HOME | DD

Description
The Second Couple

It was a little past eight when he looked at his watch and realized it was time to go. The things were on his bed, and he gathered them up, the bag and the bundle of clothes. On his way out, he wondered if he should leave a word. He let the door behind him and that was all.

The rain fell hard outside, and the lamps flickered in the cold grey air, uneasy. He made his way down York Street, in large paces and over the dark puddles that formed. At Chapel he waited for the signal and crossed and went down there to the left. The cars were coming along and going down and down, moving, driverless shadows. The students went around on the sidewalk, the coats drawn up over their heads. Some were running here and there, and some were going home. In the morning the pavement would still be wet and the sky dark when they trudged to Commons or up Science Hill or stayed in bed, warm and not hung over like the other Friday mornings. It would be wet and dark but they would be warm.

He stopped over at the corner store on Church and went inside where it was brightly lit and the floor was dry.

"A turkey sandwich."

"Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you."

"Five thirty."

He paid in cash and he scraped his wallet for the change.

"Thank you."

He wrapped up the sandwich once, twice with the paper napkins and folded it. He placed the sandwich and the napkins in his bag, at the bottom.  Outside the corner shop he rounded the corner. On Church Street, the school buses went down toward the wharf and past the train station and around the medical school and back up but they were mostly empty on a night like this. The rain fell hard in the cold gloom. He opted to walk because it was only a few blocks. The few blocks were not safe but on a night like this he did not feel unsafe.

Past the overpass the streets were deserted and the streetlamps orange and blurred by the rain. The rain came down hard onto the concrete, and little drops fell and skittered along the deserted streets. His hair was wet and cold.  He went along with a bag with a sandwich and clothes by his side. He turned before the bridge over the wharf across the bay and walked down toward the scattered lights of the train station. When the cars up the hill stopped coming he strode across to the divider and to the fence on the other side, and he continued down toward the station.

Behind the station, the tracks that go up and down the coast disappeared in the darkness just past the bridge. Out in front, the taxicabs waited in a polite and tired line for the passengers that wouldn't come on a night like this. The school buses would stop just past the taxicabs if they stopped at all and they would make their turn at the next light. He walked past the dark driverless taxicab shadows. Inside the double-doored vestibule he shook the water off his coat and he felt his hair which was wet and cold.

The terminal was dimly lit and empty but it was warm. He made his way past the benches with the men who slept in their clothes at the station with their possessions in their pockets. The men would wake up alone the next morning, with it still wet and dark, but they would be warm. Under the big hands of the clock on the wall, they slept. He made his way past them and to the open window of the ticket counter.

"Good evening. Bus to Boston, please."

"S'comin' in at quarter past nine, that a'right?"

"That's fine."

"Goin' one way o' round trip?"

"One way," he said as he always said though he would be making a round trip as he always did. Well, he did not want to see the return ticket so early, and he liked the way it sounded when he said it.

"Goin' be transfer in Hartford."

"Alright."

"Goin' be thirty-two dollars."

He gave the black credit card with his name on it and paid with what he earned filing papers at the clinic on Tuesdays and Thursdays from one to five. I ought to go more, he thought, what with the scholarship now. Yes, the scholarship was a real fine break. Tuesdays and Thursdays paid for everything now, and his folks sat at home with the checkbooks closed. Yes, I ought to go more, he thought. What with the scholarship now. He sighed. It was a real fine break.

"Quarter past nine, out'n back."

"Thank you."

He took the ticket. He folded it up and slipped it in his left pocket behind his wallet. He walked back to the benches and sat down across from a man who was snoring uncomfortably.  He looked up at the big hands of the clock on the wall. He set down the bag with the clothes and he unzipped it and reached under the bundle of clothes. He took out the sandwich wrapped twice in paper napkins and he unwrapped it. It was still dry. In the train station with the men asleep on the benches all around he ate his dinner alone.

Outside the rain fell hard from the dark sky to the wet ground, drip-drip-drip-drip. The sandwich was alright when he took his first bite. It was a cold turkey sandwich, alone in the station with the men all asleep around, but it was alright. The big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily in the warm terminal as he ate alone.

From the wall at an interval was the tick-tick-tick of the sliding placards of the schedule. Tick-tick-tick-tick. The regional coming up from Washington would be delayed until midnight. Tick-tick-tick-tick. The express to Providence delayed until eleven-twenty. Tick-tick-tick-tick. The trains always ran late but no one would be waiting for them on a night like this. But how can you be late if no one is waiting for you, he thought. He ate his cold turkey sandwich alone, and the rain fell hard, drip-drip-drip-drip.

Ten past, he put down half a turkey sandwich and wrapped it up once, twice in the paper napkins. He was not hungry. The sandwich was alright. It was a cold turkey sandwich, but he was not hungry. He placed the wrapped half-sandwich back in his bag and zipped it up. He picked up the bag and slung it around his shoulder and went down the terminal and across the atrium. He stood near the back door and waited. The rain fell hard outside and he could see the torrential droplets in the headlights of the cars that were coming down the hill and going along the station. It was wet and dark as he waited and suddenly wished he were in bed at home, warm.

