Raccoon Creek may seem an unlikely place for a railroad. It lies high in the hills along badly graded, steep terrain filled with low hollows, where jewelweed and goldenrod grow in tangles along the rail bed. But in the late 1880s, when the logging industry started to boom, the track went down fast. A town even formed around the railroad. There was a saloon, and people used to walk along the tracks to get there. Sometimes they'd stagger back late at night drunk, and there were accidents, even some deaths. The town isn't there anymore, and now the only trains that pass are through-day freights hauling woodchips or frozen potatoes south to Millinocket. The sides of the trains are emblazoned with BAR: Bangor-Aroostook Railroad--State of Maine Products. The station might have gone unnoticed for another 100 years but for the fact that a year ago a young woman killed herself by lying down across the tracks. Even that might have been forgotten--it even might have been considered an accident--if she hadn't tied her ankles to the tracks so carefully that they were the only part of her body left in the vicinity of the rail bed. Everything else had fallen into the creek below, and was found by a trout fisherman days later. After that there was a big public outcry, with people clamoring to tear it down, saying it was haunted, it was a bad omen. But all that died down eventually, and the station still stands, after the mayor finally prevailed with the argument that things this crazy don't come along too often.

"Take as much time as you need," Eric said. His wife nodded over her shoulder and got out of the car. Eric got out too. It was October, and already there was a mean chill to the air that hadn't yet reached Boston; the gray sky clamped down hard over the tall stands of pine along the road. He zipped his jacket and walked around to the front, leaned against the hood. He watched his wife through the trees make her way the few yards up the hill to the railroad tracks. She was carrying a bouquet of pink cosmos, her sister's favorite. He remembered the first time they'd come up--made the 5 1/2 hour drive from Boston--how she fingered the light pink blooms as she sat in the car, weepy, and said her sister liked them because they were whimsical. Whimsical, thought Eric--about the last thing he'd ever call Theyla. They'd done this every month for the past eight, and he never minded staying by the car alone, sometimes for more than an hour, because he loved her and because it was one of the few things he could do to help her--and he believed it did help. She was getting better, he told himself, and he saw it in the little things. That day she hadn't cried on the way up and she came back down after only 20 minutes and told him--of all things--that she was hungry. She said she knew of a little diner nearby. Teresa and her sister Theyla had spent their summers in Raccoon Creek, at the home of their grandparents. She told him many times how the railroad station was one of their favorite places, how they would come on summer nights to lie in the grass and hear the trestle creak and sing under the weight of the BAR trains, the rush of wind that followed in their wake, the bracing sound of steel on steel. It all sounded so romantic until Theyla--who was always more than a little unstable in Eric's eyes--tied herself to the tracks one mild spring morning. His chest still tightened every time he thought of it. The funeral had been a nightmare. Teresa's family were staunch (though nonpracticing) Catholics, who insisted on burying the body, even though there was really no body to bury. Then there was the media hoopla, the family therapy sessions, the missed work, the sleepless nights.

But as they sat at the counter of the little diner Teresa suggested, eating grilled cheese sandwiches, Eric thought she looked positively happy. He would never take credit for it all, but a month ago he'd had a brainstorm. After some research on the Internet he'd found a discussion list for people whose loved ones had thrown themselves in front of trains. There were people out there who'd gone through exactly what she had, and Eric knew that no matter how much he listened to her, consoled her, held her while she cried, he could never really understand. He didn't agree with Teresa that things like this just happen in life sometimes. He firmly believed that the world was a rational place, and that there was an explanation for everything. He just knew that in Theyla's case he'd never find it. He wanted his wife to get better, but he had never understood Theyla when she was alive, and now that she was dead there was really no point in trying at all.

One night as Teresa was sitting in the darkened study, he walked up behind her and put his arms around her shoulders.

"So," he said. "How does it feel to be part of the global village?"

Teresa wrapped her fingers around his hand. "Thanks for getting me on this. I mean it. Look at all this info I found for when we go to the Southwest." She gestured to a stack of paper sitting next to the printer. "And it's all free. We don't have to buy guidebooks now." Eric leafed through them: Monument Valley, Sedona, the Grand Canyon, pages and pages of restaurants--Teresa loved Mexican food. He smiled.

"You know, this is going to be a fun trip to plan. It'll do us both good to go somewhere totally different."

"You're right," said Teresa, turning to him. "I'm really excited about it. Oh, and Eric, I think I've made a friend on the train suicide list. We've been talking back and forth--I mean, you know, writing. It was his brother," she said. "Killed by a coal train."

"Christ," said Eric. "That's tough. It must be good to talk about it with someone, though."

