Short Stories

Jesus on the 2 Line

Noël Turner

Geez, the stench. The funk of New York City’s eight million seemed trapped in the close-quartered D car of the 2 Line. The end of the workday wore its exhaustion in mussed hair, grey pallor, and hangdog expressions. Heads pounded, feet ached. The strobing effect of tunnel lights, flashing on and off as the train dashed beneath the city, added to the dizzying effect of it all. She covered her nose with a white cotton handkerchief and took short, shallow breaths.

She hadn’t eaten lunch, no time. Breakfast? No. Oversleeping had taken care of that. She had, however, managed to snag the last available seat in the car. There was a tv dinner and a cup of tea awaiting her. A hot bath, with bubbles, and a quiet night in would wash away the day. Looking around her, she figured she’d need it.

A young mother, her children whining in their own exhaustion, looked to be at the end of her tether. Holding tightly to the grab bar with one hand, she hummed to the unhappy toddler on her hip, while two more sat at her feet. Couldn’t she get them quiet? The overly-amorous couple at the far end of the car, limbs intertwined- probably works by the hour. On the other end, a young man played a second-hand guitar and sang an old hymn of the faith. Wearing  jeans and a Jesus T shirt, his smile held the attention of those enjoying his music. Now, that was better. “Walk With Me, Lord.” She listened, eyes closing, nodding along in time to the music. The kid gave it a bit of an updated style. Too bad, she thought. Apparently, the old ways aren’t good enough for some.

Across from her was a fellow who sat quietly, sketching something onto a piece of paper. It was rumpled and used, as was he. His body was inked from stem to stern in vibrant colors and hues, his hair slicked back and secured in low hanging ponytail. Combat-style boots and torn denim, a worn leather jacket completed his look. She rolled her eyes, then leaned her head heavily against the metal grab bar. What is wrong with people today? She sat among them, the unwashed and unwanted and shook her head.

Raising her hand to her chest, her fingers traced the silver cross she wore. She squeezed her eyes shut and silently gave thanks that she’d not turned out like these. She was well put together, had a good job, a home and a church. Her days were useful, fulfilling. If only she could avoid certain types of people, surround herself with those more like herself. Thank God I’m nothing like them.

The train stopped. People got off and others boarded. Stop after stop, between Manhattan and the Bronx, more of the same traded places. Faces changed. The aroma of weariness remained, hanging like a stewy fog. It was cloying.

“Next stop, Morris Park,” blared the mechanical voice from above.

Thank Heaven, she thought to herself. She grabbed her bag, lifted it and perched it on her shoulder, standing to fight her way to the door. Pressing through the throng of bodies, she cleared the door and stepped onto the platform. She then dropped, like a stone, to the ground, the world tilting on its axis.

Those around her shrieked and stepped back. They gathered their children and turned away as if in fear. Commuters dashed up the stairs, unseeing. All around her was noise and flashing light, yet she neither heard nor saw. It was a blur.

Help. She imagined voicing her need, her fear, but heard nothing. Had she even made a sound? All around her, people scurried, fled. They saw her and ran, or perhaps, in the rush, she was rendered invisible. Help.

“Hey,” she heard, as if from a great distance. “You okay? Let me help.”

A face appeared in the fog before her. She couldn’t make it out. A hand, warm and slightly calloused, touched hers. She grabbed a hold, her own hand quaking. She was pulled to her feet and led, quite blindly, to a nearby bench. Closing her eyes against the blur and buzz about her, she dropped her head and slowed her breathing.

“That’s better. Keep breathing.”

His voice was a soft, comforting baritone. His hand rested securely along her forearm, steadying her on the bench.

“Are you ill? Should I call a doctor?”

Shaking her head, she took a deeper breath as her head cleared.

“No, just haven’t eaten today. It’s nothing. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Good, good. Just keep breathing. I’ll sit with you ’til you feel better. Live far from here?”

“No, not far at all. Just up the street.”

Sitting up, she reclined against the back of the bench and sighed.  Her breath came more easily, the wave of dizziness calming. Opening her eyes, she looked to her white knight and found a gangly young man, covered in tattoos, smiling warmly up at her. The kid from the train.

