Waiting For The Train

Ellen was new to town. She had never really done more than drive through Clinton on the way to visit her grandchildren in Kincardine, but already she was falling in love with the place. 

Every morning she would buy a coffee and a butter tart at the local bakery before spending an hour or two reading the papers at the library – a real Carnegie library! After which, she would sit under the arch in Millennium Park and watch the predictable grind of the traffic as it crisscrossed north and south, east and west.

When this grew tiresome, she would putter away the hours in her small vegetable garden before supper and the evening news.

Walter, her husband of nearly fifty years, passed away last fall, and Ellen decided she didn't need their big house in the city anymore. Clinton seemed like an unusual choice, but then, Ellen was an unusual woman. More than anything, she enjoyed the sound of the trains running through town. Her father was an engineer, and used to tell her and her siblings stories about how he took to the rails after the war.

One day, as she was enjoying the last few sips of her coffee in the park, she noticed a slight, handsome man about her own age looking at her from across the way. As she caught his glance, he looked away, tucked his newspaper under his arm and checked his watch before crossing over to the bank. Thinking nothing of it, she dropped her Styrofoam cup in the trash bin and walked home.

The next day, she saw the man again. This time, there was no mistaking – he was looking directly at her.

At first, Ellen was somewhat unsettled, but the man walked up to her and with a wink of his bright blue eye, said, “So, you're waiting for the train, eh?”

Ellen didn't know what to say, so she said, “Come again?”

“The train,” the stranger said. He had a slight Dutch accent. “You may be waiting a long time.”

The man pointed up, and it was then Ellen understood. Above the bench, fixed to the wrought iron was a model train. 

“I'm Nicholas,” he said. “Most people call me Nick.”

“I'm Ellen. It's nice to meet you, Nicholas.”

Without asking, Nicholas sat down. Immediately Ellen moved away an inch or two – without even knowing she did so.

“Nothing to worry about from me,” Nicholas said. “I’m mostly harmless. I have seen you here before, in fact, almost every day on my way to the post office. You're new in town, aren't you?”

Ellen nodded and told him she had been here three months to the day. The strange man smiled, and continued on.

“I thought so. I was wondering just who you were and when you caught me looking yesterday, I'm afraid I lost my nerve. 'Nick,' I said to myself. 'It would be a shame if you didn't walk up to that young lady and introduce yourself.’ So here I am today.”

Ellen smiled at the compliment, and eased into conversation. 

Turns out, Nick was a lifelong resident of Clinton, growing up on a farm on Front Road. He was a widower, with three sons – Nicholas, Jan and Jakob. They all moved away, but Nick never could. This was his home and he had roots here deeper than the tallest tree. He was a Legion member, a woodworker and loved watching soccer on Sunday afternoons.

Minutes passed to what seemed like hours before he got up and bid Ellen goodbye.

“I guess the train isn’t coming today,” he said.

With a wink and a smile he was gone.

Every morning on his way to the post office, he would stop by the bench where Ellen sat and ask, “Still waiting for the train?”

“You bet,” Ellen would say. And they would launch into another conversation about gardens, the news, their families or the goings on of Clinton. 

When they ran out of things to talk about, Nick would always get up, wink and say, “I guess the train isn’t coming today.”

“Guess not,” said Ellen. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Spring gave way to summer and summer to early fall. The train never did show up, but that was fine by Ellen. The wait was all that mattered. 

But then, something changed. 

One day, Nick didn’t show up to the park. Ellen was disappointed, but figured these things happen. However, one day turned into two. Two turned into three and before she knew it – a whole two weeks had gone by with no visit by Nick.

It wasn’t until she opened her paper one morning that she once again saw his smiling face.

It was in the obituaries.

Nick had cancer, though he had never once mentioned it.

Ellen was crestfallen. She was angry. She was alone.

Two days later, she was dressed in her Sunday best, attending Nick’s funeral mass. Nick’s three sons delivered a beautiful eulogy. As they were speaking, though, Ellen could swear the eldest – Nicholas Jr. – was staring right at her. She focused on her prayer card instead. 

When the service was ended, and Ellen was leaving the church, a huge hand gripped her lightly by the wrist. 

“Are you Ellen?” Nicholas Jr. asked.

“Y-y-yes,” she stumbled on the word. He looked exactly like his father.

“Dad told us about you,” he said. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to talk, as we have to get to the interment service, but this is for you.”

It was a small box with a note attached:

“Dear Ellen,

I hope this finds its way to you. I’m sorry I never told you about my condition. Truth be told, I think it was your visits that kept me going as long as I did. It breaks my heart to leave you on the platform, but the conductor called and he has a seat waiting for me that I can’t refuse. 

I know this isn’t much, but at least you can finally stop waiting.

With love,

Nicholas”

Ellen opened the box and smiled and wept. 

Inside was a little wooden locomotive, carved and painted black to look exactly like the one in the park.

Ellen closed the box with a trembling hand and left the church.

She never needed to wait for the train again.