"Yeah. He has an interesting way of looking at things. We've been writing a lot; I get, I don't know, probably an e-mail a day from him."

Eric squeezed her shoulder. "Honey, I'm really happy. So do you know anything about this guy, like what he does for a living, if he's married?"

"No," said Teresa. "We haven't gotten into that sort of thing yet. We've just been talking about the deaths. He's from Wyoming, that's all I know."

"Wyoming?" Eric shook his head. "Funny, but I don't think of people as having e-mail out there."

Teresa was looking up at him. After a second she rolled her eyes.

"Eric!" She swatted at his hand. "The country isn't made up of the Northeast and California. You need to broaden your horizons."

"You're right," he said, laughing. "If it weren't for you, I'd be even worse: I'd never even leave the house." He leaned down again and his arms around her shoulders. "No, I think it's great you found someone you can talk to about your sister. That's why we got you this thing."

Teresa smiled and turned back to the computer. Eric went into the kitchen to get a beer, and when he left the room, the clacking resumed. That night after they went to bed he noticed that for the first time in many months she didn't grind her teeth in her sleep.

The next day when Eric got up, Teresa was already in the garage doing some woodworking, her new hobby. She started refinishing furniture after Thelya died, at first just harvesting the junk from her mother's attic: a side table, a chest of drawers, an odd kitchen chair. Then when that ran out, she started going to flea markets and thrift stores, and working on more and more difficult pieces. The more busted and broken down the better, in fact: Teresa loved to find furniture with layers of paint and varnish, furniture that looked like it had been painted by Van Gogh, slabs of bright oil paint a half inch thick. Teresa had always been strong, but now the muscles in her arms stood out without her even flexing. She had to keep her nails cut very short to prevent paint chips from collecting beneath them. Sometimes after she'd fallen asleep, Eric would notice the fingers of her right hand curled, as if she were still gripping the two-inch scraper. She called it her therapy. And Eric could understand that, taking her anger and frustration out on a piece of furniture, turning something shabby into something nice again. But when he'd said that, she had just looked at him and shook her head. "No," she'd said, smiling. "That's not it."

After he showered, Eric made a pot of coffee and picked up the mail. Among the bills and supermarket flyers was a postcard with a picture of a man hog-tying a steer. Eric flipped it over.

Thought I'd give you an idea of what it's like in my neck of the woods, Teresa. Big sky country they call it, and I guess that's apt. Some these days are bothered by rodeos, though you don't seem the squeamish type.

Eric stared at the card. He read it again. Finally he put it on the table with the rest of the mail and went into the living room with a cup of coffee. When Teresa came into the house to get her water bottle refilled, she saw the postcard. Eric heard a little peal of laughter from down the hall. He was reading the paper when she came into the living room, holding the postcard up in front of her, like a trophy she'd just won at a fair.

"Look, Eric. Did you see this?"

He looked up from his paper. "Yes, I did," he said. "Is that from your friend in Wyoming?"

"Yeah!" she said. "Look at that sky in the background. Big sky country. God, Wyoming must be beautiful."

"I don't know," said Eric. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to give out our address to people on the Internet."

Teresa was standing there sipping water in her paint-flecked jeans and one of Eric's old v-neck t-shirts. She smelled of CitriStrip.

"And rodeos are kind of brutal, don't you think? I thought you were an animal lover."

She shrugged. "I am, but still, I think it's kind of cool. Different, anyway."

She turned around then, turned on her heels in a little pivot--kind of sprightly, he thought--and walked back to the garage. He watched her walk down the hall and then picked up his paper again.

That night they had planned to have some friends over for Sunday dinner, an old college buddy of Eric's and his new wife. When Eric went into the kitchen that afternoon to check on the supplies, the postcard was up on the refrigerator. It was smack in the middle of the door, displacing photos of Eric and Teresa and other couple friends taken at barbecues, the beach, at weddings. She used four plastic fruit magnets to hold it up, one in each corner, while the photos were shoved under one or two magnets each, sliding down the door at odd angles under their weight. It became a conversation piece when Rob and Jessica showed up, came into the kitchen to ask Eric if they could help with anything. He was preparing a rack of baby back ribs with Texas barbecue sauce, his specialty. "No, I think I'm all set. You guys just grab yourselves a beer and relax in the living room."

"Oh, where is this from?" said Jessica. "A rodeo. Is that out West?"

"Yeah, that's Wyoming," said Eric. He saw Rob and Jessica lean in towards the fridge to get a better look, not daring to remove the card from its elaborately positioned place.

"Who went out West?" said Jessica. "That must have been wild, to see a rodeo."

