Chapter 17 The Last Leg of the Journey

At some point, Roger felt as if he had been in that railcar his entire life. Nothing else existed outside of the clacking of the wheels, the thick smell of cigarettes, the gentle lull of the radio being played in the background and the landscape going steadily by. He was thankful that this particular train held only two seats per section (on each side, with the walkway in between) and there were no facing seats. There was none that came and sat beside him, either. It was made more comfortable (a newer model, he soon found out) by the seats being able to recline, and he was able to breakup the time by attempting to sleep (he perhaps got a handful of hours during the whole of the trip thus far), eating in the dining car, and noting a changing landscape outside. He had bought a different paper in Chicago, there were magazines too and he bought a couple of different ones, yet, they were not enough to fill the hour upon hour upon hour, until the hours reached the twenties and they were still going. Maine had never felt quite so far away before. He ought to be used to long hours of entertaining himself-did he not do much of that in those early days of his stay in the hospital? Yet-there was a schedule then to organize your hours, you woke up by a nurse doing this-you were interrupted from a reverie by a doctor doing that-a tray of food, a remark by a neighbor filled your days and you got used to it. In fact, there he had also felt like he had lived in the hospital the whole of his life, only nightmares had reminded him that he had been somewhere different before.

So perhaps this experience was not so different from his early days at the hospital, yet, he would pull out the thing that made his hospital experience eventually more bearable. Belle's letters. He had not gotten them out yet, thinking that pulling them out would only make him more anxious than he was already. Even though he groaned with each hour that must be gone through, he held on to the fact that he still had hours to go before he faced her and everything he had worried about came to be.

Lights dimmed in the car as the landscape darkened outside. It would be another long night of trying to catch a few hours of sleep while still strapped to his prosthetic. The radio was turned off and nothing but the lingering smell of cigarettes and the clacking of the wheels was present. He heard a baby cry somewhere in the car, but mostly he zoned in on the consistent sounds coming from his window.

He fell asleep at some point because he was in Italy again. Explosions going off left and right, and it was cold, so so cold. Roger tried to pull his uniform closer to himself as if it would help shield him from the harsh Italian winter. German gunfire went off before him and beside him, his heart was in his chest again, beating erratically with every sound. He heard it-he heard it just like he did every single time this scene played out-the whoosh before the explosion. Someone was beside him, he reached out to pull them along with him, away from the terrifying sound that followed him. They had only seconds. He looked over at the person he was pulling, his brain registering the soft fabric of something else, instead of the uniform he was expecting. It was Belle. She was exactly the way she was in her picture. Rosy cheeks and dark hair-her eyes were a clear gray color and looking at him with great curiosity. This happened in a second, for in the next the explosion happened. Instead of feeling the pain course through his leg and the sound ring through his ears, he was now away from the explosion, watching as Belle's chest became red with blood. She struggled near the crater that was now where the explosion had been looking at him in pain. Roger screamed but her eyes rolled in the back of her head and he was left alone.

'Sir?' Was that Jeffries' hand on his arm? He shrugged off the hand, too devastated at watching the beautiful woman who had been so kind as to write all those letters die because of him. Couldn't he see the anguish on his face, couldn't he leave him alone?

Sir! Sir, wake up, please!' His heart lurched into reality and suddenly his body became aware that he was not on the battlefield anymore. There were the clackety-clack, clackety-clack sounds that told him-train, there were the smells that were of cigarette smoke and not of gunpowder and dirt and blood.

A man in a brown suit had pulled away when Roger had begun to fight off his arms. His hands were up as if to surrender, his chest seemed to heave in relief when he saw Roger's eyes open in clarity.

Shame swept over Roger as he realized the spectacle he must have made. He looked around him, noting the other eyes watching him.

'M Sorry to have disturbed you all-'m sorry.' he repeated again. He had nightmares before-he had even woken a time or two gasping for breath, but never had he been so animated that he disturbed those around him!

Roger dared not look at the man in front of him, and he studied the floor beneath him.

'It's alright, sir-you sure you're okay?'

Roger nodded. 'Thank ye for waking me. I'll not disturb you again, I promise.' He would not be going to sleep for the rest of the trip, that was now certain. The man left and Roger ran his hands through his growing hair, cursing the too many hours left on this train ride. He could not take another glance around the train-he had made an embarrassing spectacle of himself. He shakingly pulled Belle's letter out to try to calm himself down. There was enough rising sun coming through the trees that he could make out what it said, and besides, he had read it enough times that he had it memorized by now.

