Lionel Train

Lionel Train

By luminous1



The toy had been broken beyond repair. Accord to the man with the curly black mustache, sitting behind the oak table with scratchy yellow paint that read Toy Repair Shop. He adjusted his lined black glasses and lit a cigarette, a frown on his parched lips.

Handing me the Lionel Train, he blew smoke into my face. “Only a fool would try an' fix this train,” he said. “You ain't a bonehead, are ya?”

“I ain't a bonehead.” I wanted to smack him, but a gentleman's hand does not punch.

“Good. I wouldn't want you goin' batty tryin' to fix it.”

Without a word, I took the Lionel Train from his unkempt hands and placed it in the cardboard box, put on my hat, and left. The hanging store sign by the dusty window fell into his box of broken locomotives. When I stepped into the winter air, I sucked it in and released, the thick smoke had choked my lungs. The reassuring frost freed them, gave me resolve.

I would fix the train myself. Jack would've wanted me too.

I headed home, glancing at the woman with her fur coat shivering and the sound of the snow crunching on the ground. For the past few days, locals had taken a dislike to the below freezing temperature.

At the apartment, I flicked on my lamp, illuminating my dank apartment with ashen wallpaper and a dull gray carpet. The fireplace had charcoal stretching into the walls, and the unusable iron stove was black and repulsive.

I put my hat on the rack and my coat in the closet. The brusque chill gone, but the air still icy. I laid the pieces of the Lionel train on my desk side by side. Then, I pulled out a lighter and lit a cigar.

In the parlor, there were papers scattered on the counter, dishes filled up to the brim of the sink, and the burning smell from the stove-top wafting through the air. I swallowed the smell, my eyes catching the abandoned Crayola crayons lying on the counter.

The cigar smoke soaked into my mouth and I savored it, the smell made me feel calm. I sat down at my desk in the corner of the room, by the dusty window and watched the hustle of businessmen and peddle of automobiles. The men walked with conviction, their briefcases at hand glowing like there was a world of possibilities for them. They didn't know their luck.

For the week, I didn't go to the post office. Sitting at my desk with a cup of coffee, I worked on the train every moment of the day. I bought a measuring tape, replacement wheels, a hammer, wood, black paint, and nails.

First, I examined the train. The front locomotive was split in half and one of the wheels was broken off, another bent at a diagonal. Fixing the front car was my main priority. My first thought was to simply stick the two pieces together, but the damn wood chipped off and the pieces did not fit, an entire chunk of the top was missing.

I stared at the train sitting upright partially together. I imagined my little boy looking over my shoulder with his curious blue eyes and freckled cheeks. “Why didn't I play with you, Jack?” I asked him.

He didn't answer. Instead, his shape floated into a crouch, chugging the Lionel Train across the carpeted floor with the tracks building themselves. He would run it across the living room and kitchen, through the short hall to his bedroom. All the while, I had scribbled letters to friends or family, or paid bills, watching him, but never participating.

“Father,” Jack said, appearing at my shoulder again. I imagined his blond hair bobbing, the freckles on his cheeks red from the heat. “Can you play train wif me?”

“Busy.” The words had escaped my mouth. I had only glanced up for a moment, but I had noticed his sagging head and the silence that followed. “Tomorrow,” was all I said. I was busy. I was busy doing the taxes or cleaning the dishes or taking out the garbage or working at the post office.

I blinked and the apartment was empty, except for the broken Lionel Train on my desk.

For the entire day, I attempted to fix the train. I forced the broken half's together. I positioned and re-positioned the train. It was hard to focus. My eyes drifted to the stove, the burning smell from the fire still fresh in my nostrils.

During the night, I laid on my bed and cried, my memory returning to the day I gave him the Lionel Train. He was wearing his wool pants, his ankles covered by long gray socks. He sat on the mud couch to the left of my desk, his eyes sliding over the unopened box in my hand, the white wrapping paper tied in a bow. I had sat across from him beside the fireplace in what was once an oak rocking chair—all that remained were fragments on my floor.

“Can I open it?” he asked, with his curious blue eyes and feet wiggling.

