Ryan is this month’s winner of $120 for his beautiful story of love triumphing in difficult times. Based in York, Ontario, Ryan’s other works and awards can be found at his website:
https://ryanuytdewilligenauthor.com/
Without further ado, “Bear” by Ryan Uytdewilligen
Through wavering glass of the chugging train, wheat fields extended far past sight. Each head of grain was the momentary home of at least three grasshoppers. The infestation of the thumb-sized occupants saw to it that their symphony of songs screeched louder than the passing cars grinding against their tracks. When the train blew its whistle, only then could it stand a fighting chance against the racket produced by the brood of orchestral insects.
But when it merely passed through, as it so often did, the uncountable number of feasting bugs was all anybody could hear. No one dared to pass through the storm of pests, soaring through the air like determined bullets. Not even farmers tended to those fields; the wheat and beans and barley were begrudgingly donated to the grasshopper’s cause to devour all in their path. Few could afford to seed their land in the first place; the ones who did hadn’t the money to harvest what managed to grow.
Inside the train was a different story; passengers—most of the passengers—wore carefully tended suits, sometimes tall hats on the men and bonnets for the women. The dirt and dust would blow in a whirling storm, coating the clothing when people waited at each platform; most would be none the wiser that the clothing had been soiled—busy hands tended to dirty clothing in the lavatories, always making sure every item looked presentable.
It was all about image of course; pockets could be empty, but as long as a well-assembled outfit—a flowing skirt dangling above ankles or a pinstripe and pocket watch chain wrapped a hungry body—most eyes would be fooled. Each car had such a haze of cigar smoke; no one could quite view the proper details needed to size each other up anyway.
A corner desk in one car, once stocked with candy bars and bottled sodas, now sold only the daily news. A coffee service normally ran up and down the aisles, but the gal who did the pouring called in sick that day, eight minutes before departure if you can believe it. Another car offered sips of brandy served in fine crystal snifters. The service was technically illegal, but if you got yourself in with the right traveling salesmen, one with railway manager connections and the crafty desire to squeeze an extra buck from a wet passion, well then a whole briefcase full of spirits would open up.
For Frank O’Neil, he hadn’t a cigar to smoke or drink to sip; no pocket watch or suits worth noticing—not even a newspaper in his hand for that matter. He had a hat, though barely; its rim drooped lower than the man’s spirits. He thanked the sheer fact that everyone smoked so the dark stubble across his chin couldn’t be ridiculed.
All Frank actually had with him was his daughter Ellie sitting next to the window on the hard, wooden, two-person seat. Six, gleefully messy, and clutching an even filthier teddy bear without a name, that girl took in the passing wheat fields and grasshoppers like it was the most magnificent show she’d ever witnessed in all her life. And that, at least, made Frank smile.
“I’m sorry,” Frank whispered. “I’m sorry things couldn’t be better for you. I’ll get you back in school one day—that’s a promise.” He received no response. “Did you hear me Ellie? After this is all behind us, I’m going to see to it you get back into class. I know how you like to read and all, and after this job’s done…”
Ellie was in her own world, the world of wheat fields and grasshoppers and whatever mythical additions she cast into the scenery she saw. Frank gave a quick snort, blowing a burst of delighted hot air down past his smile. After some seconds passed watching Ellie blow her breath against the window to fog it all up, Frank stuck his hand deep down past the holes of his wooly overcoat to fish out a delicate piece of print. His fingers had touched the paper so frequently; the ink was almost completely faded. Frank knew what it said; right from the beginning, the day he cut it out of the littered Gazette, he could recite the ad word for word.
Wanted: Experienced milkers, calvers, and drivers needed for work on large-scale dairy operation immediately—2240 Hollis Rd—$20 a week.
Sure, Frank fretted over the fact that neither milkers nor calvers were actual words, and he wondered if the zero was in fact a zero or an eight. The whole road part of the address was simply added via methods of deduction; surely no such dairy farm in this world, Frank figured, was situated on a street. Avenues were out of the question. And the advertisement had been so well worn when Frank found it, all he could do was assume.
Frank gulped often, thinking maybe that it was Hollis Drive, which was completely in the opposite direction. But he never knew there to be dairies in those neck of the woods though—Hollis Rd made the most sense given the sheer proximity to several other ranches and a sheep pasture.