The big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily in the warm terminal as he waited. He looked up at the big hands of the clock on the wall and almost wanted to urge them onward and would have if it would have made a difference. At exactly a quarter past he turned, half-expectant, back toward the door. But there was only the rain falling hard, and he felt foolish for having half-expected it again. The big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily as he felt foolish. By and by the rain droplets descending beyond the door were lit in a white glow. It lumbered into view and rounded the back lot and stopped at the door as he went out into the downpour toward the bus. He reached for his ticket behind the wallet in his left pocket and handed it to the driver.

"Goin' t'a Boston?"

"Yeah."

"Gate three when we get int'a Hartford, that'll be Boston."

"Thank you."

He went aboard and the bag with the clothes and the half-sandwich by his side. He walked down the aisle alone and found an open seat on the quiet, empty bus. It was dark with the rain falling hard but he could see the few from New York were mostly fast asleep. He sat down and placed the bag with the clothes beside him. He sank down into the plush seat as the rain fell hard outside and the driver started the engine again.

From New Haven to Hartford it is forty-five minutes, maybe more on a night like this. He looked at his ticket stub and he did not worry because there would be plenty of time to transfer. He did not worry but his hair was wet and he felt cold and alone. As the bus pulled out of the lot and past the taxicabs in their tired curbside queue, he suddenly wished he were back upstairs and in bed, warm. Soon the others would come home. They would come out of the rain and get dry and warm. Perhaps soon they would know where he was. He wondered if he should have left a word.

The bus turned down the ramp and went north on the interstate past the battered skyline of the office buildings. It was dark and the cars with their headlights a washed blur zoomed along and down the wet asphalt. The rain fell hard on the highway through the darkness.

After you go down a road enough times you find you know it no matter how dark or obscure that road is. So it was as the rain fell hard that night that he looked out through his tired eyes and the fog-laden window and he knew the road. He knew it like the wisp of a recurring dream as it carried him floating in his plush seat, around the bends and curves, atop ramps and overpasses. He knew it and he knew the coldness, the loneliness, and the rain that fell hard outside.

Hidden in the darkness he knew the hills there beyond the interstate as it wove past Northfield and Meriden. This time of year they were barren and grey. In earlier weeks they would have shone with the warmth of autumn hues like a dying flame on the earth of the hillsides. But this time of year they were already barren and grey and the quiet empty bus wound past them in the darkness of the rain.

The New England autumn was different. In his first semester there he saw it when he took the train down to Washington for that gathering he forgets what it was for. He watched as the little towns and lakes sped by, the countryside decaying into leaves and fires and ashes. In October the sky became clear and cold and it swept down on you like air from the mountains. It was not like back home with the days calm and mild and falling one after another, shielding you with their radiance. Here when the mornings came you were woken from the dream and forced against reality like a receding tide, sweeping down like air from the mountains. When it swept away you would be standing there with the barren grey sky and the coldness and the loneliness and then you would have to decide. It was not like back home.

After you go down a road enough times you find you know it. The bus followed the interstate north and cut through the black trees and the rain fell hard over everything. The highway turned where it came across the river and there was the city with the lights of its skyline awash and the outline of City Place a hazy blur above the rest in the darkness. The bus went along the right of the wet highway and the orange-lighted tunnels and slowed onto Asylum Street. It turned and turned slowly in the falling rain and turned into the lot of the old Union Station. When the dim lights came on he blinked away his fatigue and took the bag with the clothes and the half-sandwich. He went forward with the bag and alighted from the steps.

It was raining hard, the darkness raining down on the parking lot. The few from New York still in their half-slumber staggered toward the entrance of the terminal, and he paced toward gate three and saw the bus there, waiting. He presented the ticket stub to the driver and the driver signaled him on board. He shook off the water and went on and found the same seat as before, the bag with the clothes by his side. He sat and watched the rain fall hard over everything. Somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily in a warm terminal filled with sleeping lonely men with their possessions in their pockets. His hair was wet and he felt cold and alone. He waited. In time the engine started again and the dark quiet bus pulled away from the curb. It circled Asylum and came back right above the tunnels next to the convention center before it went down there and onto the interstate bound northeast. That was all he ever knew of Hartford.

From Hartford to Boston it is an hour and a half, maybe more on a night like this. The road would be long and dark, but after you go down a road enough times you find you know it no matter how long or dark that road is. He knew the road but it was cold and dark and lonely and he suddenly wished he were home. Not home at his second home but home where the days were mild and warm and he was young and protected by their radiance. It had been easier in those days, all of this had been.