“Go for it.”

He ripped the box apart to find the coal Lionel Train with red rims—shiny and new. “Oh ... it’s amazing. Can I play wif it?” Before he answered, he had already started chugging it across the floor, with his signature half-grin.

I placed my hand on his and shook my head. “No. We have to go to the post-office. Come on, you're the best newspaper boy they have.” He shrugged and we left.

The following morning, I made it my goal to glue the halves of the train together. There was a single nail on both sides, once attached would old the piece of junk together. Placing the nail in the hole, I hammered it into the train. But the nail went straight through and fell with a clink onto the table. I groaned and restarted the process, allowing the nail to dangle. I angled the hammer and tapped it on the nail. Repeating the process, I tried to hammer her in the hole, but the nail bent and broke. I had to restart.

I sighed and dropped the train on the table. Pulling up the window pane, I let the cold air wash through me. I watched the businessmen walk by with their shiny briefcases, their heads held high. Damn young-ins, living like luck was going to get them somewhere. They didn't have a clue what challenges were.

My boss called several times throughout the week, the telephone rang through my ears and disappeared through the window. I didn't care what my boss thought. For the hell of it, I answered the telephone on Wednesday.

I told my boss to can me. “You know, I'm a liability now so just throw me under the bus, will ya?”

“I ain't accusin' you, John. I just wanted to make sure you're feeling well,” he said.

“Fine,” I said and hung up the phone. He sounded like a gentlemen, but pity parties weren't my scene.

I kept busy working on the Lionel Train. I nailed it together piece by piece, sometimes, hitting it, smacking it, or screaming at it. The train was losing its form as I chipped away at it. Maybe the man with the curly black mustache was right. It was impossible to fix.

I threw the train on the table, my eyes drifting to the stove. My nose caught the stench of the ashen stove, the burning smell was spreading like a disease. I opened the window, the frosty air relaxed me, allowing to me to breathe. The morning radio had mentioned it would be freezing outside, a wind chill cold enough to throw your scarf into the snow. I opened the window, the wind pouring into the room and knocking over the bits of the train.

On the table there were dozens of pieces of wood scattered on the desk, the wheels bent, and the paint chipped. I told my hands to be gentle and precise, but I wasn't a professional toy repairman. The disease was killing my ability to fix Jack's train.

The Lionel Train was his joy and entertainment, the damn stench was temporary. The burning smell wasn't going to stay, the train would live again.

After several hours, the metal on the ledge had remains of ice frost. The lamp beside my desk was cold to the touch. Finally, the burning stove smell was gone.

I placed my shaking hands on the front half of the train, but wood pieces fell like fireworks to the floor. I pinched my fingers together and thrust the sixth nail into the Lionel Train. But it fell through the same damn hole.

The wind thrust into my apartment and through my buttoned tunic, causing me to shiver.

Jack, I thought. I picked up the nail and threw it into the hole again, but it squeezed through my finger and fell onto the floor. Stepping off the chair, I bent down on my knees and stuck my face to the dirty carpet. My eyes looked between the chairs and table supports, but the nail was not there. I scanned around the table and into the kitchen, through the living room, hallway, and even Jack's bedroom. The nail was gone.

Jack's room was a desert, it was flat and there was nothing, but the box of his belongings in the center of the room. I felt a head-ache coming, the sight of the Jack's box made my stomach acidic.

Swallowing the guilt in my throat, I pulled my heavy head to the chair and smoked a cigar. When it was done the acidic feeling was still there, so I smoked another. Allowing the wind to make me shiver and numb my senses, frost forming on my lips and my hands losing the ability to feel. The numbing frost was freeing, the burning smell gone from the apartment. I sat there smoking cigars until the moon had risen in the sky, shining a beacon into my apartment.

On top of Dale's Bar, I saw an alley cat roaming the town, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, sliding down the bricks on the top of a carriage. The cat was precise, only jumping after sitting, calculating his move and then pouncing. Alone and fast—I knew the cat would survive in the dog-eat-dog world we called the land of the free.

