Harrington Hill Station

Few can recall a time when the tracks of Harrington Hill Station were not rusted over. When Thomas Royce arrives at work every morning, in the dimly-lit middle ground between complete darkness and sunrise, he sometimes confuses the metal rails for their pristine, polished condition from 27 years prior. The early morning illusion often tricks him, bringing him back to his first days on the job. He began working there at 19, thinking the ad for a newly-built train station in a town where the cattle outnumbered the people was a joke. Stuck between upstate and Philadelphia, Thomas expected the new establishment to remain empty for most of the year. However, visitors to the station were tenfold what he predicted. It seemed as though no one stayed for long.

A few trains were expected to pass the station today, with two stopping to pick up passengers. A decent amount of people waited on the platform for the 11:30 direct to Pittsburgh. The radio indicated that the train was on schedule, meaning the station would be empty in time for Thomas to take his lunch break. A few people littered the benches posted around the platform, although most people chose to stand while they waited.

He surveyed the crowd, recalling the faces of every person he sold a ticket to. He made it a game of some sort, imagining what each person was like based on what they carried with them. He saw a young couple by the far end of the platform, standing close enough together that their black wool coats blended into one. The man carried two leather bags while the woman twirled a lock of hair between her fingers. Newlyweds, Thomas guessed, as he caught a glimpse of the woman’s face, bright and beaming with happiness that only lasts so long.

A family close to the loading dock caught Thomas’s attention. A girl in bright orange rain boots kept trying to evade her father and inch closer to the train tracks. He stopped her easily, flipping the girl over his shoulder in a playful manner. A streak of orange confused the dull landscape for a moment as Thomas heard a hint of her delighted laughter. He wanted to laugh back, amused by the girl's rain boots in late fall. He looked up to find one cloud, maybe a hint of a second, but no chance of rain.

The Pittsburgh train arrived perfectly on time. Thomas anticipated the arrival of his shift mate even more, a baby-faced boy who went by his middle name instead of his first. Thomas knew him as Marty. He found Marty to be helpless sometimes, always asking him questions before finding a solution himself. He addressed Thomas as if he were his boss, no doubt because of the age difference.

“Where should I put this box, sir?” Marty had asked on his first day of work, carrying the new shipment of ticket stationery. Thomas wanted to know where he picked up the “sir,” as it certainly did not come from his Pennsylvanian hometown.

“In the office. With all the other ones,” Thomas had responded, the stern voice only making him feel older. He had tried easing up on it the longer he worked with Marty. Even now, he found himself hesitant to correct the boy when referred to as “Mr. Royce” instead of Thomas. Whenever he tried to imagine himself at that age, Thomas decided he had always been as he is now, a quiet ticket salesman in the middle of nowhere. He must have missed the phase Marty found himself at, bumbling and smiley and confused all the time.

Thomas prepared his lunch as he left the booth. He felt obligated to smile back when Marty took his spot, lowering the chair for the couple of inches he had over Thomas. He felt smile lines crease around his forehead and relaxed his face as soon as he was out of Marty’s sight.

An evergreen forest surrounded the station on all sides, stopping briefly at a grass field that sat parallel to the station. Thomas joked to himself that the field had initially been cleared on the wrong side of the tracks when construction began. With a landscape as grand and green as the forest, an empty field somehow became the most interesting thing to look at. He never anticipated growing bored of the evergreens. The scent alone became a staple of his workday, something to look forward to when he finally left the booth and took a break outside. Still, it was easy to lose interest when everything surrounding him looked the same.

One person remained on the platform, a man sitting on Thomas’s favorite bench. He remembered the man from the ticket booth. He bought one ticket for a train that left hours ago and carried no luggage with him. The man looked old enough to be Thomas’s father yet he debated thinking of him as old, worried about the implications that would have for himself. Thomas walked closer to the man and his oldness became undeniable. Both of his wrinkled hands rested on top of a cane in front of him. He wore a brown cable-knit sweater that made no attempt to match his worn loafers.

Thomas approached the old man and stood within the leftmost part of his line of sight, trying not to frighten him once he began speaking

“I think your train left hours ago.”

The old man had his eyes transfixed on the grassy field.

Thomas spoke a little louder after receiving no reaction. “The 6:30 to Harrisburg, correct?”