Brief fleeting. Sky-blue sky, a lazy afternoon. Waves rolling over warm sand. Soaring down the lanes… The winter rains came gentle and sweet and they stayed home all through the dim light of day talking and talking on the phone as the rains drifted softly onto two rooftops…

Much had changed in few years. It had been easier in those days, all of this had been. Now the sky darkened when the storms came and the rain fell hard over everything and you hid away under the sheets shivering and praying alone for it to blow over. Well, that was the New England autumn, and when the clouds lifted there was the sky clear and cold and it swept down on you so you had to decide.

You decide but do you really. It is all a matter of getting up in the morning and going about it and getting back in bed and lying there awake at night is all it is a matter of. You stand here and perhaps soon you will run into a woman or a bullet or a train. Or do you stand there and it is an other woman and not the other two. You get up and stand and go about it but do you really. You go about it and the days fall one after another and they do not know you but do you really.

Much had changed in few years but after you go down a road enough times you find you know it. The first time it was dark too but there was no rain that fell hard in the darkness outside the fog windows, and in the book he read the same word over and over and over in the darkness his mind racing heart pounding please be with me. That time she came alone across the square and they walked back and she was beautiful but it had been hard. He could tell. She was beautiful in the dark but he could tell.

The rain fell. The bus went along the interstate and through the barren trees and the little towns and slowed at the toll stations but never for long on a night like this. His eyes were tired when Worchester passed by in the rain beyond the fog windows and the droplets illuminated fell on the wet asphalt and the muted red glows of the brake lights. It was dark and the billboards and the signs and the lights on the surface streets receded into the past, drowning. He hurtled along through the darkness.

When you hurtle along like that you cannot see in the darkness but you go about it. You make your plans but do you really or do you shiver and pray alone in the room where you saw your childhood grow up and die. The night outside your window calm and mild and the crickets chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp and in every corner of the house there is someone. In every corner they are twisting the angles and it is tight so you cannot stand it. Now you darken when the storm comes and you shiver and pray alone for it to blow over as the disappointed crickets chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp you are a monster a liar a hypocrite a nobody who nobody will miss when you wither away into nothing. You are disgusting. You cannot stand it and you want not to stand it but you shiver. In the light of the lamp you transcribe the song and wait for a response.

Images recalling. The clear moon, a quiet evening. Long nights stretching into soft sheets. Waiting for a response… The breeze came warm and tender through the window and they did not hear the crickets chirp as they click-click-click-clicked in the hush under two rooftops…

It had been easier in those days, all of this had been or had it really. You shivered and prayed alone then and now you make your plans and you fight and you cry and you die but not alone. The skies darken and the storms come and you pray for them to blow over. Well, that is the New England autumn, and when the clouds lift there is the sky clear and cold and it sweeps down on you so you have to decide. Maybe cold and clear you will face the sky and you will decide.

Maybe you will decide badly and when it sweeps away you will be standing there with the barren grey sky and the coldness and the loneliness. You will stand there and perhaps soon you will run into another woman but you will not run into those other two. Maybe you will decide well. Maybe you don't really decide but you will decide.

The rain had stopped. He noticed through his tired eyes when he looked through the fog windows and the trees at the lights of Framingham across the water and in the water. They glimmered distant and the reflection moved in clean ripples toward the shore and he noticed the rain had stopped. In a few months it became a frozen mirror and the snow petals came gentle and soft and faded the mirror so you could not see it. Then you could only see the lights of Framingham and not the reflection in the mirror. He looked through the fog windows and the trees and his eyes were not so tired.

The bus wound through the curves and the bends of the night, a quiet light forging forward in the darkness and the rain had stopped. The night was always dark but after you go down a road enough times you find you know it. His hair was dry now and he felt cold and alone but somewhere men would wake up alone the next morning, with it still wet and dark. Men sleeping in their clothes with their possessions in their pockets and he beside the bag with the bundle of clothes for the weekend and the cold turkey half-sandwich, waiting in the darkness.

You wait and you will always wait so why do you. After you go down a road enough times you find you know it except the trees are this or that color and the reflections ripple or fade but you know it so why do you. You wait without thinking you will wait, with saying you will not wait, and it is all a matter of getting up in the morning and going about it and getting back in bed and lying there awake at night is all it is a matter of. But you find yourself waiting, waiting in the darkness and there is no why. Just like when the storms come and the skies darken there is no why so there is no why you pray for them to blow over and you wait. In every corner they are twisting the angles but it is twisting them back. A disease of the mind, the bold little virus called hope.

The summer that first year he went and the days were calm and mild. That time she came to the station and the breeze came soft and warm as he alighted from the steps and she was beautiful. She was beautiful and she was smiling as they walked back. He kissed her because he could tell it had been hard but she was smiling. The days fell one after another and in the lazy afternoon under sky-blue sky they walked along the marina with their hands clasped between the earth and the water and the air and the old fire that burned brightly. The waves rolled over warm sand and they walked along the second coastline silent and smiling. She was beautiful. She was beautiful and he could tell.