"Nobody," said Eric. "Did I tell you guys how I hooked Teresa up with this Internet group for people who've lost loved ones by train suicides?"

They both looked up from the door at the same time.

"Well, I thought it would help her, you know, to have other people to talk to who've gone through the same thing." He had just finished brushing the ribs with sauce and was putting them in the oven.

"Oh, sure," said Rob. "That makes sense."

"So that's where the postcard came from, her friend on the Internet group."

"That's who the guy is on the card? He's handsome," said Jessica.

"No," said Eric. "No. He's the one who sent the card. His brother died, by a coal mining train, or something. Hey, let's go in the other room now while these things cook."

They went into the living room but Teresa wasn't there. She was in the study and called to them from where she sat in front of the computer.

"Hey, you two, come here. I want you to take a little quiz. It's on the brain. Eric and I both took it the other day, and we were really surprised with the results."

"Sure," said Jessica. "That sounds like fun."

"You're really having a good time with that computer now, aren't you?" said Rob.

Eric followed the two of them into the study but inwardly groaned. Teresa had found this quiz, probably from her friend in Wyoming, that was supposed to tell you which side of the brain is dominant, right or left. While Eric came out fairly balanced between the two, Teresa's results actually were staggering: 82 percent right brained, 18 percent left. With your very strong tendencies toward right-brain dominance, you fit the typical profile of an artist. You are able to conceptualize. You do not let yourself get bogged down by details when you approach a situation or relationship; you are able to see the 'whole picture,' the "personal evaluation" at the end told her. Teresa was thrilled. Eric actually thought it was a little disconcerting, the fact that one whole side of his wife's brain was barely used, but he also knew it was a good idea to keep encouraging her. Since Theyla's death, Teresa seemed thrilled with any new insight into herself, good or bad. It was almost as if until Theyla died, Teresa had never thought about things much. And this could only be good, getting her to discover more things about herself.

Teresa had always been sort of indifferent to Rob and Jessica, but the dinner went so well that night--Teresa excited as she was about Wyoming and rodeos and her artistic inclinations--that they decided to get together again the following weekend.

Next Saturday afternoon Teresa and Eric went to the supermarket and the liquor store to get supplies for their dinner that night. When they got back home, there was a little note affixed to their mailbox; a Federal Express delivery had been attempted and the package was being held at the post office. In the box under sender's name it said "Atkins."

They got back in the car and drove to the post office. Eric stayed in the car with the engine idling while Teresa ran inside. When she came back she was smiling. She had a small package in her arms. When she got in, Eric started the car.

"Any idea?" he asked.

"Not a clue." Theresa opened the package right there. Eric glanced over every now and then. There was a lot of packaging, bubble wrap and tissue.

She threw the packaging in the backseat as she went through the box.

"Hm," said Eric. "This is quite a production."

"Elmore did say he'd be sending me something, something he made himself."

"Elmore," said Eric. "Is that his name?"

"Yes," said Teresa. "Elmore Atkins."

Eric smiled. "Elmore from Wyoming."

"Oh, look: cassette tapes!"

There were two, and a note. Teresa read the note to herself. When she was finished she shook her head. "I can't believe this," she said. "Homemade tapes. This is so thoughtful."

When they got home she immediately put one of the tapes on the stereo.

"Oh," said Teresa, once the music started. "Oh, Eric, listen. This is great. This is just what I needed. The blues just have a way of making you feel like your own problems are so nothing."

Train rolled in the station
But my baby couldn't be found,
Train rolled in the station
But my baby couldn't be found,
Somebody told me she got off
In another town.

Eric had the two bags of groceries and was about to bring them in the kitchen. "So that's what these tapes are, all blues?" he asked.

Teresa held the tape jacket up for him to read. "Take a look."

T-Bone Walker, "Railroad Station Blues," Tony Rice, "Old Train," The Allman Brothers Band, "All Night Train," Bob Dylan, "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry." The list went on. He looked at the tape and then at Teresa. "And all this is . . . okay with you?"

Teresa took one of the bags from him. "You mean do I think it's morbid, or weird? No," she said. "I think it's good to get it out in the open. You know, Eric, there were times I'd be going to the mall and hear the commuter train roll by and I'd shiver; I thought for the longest time I'd never be able to get on another train. But hearing these songs makes me realize that there's a lot of romance connected with trains. There's a whole folklore behind the railroads, that's what Elmore says. They're an American icon."

They had brought the bags into the kitchen and Eric began unloading them.

"That they are," said Eric. "So is that the kind of stuff you guys talk about, how trains are American icons, things like that?"

