Carol: A Brett Mccarley Locomotive Engineer Story
Shelley Alongi

 

Friday night, a storm looming over the horizon, 6:00 Pm, Brett's train was late, his eyes ached, his throat hurt, and now he looked out the window at a dreary sky as the dispatcher with the gravelly, low voice eased train traffic through signals that needed to be reset, reworked. While engineers all up and down the commuter and freight systems whimpered and prayed for signals, Brett sat back and closed his eyes, wishing he were home with a towel and a pillow, stretched out on his couch. He sipped from his mug of hot, Gypsy Cold Care tea and cleared his sinuses, and waited. The local freight, the one they met every day on its way to the pass would come this way shortly. They had been switched to a siding, an event not so extraordinary, really, but tonight the wait was interminable. On the main line, three late commuter trains stretched behind him, two in front. He glanced down at the delicate hands of his gold watch, the one Carol had bought him last Christmas. Carol, there was an enigma rapped in a riddle or something like that, the train engineer thought, fuzzy from the cold and his long ago forgetting of the historical situation that had spawned that particular person or phrase. He looked up as the hydraulic hiss of the door behind him slid open and his conductor popped in, energetic, flopping down on a seat across from Brett.

"You alright?"

Brett grunted, putting away his Kleenex. He motioned toward the door in the nose of the cab and Alex nodded.

"Go ahead. We're sitting here a while i guess."

"yeah we are," Brett sighed, getting up and easing his way to the cab's restroom. He had to do something with all the tea he was consuming to make his throat last through the arduous two and a half hour run. If that storm broke it might be longer, especially if they had to wait for track inspections. Track inspections and rules that needed even more attention with signal problems along his railroad. He sighed as his bladder emptied and he coughed a cough that felt like razor blades cutting a raw throat. Well, he resigned himself to the reality of his chosen profession, just take a number Brett and keep that tissue box handy.

He reemerged, took his place on the leather seat in front of the desk top that served as his control panel and eyed the screen.

"Nothing new," Alex informed him. "Hang in there, man, we're almost home."

"I know," Brett murmured with resignation. �We�ll get there eventually.� He started as a sudden blast of wind and rain slammed against the windshield. He shivered from discomfort and sighed. "Tonight just feels way too long."

"Yeah it's way too long alright," Alex informed him as the long awaited freight train with local markings whizzed past them on the main track. "You've got that right."

"Girl trouble?"

Brett didn't want to talk too much but he didn't want to ignore his conductor.

"Same one," Alex confirmed. He watched the freight train's lights pass away from them, growing smaller in the distance, the throbbing of its seven EMD locomotives fading. The hiss and groan of Brett's train filled the silence, the crackle of the dispatcher�s voice resonated through the cab.

"Commuter 901 proceed on a flashing yellow.

"Ok," Brett said hurriedly, pushing the off button on the microphone so he could sneeze into a hand holding tissue. "Sorry," he murmured into the radio. "got it. 901 out.�

"You okay?" someone transmitted. "901 are you ok?"

"Engineer has a cold," someone informed the concerned engineer on another train.

"Yeah," another voice piped in. "Get home 901."

"Wish I could," sighed 901's engineer.

The air waves fell silent. Brett looked out the window. A thin layer of mist covered the front shield, visibility already in question due to the tenting of the locomotive windows now even more obscured. He sighed, resigned to his temporary benching. It gave him more time to think about Carol. He rubbed his forehead and sniffled. There wasn�t anything he could do now but wait. He wondered what Debby�s text had been, it was brief, the one he read in Burbank. It said Carol was in trouble, in pain, they were watching her. It said don�t� worry, Dad, we just wanted you to know. Then there was no text after that, or Brett hadn�t gotten it. He had slept that afternoon, the second day of feeling under the weather, more tired than yesterday. He gave himself enough time to get a hot shower, maybe that would help his head, and then he took a cab back to the station and caught the train back to Los Angeles. On the trip to Los Angeles, Andrew the lounge car attendant had been the only one to recognize him. They nodded in mutual greeting and Brett took his usual spot and looked quietly out the window, sipping tea, saving his voice for the signal calling duties required of him. He fingered the cough drops in his pants pocket. He loved running trains, it was why he functioned like this on such a day. But the texts bothered him a little. Carol was always having trouble. He waited for an update but one never came. Stepping off the train in Los Angeles he went to confer with his conductor, learning of the signal fiasco. He knew it would be a long night and he mentally prepared for it. He climbed up into the engine, turning his phone to see another text. It was from Laurie. �Good luck running your train. You�re the best.� He smiled. He did like her. She always made him smile. Tonight with the cold and the worries about Carol, if Brett admitted it to himself, he liked her because she always sent such gentle messages to him. She never seemed down or worried or burdened, only happy to see him. He shut off his phone and sat down at his post.

