Page 43 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“That’s what’s right with it, because now I associate reading with the taste of pepperoni and peppers. Win-win.”

I offer to buy my ticket, and he shakes his head at me, maintaining he’d never make his nephew pay for a big day out.

We walk past the traditional museum artifacts behind glass displays and into Depot Square, a re-creation of the turn-of-the-century downtown hubbub, complete with 1920s jazz music and façades of old-timey storefronts. In the center is a collection of train cars: steam, electric, diesel, some dating back to the 1860s.

The two of us wander the grounds, finding a quiet, easy rhythm. I set the pace, but every so often, Adam feigns interest in a particular caboose component or a dining car table to sell the lie that he’s also getting something out of this.

“You might appreciate this one.” I gesture toward a nineteenth-century heavyweight passenger car. My voice tiptoes in the echoey space. “Carpenters and coachmakers used to build ornate wood passenger cars like this.”

We step up into the car’s salon. I watch Adam take in the floor-to-ceiling golden oak wainscoting. Green panels decorate the ceiling, bordered by gold paint in a floral design. Plush velvet couches sit unused, begging for someone in a bustle to sink into them. The car is textured, moneyed, and teeming with energy, like at any moment we’ll be kicked out by men in coats and tails looking for a spot to play cards. It’s not a relic, just momentarily out of time.

“These are my favorites.” My voice is low, like we might disturb the nonexistent passengers.

“Why did they stop making them like this?” He lightly strokes the curved wood molding as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to but is unable to help himself.

I laugh. “Money. Also, the wood cars are pretty uncomfortable to ride in. Stainless steel cars are much lighter and make a smoother ride, but they’re not nearly as luxurious looking.”

I allow myself to admire it a little longer before moving toward the exit. Adam follows and offers his hand as I descend onto the platform. His skin is hot on mine, and I hold on a beat longer than I should, averting my eyes when I finally let go.

11

The Green Plaid Scarf

When we leave the museum, Adam drives through town pointing out previous apartments and storefronts that used to be something else, like an Adam Berg Personal Memories Tour guide.

“So why trains?” he asks.

“Umm, they were faster than horses and could bear weight—”

“Not ‘why do trains exist?’ ” he interrupts, vexed. “You’re clearly enthralled by this place in a way that puts all of the ‘visiting nephews’ we’ve passed today to shame. Why do you love trains, Alison?”

I tuck a stray curl behind my ear. “Growing up, we had a model train set under our tree. I was always obsessed with it. My dad and I used to work on it together year-round, scouring garage sales for new cars and components.”

I was fourteen or fifteen when I realized it was kind of a lame hobby. My sister was thriving in extracurriculars while I was rewatching a DVD of a PBS special on the transcontinental railroad I’d purchased during a pledge drive with my allowance. Early in my high school career, the train set returned to an exclusively Christmas tradition.

“That’s why you got into your line of work?” He looks at me with irrepressible interest—like my dorkiest source of enthusiasm is somehow the most enchanting thing about me.

“I sort of fell into it. I had all these useless train facts rattling around in my brain, so when I wrote a paper in my college freshman seminar that was essentially an ode to the Trans-European Railway network, my professor got me into the right program and connected me with an internship that turned into a job. And here we are today.” I swivel toward him with a gesture that says ta-da.

His lips quirk. I want to make him laugh—an honest, uninhibited, down-to-his-belly laugh. I think it would be something worth seeing.

“I’m surprised you wound up here.” He tilts his head to indicate the Upper Midwest. “And not Europe or somewhere with more trains.”

My eyes wander out the window toward the dark, hypnotic swells of Lake Superior. “I like it here, and I like my job, even if it feels a bit Sisyphean at times.”

My interest in transportation was never rooted in wanderlust or a desire to escape. Part of what I like about trains is that they’re literally tethered to the ground, part of its landscape. Planes make the world feel smaller, but trains remind me that the world has always been big. They connect you to people all over the continent while still granting you permission to pick your favorite corner of it and build a small, simple life there—only to roam exactly when you want or need to.

“But I’m up for a new job. A promotion, actually. It’s the next step in a career like mine.”

He tilts his head in my direction, eyes dancing between me and the road. “You don’t want it.”

Self-conscious laughter springs from my chest. “What makes you say that?”

“You’re doing your people-pleaser face,” he answers, matter-of-fact.

I rear back. “I don’t have a people-pleaser face.”

“You most definitely have a people-pleaser face. You do it with the Lewises and Russell—”

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