Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Potato Soup Journal, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Club Plum. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.

Lost Time 

            I pierced the aisle in search of a seat I liked but only looked left, preferring a mountain view over meadows, and slotted an optimum spot snugged against the window. The train lurched, then inched, then smoothed to a steady roll. And that’s when my mother found me. She said the forward car, four cars up from their compartment, was too far forward. “Besides, your father wants to speak with you.” And that pretty much ended the conversation. 

            He sat facing where he’d been, dark suit, hair slicked back with a stiff shine – almost my dad but more like a distant relative I’d heard about, but never met. After a brief display of paternal concern, I asked to be excused. I didn’t know where we were going, but I knew this: it had something to do with my father. 

            The forward car had filled with bow ties and briefcases, and my presence, if not accepted, was at least tolerated. I reached my row to find someone sitting in the aisle seat; undeterred, I squeezed past to reclaim my spot by the window. Before long he introduced himself, but I knew better than to respond, even when he asked where I was going. “It’s okay,” he said. “I get it. My name’s Clevenger. Me, I’m heading up to Denver. Business trip.” 

            I’d heard my parents mention Denver and before I could stop myself, I asked if that’s where we were going. 

            “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but that’s where I’m going.” He asked where my folks were and I answered with something I had no business talking about, especially with a stranger: “My dad’s sick. It’s supposed to be a secret, but I heard them talking.” And with this, a hidden truth became less hidden: “He looks different.”          

            Clevenger contemplated, then voiced his conclusion: “You must be going to Denver to see a doctor.” I shrugged. “If I’d known my dad was sick,” he said, “I’d have spent a lot more time talking to him.” These proved to be our last words and I let them steep, along with thoughts of my dad sitting in alone in a quiet compartment. When I scootched to the aisle, Clevenger nodded his approval but didn’t say anything. And neither did I. 

            I found the compartment but didn’t go in, not right away. Dad sat in the same spot, still staring backward out the window – where he’d been was all he had. He became aware of my presence and greeted me with a familiar smile, one I hadn’t seen in a long time. We talked at length that morning, he told me things I couldn’t comprehend but would come to accept, then he said he always liked trains – “You ever need to find me, that’s where you should look.”  

*** 

            We eased into the station and everyone stood, everyone but me. The conductor called my name, pulling me to the present, and commented on how quiet I’d been. “I believe we’re at your stop,” he said. “We’ve got to keep schedule, else we’ll spend the rest of the run making up lost time.”      

            I knew all about it. I threaded my fingers through the handle of my briefcase and walked toward the door but stopped before I got there. A busy day awaited but it could wait a bit longer. I took a seat by the window, facing where I’d been. The train lurched, then inched, then smoothed to a steady roll. And I went to find my father.