Teresa nodded. "Things like that, but mostly about the deaths--how they affected us, how they affected our friends and family."

Eric closed the refrigerator and turned around. He tilted his head and smiled.

"How did the death affect me?" he said.

Teresa hesitated, reached out for his hand. "Oh honey. You know it affected you."

"I know it affected me," he said. "But I want to know how you think it affected me."

She looked down at the ground. "Well," she said. But when Eric saw the look of serious concentration on her face, he felt bad he had put her on the spot. He walked over and put his arms around her.

"Nevermind," he said. "I know. It affected me, and it affected you, and it affected both of us together." He held her close and could feel her nod against his shoulder.

Eric did most of the cooking again that night. After Teresa made her salad and cut up some fruit for dessert she went back into the living room.

Eric could hear tape two starting up. He put the marinated chicken in the oven and went upstairs to change out of his old jeans. When he came back down he could hear from the stairwell a bluegrass song about riding the rails. Teresa was sitting on the sofa, legs curled under her, reading a book. He looked at his watch, almost 6 pm.

"You're going to keep playing those?"

Teresa looked up and smiled. "I really like them so far. What do you think?"

That night the dinner didn't go as well as last week. Teresa seemed distracted, and she wasn't the kind of person who'd make an effort when she wasn't in the mood; she wasn't like Eric that way. After Rob and Jessica left, Teresa said she was tired. She piled the plates in the dishwasher, then kissed him, and went off to bed. Eric said he was going to stay up for a while. He sat on the couch, feet on the coffee table, and clicked on the TV. The tapes were near his feet on the table; he picked them up and then the note that came with them. He clicked the TV back off and read.

I hope you like these. They're all about trains, as you can see, but there's something else about them too. Can you hear it? It's that high lonesome sound. Not much gray in there, it's pretty damn stark. It makes me think of an old locomotive moving out into the expanse of a wide open empty prairie with billowing plumes of gray smoke trailing behind, and the high lonesome sound is its whistle telling those around I was here, but you missed me. . . .

Two days later Eric came home on a Monday night to find another "delivery attempt failed" note affixed to the mailbox, the name "Atkins" scrawled on the top right-hand corner. Eric snatched the sticky note and opened the door to his house. "Honey?" he yelled. There was no answer. He shut the door behind him and walked into the living room and then the kitchen. There was a note on the refrigerator door, under a magnet: "Jessica called and wanted to get enchiladas. We're at the Howlin' Coyote. Join us if you like." Eric crumpled up the note in his hand and threw it out. He still had the other one, the "delivery attempt failed" in his other hand. He took that and his car keys and went out the door.

The Howlin' Coyote was one of those pseudo-Southwestern places that served things like "blue corn enchiladas with chipolte sauce" and "cowboy pot stickers." On the walls and scattered around the long, dark wood bar were pictures of coyotes in various poses: sitting on their haunches, faces tilted up to a crescent moon, on all fours, slinking towards some unseen object. It had never been one of Eric's favorite places but Teresa was fond of it. She liked the jukebox, which specialized in country western--everything from Johnny Cash to the Allman Brothers--and the margaritas. That's what was in front of her when he walked in the door; he could see that, just as he could see--even with the distance and the dim lighting--that it was not her first. They were leaning across the small square table, Jessica talking and Teresa nodding, looking serious. But her movements, when she nodded or reached for her drink, were too fluid. Teresa never could hold her liquor.

"Oh, I'm so glad you could come," said Teresa when he approached the table. "I hoped you'd see my note."

Eric smiled. How could he not have seen the note?

"Hey, Eric," said Jessica. "Pull up a chair."

Eric nodded, looked from one to the other. "Jessica," he said. "Honey."

He grabbed a chair from the next table and sat between the two of them.

"So. You two look pretty serious. What have you been talking about in this fine establishment?"

Jessica smiled. Teresa looked at Eric and shrugged. "Oh, just girl stuff."

"Really?" said Eric. "What kind of girl stuff?" Then, realizing that was a ridiculous question, he looked around the room and summoned the waiter. Teresa and Jessica went back to their drinks, stirring the yellow slush around their glasses and sipping. When the waiter came Eric ordered a Corona. He looked at the women and said, "So have you ladies eaten, or are you just drinking tonight?"

"Jessica's been having problems with her boyfriend," Teresa said in a loud voice.

"Oh?" said Eric. "Which one is this--have I met him?"

Jessica looked at Teresa, and Teresa looked at Eric. "Are you joking, honey?"

Eric shook his head, swept a napkin over a damp spot on the table. "Not at all. Why?" He took a swallow of beer.