Ellie’s growling stomach piled on the pressure that the address was correct. There had been no contact made—though many times attempted—so Frank was now travelling a very long way purely on faith, hope, and luck to answer the call.
“What if someone already got the job?” Ellie whimpered with her gaze still forward at the window.
“It’s 20 a week Ellie; that makes it worth a shot. And the paper is only a couple days old; it’s new,” Frank assured. “Fresh print! So fresh, the ink ain’t even dry yet—it’s all melted away from my fingers.”
“But that paper ain’t from our town, right? It’s from miles away—”
“Hundreds of miles. It’s a simple stroke of luck that we ended up with it too! And I’m sure, yeah, maybe a few came poking around for a job already. But didn’t you read what it said? Milkers? Calvers? Truck drivers? They all got s’ on the end. They’re looking for lots of hands.”
Ellie finely turned, fed up with her father’s inexcusable ignorance—the kind of hope she saw many adults utter when they spoke to her—right before they all went off crying in a corner.
“What we do if they turn you down and we have no money to get home?” the six-year-old snapped.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Frank chanted with his palms in the air. “I’m experienced in dairies. I grew up on a dairy. Ain’t no one more qualified than the many that spent the first fifteen years of his life working on one. We got lots of dough to tide us over,” he said, patting his breast pocket. “They’ll take me girl, you’ll see! You leave the worrying to me, all right?”
Ellie wasn’t convinced, although her stomach rumbling for a second time was enough to redirect her focus.
“Is someone hungry?” Frank smiled.
Ellie smiled back, glancing at the fuzzy little passenger on her lap. “Yeah…Bear needs to eat!”
“Bear needs to eat? Bear does? You mean that was his belly rocking the train back and forth?” Ellie giggled as Frank licked his lips, trying to squeeze out a couple more notes of the high-pitched, playful voice he had in him. “Well, what does Bear like to eat? Honey? Fresh caught salmon?”
Ellie screwed up her face, thinking hard on what it was Bear wanted for lunch. After some conspiring and Bear getting propped to her ear to spill a secret, a decision was reached.
“Milk and cookies,” Ellie bravely announced. Frank couldn’t contain his laughter.
“Milk and cookies? Well, I don’t know that they have them for sale around here Bear, but you’ll be getting all the milk you can drink soon enough.”
Ellie huffed, turning back to the window to stave off her boredom again.
“What?” Frank said, doing his best to lure his daughter’s attention back to him. “I really don’t think the train has milk and cookies, darling. I can check, but for the last two years, three years even, I haven’t even seen peanuts…”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Ellie turned to her father again. “I wish it were pigs.”
“Huh?” he mumbled, dumbfounded and quite certain if there were no cookies on the train, there were certainly no pork chops to be had either.
“The dairy. I wish it was pigs. I adore pigs so much more than I do cows.”
Bless her heart, Frank thought. Some days Ellie seemed like an evenly matched accomplice since her manners and wit appeared without boundary. But she was a child after all, and Frank knew he couldn’t let himself forget that.
“I’m sorry you had to grow up in this, kid,” he whimpered again. “I really am sorry.” After a pause and a clap of his hands, Frank turned to the aisle. “Let’s see what they got to eat around here.”
All Frank saw was the conductor towering above them, face void of expression and left hand outstretched; the right one gripped a hole punch.
“Tickets,” he said.
Frank nodded and began an odyssey of pocket diving. He re-discovered his newspaper clipping and clung tight to a small wad of bills. Every pocket contained lint and one even stored a never-before-seen button, but Frank, for the life of him, couldn’t find the tickets. Ellie watched with saucers for eyes while the conductor grunted as he looked over the long stretch of train cars still to cover.
Growing in panic, the hopefully-soon-to-be dairy worker clapped, standing up to search all of his pants pockets that he formally could not reach. Nothing in there either. Finally, the floppy hat atop his head slid down, almost as if it were waving for his attention. Frank laughed with delight as he removed the torn head topper and pulled out two tickets. The conductor must have only peered at them for one second before handing them back.
“These tickets have been forged,” he flatly announced.