I was free once, but I killed that freedom with fire.

I closed my eyes and leaned back to seep the numbing cold through my body. The winter freeze slowing my body down, I replayed the scene that plagued my thoughts. Jack was at home chugging his Lionel Train, and I was stirring the chicken, carrots, and celery in the soup.

It was around six o'clock. Jack and I had gotten off at the post office early. His freckled cheeks were hidden by the grime and his blonde hair had bits of grass and dirt.

“Daddy ... daddy!” He hopped over to me, his train in his hand.

“Yes, Jack.” I stirred the soup.

“You promised to play with me today, right Daddy?”

I nodded and smiled at him. “Absolutely, there's nothing that will stop me today.” I ruffled his head.

“Daddy, you're sure?”

“One hundred percent.” But Jack's lips were pursed and eyes uncertain. I kneeled down and looked at him straight. “Jack, I promise nothing, absolutely nothing will keep me from you today, okay? If Teddy Roosevelt suddenly does a speech on the radio, I will turn the radio off. Okay?”

Jack's lips stretched upwards and his eyes shifted to a glow. “Okay,” he said.

“But first, I have to cook soup.” He nodded and played with his Lionel Train as I cooked.

I had everything planned. I would make soup, play with Jack, and write a letter to our neighbor Mrs. Johnson for the celery and carrots.

But the telephone rang. It was my boss. He said in his commanding voice. “You’re needed at the post office. I don't care what you had planned, you are needed now or your ass is canned. Yeah got it.” I told him I would be there and the line went static.

I put the telephone on the dial and walked over to my boy on the floor. “Jack, I have to go to work. I'm sorry son, I'm not going to be able to play with you today.”

Jack stopped playing with the Lionel Train. His blue eyes froze and his eyebrows tightened. He glared me down as I put on my hat and coat. “Tomorrow,” I told him.

I stepped through the front door and pulled to close it, but Jack was in the doorway with his train in his right hand. “What are you doing, stay here son!”

I gently pushed him inside, but he got up and threw himself between the door. He pulled against my arm, punching his right hand at me. Before it made contact, the train in his hand tumbled to the ground and flew into the rocking chair with a crash.

“Look what you did! Jack, do you want a lashing?”

He shook his head, puckering his lips and went silent. He ran to the train his eyes locked on it. I took the opportunity to leave, but I didn't miss his eyes shift to the rocking chair, fire in them. I figured I would talk to him about it later. It wasn't right to leave a seven-year old home alone, what choice did I have? My boss was eager to fire me at a sign of rebellion.

When I returned at midnight, red and white lights flashed my vision and motor men in black police gear were stationed around the complex. Even the sheriff was there, his badge shining from the flashing lights. I ran up to an officer looking up at the smoke billowing from the top. “What happened?” I breathed.

“A young boy was caught in a fire on the top floor,” the officer said.

My heart beat skipped a beat. “Is his name Jack—Jack Cunningham?”

“Yes,” The officer said. “Is he your son?”

I choked back the bile in my throat, trying to clear the smoke fogging my eyes. I nodded, choking back a sob. My legs wanted to collapse, but I stood frozen. Head heavy and throat of acid, I stared at the ashes raining from above.

“Sir, its okay. Just stay calm,” the officer said. “They are up there right now, everything will be okay.”

My mouth opened, the only words I could process came out of them. “Is—is Jack okay?” It was my fault. The soup—the soup, I never put the fire out.

The man's eyes stared at the ground. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled with a pat on my back that made me tense up.

I stared at the burned stove, my eyes blinking. I could feel my body slowing down. I wasn't shivering anymore, a warm feeling running through my gut. My toes, fingers, and ankles were numb. My breathing slowed. Leaning on the chair with a cigar frozen to my hand, I knew it wasn't a bad way to die.

Gazing into the moonlight, I soaked in the warmth burying the numb. I knew that I couldn't move my fingers, and soon my eyelids would close, killing the guilt swallowing me.

Closing my eyes for the last time, I saw a station where Jack sat chugging away at his Lionel Train. Finally, I could play with him.