Quiet Love: A Brett Mccarley Locomotive Engineer Story
Shelley J Alongi

 

1

Brett McCarley, locomotive engineer, stood framed against the plate glass window that was half the wall of the master bedroom. His burning forehead sought the cool glass, rested against it, his cheek leaning on the moist condensation that was the stormy night outside. He leaned against the frame, his chest tight, the wheezing breaths forming little warm drops where his lips exhaled. The breathing treatments were working though he hardly remembered them, his brown fevered gaze saw nothing and yet sensed the rain poring out the window. The coolness of the window comforted him; he could hardly remember the last few days, something about going to urgent care and did he want to go to the hospital, no, Laurie was going to take him home and care for him, did she know how to administer the breathing treatments? Brett�s ragged sharp cough tore from his lungs, stirring his medium built, slightly overweight lethargic figure into awareness; why he was up he did not know. All he sensed was that he was hot and so exhausted he wondered where he was, what was his name? Brett, that was his name. A vague memory pushed its way through his fogged consciousness, something about Kim and holding the phone, sitting up at 3:00 in the morning when he would be rubbing his eyes, coaxing himself out of bed to get ready for his commute to run his train, somewhere. A train? Was he supposed to run a train? Was he late? A flash lit up the sky, temporarily turning the slightly dark room into daylight. The light startled Brett into movement, he placed his right hand over his eyes, groaned, feverish, hot, weakly seeking some kind of gentle relief.

I�m late.� The thought rattled around in the back of a dully aching grayish red head. He shivered. Something brushed his shoulder, something cool touched his cheek. He coughed uncontrollably, caught his breath, wheezing, dropping his head against the window, grateful for the returning darkness, suddenly cold, wet.

�Brett,� a gentle voice called his name, wiped his face, eased up beside him. �What are you doing out of bed honey? Your fever is breaking. You�re not late. You�ve been in bed for two days, sick, really sick my love.� A gentle hand slid slender fingers through Brett�s left hand, the hand that confidently controlled that throttle, that gentle hand now lying cool on the window sill. Did his hand move slightly to accommodate her fingers? She thought so. He sighed wearily, lethargic against the full glass, staring two stories down into the rose garden that she tended with such care.

�Not late,� he moaned. �Yeah.�

�Not late, sweetie. Come on. Why are you up baby? Were you looking for something? Are you hungry? No?� She responded to the shaking of his head. �Thirsty yeah?� she smoothed her fingers across the hair tufts on his knuckles, picked up his hand, drew it to her lips, laid it across her breast. A third, deep, painful rattling cough stabbed from his lungs. The woman left his side and took a pitcher on the nightstand, filling a glass with the cool liquid and returned to him. gently leaned in and brought a cool rag across his forehead, pushing a wavy lock of grayish red hair back. sweaty. He shivered again and then pushed himself away from the window, standing to his five foot eight height, his now clear brown eyes seeking the gentle voice and cool hands.

�Baby,� he said, as she held out the glass to him. He took it from her, gently squeezing the hand that held his, his fingers curled around her�s. She gently removed her hand making sure he held the glass securely. He put it to his lips, half sighed and groaned as the cool water eased his overwhelming thirst. She leaned in and put her arm about him, gently smiling up at him.

�Come,� she whispered. �Come. Let�s get you back to bed. Go clear your head. Does it hurt?�

�Yeah.�

�I bet it does, baby. You look a little bit better. Oh, Brett,� she sighed, tears springing to the young woman�s eyes. She lifted one hand to his head. �Where?� He put her hand across his forehead, over his eyes. �Here.� She eased her hand across his forehead, gently massaged it. �Does this help?� �Yeah, I thin so. I don�t� know.� His voice dropped, weary, his last word holding a hint of greatfulness. Even when he was sick, she thought, he was nice. �You look so tired. So very weary. But you�re not late my love. You�re not late.�

