears in Alfred’s eyes. He turns his head upward toward the clock, brushes the tears aside. 10:13. He utters a short pained cry, grabs up the canvas bag, scratches desperately through it. He tears out the paper sack, pokes inside it, pitches it away. Again he searches through the canvas bag, draws out the jackknife, throws the bag away, crouches over the fallen man. 10:14.

“Well?” demands the Stationmastcr harshly. “Well, Alfred?”