What Happens at Night - Peter Cameron Page 0,92

the man thought, and maybe even an instinctual knowledge of syncopation, for now and then he would tap the window with two quickly successive beats instead of the one steady beat, as if to vary the rhythm. But gradually, as the train’s speed plateaued and remained steady, the clacking sound monotonously disappeared. The child stopped tapping the window and closed his eyes. The man felt the child waver on his lap as he lost consciousness, and he gently pulled the child against him, and the child let himself fall against the man and sleep.

The man leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes and was surprised to feel himself sinking quickly into sleep and he realized, suddenly, how exhausted he was. But he did not trust himself to sleep while holding the baby in his arms and so he picked him up and reinserted him into the contraption he still wore atop his parka. He placed the baby so that he was facing inward, the front of him pressed against the front of the man, and held him close and tight against his belly and chest, as if to staunch a wound.

The slowing of the train woke the man. Its speed gradually diminished until it was moving very slowly, almost as if it were trying to advance without exhibiting any forward motion.

And then it stopped, with that familiar backward recoil. The stillness caused the child to stir, but he did not wake; he only fitted himself more snugly against the man, mashing his face into the padding of the man’s parka and mouthing the satiny material. Was he teething already?

Could they already have arrived at the way station? He had hoped it would take longer, so that Livia Pinheiro-Rima would have time to travel there. He knew it was foolish to hope for this but that did not prevent him from hoping it.

Nothing could be seen outside the window, except that it was snowing harder now, the snow crowding the sky and rising as much as falling.

The man shifted across the cushioned banquette so that he was sitting beside the opposite window of the carriage. His breath fogged the glass and so he carefully lifted one of his hands away from his son and rubbed a clearing on the window. He saw once again the small wooden building and the lamppost on the platform, which was covered with snow. And, much to his amazement, he saw a figure sitting on the bench beneath the painted letters BORGARFJAROASYSLA. It was a woman wearing a black bear coat. She sat perfectly upright upon the bench, but her head was bowed and so he could not see her face. She made no acknowledgment of the arriving train. But it had to be Livia Pinheiro-Rima; no one else had a coat like that. Had she fallen asleep?

He opened the door and called her name, but she did not look up. He stepped down onto the platform, leaving the door open behind him, thinking irrationally that if the door was open the train would not depart.

And then the woman slowly raised her head and gazed at him, and he saw that the woman sitting on the bench wearing the black bear coat was his wife. She sat on the bench, staring forward, but she did not seem to see the man. Her arms were braced, one hand upon each of her fur-covered knees, and he saw that she was not wearing gloves; the hands on her knees were bare, and this, more than anything else, made him rush forward.

He knelt and put his own warm hands on top his wife’s hands, which were, as he had expected, freezing. He tried to pick one up and warm it between his hands, but it seemed to be solidly attached to the coat.

What are you doing here? he asked.

She looked around for a moment, up and down the snow-covered platform, and then, once again, past him, as if to locate herself.

Waiting, she said.

Waiting? For what?

Oh, not for anything, she said. Just waiting.

Aren’t you cold? Freezing?

Oh, no, she said. No.

But your hands are freezing, he said. Where are your gloves?

I’ve lost them, I think. Somewhere along the way.

Take mine, he said. He stood up and pulled his gloves out of his jacket pockets. By yanking them out he dislodged the pilfered franzbrötchen. They fell into the snow.

Are you hungry? Would you like some pastries?

No, no, she said.

He picked them up out of the snow and placed them on the bench beside her. They’re here, he said. Eat them. They’re delicious.

I don’t want them, she said.

Should I stay here with you? he asked.

Oh no, she said. Go.

Can you come with us?

Where?

Home, he said.

No, she said. I’m staying here. You should go. Look—it’s moving.

The man turned to see that the train had begun to crawl forward. He stood up.

Will you put on the gloves?

Yes, she said. Later. It will give me something to do.

And eat the pastries. They’re there, right beside you.

Go, she said. Hurry.

He stood for a moment, wondering what he could or should do, but he could think of nothing. He got back on the train.

Soon the train had resumed its speed and the palely dark snow-world rushed by outside the window. Simon started crying. The man fished a glass jar of baby food out of one of the bags and fed it to him, and he ate it hungrily. Then he gave him one of the three bottles he had prepared for the day’s journey, and the baby drank half of it before he fell asleep.

A change in speed once again woke the man. The train was moving slowly through the dark forest, and the thick-trunked pine trees crowded close to the track on either side of the train.

The baby was still sleeping. Simon. A tiny bubble of snot delicately inflated and deflated itself in one of his nostrils, like the puffing throat of a tropical frog. His eyelids fluttered and the man wondered what he was dreaming.

The train began to accelerate and the trees lost their individuality and became a rushing mass. And then the train suddenly emerged from the woods and was racing across fields of snow.

The man realized that while he and the baby had been sleeping the train had traveled south, not so very far, but far enough so that the sun was visible here, a bright orange disk crammed against the horizon, spreading a warm golden light across the surface of the white fields, which reflected it up into the windows of the train and illuminated the carriage like a torch.

The man woke Simon and held him up against the window. He wanted him to see the sun before it disappeared.

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to express his gratitude to Andrew Cameron, James Harms, Victoria Kohn, Craig Lucas, Leigh Newman, Anna Stein, Edward Swift, the Corporation of Yaddo, and the MacDowell Colony.

PETER CAMERON is the author of seven novels (including Someday This Pain Will Be Useful to You and Coral Glynn) and three collections of stories. His short fiction has appeared in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, Rolling Stone, and many other literary journals. He lives in New York City and Sandgate, Vermont.