“Here. Eat this,” came a new voice. “It’s just a granola bar, but it’ll put something on your stomach. The kids like them.”

She turned and found the young mother, a now sleeping child in her arms, her other two standing, wide-eyed, at her side. Shaking her head, she eyed them all in wonder. Looking around, she found another slew of busy strangers, businessmen in bespoke suits, professionals of all kinds, dashing hither and yon, unseeing.

But these, the noisy, weary, unkempt about her, these had seen her. 

Looking down at her pressed skirt and silken blouse, her designer heels and handbag, her brow creased in confusion. It didn’t make sense. Raising her eyes again, she found them watching her, concern evident in their gazes. When others had fled, they had stayed. Those she might have assumed would rush to her aid either couldn’t be bothered or simply didn’t notice. These, who her mind had deemed the least among them, had stopped. They had seen. 

If she had imagined such a scene before, she would have envisioned the opposite reaction. People more like herself would have stopped to render aid, the morally upright, those who had it all together and neatly packaged too. Then, she was struck. They were like her and she, like them.

She bristled at the contrast, at her own hubris. Looking down, she straightened her skirt and considered the young man kneeling before her. His attire was nothing like her own. It was rumpled, like slept-on sheets. Where her hair was carefully styled, his was thrown back and gathered recklessly at his neck.

His well-worn, little cleaned clothing wrapped a clean soul, whereas her immaculate couture housed an ugly spirit. The younger mother of three fussy, cried-out children, kept a song on her lips, brought forth from her heart. While she had seen them only with judgment and derision, they had seen her with compassion.

Which of them was a true reflection of love? Of acceptance? The answer was clear, and she found herself bereft at the revelation. 

Rising to her feet, her eyes downcast, she mumbled a shamed Thank you, to each of them. Gathering her belongings, she shuffled toward the stairs that would take her to the surface, to her home. Pausing at the base of the steps, she turned. Giving them her eyes, she repeated her “Thank you” more clearly, holding their gaze. With a final “Forgive me,” she turned and trudged up the steps.

They watched her go, shared a look, then returned to their own journeys.

She closed the door to her apartment behind her, dropped her things, and fell to her knees, shaking like leaves in the wind.

“Oh God,” she cried aloud. “Make me like them.” 

Forged in Fire

Noël Turner

Ancient hinges groaned stubbornly as she opened the door. A quaint mountain cabin seemed a drastic understatement. Aged red cedar, warped by more than one hundred years of extreme weather, whined against her efforts.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “at least no one can sneak in, Mabel.”

She set down the large cooler containing her groceries. Running her fingers along the wall, she flipped a lone switch. Nothing.

“Fabulous,” she said, flatly, then scanned the room, allowing her eyes to slowly adjust in the fading light before moving further inside. Spotting a lamp in the far corner, she carefully padded across the floor, wary of obstacles. Fortunately, the lamp worked.

With just enough light remaining, she finished hauling in her things, then shut herself in for the night. Taking another look around, she found Mabel curled into a sizable ball on the floor, and shivered. Good heavens, she thought to herself. It’s freezing in here.

She was surprised to find logs beside the hearth, even more so the lighter on the mantel. Laying the kindling in the firebox, she got to work and soon had a fire going. Given the underwhelming size of the cabin, it should quickly warm. The extra light afforded her a better look around. Also underwhelming.

Sitting on the bed, she wilted, shoulders stooped. What was she doing here? It was late and far too dark to pack up and drive back. The farther out she drove, the more abandoned the area felt. Who thought this was a good idea? A snore from the floor drew her from her thoughts.

Mabel was asleep, perfectly content. Figures.

Standing, she crossed the room, and slid the latch on the door. Then, she unzipped her suitcase and grabbed a pair of sweats. Given her luck so far, she was not optimistic about the bathroom situation.

It was a small, but surprisingly well-appointed bathroom boasting a toilet, tub, and sink. There were clean linens. That was certainly an improvement.