2

The engineer lay on his left side, his right hand near his mouth, his fingers feeling the warm breath that came more easily now. Covered snuggly in the fleece blanket, his head comforted, the pain relieved by a cool towel, eased onto the soft white pillow, his aching body cocooned against cotton sheets, his cough gently quieted by medicine, his fever broken. The man in his early fifties craved sleep; he moaned in easing relief. His quiet bearded face paled now, the flush of fever no longer lay on it. His gentle brown eyes closed, his mouth curved into a slight smile in marked contrast from the pinched sick expression, the pain, discomfort that had plagued him since that night he climbed down from the locomotive cab and barely drove himself home before collapsing into his recliner and forgetting everything. Now he suddenly caught his breath and cough harshly into his pillow, his hands comforting his aching ribs, his eyes fluttering open, his healing sleep disturbed. A wrestling came to him, a hand on his forehead, he turned his head and now opened those gentle brown eyes. He moaned absently. One who had risen early his entire life to haul passengers and freight now curled up protectively against the cough and the ache and the lethargy. He moved his head slightly caught the gaze of the woman who stood over him

�Laurie,� he breathed gently.

�Hello, baby.� Her hand strayed kindly to his on the coverlet, he slipped her fingers through his; his work-hardened fingers squeezed her�s. He sighed.

�I love you,� she said, easing his hair back from his forehead with her free hand. Her hand strayed to the moustache, the long beard that now was ragged, disheveled, her fingers tracing his lips. They responded to her fingers gently kissing the kind hand that worked so hard to ease him, that patiently bathed his face, brought him water, wiped his mouth when he was too sick to make it to anything but the bucket she held for him. It was part of the numonia they said, this nausea. . She let her hand drop to the pillow, pushed the edge of the blanket under his shoulder.

�Love you,� she said and leaned in and kissed his face.
  
�I know you do,� he whispered. His hand curled along the blankets, she touched it with her cool fingers. �Thank you,� he said and coughed again.

�I will be here if you need me,� she said. �Just go back to sleep.�

�Alright.�

His head sought the pillow, his eyes closed, he breathed more easily.

3

Brett had a good night. He woke early in the morning, perhaps it was 4:00 AM. No, it was 6:00 AM. He noticed a sudden lack of the headache, it seemed he could breathe, if he lay still he thought he didn�t cough so hard or so much. He stretched under the covers. He slid his arms out, felt the soft sheets under his fingers; out of the corner of one eye a gentle light seemed like a line across the table, it seemed he only saw one corner of the table. His hands reached out, no one lay beside him. He turned on his side, suddenly conscious that the movement did� take so much energy. He lifted a bedraggled head, he needed a shave, or at least a grooming; he opened his eyes, he could only see far enough to notice that the clock said 6:45. So what time was it anyway? How long had he been here? He didn�t know how many nights he had spent in high fever, sweating chills, coughing up his lungs, he coughed now but it wasn�t so hard, it didn�t taste awful.

�Brett,� someone called his name, he looked up, the movement effortless.

She smiled and said nothing. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes.

�How long have you been here?� he looked toward the blue that was his wife. Quietly Laurie slipped Brett�s glasses into his hand. He put them on, blinked, suddenly seeing his gentle, second wife. What a different experience this one was; in some kind of way he missed his first wife, she had died a year earlier, cancer, they said, sudden, dark, unremitting. The long marriage, struggling, sometimes good, annoying at times. This one, friendly, kind, she shared his bed, she never complained about his hours though she didn�t come from a railroading family. Maybe she had; someone far off had been a railroad engineer somewhere. But now he sat up quietly, gazing at his wife gently. He stretched his hand out on the blanket. She moved and took it, gently massaging it; loving him with her fingers. Had she not always loved him? The smile, the friendly wave, the first word, she had loved him. But he had been married then. She held back; she only became his friend; she said he was worth it. Now he coughed, interrupting his thoughts. She squeezed his left hand.

�I came in about an hour ago, baby,� she answered his question. �You were sleeping soundly; the first time in days. I didn�t want to disturb you. The doctor said you�re getting better; the antibiotic is working. Mike entered his car in the race; he took third place. You�ve been so sick,� she saw his face fall just a little, �you didn�t care. Debby has been here helping me keep house; caring for the animals; everything is in order. Just relax.�

He lay back, a little weary.

�I think I might want to eat,� he said, his voice low, tentative.