“What? Is this a joke? You’re just playing around with me, aren’t you?” Frank was given no indication the comment was a ruse. “But I bought them…I bought them from this fellow…”
“I’m sure you did,” the conductor replied. “You’ll be sent off at the next stop. We’ll be there in thirteen minutes.”
“No, please! There must be something that can be done,” Frank said, clamoring after the conductor who was already on his way to the next row of seats.
“Yes there is,” he said, giving Frank reason to smile. “Get yourself two tickets.”
Frank turned, feeding off the fear found in Ellie’s stare—fear mixed with disappointment and hints of embarrassment. He wished that she would go back to watching out the window as he began filtering through his bills.
“Here. Let me buy ‘em. I’ll take two tickets please—for the last stop.”
The conductor filtered through the cash for several seconds before passing it back.
“Not enough to get you there.”
“What do you mean not enough? That’s all I have…” Frank whispered the last part, careful that Ellie wouldn’t hear. As the conductor passed back the money, Ellie’s panic caught his attention; she looked to the floor as their eyes met. As stoic as he was, the conductor was still human.
“Not even close, I’m afraid.”
“Please,” Frank continued. “I spent a fortune on those tickets. I swore they were real—they came from a reputable source, a friend! Well, a former friend now. But…we won’t be a bother! We’ll stand! Or…she’s small. I can just buy one seat, and she can sit on my lap. Please. I’m sure something can be done.”
The conductor turned to the trailing aisle; coughing passengers puffing away on cigarettes with evidently dry mouths. After a swallow and a peek at his watch, he actually mustered a half-smile as an opportunity presented itself.
“Come with me.”
“Oh, thank you sir, thank you,” Frank said with a jump for joy. He and Ellie’s exchanges took a gleeful turn as she grinned and slid out of her seat to follow. “Oh, and sir,” Frank added as he stumbled after the hurried man. The conductor stopped just before entering the next car. “Do you happen to serve milk and cookies anywhere on this train?”
# # #
“Excuse me ma’am, but would you care for a cup of coffee?” Frank inquired before pouring. “And yourself sir? Nice warm freshly made cup of Joe for you? Coffee, Miss?”
Frank O’Neil traversed the rickety aisles of the train, carting an even ricketier trolley with a hefty five-gallon tin splashing around a piping hot batch of black brew. He had his own little system down pat by the team he reached the fourth row of seats; he’d sport a minuscule little Dixie cup and present the paper object with a smile warmer than the coffee itself. Almost everyone agreed to a complimentary cup except for several children, a woman who had taken ill, and an elderly fellow who simply detested the beverage and insisted there should be Blue Ribbon tea.
Frank would do his best to steadily pour from a dented metallic carafe and pass the cups of coffee so that no detrimental drop ever had a chance of spilling. The next step was cream, which was poured at each passenger’s request from a small glass pitcher and needed constant refilling. Sugar came later, as it was Frank’s own notion that everything sweet should arrive at the very end.
So, trailing down the aisle, sometimes three rows behind and delaying sugar-takers’ first sips, came Ellie with a bowl and spoon. She lacked the etiquette and steady hand of her father, letting the sugar sift all over the floor—sometimes even passenger laps. Precision was hindered even more so by the fact Ellie’s Bear came along for the job with her, stuffed underneath the girl’s left arm.
Normally the coffee service would have been nearing the end of its first cycle at this point in the route. The gal responsible for the pouring had a more efficient method of her own, managing to make each cup with the right ingredients all in one go over the cart. That method never dawned on Frank, as obvious as it probably should have been.
Frank was nervous, absolutely tickled, and evidently distracted by the chance granted by the conductor to make up for false tickets; he wanted nothing more than to succeed and do a good job. That’s why he even agreed to wear the regular gal’s pink and white apron; though it prompted some snickers, he was absolutely dedicated to following protocol.
Frank traversed, exchanging quick conversations with the other passengers—few ranging more than just coffee talk. He’d sum up in one sentence why he was the one performing the pouring; stating nothing more than the task fell to him because the regular was sick. He heard a lot of mumbles about the use of Dixie cups and how trains used to use fine china before the country’s fortunes took a turn. Ellie received a few more energetic thank-you’s than her Pop, but words other than “spoon of sugar” failed to leave her mouth.