Quickly, she changed her clothes, stuffing her feet into a fresh pair of socks, and returned to her tasks. The fire was blazing and the room was far more comfortable than before.

The cooler still needed unpacking, but she was spent. The thirteen hour drive had done her in.

Turning down the bed, she was further pleased to find the sheets crisp and clean, with an insulated blanket under a thick downy quilt. Climbing in, she pulled the covers up and sank down into the inviting mattress.

Soon, she was joined by Mabel, who stretched out and buried her nose.

“Well, Mabel, I’m not really sure what to tell you, old girl. I hope we don’t come to regret this little adventure.”

She was met with silence. She’d better get used to it, Mabel her only companion for miles. 

“Let’s just get some rest.”

She patted the dog’s head, then tried to sleep. Tried, being the operative word. Peaceful sleep was something which had eluded her for the last several months. Dreams filled with angry flames licking at her skin, hot and vicious, had left her brittle and unsteady, quick to snap at others. She regretted what she’d become. The last year had thrown one punch after another.

Rachael Pine was an up and coming television journalist for a news station in San Francisco. Recently promoted from mornings, she was well on her way to the evening anchor’s desk. Her fiancé, Craig Davies, was a junior partner in a San Fran publishing house. Power couple, they had been called in the society pages. More like powerless now.

It had been nearly ten months since it had all crumbled, like a house of cards. A grease fire in her beloved junior one bedroom had not only destroyed her on camera career, but it was destroying her life. 

Burns to her face, neck, and hands had taken months of surgery and therapy to treat. Hyperbaric, hydrotherapy, skin grafts had all brought major improvements to the scarring which marred her appearance. Two procedures remained, revisions to her hand and hairline. Though her body healed, her mind was still a wreck.

Vanity. That was a part of it. Hers was an on camera career. She had to look her best. There were hair and makeup people to see to it that she did. While on medical leave, a younger, newer reporter had stepped in, and Rachael feared she would get comfortable.

Moving into Craig’s guest room had made sense. They would eventually live there together anyway. He wanted to take care of her. He stayed at her bedside while she was hospitalized, drove her to every appointment, taking time off to be with her. His devotion made it all the harder to suggest they call off their engagement.

He was crushed. She was rattled. He said nothing had changed. She just couldn’t see how. He begged her to take some time before deciding. She agreed, if for no other reason than she adored him and couldn’t stand to see the look in his eyes when she tried to end it. More than that, however, she couldn’t stand herself for doing it to him. She simply wasn’t herself anymore. There was no confidence, no drive. The fire had changed the way she saw herself. She felt weak, vulnerable, exhausted by scars that went much deeper than her skin.

She finally drifted off and her sleep was, blessedly, devoid of dreams. Mabel woke her just as the sun rose. Rachael remained in bed until her bladder demanded she get up. Pulling back the covers, she shivered. The fire had long since died.

When she returned from the bathroom, she got it going again. Next, was unpacking the cooler before her food spoiled. Opening the fridge, she found a number of items already there. Apparently, the caretaker had been there. She added her own things and turned to take a better look around.

The cabin was small, one room plus the bath. There was a bed with a nightstand. On the opposite wall was the kitchen, such as it was. A stove, sink, and refrigerator, with a cabinet overhead. A rocking chair and a desk under the only window completed the furnishings. It was very spartan, but clean. She could be grateful for that, at least. 

Pulling out a change of clothes, she dressed and bundled up. She was eager to explore and Mabel needed to go out.

Stepping outside, she was again shocked by the bitter cold. Mabel didn’t seem bothered by it, and dove nose-first into the snow. Looking around, Rachael saw Ponderosa pine, gnarled and dried, laden with snow. The mountains of the Owyhee rose on the edge of the horizon, its shadow looming over the valley. It was desolate, nothing or no one for miles. Rounding the house, she found a tree stump, complete with axe, one pile of wood and a second of disassembled boxes.

She walked along the road stretching before the cabin. Snow crunched under her feet, her thick socks and boots keeping her feet dry and warm. Sunlight glinting off the snow sparkled like diamonds. It was beautiful, she thought. Next time I’ll grab my camera.

