The Train Whistle

The Train Whistle

The Dodge Dart sputters and slows, warning me it’s time to pull over. There is no shoulder on this isolated mountain pass, so I maneuver onto the grass and around a few scraggly trees, paying careful attention not to drive off into a deep ravine. The car rolls to a stop just as the needle on the gas gage drops past the E. I shift into park and turn off the headlights before I take a deep breath and relax against the back of the seat. I’ve done it. I have successfully executed part one of my escape. Part two happens the moment I leave the safety of the car and venture into the dark forest lining the side of this dirt road.

I switch on the dome light and dump the contents of my bag on the passenger seat. I rummage through the items leaving the unnecessary ones. I won’t be needing lipstick, mascara, or any of my cosmetics but the Chapstick might come in handy. It’s early spring and the mountain air is still brisk this time of year. As tempting as it is to grab a fistful of cash for good measure, I sweep the cash into the floorboard. I dare not take any of it. It doesn’t belong to me and I’ll be damned before I spend a penny of it. I toss in three books of matches, my hairbrush, toothbrush, a compact mirror and two packages of cheese and crackers. I reach into the backseat and retrieve my flannel jacket before removing the keys from the ignition. I stop before opening the door and frown at my reflection looking back at me from the dark glass. I rub my hand over my mousy brown hair and shake my head in disgust. I despise the box color that hides my natural honey blonde tresses. I rip the black framed, drugstore glasses off my nose. I don’t need these. They’re not prescription. My eyesight is twenty-twenty. They were purchased as a disguise the same day I bought the hair color. I’m ready to toss them aside when I relent and drop them in my bag, just in case. The frown that draws my countenance downward, I can’t remove. Not now anyway. The girl in the window is not me. She’s just a ghost, a fleeting image of the person I lost years ago. I’m hoping I’ll find her again someday. Who knows, maybe she’ll materialize out here, somewhere in the great unknown, but I’ll never find her sitting in the car, so I switch off the dome light and open my door.

The cool mountain air works like a shot of espresso, awakening me from my drowsiness. I’ve driven all night, and at 5:00 AM I will have put 12 hours between me and the worst choice I ever made in my life.

I blame myself for the predicament I am in. I should have heeded my Aunt Stephanie’s warnings about Gator. She told me he was no good and falling for a man like that would only lead to a life of heartache, but I was seventeen and naïve back then, so of course, I didn’t listen. I thought Aunt Stephanie to be nothing more than a doting, prudish woman, whose intuition of the younger generation and knowledge of anything culturally relevant left much to be desired. Her ideology paled in comparison to the dogma, spewed from the sexy, badass who rode into town that summer. Without so much as an effort, Gator causes every girl in the vicinity to relinquish any moral conviction and contend for his attention. And yes, I was one of the innocents who was entranced with the hot rugged motorcycle rider. One slight smile from him and all Aunt Stephanie’s righteous upbringing went in one ear and out the other. Since I refused to listen, she drug me down to an old fashioned revival meeting, down by the abandoned railroad tracks. Four identically dressed, men took the stage and were harmonizing about streets of gold, when I saw Gator leave the tent. I immediately feigned a sick headache hoping to escape the spitting, screaming antics of the bloated evangelist, who was next to take the microphone. I meandered over to a group of teens, all hanging out in an abandoned freight car, several yards from the big top. I still remember the thrill I felt when Gator popped open a bottle of beer, took a swig and then reached past every wide eyed, hopeful girl and handed it to me. I’d never drank alcohol before and in all honesty, it tasted like piss. But the drink was cold and wet, and I was hot and oh so drawn to the sexy stranger who gave it to me. One beer led to another and the next thing I knew I was reclining in Gators arms down by the river while his mouth explored my neck. A feeling I had never experienced awakened inside of me and as Gator laid me in the thick grass, the evangelist laid out his ominous warning. The words of his message echoed across the empty field and fell upon my ear the very moment I was ready to relinquish my virginity.

On the heel of his pronouncement, a train whistle sounded in the distance and for a moment I feared the blast was a warning, telling me to listen to the words of his prophet. It was an omen, and I knew it, especially since the tracks were abandoned and a train hadn’t come through these parts in years.

All the years of Aunt Stephanie’s righteous living lessons and the penalty for breaking them flooded my conscious, releasing fear induced guilt. I was ready to push Gator off and make a run for the altar when he slipped inside of me and summoned back my attention, ensnaring me with his irresistible manliness. The moment was more rapturous than any second coming the preacher could ever promise. I made my choice, threw caution to the wind, and tasted forbidden fruit.

I’ve often thought about the preacher’s warning that night, and would like to ask him some questions like, what happens if the first big choice you make is a damaging one? Does it put you on the wrong path and lead you to an alternate destiny, instead of the one intended for you? Do the wrong path and the right path run parallel with each other, and if they do, is it possible to intersect when you start righting all your wrongs?

I pop open the trunk and toss the last of the things I will need into my bag. A hammer, two water bottles, some Ding Dongs, a bowie knife, and a small blanket. I grab the flashlight and shine the beam into the far corners just in case there’s something I’ve missed. The light illuminates a duffle bag full of twenty-thousand dollars in cash and the headlines from a newspaper folded up beside it. Maeven and Gator, the Modern Day Bonnie and Clyde. I wad the paper into a tight ball, crunching the image of my face as I do. I never dreamed the day I had my picture in the paper it would be posted as a wanted criminal. The last thing I grab is my redemption. The little black journal. Each page is a hit, written in Gator’s scratchy penmanship. It’s messy but legible and most of all, it’s incriminating. It is a confession of every crime he’s committed and a prediction of where he’ll be next. If I can anonymously get it into the right hands, he will be locked away from me forever.

I slam the trunk on my past. Maeven Lawson is dead. Time to head into the woods and look for an alternate path.