Once past Framingham it is twenty minutes to Boston, maybe less on a night like this, the bus quiet and empty and hurtling along through the darkness. Alone in the bus beside the bag with the bundle of clothes he shivered and prayed it would be less. The rain had stopped and outside the fog windows the world was dark and moist and clean. Somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall in a warm terminal labored mightily toward midnight. He turned his wide eyes half-expectant toward the forward darkness and the lights that came slowly at first.

The lights that came slowly at first became buildings and lights that came past past past past one after another. The bus went beyond the last toll station into the curve that turned there along the path of the Charles. In the dark water were the buildings and lights reflected beside the ship lights small and unwavering in the distance. The sky was dark above the city's glow but the rain had stopped and it was Boston.  After you go down a road enough times you find you know it. You go down a road so many times but no matter how you go about it your heart never stops pounding tight so you cannot stand it into your lungs, your mind racing in a brilliant blur wishing please be with me. He hurtled through the darkness between the buildings and the lights as he said forward forward forward forward. All the pieces of the dream came rising up swiftly into the void and the tide of the past surged against reality and embraced it, sweeping down like air from the mountains in the clear dark sky.

The beginning. The world twilit, a precipice of autumn dreaming. In the light of his lamp he weighs a beautiful existence in his right hand and those other two in his left, terribly strange. Have you ever felt nostalgia for something, but couldn't remember what it was? I feel a little empty inside… I know it. I have faith it will all turn out fine in the end. Let us see where tomorrow finds us…

Tomorrow finds him racing forward forward forward forward in the bus that cuts under the highway ramps and down the long orange-lighted tunnels that lasted an eternity as somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily toward midnight in a warm terminal. His heart pounds and his mind races with the dazzling fear and the hope of the dream screaming please be with me. He waits and he waits in the bus hurtling through an eternity that ends by it pulling up at the gate to the terminal of South Station.

He gets the bag with the bundle of clothes and the cold turkey and he runs. He alights from the steps and he runs. The terminal is always empty and the escalator shut by midnight so through there and down it he runs. He rushes down the stairs and around the back and out there is the walkway beside the tracks behind the station that go up and down the coast. He runs beside the tracks and it is all a blur now, the ground and air moving past past past past dark and cold, but his hair is dry and he is warm. He runs there into the station lit and deserted and the atrium with its towering glass skylights is a blur as he runs underground and The Red Line Train to Alewife is Now Approaching. His wallet is at the machine in front of which he scrapes out the last dollar thirty-five. He taps his card to finish he taps his card to pass and he runs down the two flights from which he launches himself across the platform and into the sliding door.

The train hesitates before the doors slide shut and he stands there against the rail and the bag with the bundle of clothes and the cold turkey slung across his shoulder heaving. In the darkness the train takes him through an eternity interspersed with the occasional Downtown Crossing stops that he lists off impatiently from the red-lined route above the door across from him. Through an eternity somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall labor mightily in a warm terminal where the men with the possessions in their Park Street pockets sleep alone in their clothes and he stands there with the bag slung across his shoulder heaving as his heart pounds tight so he cannot stand it into his lungs and his mind races with the dazzling fear and the hope of the dream screaming Charles-MGH please be with me because after you go down a road enough times you find you know it and though you know it you wait without thinking you will wait without knowing why you wait but you Kendall-MIT wait because there is no why when it sweeps you away and you stand there with the barren grey sky and the loneliness in which whether mild and warm or cold and dark the days fall one after Central after Central after Central after Central the train slows through an eternity as it comes around the curve under Massachusetts Avenue and he waits and he waits as it moves forward forward forward forward against its brakes protesting their use and he turns his head half-expectantly to the door as suddenly comes the tall white wall cut with the red line that says Harvard.

The train hesitates before the door slides open and he runs. The bag with the bundle of clothes and the cold turkey slung across his shoulder heaving he runs through the station and the rails and toward the stairs and up the –

She is beautiful. He looks at her and he can tell. She is smiling and she is more beautiful than he remembered because he could know the road but he could never know this. Somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall reach midnight and the tick-tick-tick-tick of the day's travel does not disturb the men who sleep alone, because it is wet and dark outside but they are warm.

They turn and walk up the stairs and around there to the others. They walk up those stairs a little to the side, awkwardly, smiling. In the square they turn toward home and the students that run here and there are a blur because she is smiling. Well, she is beautiful and no words come when he tries to find them.

"I couldn't finish my sandwich. It's cold turkey."

"I'll help you finish it."

They walk along the avenue in large paces and over the puddles that formed. His paces are larger but she finds him and their hands clasp between the earth and the water and the air and the old fire that burns brightly. They walk along through the night air, cold and dark, but the fire keeps them warm.

"I thought you would decide not to come."

"No."

"I still love you so much, I do."

"I do too."

He loves her. He loves her more than she knows, but he can tell. He loves her.

Yes, I ought to come more, he thought.