�You�re not feeling queasy?�

�Not now.�

�That infection makes you sick to your stomach, too, it�s a sign you�re getting better. Do you want something light? Probably like broth?�

�I�m not sure,� he said, his eyes taking on the quiet look he got when thinking. It was a sign he was getting better. He hadn�t been able to think since that night when he lay in his recliner whining that he didn�t feel good, not trying to stop his complaining. She knew he was serious. The cold he had caught two weeks earlier turned into this; he vomited sitting up in the chair, luckily she had a bucket near him, having enough experience with baby sitting to know anything was possible. That seemed to rouse him, the vomiting. By then his fever was high and she was wiping his face; putting him in the ca, sitting with him in the urgent care, taking him home putting him to bed, slipping the mask over his face to administer the medicine, giving him the three day treatment of the antibiotic used to treat bacterial pneumonia, easing his fever, trying to get him to take water, listening to him call Carol�s name, pushing his hair back, kissing his bearded face, easing him to sleep, straightening the blankets, listening to him whimper that he didn�t feel good. . Seeing him lying here, even thinking of food eased her heart.

�Am I a bad patient?� he now asked, smiling a little. �Was I terrible?�

�Sometimes,� she said honestly, �but you�re my Brett. My baby Brett. You�re sleepy now.�

�Yeah I think so,� he said suddenly weary. He turned on his side, curled up. She took his glasses, laid them on the night stand. She straightened the blankets over him. He coughed deeply into the pillow, more easily now, his breathing gentle. She stroked his face, his quiet, kind face.

4

Did Laurie hensen-McCarley remember when Brett wept for Carol on her shoulder, tears all through that gray beard, his steady sobbing, her arms about him, his head resting against a pillar where they sat watching trains. His collapse had been unexpected, triggered perhaps by some unknown memory, maybe the color of a woman�s dress as she passed the platform and turned her curious gaze to watch the two sitting quietly side by side. Laurie didn�t know what it had been, she only saw him suddenly put his hands over his eyes and sob, the tears unbidden. Her arms went about him, she stroked the head that now had fallen against the pillar, her hand caressed his neck, he had turned then, unashamedly placing his head on her breast.

�I�m so sorry,� he had sobbed like a repentant child. �I didn�t mean to. to.�

�Hush Brett,� she said, her comforting words unfamiliar to him, how could he have known her hart? An yet she knew that he did know it. He knew it like a man knows a woman�s feelings even if they go unspoken, unacknowledged. Yet he hadn�t turned away, he had accepted her invitation to sit with the group that usually watched the trains at night. Did he know he had always had a place in her heart? A place on this set of benches? Did he know that others watched for his train and now accepted him into their fraternity when he looked for solace in the thing that brought him pleasure? He could have gone so many places, he had so many connections, but now he came here and eagerly, she thought, sought comfort, reaped strength in her arms, arms that held him now, gently, that had longed to hold him for so long. His weeping eased but his head still pressed her pretty blue blouse, his cheek against the soft silk, his tears staining it, his hiccupping quieting. She stroked his back, she tentatively planted a kiss on his cheek, tasted his salty tears. He did not move away.

�Does it hurt so badly?� she whispered gently. �Is it so bad?�

�I�m sorry,� he said again more tentatively.

�Hush my sweet Brett,� her words were kind. �Just ease your pain here. Just relax. I know you were together a good amount of time.�

�Thirty years. So young.�

�So long.�

�Yeah.�

Grief stricken, suddenly, inexplicably, Brett had not moved away from the pillar or the woman who offered him solace. Humiliated maybe, embarrassed later, tonight, the pain aching like a heavy stone, he only sat here, eased, his tears dried by kind, gentle hands, hands that were an extension of the eyes that had looked up at him from below his locomotive window for months, years. She always just kept coming to him. Now he came to her and reaped strength, quiet strength, gentle solace, it was the kiss of healing.