Now Brett looked up, the radio was squalking. Train number one was on the approach to the station. Thank God. There were two more to go. He looked at his watch again. 6:35. He leaned his head against his seat and gently eased his congestion into tissue. It helped ease the painful cough. He reached into a side pocket of his railroad grip, his fingers touching the tablets that would ease his throbbing temples. He sighed, swallowing them, knowing they would ease the dripping and the persistent pressure behind his eyes. The nondrowsy tablets wouldn�t give him his voice back. He needed tea for that.

Train number two went into the station. He looked over at a calendar on the seat next to him. He had a test next week. The new company hiring the engineers was re testing. He shuddered inside and not because of his cold.

�Commuter 901.�

He popped to attention, listening.

"901," said the dispatcher. "you're next into the station. Thanks for your patience. Take care of yourself. out."

The air hissed as Brett released the brake and slid his passenger cars on the approach to the station.

2

"Hi, dad."

Twenty-three-year-old Debby McCarley, medium height, her red hair up in a bun, her small fresh face weary in the late evening looked at her father's red eyes as he dropped onto the couch.
"Long week," he let out a weary sigh, rubbed his eyes. "Can you hand me that bottle? I'm sorry, honey, I'm just tired today."

She came over and sat down next to him. He reached out and took the tablets out of her hand and swallowed them, waiting for relief. He leaned back and closed his eyes against the curtain of exhaustion that hazed his surroundings. Debby, as she had done as a child, reached for her father's hand and looked at his watch. It was 10:00 pm.

"Did you get my text? You got it?"

"I got it," Brett choked through a throat still sore. "I couldn't answer. I slept late. I was almost late."

"I know. I know you've been sick and you're determined to do this run even on the worst of days. I know you couldn�t call last night. Everything is under control, as much as it can be.� "

Now he sighed this time not from the cold but from the continual problem he had married twenty-five years ago this February. It was going to be a long weekend.

"I know you're tired, dad," she said now, breaking into his troubled thoughts, ". "Mom is in critical care."

Saturday afternoon, a cool one with dreary skies and light drizzle, Brett rested in his recliner, hot tea and water sustaining him. Maybe it was the cool hand of his daughter on his brow that he remembered. Because of his cold and Carol�s fragile state, Brett was not able to visit his wife in the hospital. Her condition it seemed was not good on any front, psychological or physical. The text message Brett had received while sitting on the hotel bed trying to wake up in Burbank on Thursday said she had gone to the hospital with angina. The brief message on Friday said the heart attack put her in that night. But she had been troubled and was scheduled for psychological evaluation after she was taken out of critical care, if she came out at all. Brett, surrendered to his discomfort, craved sleep, a state that helped him to feel better, if anything could.

"She�s hearing voices again,� Debby had told him on Friday night, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead, removing his glasses. She had helped him to the recliner. �Probably isn't taking her meds.�

Brett nodded. He lay back, trying not to worry about Carol. It wouldn�t help. They had been through this how many times?

"Mom loves you.� Debby was talking to him. �Somehow," she "She always talks about you. She talks to you, she swears you answer back."

"What does she say?" Brett asked, his throat temporarily soothed by something Debby gave him, put between his lips. Brett wondered through his fever if Debby's eyes filled with tears. Maybe he was just sick and was dreaming. He took a rag Debby gave him and wiped his hands. He reached out and touched her arm with his fingers. He didn't want to get her sick, but he wanted to know.

"Something about a train and it was okay and something. I don�t' know. Like maybe she was talking about a wedding. Like maybe,: Debby stopped, not sure she wanted to go on.

Brett adjusted his head so it was more comfortable on the pillow.

�It was something about another wedding. Like she was sorry. Not sure."

:I see,� Brett said quietly. Pain not related to his indisposition flickered in his old, brown eyes, maybe, thought his daughter, as if her words had triggered a memory. �Is that all she said?�

�She asked you if you loved her. She said she was sorry. It was kind of strange.�

�I see,� Brett repeated again. �Ok.�

Debby watched him as he closed his eyes and relaxed. The medicine he had taken was the drowsy kind and now he grew somnolent, his congestion eased and his hands curled into fists. His breathing eased and the sick engineer slept.

Debby sighed. Brett had not been dreaming. Her eyes had filled with tears, because of what she didn't tell her father. Maybe her father had already known and there was no need to tell him. His head fell quiet against this body eased of its aches and pains, the fever left him, he sweated and Debby wiped his face, careful not to wake him. He was a good man burdened by a railroad marriage, a wife whose own psychological and physical health was in question sometimes. Brett turned, restless, momentarily disturbed by some unknown thing. Debby laid her hand gently on his shoulder, soothed his disturbed sleep. Her hand stayed there assuring that he did not waken. Returned to easiness, finally quiet, he spent the rest of a cool afternoon in his recliner. Watching him, Debby still had to wonder if he really did know what Carol had revealed in her rambling talk the night before.

 

 

Copyright © 2010 Shelley Alongi
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"