The Yard

Frank found the bench outside the old depot on a Tuesday morning and decided it was his.

Nobody else wanted it. The depot had been closed for six years. The rail yard behind it was just rust and weeds now, old locomotives stripped for parts, sitting on sidings that went nowhere.

But Frank came anyway.

He brought a ham sandwich his daughter made. Too much mustard. She always used too much mustard. He sat down and the metal bench burned through his jeans. He shifted. Ate his sandwich. Looked at the trains that didn’t run anymore.

A wasp circled his thermos. He waved it away.

Kudzu had taken over half the chain-link fence. The cypresses at the edge of the lot drooped in the heat.

***

The kid showed up three weeks later.

Frank was halfway through his sandwich when he noticed him. Maybe nine, ten years old. Skinny legs in cargo shorts, a t-shirt with a faded locomotive on the front. The kid stood at the fence, fingers hooked through the wire, staring at the engines.

Frank watched him for a while.

The kid didn’t move. Just stood there, head tilted back, looking.

“You lost?” Frank called out.

The kid jumped. Turned around. “No sir.”

“Where’s your folks?”

“My mom’s at the dentist. Two blocks over. She said I could wait here.”

Frank studied him. The kid had that look. The one trainspotters got. The one Frank used to get when he was that age and his own daddy would take him down to the yards in Mobile.

“You like trains?”

The kid’s whole face changed. “Yes sir.”

Frank gestured to the other end of the bench. “Gate’s unlocked. Come sit.”

***

The kid’s name was Marcus.

He sat on the edge of the bench like he was afraid to get too comfortable. Kept looking at the engines in the yard.

“How old are those?” he asked.

“That one’s a GP38. Built in ‘72. The one behind it’s older. SD40. Been sitting there since before you were born.”

“Do they still run?”

“Nope. Stripped for parts.” Frank crumpled his sandwich wrapper. “Railroad doesn’t need them anymore.”

Marcus looked disappointed.

“But they weren’t always junk,” Frank said. “That GP38 pulled freight from here to Atlanta and back. Thousands of miles. Never missed a run.”

“You know a lot about trains.”

“I drove them. Forty-two years.”

Marcus’s eyes went wide. “You were an engineer?”

“I was.”

“Where’d you go?”

Frank leaned back. “Everywhere. Up through Tennessee, Kentucky. Down to New Orleans. Over to Birmingham, Montgomery. If there was track, I ran it.”

Marcus shifted closer. “What was it like?”

“Early morning runs through the Smokies, mist still low. You’d come around a bend and the whole valley would open up in front of you.” Frank paused. “And once, running night freight through Mississippi, I came up on a field full of fireflies. Thousands of them.”

“Did you stop?”

“Couldn’t. Had a schedule.” Frank smiled faintly. “Slowed down though. Just to look.”

A car pulled into the parking lot. A woman got out, waved.

“That’s my mom,” Marcus said.

He stood up but didn’t move toward the car right away.

“Can I come back?” he asked.

Frank looked at him. “Anytime.”

***

Marcus came back the next Tuesday.

And the Tuesday after that.

Frank started bringing an extra sandwich. A thermos of sweet tea. They’d sit on the bench and Frank would tell stories.

About the bakery in Dalton, Georgia. How every engineer slowed down when they passed it just to catch the smell of fresh bread coming out at dawn. Frank did it for twenty years. Never stopped. Never bought a loaf. Just slowed down.

About the diner in Chattanooga where the coffee was strong enough to strip paint and the waitress knew every engineer by name.

Marcus listened. Asked questions. Took notes in a spiral notebook.

“You writing a book?” Frank asked once.

“Just writing stuff down.” Marcus kept writing. “My teacher said I should keep a journal. Of important stuff.”

Frank liked that.

***

On the fourth Tuesday, they walked through the gate into the yard.

Gravel crunched under their feet. Grasshoppers scattered. Weeds pushed up through the ballast, waist-high in places.

Frank led Marcus to the GP38 and stopped at the ladder.

“You ever been inside one?”

Marcus shook his head.

“Go on. Climb up.”

Marcus grabbed the rungs and pulled himself up. Frank followed, slower.

Inside the cab, sweat broke out on Marcus’s forehead immediately. Frank’s shirt stuck to his back. Dust covered the throttle, the gauges, the cracked seats with their guts spilling out.

Marcus put his hand on the throttle, careful, like it might break.

“You feel it in your chest when you pull that,” Frank said. “The engine fights you at first. All that weight behind you doesn’t want to move. Then something gives. The wheels catch. And suddenly you’ve got a hundred cars doing exactly what you tell them to.”

Marcus looked at him.

“Feels like the whole world’s following you.”

Marcus’s eyes went wide. His hand tightened on the throttle.

They sat there for a moment. Marcus staring at the controls like he could feel it.

“Did you take your family?” he asked. “On trips. To see the places you went.”

Frank was quiet for a moment.

“No.”

“How come?”

“I was working. Couldn’t bring them along.”

Marcus nodded. “Did your kids like trains?”

Frank looked out the cracked windshield.

“Had a son. Didn’t take much interest.”

Marcus glanced up. Waited.

Frank cleared his throat. “We should get down. Your mom’ll be here soon.”