�I didn�t know I missed her so much. She was,� his words seemed to ease him, �a trial sometimes. We were young. I was unaware that she was such a trouble.�

She didn�t move to stop him. �I was 27 when we married. She was thirty. It was natural. Her father wanted her married. I was willing. She became worse with age, more trouble, but by then there was Michael and Debbie and I wouldn�t leave her. What would I have done? I worked for the railroad. Anyone would have taken me I suppose. But it was complicated. We separated physically and kept our names the same and yet she was kind sometimes and I was happy for her kindness and her clear moments. But this, I didn�t know it would be so��

He couldn�t go on. He couldn�t find the words. He sat there now quiet, staring down the tracks as if waiting for something. Her hands gentled him. Her hands and her eyes loved that gentle face, the quiet face that smiled, grew thoughtful, pensive, unhappy, unsure, quiet. Now, suddenly, with the sound of rain clattering against the window outside and Brett�s quiet form settling into sleep, She longed to kiss that face. If she touched him he would waken. Given the restless nights that had just passed, she stemmed her desire and only looked down at him, the gentle eyes for once peaceful, not so haunted by illness. She knew he was getting better. She gently pulled a soft light blanket over him, draping it over the frame. He groaned, turned, his eyes fluttering. She didn�t move again till he lay against his pillow breathing quietly. She stood spent against their wooden frame, tears sprang to her eyes again. She did love him. She knew she was a later acquisition of someone who truly loved him, who took him for his flaws, who eased him during his illness instead of pushing him away. Now she took a spot next to their beautiful, high bed and watched him sleep. His gentle face outlined against a soft white pillow, smaller than it seemed in the large expanse of their communal resting place, its commodious dimensions giving him room to rest his weary body, now cool, now comforted by the cotton blankets, the white soft bedspread with flowered prints, leaves and vines spread across welcoming material. She leaned gently toward him and softly tucked the blankets around him. During his fever his chills had been frequent, bone-deep, he said, no covers had comforted him, but now normal temperature returning, sleep gently easing away the lines on his quiet face, the blankets eased about him, cocooned him, wished him well with their closeness. He did like t be covered up, and h didn�t seem to mind her gentle hands, her nursing, her love. If Brett had opened his eyes he would have seen the rose pattern on the pillow cases, but what he knew was that his sickness was eased by this comforting place, he would have known if he didn�t already that it was comfort and healing, something many said he deserved after a responsible life dealing with something less than domestic bliss. Now his hands spread quietly on the rose-patterned coverlet, the brown work-hardened fingers pressed against the cool linen sheet that breathed and cooled his exhausted frame. He was weary; she was weary of him being weary, only because he was so unhappy this way. She knew that when he was better he longed to be out on the rails. It was where she had met him, where she knew he should be. She will gentle sleep upon her gentle soul mate, she gazed down at him, watched him relax, gently rapped him in her love for him. The clock in the hallway ticked, quietly chimed, the big, sprawling house quieted, the running feet of children and adults temporarily absent from the wooden floors, the carpeted stairs. Mike would be at work, Debbie and her husband and their two children out somewhere. Now it was just the two of them. She picked up a magazine, it was almost time for them to return, but they would hopefully be quiet, not wake her darling.

She must have fallen asleep, now a hand, a cool hand caressed her curly black hair, a quiet hand, work-hardened, used to running those trains, hammering, confident with the feel of exposed engine parts, gently knowing every inch of her, only resting quietly knowing her hair.

�Are you a wake?�

His voice gently coaxed her from her lethargy, she opened her eyes to look quietly into his brown ones, quiet eyes that saw everything, a soul she had been convinced that knew everything, that saw into her deepest secrets. Now his hand moved, his head came closer, his lips touched her cheek, the bearded outlines of his mouth tickled her, a smile creased across her lips. Her arms extended half sleepily to him, found his shoulders, touched those weary shoulders, caressed him, his lips explored her hair, touched her forehead.

�I missed you.� His whisper was wind, cool gentle wind stirring her heart, softening her eyes, his hands on her neck, touching, exploring.

�Brett,� his name was a whispered warmth, sweetness, a balmy summer breeze in the room. �Brett.�

His body pressed against the chair where she sat, his arms reaching for her.

�I�m here.�
Now she lay pressed against his flesh, his attempts to love her submerged in his overwhelming weariness, maybe age, maybe more weariness than anything else.

�Sorry,� he said gently. �I thought I could, we could.�

She stroked his face, his head lay snugly between her breasts, the sheets changed, his body bathed, a sense of energy almost returning. Her lips quieted his protests.

�Hold me,� she said. �I know you want more. Just hold me. I missed you.�

�I missed you,� he whispered, reaffirming her words. �I was too ill. I appreciated your gentle hands. So sick.�

�Yes,� she said, running her cool hands through the still wet hair, hair still wet from their communal shower.