Description
The Second Couple

It was a little past eight when he looked at his watch and realized it was time to go. The things were on his bed, and he gathered them up, the bag and the bundle of clothes. On his way out, he wondered if he should leave a word. He let the door behind him and that was all.

The rain fell hard outside, and the lamps flickered in the cold grey air, uneasy. He made his way down York Street, in large paces and over the dark puddles that formed. At Chapel he waited for the signal and crossed and went down there to the left. The cars were coming along and going down and down, moving, driverless shadows. The students went around on the sidewalk, the coats drawn up over their heads. Some were running here and there, and some were going home. In the morning the pavement would still be wet and the sky dark when they trudged to Commons or up Science Hill or stayed in bed, warm and not hung over like the other Friday mornings. It would be wet and dark but they would be warm.

He stopped over at the corner store on Church and went inside where it was brightly lit and the floor was dry.

"A turkey sandwich."

"Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you."

"Five thirty."

He paid in cash and he scraped his wallet for the change.

"Thank you."

He wrapped up the sandwich once, twice with the paper napkins and folded it. He placed the sandwich and the napkins in his bag, at the bottom.  Outside the corner shop he rounded the corner. On Church Street, the school buses went down toward the wharf and past the train station and around the medical school and back up but they were mostly empty on a night like this. The rain fell hard in the cold gloom. He opted to walk because it was only a few blocks. The few blocks were not safe but on a night like this he did not feel unsafe.

Past the overpass the streets were deserted and the streetlamps orange and blurred by the rain. The rain came down hard onto the concrete, and little drops fell and skittered along the deserted streets. His hair was wet and cold.  He went along with a bag with a sandwich and clothes by his side. He turned before the bridge over the wharf across the bay and walked down toward the scattered lights of the train station. When the cars up the hill stopped coming he strode across to the divider and to the fence on the other side, and he continued down toward the station.

Behind the station, the tracks that go up and down the coast disappeared in the darkness just past the bridge. Out in front, the taxicabs waited in a polite and tired line for the passengers that wouldn't come on a night like this. The school buses would stop just past the taxicabs if they stopped at all and they would make their turn at the next light. He walked past the dark driverless taxicab shadows. Inside the double-doored vestibule he shook the water off his coat and he felt his hair which was wet and cold.

The terminal was dimly lit and empty but it was warm. He made his way past the benches with the men who slept in their clothes at the station with their possessions in their pockets. The men would wake up alone the next morning, with it still wet and dark, but they would be warm. Under the big hands of the clock on the wall, they slept. He made his way past them and to the open window of the ticket counter.

"Good evening. Bus to Boston, please."

"S'comin' in at quarter past nine, that a'right?"

"That's fine."

"Goin' one way o' round trip?"

"One way," he said as he always said though he would be making a round trip as he always did. Well, he did not want to see the return ticket so early, and he liked the way it sounded when he said it.

"Goin' be transfer in Hartford."

"Alright."

"Goin' be thirty-two dollars."

He gave the black credit card with his name on it and paid with what he earned filing papers at the clinic on Tuesdays and Thursdays from one to five. I ought to go more, he thought, what with the scholarship now. Yes, the scholarship was a real fine break. Tuesdays and Thursdays paid for everything now, and his folks sat at home with the checkbooks closed. Yes, I ought to go more, he thought. What with the scholarship now. He sighed. It was a real fine break.

"Quarter past nine, out'n back."

"Thank you."

He took the ticket. He folded it up and slipped it in his left pocket behind his wallet. He walked back to the benches and sat down across from a man who was snoring uncomfortably.  He looked up at the big hands of the clock on the wall. He set down the bag with the clothes and he unzipped it and reached under the bundle of clothes. He took out the sandwich wrapped twice in paper napkins and he unwrapped it. It was still dry. In the train station with the men asleep on the benches all around he ate his dinner alone.

Outside the rain fell hard from the dark sky to the wet ground, drip-drip-drip-drip. The sandwich was alright when he took his first bite. It was a cold turkey sandwich, alone in the station with the men all asleep around, but it was alright. The big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily in the warm terminal as he ate alone.

From the wall at an interval was the tick-tick-tick of the sliding placards of the schedule. Tick-tick-tick-tick. The regional coming up from Washington would be delayed until midnight. Tick-tick-tick-tick. The express to Providence delayed until eleven-twenty. Tick-tick-tick-tick. The trains always ran late but no one would be waiting for them on a night like this. But how can you be late if no one is waiting for you, he thought. He ate his cold turkey sandwich alone, and the rain fell hard, drip-drip-drip-drip.

Ten past, he put down half a turkey sandwich and wrapped it up once, twice in the paper napkins. He was not hungry. The sandwich was alright. It was a cold turkey sandwich, but he was not hungry. He placed the wrapped half-sandwich back in his bag and zipped it up. He picked up the bag and slung it around his shoulder and went down the terminal and across the atrium. He stood near the back door and waited. The rain fell hard outside and he could see the torrential droplets in the headlights of the cars that were coming down the hill and going along the station. It was wet and dark as he waited and suddenly wished he were in bed at home, warm.