Rachael was bundled up against the cold. Mabel was not. They soon bounded back into the house, leaving her boots by the door. Coffee was in order.

There was no coffee maker, only an old percolator. It took some doing, but she figured it out. She took her cup and sat in the rocker, Mabel on the rug at her feet, enjoying the fire. Closing her eyes, she let the warmth of the fire, and the coffee, drive the chill away. She felt rather accomplished. She’d laid a fire, taken a hike, made coffee old school. All of which had taken less than an hour. What the heck was she going to do for the next month?

The balance of the day was spent reading, hiking with Mabel, taking pictures, and trying her hand at cooking on the old stove. When night fell, there was a fire burning low as she tucked herself into bed. She’d managed to fill a day. One.

Her days found their own routine. Daily walks with Mabel, learning to cook new and more ambitious meals on the stove, and making a record of her time there. The bathroom, she found, made an acceptable dark room. If she ever managed to salvage her career, perhaps a report on her time in the Idaho wilderness would interest someone. Snow-covered mountains, frosted firs, Mabel on the hunt, were all featured in black and white photos strung up across the countertop.

She wrote detailed descriptions of her little corner of land, in daily entries at the small desk under the window. On the coldest of days, it afforded her a brief escape while she stayed inside by the fire. Rachael found she enjoyed those days more than she first dreamed possible. Those, she spent in a pair of sweats, her hair piled high atop her head, feet stuffed into a pair of cozy socks. 

One thing she had noticed right off was the lack of mirrors anywhere in the cabin. She could well imagine that was by design, and wouldn’t put it past Craig to have requested it. Bless his heart, he was trying, and she had to admit it did make a difference, not constantly seeing her own marred reflection. She didn’t need the reminder. Without dwelling on the events of the last several months, she managed to turn her focus outward. As quiet and deserted as this place was, she didn’t feel lonely. Mabel was her constant companion, yes, but there were also deer and elk and red tailed hawk. The silence could be deafening, leaving her alone with her own thoughts. When she could no longer avoid them, she put them on paper.

There was fear, humility, self-pity, and a sense of disconnect. Her fear had caused her to build walls, keeping out the one who loved her most. Those same walls, however, kept her locked up inside. Why Craig kept trying to knock them down, she’d yet to figure out. Craig. He’d love this place.

Craig was all about nature and animals and mountains. He’d be in Heaven. She could understand it. Nature undisturbed by noise or traffic or garbage was striking. It wasn’t something she’d experienced in the city. Maybe she’d bring him back here one day. Perhaps it would even make an ideal honeymoon spot. That was the first time she’d thought in terms of one day in months. She’d pushed those thoughts aside, choosing instead to focus on what she’d lost. Maybe it was time to dig deep and sort it all out. After all, wasn’t that why she’d agreed to come out here?

Donning her coat and hat, she whistled for Mabel and they headed outdoors for their daily hike. They had gone a little farther each day, exploring the area of thick trees between the cabin and the mountains. There were large rocks and frozen streams amid the snow-covered trees. She and Mabel climbed over boulders and skipped over brooks, snapping pictures as they explored. 

As the sky turned grey, they turned back before the snow could fall. Mabel, on the scent, dashed ahead in search of prey, and Rachael hurried after her. She lost her footing and her boot slipped on an ice-coated boulder. She landed hard on her backside, her boot wedged between two large rocks. With her other foot, she kicked at the rocks in an attempt to free herself. Removing the boot was an option, but she wasn’t sure she’d be able to walk without it.

Soon Mabel was back at her side. When she was finally free, she hoisted herself up, braced against the surrounding trees, and limped her way back to the cabin.

Once inside, she sat on the end of the bed and removed her boot. Her foot had already begun to swell, and a gash ran halfway up her leg. Fabulous. She could move it, but it was uncomfortable. She took a deep breath and wrapped her mind around what needed to be done. 

She retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and worried that her supply of food was dwindling. She would have to think about that later. Grabbing a towel and the first aid kid from the cabinet, she tossed both onto the bed.