�Promise me,� she said sweetly, �promise me you�ll not be worried.�

�Alright.�

He breathed in her fragrance and rested his head on her breast. He breathed in, turned his head and coughed suddenly and hard, sighing for a breath, his head seared by slitting pain. He tensed and eased himself against her, closing his eyes. Her lips found his forehead, his eyes, they caressed his cheek, and her arms held him. He ease himself against her, his breathing gentled, the quiet suckling eased, his lungs were clearer, it was only the occasional emissions of last minute aioli that broke that made him cough now.

�Monday,� she said quietly to him. �Monday. The railroad doctor said Monday.�

�Yeah.�

His word was quiet and full of meaning.

�Are you ready to return?�

�Yeah.�

�I know you are my sweet love.�

�I want you to know I love you,� he said, his words coming hard. He wasn�t one for saying I love you. He got up every morning and went to work; his pay checks paid the bills; his commitment to providing for his family said he loved her. She reached across his body, gathered his left hand to her, looked at the finger that held his ring. She kissed the ring.

�Till death do us part,� she said gently.

�In sickness and in health.�

She knew he meant those words. She knew he took his commitment seriously. After that night when he fell apart he had backed off for a while, afraid to sit with her, afraid to talk to her about anything more significant than the arrival of the next freight train. Sitting up there looking at her from his window he told her. �There�s a special coming. One locomotive and three cars.�

�Okay. When?�:

Somehow she knew he was afraid. She longed for his gentle, quiet side, the look that suggested he was more than casually interested. They both remembered that night, its intenseness. They covered it in train talk.

�Fifteen minutes,� he said, and then he was gone. She waited and then one day turning on her phone at lunch, she saw his name flash on her screen.

�Hi.�

Was he shy? He who had never been shy? �Can we meet for coffee?�

Standing by his window, that live engine breathing, his hand resting on the ledge looking down at her, his eyes just a little pensive. He leaned out of his window, chasing her with his gaze.

�When do you want to meet for coffee?� Her question was direct.

�You got my message.�

They fell silent, the idle of the FP59 engine awaiting its engineer�s hand filled the moment.

�You know my schedule,� she said. �and yours. I� say,� she now filled in seeing his hesitancy, �Saturday.�

�Saturday,� he repeated. �I�ll meet you at the cab car. I work Saturday. We�ll go to the bagel shop between shifts.�

�Okay,� she said grateful for the gentle idle of the engine. �I owe the Union bagel shop five dollars�

�yeah?�

�I�ll text you the time,� he said, revving the engine into gear. He smiled down, waved. Then as he always did, he gently pulled his train away and left her standing there, smiling.

Today, Saturday, their prearranged coffee morning, he met her at the bottom of the stairs of the cab car. She had seen him standing at the top of those steps the first time she had met him at Union Station. Now he stood there smiling up at her, putting out his hand, a hand that she gently took even if she didn�t need it. She stepped lightly down beside him, let him keep her hand. He didn�t say anything, only smiled. Did he need to say anything? Did they have to explain anything? They weren�t children anymore. He had been married with a family why did he need to explain anything? She was single with no obligations but somehow they both knew it was right. When he got over being afraid it was right. How many times had she just come to his train? Why did they need to go through some predating ritual. If he was honest he would admit that he had loved her even if it wasn�t right. He had been worried that she would think he was interested in her for other reasons other than professional ones. She had set him straight on that one. �Look,� she said once. �I know you�re married. Don�t be crazy. I�m not a property stealer. Just be yourself. I like you.�

�You like me too much.�

�I have my reasons.�

�I don�t� want that kind of involvement.�

�I know. I don�t either. I want the brain I want to be your friend. You�re such a nice person I just want to��

�Okay,� he said. �Alright.�

Now standing on the steps of the cab car and then jumping down nimbly beside him, looking up into his eyes, she knew things had changed. His eyes were different. They looked a little sad, a little quiet, and very much like he wanted her. Did she step just a little closer to him?

�Brett,� she said quietly. �I brought that five dollars.�

�I bet you did.�

His smile was easy, those eyes lighted. �Let�s go give it to them. And then we�ll go for more than coffee. I�m taking you to breakfast, lady.�


 

 

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