The silence worried Thomas. The platform was windy that day, but not nearly enough to drown his voice out. As more time passed with no response, Thomas began to forget what he had said. He had no idea what tone he used or how quickly he went through his sentences. The words had escaped his memory as soon as he said them. He started to wonder if he said anything at all.

The old man blinked and Thomas noticed his eyes for the first time. They were a remarkable green color, sullen and glassy. The man was awake and breathing, confirmed by the gentle rise and fall of his sweater. Thomas considered going back to the booth and checking his sales records for his name. When he tried to leave, the old man finally noticed him, as if his absence would be more jarring than his appearance in the first place.

“Do you see that?” the old man asked, lifting his hand in a swift, labored motion toward the open field. Thomas did not look away from him.

“I believe you were supposed to go to Harrisburg, but that train is long gone. I can figure out when the next one is coming if you would like.” Thomas had watched that field for the last 27 years. Nothing could be interesting enough to miss an entire train.

“Right in the front there, you see it? I thought I was looking into the desert when I found it,” he said. Thomas began to worry for the old man. He had dealt with children separated from their parents before, but there was no guide for lost old men.

He decided to humor himself and look where the old man pointed. He almost missed it at first, but sure enough, a dead bush stood in the middle of the field in the relative direction of the old man’s finger. Not around the middle, but perfectly centered between the train tracks and the horizon. The old man seemed to think it was much closer than it appeared to be for Thomas. He was right about its desert-like appearance. Every stem extending from the ground was completely empty of leaves. Unkempt grasses grew all around it, a ghostly white inconsistency within the greenery.

“There might be a 9:00 to Harrisburg. But it gets cold out here at night,” Thomas stuttered, hanging on to each syllable as he searched for the next word. He blinked, letting the landscape disappear momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, a flood of light refilled the layers of green, stopping suddenly around the dead bush.

“I never would have noticed it. Not until it moved, at least,” the old man said.

Thomas watched closely as a persistent breeze shook the grass in all directions of the earth. The bush remained rigidly in place, easier to spot now as the only thing not moving.

“It's hard to imagine that thing moving, even with the wind as it is now.” Thomas blinked again. He could not fathom what the old man meant.
“No, it moved towards me. Six times now, a few yards closer every time.”
“You saw this bush move?” Thomas questioned

“I saw it after it moved. Once the trains pass.” Although his words seemed fragmented, the old man spoke clearly.

Thomas tried to recall the schedule, a task he had no problem achieving with an unclouded mind. He pictured the tracking log and replayed the radio messages in his head. Arrival and departure times flashed in and out of focus, impossible to trace. Thomas refused to call this reaction shock. All he had done was overlook a plant in a field, one he swore had not been there before. It was impossible to miss, yet he missed it for 27 years.

Thomas realized he had grown as silent as the old man, lost in thought, and tried to narrow down how many trains had passed that day. All he could remember was a couple of freighters in addition to the passenger stops. It was entirely possible the old man had waited all day.

“What is your destination?” Thomas asked.

“After the first train passed I thought it was a trick. But by the second one, I knew for sure it was closer. I could see each stalk clearly, where each branch twisted out.”

Thomas inspected the dead bush again, stagnant as ever. He could make out the larger stalks with ease while the smaller stems appeared as thick as a hair. His eyes felt strained trying to trace each gnarl and he promptly gave up.

“Your contacts must work wonders,” Thomas joked. The old man either chuckled or sighed, Thomas could not tell.

“I want to know what happens.”
“Pardon?”
“When it reaches me, I have to see what happens.”

Thomas wanted to return to the ticket booth and eat his lunch alone. He wanted the old man to leave and the bush to disappear with him. He couldn’t move, however, his feet planted firmly on the wooden platform as if something major would happen the moment he turned away. His back began to hurt from standing in such an odd position, his body facing the old man with his head twisted towards the field.
“May I join you?” Thomas asked before he could talk himself out of staying. The old man swept his cane to the side.

From the bench, clear as day, Thomas could see the dead bush. He removed his lunch from a paper bag as he had done thousands of times before. The old man hardly moved and Thomas grew worried about upsetting the silence. He creased the bag carefully instead of balling it up, which he would have tried to throw in a nearby trash can if no one else was watching.

