"It's Not the Midnight Train Going Anywhere" by Kate Maxwell

It’s Not the Midnight Train Going Anywhere

Dirty white headstones float past the coach window, reshaping into the mottled fleece of grazing sheep as my opening eyes and waking mind reset. Ah, not the dead but the woolen. I press forehead against glass and sigh, see one glance up at me as if to bleat, Gotcha. Her pointed, snickering face, disappearing into sights and thoughts of things forgotten.
Across my lap, lies a newspaper. It’s just the daily rag, but I haven’t managed more than a few crossword answers. I blame the locked windows, barely working air-conditioning, and the way the neat little man beside me keeps peeking smugly at the clues. Yes, you know the answers. I get it. Sky is gluggy, rain spitting nonchalantly every now and then. I shift my weight, close my eyes, and try again. But it’s useless. My credit with oblivion has now expired.
My phone is dead. There’s no entertainment system or charging sockets on this old beast, and I stupidly packed my books into my luggage, thinking I would sleep or use my phone. There are hours left in this sealed steel can, and only a window, a newspaper, and memories to distract me. And the last thing I want is to remember.
Stephanie gave me an awkward kiss this morning before I took the first step up to my homeward journey. She watched, stood dutifully on the pavement, as I arranged myself into the cramped space claimed as mine for the next seven hours. I made silly faces as I was expected to do. She laughed as she was expected to do. I willed the bus to move, and of course the driver continued to loiter, checking the luggage door, smoking a last cigarette as he leaned against the depot sign. I mimed to my sister-in-law to leave. No need to wait and watch my long face fading away for the last time. She blew an apologetic kiss, gave a last sad smile, and walked away. Beyond the bus, beyond my view, and into her own days. And finally, the bus started to move.
But, as soon as the bus rolled out onto the road, the movement somehow dislodged my heart. My years here, with the man I thought was my destination, were over. Memories stabbed into my ribs, whistled about my head. The warm breadth of his chest against my back, late night chocolate trips to the 7-Eleven, the earthy scent of his sweat, and even his sobbing apologies when I howled, flinging photo frames that shattered into broken shards of us upon the floor. I already missed his quick smile, soft neck, and that sinking elevator sensation I’d get when he looked at me. He looked at me. Until he looked at someone else.
“Never can do those things,” declares a voice above my left shoulder.
A balding head leans over my seat from the row behind. He points to the crossword, open on my lap.
“Oh, obviously I can’t either.”
Thinking the conversation is over, I return to the puzzle. He continues to stand, pressing his stocky frame into the back of my chair. His stale, slightly smoky scent lingers. Glancing up, I notice he’s still looking and smiling. And as the bus rumbles around curves and bumps in this windy part of the road, I realise why he’s still there. I pull my shirt tightly over the rise and fall of my chest. Oh, for Christ’s sake. I exhale my loud disgust, screw my eyes shut to banish myself from this moment, this cruddy life, this whole torturous journey to get back home.
I see myself walking up the path of Mum and Dad’s brick bungalow in a few hours; a broken failure, lugging clothes, books, and misery.
“Don’t stop believing,” the neat man beside me now points at the crossword.
I look at him blankly.
“Number four across,” he smiles at me. “It’s by Journey. Seven letters. Don’t Stop Believing, a song by which band?”
Then I know it’s all I can do. The pain and this journey, too, will end.
“Ahh, thank you. You’re right.”
I’m not lost. I remind myself that this is not the midnight train going anywhere. It’s just a bus taking me home. Going somewhere. So, I start humming the tune inside my head. Sheep nod their approval as I watch my past fading further down the road.

kate Maxwell

Kate Maxwell is yet another teacher with writing aspirations. She’s been published and awarded in Australian and international literary magazines, such as The Chopping Blog, Hecate, Blood and Bourbon, fourW, and Bright Flash Literary Review. Kate’s interests include film, wine, and sleeping. Her first poetry anthology, to be published with Interactive Publications, Brisbane, is forthcoming in 2021. She can be found at https://kateswritingplace.com/publications/.

Headshot: Andrew Stanner

Photo Credit: Staff