The big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily in the warm terminal as he waited. He looked up at the big hands of the clock on the wall and almost wanted to urge them onward and would have if it would have made a difference. At exactly a quarter past he turned, half-expectant, back toward the door. But there was only the rain falling hard, and he felt foolish for having half-expected it again. The big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily as he felt foolish. By and by the rain droplets descending beyond the door were lit in a white glow. It lumbered into view and rounded the back lot and stopped at the door as he went out into the downpour toward the bus. He reached for his ticket behind the wallet in his left pocket and handed it to the driver.

"Goin' t'a Boston?"

"Yeah."

"Gate three when we get int'a Hartford, that'll be Boston."

"Thank you."

He went aboard and the bag with the clothes and the half-sandwich by his side. He walked down the aisle alone and found an open seat on the quiet, empty bus. It was dark with the rain falling hard but he could see the few from New York were mostly fast asleep. He sat down and placed the bag with the clothes beside him. He sank down into the plush seat as the rain fell hard outside and the driver started the engine again.

From New Haven to Hartford it is forty-five minutes, maybe more on a night like this. He looked at his ticket stub and he did not worry because there would be plenty of time to transfer. He did not worry but his hair was wet and he felt cold and alone. As the bus pulled out of the lot and past the taxicabs in their tired curbside queue, he suddenly wished he were back upstairs and in bed, warm. Soon the others would come home. They would come out of the rain and get dry and warm. Perhaps soon they would know where he was. He wondered if he should have left a word.

The bus turned down the ramp and went north on the interstate past the battered skyline of the office buildings. It was dark and the cars with their headlights a washed blur zoomed along and down the wet asphalt. The rain fell hard on the highway through the darkness.

After you go down a road enough times you find you know it no matter how dark or obscure that road is. So it was as the rain fell hard that night that he looked out through his tired eyes and the fog-laden window and he knew the road. He knew it like the wisp of a recurring dream as it carried him floating in his plush seat, around the bends and curves, atop ramps and overpasses. He knew it and he knew the coldness, the loneliness, and the rain that fell hard outside.

Hidden in the darkness he knew the hills there beyond the interstate as it wove past Northfield and Meriden. This time of year they were barren and grey. In earlier weeks they would have shone with the warmth of autumn hues like a dying flame on the earth of the hillsides. But this time of year they were already barren and grey and the quiet empty bus wound past them in the darkness of the rain.

The New England autumn was different. In his first semester there he saw it when he took the train down to Washington for that gathering he forgets what it was for. He watched as the little towns and lakes sped by, the countryside decaying into leaves and fires and ashes. In October the sky became clear and cold and it swept down on you like air from the mountains. It was not like back home with the days calm and mild and falling one after another, shielding you with their radiance. Here when the mornings came you were woken from the dream and forced against reality like a receding tide, sweeping down like air from the mountains. When it swept away you would be standing there with the barren grey sky and the coldness and the loneliness and then you would have to decide. It was not like back home.

After you go down a road enough times you find you know it. The bus followed the interstate north and cut through the black trees and the rain fell hard over everything. The highway turned where it came across the river and there was the city with the lights of its skyline awash and the outline of City Place a hazy blur above the rest in the darkness. The bus went along the right of the wet highway and the orange-lighted tunnels and slowed onto Asylum Street. It turned and turned slowly in the falling rain and turned into the lot of the old Union Station. When the dim lights came on he blinked away his fatigue and took the bag with the clothes and the half-sandwich. He went forward with the bag and alighted from the steps.

It was raining hard, the darkness raining down on the parking lot. The few from New York still in their half-slumber staggered toward the entrance of the terminal, and he paced toward gate three and saw the bus there, waiting. He presented the ticket stub to the driver and the driver signaled him on board. He shook off the water and went on and found the same seat as before, the bag with the clothes by his side. He sat and watched the rain fall hard over everything. Somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily in a warm terminal filled with sleeping lonely men with their possessions in their pockets. His hair was wet and he felt cold and alone. He waited. In time the engine started again and the dark quiet bus pulled away from the curb. It circled Asylum and came back right above the tunnels next to the convention center before it went down there and onto the interstate bound northeast. That was all he ever knew of Hartford.

From Hartford to Boston it is an hour and a half, maybe more on a night like this. The road would be long and dark, but after you go down a road enough times you find you know it no matter how long or dark that road is. He knew the road but it was cold and dark and lonely and he suddenly wished he were home. Not home at his second home but home where the days were mild and warm and he was young and protected by their radiance. It had been easier in those days, all of this had been.

