Fiction by Beth Ford
Macy would always remember the day she became a train. It was the tail end of winter, and she had had enough.
The kiddie train in the city park had shuttered what felt like ages ago now. A flood of rainwater had barreled through the park, upending earth, sidewalk, and tracks. And, of course, covid now made the tiny train cars too close for comfort so they remained locked away.
Which meant here they were, with Brendan melting down alongside the mini train tracks because there was still no train. She had walked them past the loop of track on the way back to the car, not thinking it would be a problem. But after telling him twice the train was not running, he had started crying. She wasn’t even sure how he remembered the train. He couldn’t have been more than three the last time he rode it.
She tried to be understanding. Everyone had reached their boiling point by this stage of the pandemic, adults included, so who could blame a child for acting out? Though the fact remained hers was the only one making a scene in the park this morning. The tantrum reached a new level of shrillness. She had to do something.
She knelt in front of her son. “Why don’t we be the train?” she asked.
He paused his screaming long enough to look up at her. He was interested, at least.
“Here. Get on my back.” She turned so he could get piggyback, then she stood and walked alongside the tracks. She felt a tug on her shirt at the shoulder and heard a loud sniffle, which probably meant the fabric had become a tissue. She ignored it and forged ahead. “Where is the train headed today?” she asked.
“Mexico!” he shouted.
Mexico? Where did he get this stuff? “All right, the 3:10 to Mexico it is.”
“Make the train whistle, mommy!”
She had to try a few times before a convincing whistle emanated from her lips, but eventually he was satisfied.
They began to attract attention. An older couple laughed and walked by with a wave. A woman and her son watched for a moment before approaching. The boy was a bit younger than Brendan, dressed in a blue t-shirt with a robot on it.
“Want to join our train?” Brendan asked from his perch. “We’re going to Mexico.”
The boy looked up at his mother. She shrugged. “Do you mind?” she asked Macy before taking position behind. The boys shouted as they went along, lots of chuga-chugas and choo-choos, and the occasional, Faster! The group had almost returned to their starting point when a little girl fell in at the rear of their train, parent unidentified.
“We’re reaching the station,” Macy said. “You boys better put on the brakes.”
Brendan made a whooshing sound she assumed was meant to be the sound of the train slowing. Behind her, the other boy simply shouted “Stop!”
She pulled up to the same tree they had begun under and let Brendan down. A mother ran from the direction of the duck pond to claim the little girl. “Sorry!” she said. “She got away from me for a moment.”
“No worries,” Macy said. They all introduced themselves. The kids grinned, thoughts of tantrums temporarily dissipated. For a brief moment, normalcy seemed restored. The sun peeked through the leaves above them, brightening the last winter chill out of the air.
“So,” she asked, “Same time next week? Different destination perhaps?”
Beth Ford lives in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Her short fiction, poetry, and a novel excerpt have appeared in Embark Literary Journal, The Scores, Sangam Literary Journal, fresh.ink, and The Journal of Undiscovered Poets. For more information, visit http://bethfordauthor.com.