Thomas searched for a distraction around the field. He spotted a rustling group of evergreens to the far left, the distance falling close enough to see each tree sway against the sky. A flock of birds the size of a two-story house funneled into the sky. The shape of the dark mass contorted as it rose higher, a few of the birds falling behind. Those stragglers created a tail as the mass headed east, leaving a dotted path from where they had been. He wanted to know what had stirred them from the tree even though it was impossible to tell. A deer, he thought, or maybe a person going on a walk, although he found no reason for anyone to be out that far out in the woods. His interest ended there, as it became hard to ignore the person next to him.

Thomas traced the position of the old man’s chin to his collar, noting that he had not moved it all. He couldn’t decide who was crazier, the old man for creating this allusion or himself for indulging in it. He wanted to wait for the next train to pass and prove to the old man that nothing will change. If the old man remained there any longer, Thomas decided he would cross into the field and dig the plant up himself. Every glance at the dead bush made him feel like he was doing something wrong, as if admitting he believed in the old man’s theory.

Thomas had lost his appetite and the contents of his lunch lay scattered on his lap. He heard footsteps approaching him, quickly paced and close together. The voice of Marty Collins interrupted his silence.

“Mr. Royce, sir, I’m sorry but your shift started a few minutes ago. I was going to let you talk to your friend some more, but I thought you would like to know,” Marty fidgeted nervously. Thomas could see him tugging at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. He shrank back while he waited for Thomas’s response. The boy had never spoken to him like this; both the subject and the tone were new to him. Rightfully so, Thomas thought, as he rarely found himself losing track of time. There were clocks posted around the station and a watch on his wrist, yet it never occurred to Thomas how long he had been there. Time felt as still as the old man next to him, frozen like the inexplicable dead bush.

“Got it, Marty. I’ll be back in a minute.” The boy returned to an upright posture. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” Thomas added.

“No, not all, sir. I just thought you would want to know,” Marty said between steps as he tried to leave. The old man said nothing as Thomas finally let himself move. Marty had turned away completely when Thomas called him back.

“Marty, wait, I need you to look at something.” The boy jogged back to the bench before Thomas could put together exactly what he was going to say.

Thomas looked at the old man briefly, hoping he would say something in place of him. Even a nod would suffice, anything that meant go ahead and ask, I need to know. Marty faced the two on the bench, bouncing back and forth from his heels nervously. His shirt thread was wrapped coarsely around his finger, tight enough that Thomas expected his fingernail to turn purple.

“Marty, you see that bush over there? In the center of the field?” Thomas started. The old man said nothing. As Marty looked, Thomas saw his head move gently while surveying the field.

“No, I’m sorry. What am I looking for, Mr. Royce?” Marty admitted as he kept on searching, afraid to disappoint Thomas.

“It's straight ahead, all the branches are dead and there are no leaves.”

“I’m looking, sir,” Marty continued as his head fell still.

“It looks like a plant you’d find in the desert,” Thomas added in place of the old man. He clutched the bench armrest next to him, pressing down harder the longer Marty took. The tips of his fingers began to feel sore. This isn’t anger, Thomas thought, at least not towards the boy. The throbbing in his hand became significant enough to release the bench, and if Marty had not answered as soon as he did, Thomas was unsure of what else would have come out.

“Oh, wait. I see something. That could be a bush or a tree stump or some dried-up dirt. It’s really far away, I can’t tell.” He paused for a moment, releasing the thread from his finger. “Nope, that’s definitely a bush. I can see it now when I squint really hard.”

Marty pivoted around and looked at Thomas, glimpsing quickly at the old man. Thomas held his breath, expecting Marty to smile at the old man and loudly ask him how his day had been. He could see Marty’s confused expression if the old man remained silent, as he had for the duration of their time together.

“What about it, sir?” Marty asked.

His question caught Thomas by surprise, and although he knew it was coming, he had no answer. What about it lingered in the air as he breathed in sharply. The smell of evergreen trees became strong enough that he expected to taste it. He let out a sigh, his breath pushing the pine scent away for a few seconds of empty, cold air. He leaned forward and stood up clumsily, losing his balance before reaching for the armrest again. Marty did not seem to notice. Thomas patted the old man’s shoulder and allowed himself one last view of the dead bush. While Marty claimed it was far away and the old man thought it was close enough to reach him, the bush remained firmly planted in the middle of Thomas’ sight.

“Nevermind, son. I’m ready to head back now.” Marty took the lead and Thomas filed behind him, leaving the old man and his favorite bench behind.