Brief fleeting. Sky-blue sky, a lazy afternoon. Waves rolling over warm sand. Soaring down the lanes… The winter rains came gentle and sweet and they stayed home all through the dim light of day talking and talking on the phone as the rains drifted softly onto two rooftops…

Much had changed in few years. It had been easier in those days, all of this had been. Now the sky darkened when the storms came and the rain fell hard over everything and you hid away under the sheets shivering and praying alone for it to blow over. Well, that was the New England autumn, and when the clouds lifted there was the sky clear and cold and it swept down on you so you had to decide.

You decide but do you really. It is all a matter of getting up in the morning and going about it and getting back in bed and lying there awake at night is all it is a matter of. You stand here and perhaps soon you will run into a woman or a bullet or a train. Or do you stand there and it is an other woman and not the other two. You get up and stand and go about it but do you really. You go about it and the days fall one after another and they do not know you but do you really.

Much had changed in few years but after you go down a road enough times you find you know it. The first time it was dark too but there was no rain that fell hard in the darkness outside the fog windows, and in the book he read the same word over and over and over in the darkness his mind racing heart pounding please be with me. That time she came alone across the square and they walked back and she was beautiful but it had been hard. He could tell. She was beautiful in the dark but he could tell.

The rain fell. The bus went along the interstate and through the barren trees and the little towns and slowed at the toll stations but never for long on a night like this. His eyes were tired when Worchester passed by in the rain beyond the fog windows and the droplets illuminated fell on the wet asphalt and the muted red glows of the brake lights. It was dark and the billboards and the signs and the lights on the surface streets receded into the past, drowning. He hurtled along through the darkness.

When you hurtle along like that you cannot see in the darkness but you go about it. You make your plans but do you really or do you shiver and pray alone in the room where you saw your childhood grow up and die. The night outside your window calm and mild and the crickets chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp and in every corner of the house there is someone. In every corner they are twisting the angles and it is tight so you cannot stand it. Now you darken when the storm comes and you shiver and pray alone for it to blow over as the disappointed crickets chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp you are a monster a liar a hypocrite a nobody who nobody will miss when you wither away into nothing. You are disgusting. You cannot stand it and you want not to stand it but you shiver. In the light of the lamp you transcribe the song and wait for a response.

Images recalling. The clear moon, a quiet evening. Long nights stretching into soft sheets. Waiting for a response… The breeze came warm and tender through the window and they did not hear the crickets chirp as they click-click-click-clicked in the hush under two rooftops…

It had been easier in those days, all of this had been or had it really. You shivered and prayed alone then and now you make your plans and you fight and you cry and you die but not alone. The skies darken and the storms come and you pray for them to blow over. Well, that is the New England autumn, and when the clouds lift there is the sky clear and cold and it sweeps down on you so you have to decide. Maybe cold and clear you will face the sky and you will decide.

Maybe you will decide badly and when it sweeps away you will be standing there with the barren grey sky and the coldness and the loneliness. You will stand there and perhaps soon you will run into another woman but you will not run into those other two. Maybe you will decide well. Maybe you don't really decide but you will decide.

The rain had stopped. He noticed through his tired eyes when he looked through the fog windows and the trees at the lights of Framingham across the water and in the water. They glimmered distant and the reflection moved in clean ripples toward the shore and he noticed the rain had stopped. In a few months it became a frozen mirror and the snow petals came gentle and soft and faded the mirror so you could not see it. Then you could only see the lights of Framingham and not the reflection in the mirror. He looked through the fog windows and the trees and his eyes were not so tired.

The bus wound through the curves and the bends of the night, a quiet light forging forward in the darkness and the rain had stopped. The night was always dark but after you go down a road enough times you find you know it. His hair was dry now and he felt cold and alone but somewhere men would wake up alone the next morning, with it still wet and dark. Men sleeping in their clothes with their possessions in their pockets and he beside the bag with the bundle of clothes for the weekend and the cold turkey half-sandwich, waiting in the darkness.

You wait and you will always wait so why do you. After you go down a road enough times you find you know it except the trees are this or that color and the reflections ripple or fade but you know it so why do you. You wait without thinking you will wait, with saying you will not wait, and it is all a matter of getting up in the morning and going about it and getting back in bed and lying there awake at night is all it is a matter of. But you find yourself waiting, waiting in the darkness and there is no why. Just like when the storms come and the skies darken there is no why so there is no why you pray for them to blow over and you wait. In every corner they are twisting the angles but it is twisting them back. A disease of the mind, the bold little virus called hope.

The summer that first year he went and the days were calm and mild. That time she came to the station and the breeze came soft and warm as he alighted from the steps and she was beautiful. She was beautiful and she was smiling as they walked back. He kissed her because he could tell it had been hard but she was smiling. The days fell one after another and in the lazy afternoon under sky-blue sky they walked along the marina with their hands clasped between the earth and the water and the air and the old fire that burned brightly. The waves rolled over warm sand and they walked along the second coastline silent and smiling. She was beautiful. She was beautiful and he could tell.