“I’ll take six,” demanded a rather round nine-year-old boy in a burgundy suit jacket and blue dress shirt. Ellie figured the boy needed not a grain of sugar at all, but she didn’t dare say that, instead, fixating on his pronounced lips—seemingly stuck in a puckered state. By the time her eyes moved to his pomade-slicked hair, Ellie had forgotten the request entirely. “Hey,” the boy snapped again, holding out his cup. “I said six spoonfuls.”
“Are you sure you should be drinking that?” Ellie said with concern. “Daddy says if you drink coffee too young, it stunts your growth.”
“Never mind your Dad, I said give me six.” Ellie looked at the empty seats surrounding the boy, wondering exactly where his Mom and Dad were at the moment and if they’d have a comment or two to say about his cup of painfully sweet coffee. Her dad did give him the cup, after all, so she figured the request was all right. Two spoonfuls in, the boy’s spitting feminine image, wearing the same loud colors and harboring just a bit more make-up, tromped over and snatched the cup away.
“What do you think you’re doing, giving my son coffee? He’s nine.”
“But he wanted…” Ellie trailed.
“Well my boy is certainly not like you, getting every little thing he wants in life,” the mother snapped. “Keep moving.”
Ellie gulped and carried on with her duties, trying to force a smile on her face by the time she arrived at the next seat. Bear did not arrive to the next row of sugar-takers with her, falling from the clutch of Ellie’s armpit to partially underneath a train seat. She failed to notice her travel companion’s disappearance and made it three rows down until beginning to ponder why her job seemed to feel easier.
The boy noticed Bear—flat on his back against the ground—within seconds. While his mother slurped her son’s coffee, wincing at the sweetness she could barely stand to swallow, the boy collected the stuffed animal and began to maneuver it around in the air as if it were taking a stroll all on its lonesome.
“Hey, that’s mine,” Ellie shouted, stomping back towards the boy.
“No he’s not,” the boy insisted. “I found him and the rules are finders keepers.”
“That’s not true. Give him back!”
Ellie grabbed Bear’s leg, only to find the boy wasn’t planning to let go of him without a fight. She knew she’d need both hands to pull off the rescue, so the girl placed the sugar bowl and spoon on an empty seat beside her, grabbing hold of exactly one arm and one leg.
“Get your hands off my bear,” the boy whined.
“Let go! You’ll break him,” Ellie warned. What did break was the sugar bowl, which hadn’t any chance of surfing atop the slick wooden train seats. The track began to take a turn, and sure enough, the spoon fell first—followed by a quick and very loud shatter of glass.
The boy was easily startled by the noise and embarrassed by the destruction, quickly letting go of Bear and sending Ellie flying backward a few steps. The girl stayed upright, but her arms swung Bear in all directions, including the seats across from her where cups of hot coffee were sent flying. Two passengers, a husband and wife sitting across casually minding their own business and reading books, found themselves covered in piping hot stains. They shot up at the exact same time, shouting at Ellie, both in anger and in pain.
“What do you think you’re doing?” barked the boy’s mother, readying to deliver a nasty monologue chastising Ellie. Her words were cut short when the glass of the broken sugar bowl found its way into her ankle.
At that point, Frank casually turned to survey the commotion, excitedly dropping the carafe in mid pour when he discovered his daughter was the center of all the shouting. Coffee splashed into all directions, soaking feet that were innocently wagging and tapping on the other end of the car. As Frank ran to pull Ellie away from the commotion, the train whistle gave an elongated toot; immediately, the cars began slowing down to stop at the upcoming station.
The change in speed naturally sent the entire coffee cart soaring down the aisle on its own. When Frank turned to wrap his fingers around the handle, the whole trolley mechanism had shot itself straight for the doorway into the next train car. It missed, smashing into the frame, tipping the five-gallon tin, and casting a river of freshly brewed java over the outfits of anyone helplessly sitting in rows one to four.
As the conductor came galloping from one end of the train to the other, Frank let out a sigh and looked Ellie in the eye. It was as if their gaze had held an hour-long meeting, covering such topics as disappointment, forgiveness, fear, and even humor.
“Out,” said the conductor.
“Yes,” Frank replied, busy forming a smile and scratching his chest where the newspaper advert rested in his breast pocket. “I’m afraid we are out of coffee.”
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