Carefully stuffing her foot back into the boot, left the cabin again in search of the cardboard out back. Topping it with snow from the front of the house, she covered it with the towel. After pulling up her pants leg, she sat on the floor, rested her leg on the towel-covered snow and brought up the sides of the cardboard, securing them with her boots. Leaning back against the bed, she washed down a couple of capsules.

The remainder of her day, she spent tending to to her leg, icing and elevating. It certainly could have been worse, but it still hurt like the devil. Tears threatened, and she shook her head, as if to chase them away. Rachael was done with tears. The longer she allowed them, the more frustrated she became with herself. She used to be stronger than that. In the beginning, just after the fire, she could justify her tears, as well as in the following months. Now, however, they had grown tiresome.

Instead, she hobbled about the cabin, spending the next few days reading and writing, finding ways to stretch her groceries. She processed her photos, imagining them alongside her journal. They would make a fine article at some point.

When Mabel sniffed at the door, Rachael would let her out. The dog had become familiar enough with the environs to schlep about during the day, then return again each evening. Rachael missed her daily walks, but passed the time propping up her leg and immersing herself in her writing, which had taken on a new depth. No longer did she simply put her days on paper, but how she felt about them. She wrote of the accident that precipitated her downward spiral, and thus the time away at the cabin.

She wrote of Craig, his devotion to her, his unceasing pursuit of her heart. She considered it rather brave on his part, that unswerving fidelity. When he said his love was not altered just because her appearance was, he meant it. She could see that now. Was she brave enough to accept that love? That was the question.

The snows began to thaw and Mabel spent more time galavanting. One afternoon Rachael heard her scratch at the door, and pulled it open. There, she found a large crate, which she pulled inside. Lifting the top, she found a fresh supply of food, a stack of empty journals, and a pile of mail addressed to her. She made a circuit of the cabin and, seeing no one, she went back inside.

After putting away the groceries, she dug into the mail. Much of it could be trashed, but there was a letter in Craig’s familiar handwriting, which she set aside, and a letter from the station. That was the one she was dreading. It could hold the end of her dreams. Even with all of the revisions, she didn’t look the same.

She slid her thumbnail under the flap and opened the envelope. Unfolding the letter, she began to read and was stunned at the contents. A job offer. At the station. She could stay. Director of the evening news. It was not on camera, but it was a real offer. She could continue to write and investigate. They wanted her back.

Exhaling, she laid the letter aside and opened Craig’s. It read quite differently, but still the same. There was still a place for her. He wrote of his pride in her struggles, not just over the past year, but over the past several weeks. How? He was moved by her grit and determination in meeting each obstacle, each task with fortitude. He wanted her to see just how brave she could be, just how much she could still achieve when it was required. He was waiting for her and hopeful that she would see the beauty in herself that he had never ceased to see. That though she had been forged in fire, she had been made stronger than ever.

Could she define beauty the way he did? Reexamining her time there, she looked at what she’d been able to do alone. From learning to build a fire, cooking on the old stove, developing pictures in her makeshift darkroom, she had persevered. When she might have given up on her very first day, she stayed. She became at home with the solitude, friends with the silence, and made peace with her own demons.

Two weeks later, she packed up her belongings to return to the city. As she began the task of loading up her car, she found Craig leaning against the passenger door, beaming at her. Instantly, she was in his arms, confused, but delighted.

“What are you doing here? Where did you even come from?”

Framing her face in his palms, he pressed a kiss to her brow and smiled. 

“I’ve been here all along, watching over you. There’s another place nearby. You never noticed, but Mabel did. She stopped by each day. I’ve been here, Rache, in case you needed me. Look at you. Eight weeks, and you’ve taken care of yourself. There’s nothing you can’t overcome. Do you see that now?”

In shock, she shook her head. She’d been by herself, but not alone. It was everything he always tried to be. He was there to help, but not take over. His love hadn’t changed, just as he’d said.

She kissed him soundly, much to his relief.

“Let’s go home,” she firmly said. “We’ve plans to make. It’s time.”