Once past Framingham it is twenty minutes to Boston, maybe less on a night like this, the bus quiet and empty and hurtling along through the darkness. Alone in the bus beside the bag with the bundle of clothes he shivered and prayed it would be less. The rain had stopped and outside the fog windows the world was dark and moist and clean. Somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall in a warm terminal labored mightily toward midnight. He turned his wide eyes half-expectant toward the forward darkness and the lights that came slowly at first.

The lights that came slowly at first became buildings and lights that came past past past past one after another. The bus went beyond the last toll station into the curve that turned there along the path of the Charles. In the dark water were the buildings and lights reflected beside the ship lights small and unwavering in the distance. The sky was dark above the city's glow but the rain had stopped and it was Boston.  After you go down a road enough times you find you know it. You go down a road so many times but no matter how you go about it your heart never stops pounding tight so you cannot stand it into your lungs, your mind racing in a brilliant blur wishing please be with me. He hurtled through the darkness between the buildings and the lights as he said forward forward forward forward. All the pieces of the dream came rising up swiftly into the void and the tide of the past surged against reality and embraced it, sweeping down like air from the mountains in the clear dark sky.

The beginning. The world twilit, a precipice of autumn dreaming. In the light of his lamp he weighs a beautiful existence in his right hand and those other two in his left, terribly strange. Have you ever felt nostalgia for something, but couldn't remember what it was? I feel a little empty inside… I know it. I have faith it will all turn out fine in the end. Let us see where tomorrow finds us…

Tomorrow finds him racing forward forward forward forward in the bus that cuts under the highway ramps and down the long orange-lighted tunnels that lasted an eternity as somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall labored mightily toward midnight in a warm terminal. His heart pounds and his mind races with the dazzling fear and the hope of the dream screaming please be with me. He waits and he waits in the bus hurtling through an eternity that ends by it pulling up at the gate to the terminal of South Station.

He gets the bag with the bundle of clothes and the cold turkey and he runs. He alights from the steps and he runs. The terminal is always empty and the escalator shut by midnight so through there and down it he runs. He rushes down the stairs and around the back and out there is the walkway beside the tracks behind the station that go up and down the coast. He runs beside the tracks and it is all a blur now, the ground and air moving past past past past dark and cold, but his hair is dry and he is warm. He runs there into the station lit and deserted and the atrium with its towering glass skylights is a blur as he runs underground and The Red Line Train to Alewife is Now Approaching. His wallet is at the machine in front of which he scrapes out the last dollar thirty-five. He taps his card to finish he taps his card to pass and he runs down the two flights from which he launches himself across the platform and into the sliding door.

The train hesitates before the doors slide shut and he stands there against the rail and the bag with the bundle of clothes and the cold turkey slung across his shoulder heaving. In the darkness the train takes him through an eternity interspersed with the occasional Downtown Crossing stops that he lists off impatiently from the red-lined route above the door across from him. Through an eternity somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall labor mightily in a warm terminal where the men with the possessions in their Park Street pockets sleep alone in their clothes and he stands there with the bag slung across his shoulder heaving as his heart pounds tight so he cannot stand it into his lungs and his mind races with the dazzling fear and the hope of the dream screaming Charles-MGH please be with me because after you go down a road enough times you find you know it and though you know it you wait without thinking you will wait without knowing why you wait but you Kendall-MIT wait because there is no why when it sweeps you away and you stand there with the barren grey sky and the loneliness in which whether mild and warm or cold and dark the days fall one after Central after Central after Central after Central the train slows through an eternity as it comes around the curve under Massachusetts Avenue and he waits and he waits as it moves forward forward forward forward against its brakes protesting their use and he turns his head half-expectantly to the door as suddenly comes the tall white wall cut with the red line that says Harvard.

The train hesitates before the door slides open and he runs. The bag with the bundle of clothes and the cold turkey slung across his shoulder heaving he runs through the station and the rails and toward the stairs and up the –

She is beautiful. He looks at her and he can tell. She is smiling and she is more beautiful than he remembered because he could know the road but he could never know this. Somewhere the big hands of the clock on the wall reach midnight and the tick-tick-tick-tick of the day's travel does not disturb the men who sleep alone, because it is wet and dark outside but they are warm.

They turn and walk up the stairs and around there to the others. They walk up those stairs a little to the side, awkwardly, smiling. In the square they turn toward home and the students that run here and there are a blur because she is smiling. Well, she is beautiful and no words come when he tries to find them.

"I couldn't finish my sandwich. It's cold turkey."

"I'll help you finish it."

They walk along the avenue in large paces and over the puddles that formed. His paces are larger but she finds him and their hands clasp between the earth and the water and the air and the old fire that burns brightly. They walk along through the night air, cold and dark, but the fire keeps them warm.

"I thought you would decide not to come."

"No."

"I still love you so much, I do."

"I do too."

He loves her. He loves her more than she knows, but he can tell. He loves her.

Yes, I ought to come more, he thought.