***

They didn’t talk much the next Tuesday.

Marcus showed up with his notebook but didn’t ask questions. Just sat on the bench and drank sweet tea and looked at the trains.

Frank ate his sandwich.

After a while, Marcus said, “My dad left when I was six.”

Frank looked at him.

“Mom says he just couldn’t stay in one place. Always had to be moving.”

Frank didn’t respond.

“I don’t remember him much,” Marcus added. “But I remember he liked working on cars. Always in the garage.”

They sat there.

“I thought maybe if I liked cars more, he would’ve stayed,” Marcus said.

“That’s not why he left.”

Marcus shrugged.

Frank knew that shrug.

“I’m sorry,” Frank said finally.

Marcus nodded.

***

The Tuesdays kept coming.

Marcus still asked about trains. Still took notes. Still climbed up into the cab and put his hands on the controls.

One Tuesday, Marcus brought a drawing. The GP38, rendered in colored pencil. Not perfect. But careful.

“For you,” Marcus said.

Frank looked at it for a long time. “This is real good.”

“I used a picture from my phone.”

Frank folded it once, then twice. Put it in his lunch pail next to the thermos.

“Thank you,” he said.

On a Tuesday in late September, Marcus came to the bench but didn’t sit down.

He stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at his shoes.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

“We’re moving.”

Frank set down his sandwich. “When?”

“Three weeks. Mom got a job in Atlanta. Better pay.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Marcus didn’t sound like he thought it was good. “I told her I wanted to stay. Finish the school year at least. But she said we can’t.”

Frank nodded slowly. “Atlanta’s nice. You’ll like it.”

“I guess.”

Marcus finally took his spot on the bench.

“Will you still be here?” Marcus asked. “If I come back to visit?”

“I’ll be here.”

Marcus opened his notebook. Stared at a blank page. “Can you tell me another story?”

Frank looked at the trains in the yard. The rust. The weeds gone to seed.

“Yeah,” he said.

***

They had two more Tuesdays.

Frank told him about the time a black bear wandered onto the tracks in North Carolina. About the little station in Alabama that used to have the best pecan pie. About ice forming on the windshield in winter and having to scrape it off at every stop.

Marcus wrote it all down.

***

The last Tuesday came in October.

The bench wasn’t hot anymore when Frank sat down. Marcus showed up with his notebook and his mom waved from the car but didn’t get out.

They sat on the bench.

Frank had his thermos. His sandwich. But he didn’t open either.

“I got you something,” Marcus said.

He pulled a small package from his backpack. Wrapped in newspaper comics. Frank unwrapped it carefully.

It was a model train. A GP38. Not expensive. Probably from the hobby shop downtown. But painted carefully.

“Thought you should have one,” Marcus said.

“Since the real ones don’t run anymore.”

Frank turned it over in his hands. His throat felt tight.

“Thank you,” he said.

They sat there for a while. Watching the yard.

“Can I ask you something?” Marcus said.

“Sure.”

“Why do you come here? If the trains don’t run anymore?”

Frank was quiet. He set the model train down on the bench between them.

“My last run was February 2003,” he said. “Atlanta to here. Empty freight cars coming back. Nothing special. Just another Tuesday.”

Marcus waited.

“Got into the yard around four in the morning. Sun wasn’t up yet. Cold. Could see your breath.” Frank looked at the GP38. “I knew it was my last one. Railroad was making us all retire. New guys, new engines. Time to go home.”

He paused.

“Except I didn’t want to go home. Kathy had already left. Took our son with her. House was just empty rooms.”

Marcus didn’t say anything.

“So I sat in the cab after I shut her down. Just sat there. Thinking about all the runs I’d made.” Frank’s voice was flat. “Thinking about the morning my boy was born.”

A crow called from somewhere in the trees.

“Kathy went into labor early. I was running freight to Chicago. Could’ve handed it off. Could’ve caught a flight home.” He stopped. “But I didn’t.”

Marcus was very still.

“I got home thirty-six hours later. Held my son for the first time when he was a day and a half old.”

Frank picked up the model train. Turned it over.

“He hated trains. Hated me being gone. Said so, soon as he was old enough to say it.”

Frank set the train back down.

“I come here because I gave up everything for this.”

They sat there. The sun was getting lower.

Marcus’s voice was small. “Do you talk to him now? Your son?”

“No. He’s grown. Got his own life.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

They sat there until Marcus’s mom honked the horn.

Marcus stood up. Picked up his backpack.

“Thanks for the stories,” he said.

“Thanks for listening.”

Marcus walked toward the car. Stopped. Turned around.

“Mr. Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“I wish I didn’t have to go.”

Frank’s chest tightened. He nodded. “Me too, kid.”

Marcus got in the car. His mom pulled out of the lot. Frank watched them go.

***

The next Tuesday, Frank came back.

He had his lunch pail. His sandwich with too much mustard. His thermos of sweet tea.

He sat on the bench. The metal was cool now. He opened the pail. The model train sat beside the thermos, the drawing folded underneath.

He took out the sandwich. Unwrapped it. Took a bite.

The bench beside him was empty.

When he finished, he closed the pail.

After a while, he picked up the model train. Turned it over in his hands. Set it down.

The GP38 sat on its siding.

The tracks ran out into the weeds.