A Stranger on a Train. Somewhere.

Sitting cross-legged on Amanté's bed, I could hear a midnight train passing somewhere in the distance.


"I've always loved that sound," I told him. "Since I first moved to Evansville..."


It took me a minute to remember that's where I was. That same train whistle cutting through the quiet countryside, the same schedule.


Evansville was the first place I lived where I could remember hearing a train. In Florida, we were on a tiny barrier island and in Colorado Springs, any tracks near us weren't near enough.


For the first month my family were in Evansville, we lived in an unsettling little house. The ant invasions topped anything I've seen before or since, including a North Carolina kitchen in the summertime. The backyard was huge, but swamp-like with mud. The windows were unnaturally high-set and small, so the house was always dim. My closet smelled like cheese, no matter how much I aired it out. The neighbors told us a little girl had drowned in the pool in the backyard. And I don't care what you believe in and what you don't; all I know is, I without a doubt heard the sound of someone whistling a melody coming from the other side of the shower curtain multiple times when I knew absolutely that I was home alone.


I didn't sleep well there. On several occasions, I was awakened by the tickle of ants crawling on me. Other times, it was from the sound of movement; I was certain someone was creeping around my room in the dark. Making myself as small as possible, I did my best to tuck the sheets around me--over my head and all--to keep out both insects and spooks. Whatever it was I thought I saw standing beside my bed sometimes when I woke up, it wasn't going to catch me with my guard down.


Alone and trembling, I strained my ears for signs of life. My own household was always quiet. Rarely, I heard a car on the street, but it passed so quickly that it offered little companionship. My only comfort on those endless winter nights was the whistle of the train.


It rang through the sleeping city, echoed across the miles to my small, high window, found its way through the layers of my security blanket. It was there every night, more than once, without fail. I'd listen for it, willing it to sound, unsure of the time. While I could hear it, I could relax. I'd let myself stretch out, sometimes even pull the sheets down a little to breathe some fresh air. For a few minutes, the ants on the dresser and the specter lurking my room and even the ghost in the shower, forever haunted by that song, ceased to matter, because someone was waving to me in the dark. I wasn't alone. I hoped the conductor sensed that someone else was out there, waving back.


When we moved to another neighborhood, a less creepy house, I could rarely hear the train anymore. In truth, I didn't feel the need to listen for it. Sometimes I wondered if it missed me.