"Because Jessica's boyfriend is your friend Rob. What are you talking about?"

Eric held up his hands. Jessica had never been a full person to him, more an adjunct of Rob, and it was almost as if he didn't recognize her out of context. "I was just kidding," he said. Then, because he felt stupid and in order to change the subject, he reached into his pocket and slapped the delivery attempt failed sticker on the table. "By the way, you got another package from your pen pal."

"Oh," said Jessica, turning to Teresa. "How sweet."

Eric looked at her. "Did Teresa tell you that he sent one just two days ago?"

Jessica nodded. "Tapes. That was sweet, sweet and really different."

Teresa was holding the sticky note in front of her face, just staring at it. Eric leaned forward.

"Don't you think it's kind of excessive, sending two packages overnight delivery in two days?"

"Yes," Teresa said, with the note still in front of her face. "But I think he's just happy that he finally met someone he can talk to. I mean, I had family, I had counseling. Who knows what it's like where he is? Wyoming is a big, empty state . . ."

Eric put his beer down. "Yeah, yeah. He's just this lonesome cowboy out on the range. Give me a break."

Jessica shook her head. "Gee, Eric. That's kind of harsh."

"Shut up, Jessica."

Teresa sat up straight. "Eric!"

He turned to her. "Listen, this isn't funny. This guy is after you, don't you see that?"

"He's not after me, he just wants someone to talk to, for God's sake. You don't understand, there's no way you could understand this kind of thing."

"No, you don't understand. That's the problem, Teresa. You never see anything coming."

Teresa looked at him, and she just stared, a strange expression on her face, or rather, an expression he'd never seen before. He felt something in his stomach drop.

Then Jessica started shaking her head. Even in the dim light Eric thought he could see her face darken. "You're just so sympathetic, Eric. You're so fucking sympathetic."

Eric put the lime wedge back in his empty Corona bottle. After a minute he said, "You're right. I don't give a damn about this guy. I'm just trying to protect my wife. I don't want a crazy person after her, especially when she's still vulnerable. Does that make any sense?"

But now Teresa was leaning back in her chair, looking sober and resolute. "Why don't you leave. I'm going to stay here with Jessica for a little while."

Jessica put her hand on Teresa's arm, stared into her face, and Eric could see where this whole thing was going. Two women and their emotional crises and a few margaritas and suddenly he was the big bad guy, the rational white male intruding on their little reverie. Well, he thought, let them have their moment of solidarity. Teresa would leave with him, she didn't really mean it; she already had her hand on her bag.

Eric turned to her. He wanted to touch her, put his hand on her arm, but he was careful not to. "You can do whatever you like. But I'd really like you to come home, honey." With that he got up and walked out the door. He stood on the street for a few minutes, breathing in the cold air. Five minutes later she was standing in the doorway, without Jessica, glaring at him.

"Listen," he said. "I'm sorry. I know I wasn't being very sensitive. Let's just go home."

They drove the eight blocks in silence, and as Eric looked out the window and saw the buildings and houses slipping by him in the sharp October moonlight, he felt they were slipping away. They were already receding into memory, becoming things of the past. They'd never look the same again, they'd never shimmer with the same intensity. The minute they reached the house, Teresa bolted out of the car and said she was going to the garage to work on her wood. Eric followed her into the house.

"We should talk," he said.

"Well, then come out to the garage," said Teresa. "Come out to my place in the garage, and we can talk." When she said this, my place, she thumped herself on the chest, over her heart, and Eric just looked at her and sighed. He moved closer to her, held out his hand to touch her arm.

"Teresa," he said. "I feel like you're going to leave me. You're going to run off to Wyoming to be with this guy."

"Oh, Eric," she said. "That's crazy." But her words came out weak, almost a whisper. It was crazy, but they both knew that didn't matter anymore. Eight months ago Theyla had looked into the abyss and jumped into the blackness below, and Eric knew Teresa would take a similar leap. He could see it all coming. The only thing he didn't know yet was how he'd explain it. Would he say that she was always a little unstable, like her sister, then allow people to draw their own natural conclusions: that he had been the dutiful husband, that he had been patient, done everything he could, that he had been there? But as Teresa walked past him in her white v-neck shirt, scraper in hand, he didn't know what to say, there were no words because it all seemed so unreal, she seemed so unreal. She seemed to float, a ghost now, and as he watched her open the door all he could wonder about was how he would keep her memory once she was gone.

Photo by Jeffry Pike
Copyright © 2000 President and Fellows of Harvard College.
All rights reserved. Comments. Last modified Fri, Oct 6, 2000.