'Roger,

That you would want to travel all this way to come and meet me has made me so happy, I had to stifle another one of those unladylike squeals. Self-control won the day, I am proud to say, but you must not be uneasy, of course I want to see you!

According to when you come, I may actually be in a different location. Beginning in June I am to help out Mrs. Smith at our public library, at least for the summer. I am to stay with an elder lady that Mrs. Smith knows and board with her. I will forward the address when I know it. I cannot begin to tell you how much hope this job gives me. You spoke earlier about your worries, and I confessed some truth to those worries (while also asserting, no matter how kindly you've told me that we all suffer differently, that mine are in no comparison to your difficulties or many many others). This has been exactly what I needed, at just such a time too. My nephew, David, was such a help in this endeavor and were he not my favorite already, he would have soared to the top in orchestrating such things. To work with books! My brother is not keen on me reading novels, and I have missed my old books very much, and surely, there will be time to read one or two at least in my downtime, don't you think?

My main job will be to put together and host children's programs that Mrs. Smith declares she is too old to do. I like working with my nephews with their homework, and I just know I will love this.

Expect all the quotes and excerpts at that time, my dear friend, if you haven't yet been discharged (though I pray that day is very soon!). Half my letter will be filled with things I've read or observed and you may wish that I had never set foot in the library!

I am writing by a dying fire and it is hardly giving me enough light to write. I am sorry for the brevity of the letter, but know that I will save all my words for when we meet in person, though you might be sorry for it.

Your Friend,

Belle'

The cheeriness of the letter had been shadowed by his dark thoughts of late that he tried to grasp onto any bits of joy that he found in it this time. Belle was going to get into a better situation-that should make him happy. Had she not been allowed to read any novels since coming to her brother's? This was the first true detail he had been given to her present situation and the thought of the bookish Belle who would be so engrossed in a tale that she would burn a perfectly good pumpkin pie, hurt his heart for her. And she wrote her letter by a dying fire? He thought of the hundreds of bulbs in the hospital. He sometimes wished there was less light in the place. He would have to do things on their schedule, to not stir a neighboring bed, but he had plenty of time and light with which to write letters. He didn't imagine this brother character to live in a hovel-she had spoken of his success in business, so he had to live in a halfway decent house, at least. Could they not afford electricity? That seemed rather odd, but he thought that perhaps with it being such a small town that perhaps they lived in an older style house with not enough lamps-even oil lamps to use? It was strange, but perhaps could be explained away. She seemed happy in this letter, and despite his own feelings of unhappiness in conjuring up images of meeting Belle, he was at least glad of this.

He had answered her letter-simple, nothing of consequence. He didn't say anything about coming or the timing in which he felt it would happen. At that point (her letter had been another late one, though he tried not to worry quite so much as he had the time before-it seemed she was regulated to a schedule, and he tried not to think on that too much either) there had been talks of him being discharged in a week or two, but he had decided that he would rather surprise her a bit. He didn't want to tell her a date and then not be able to follow through. This way too-though he admitted that this was decidedly a very selfish thing for him to do-he could get her real reaction to him. She would not gather her courage and stoically brave whatever she had to face, she would see him and be shocked and upset by what she saw. She wouldn't be able to hide her feelings, and he could leave her, hanging onto his pleasant memories of her letters and try to carry on with his life. Again, he was aware of the unfairness of this, but he decided that he couldn't help but do it this way.

When they discharged him a full six days before their first projected date, he was glad he had chosen to do it this way. He would have surprised her regardless, and it helped dull the guilt over the selfishness of his actions.

The train ride did eventually end. His leg was stiff and his back sore, and his shoulders taught with strain, but he took his cane and managed to stand and even reset the tension in his prosthetic without too much wobble. The descent off the train was even more fraught with worry, as his limb was stiffer, but he managed it, ungraceful, but it was managed.

Portland, Maine. He was still some miles away from his destination. He got a cab to go to the bus station where he could finish off the last hour and a half of travel. It probably would have been a good thing to stay another night and freshen up a bit, his tired body protesting to continue on, yet he was so close to where he was aiming to go that he could practically taste the sea air. Part of him thought that if he stopped on this forward projection then he might turn cowardly and flee in the opposite direction. The scene on the train had really shaken him and he was terrified of dozing off and having it happen again. It didn't help that the nightmares now included seeing Belle die before his eyes. But, if he didn't stop, if he didn't stop and think too much, he could keep going. It wasn't much longer-less than a hundred miles-seventy if the cabby had it right, which he imagined he did.

The bus ride was different than the train-fewer people, local speech dotted the miles traveled, and the atmosphere just felt different. The air was cooler, not dense and humid like it had been in Texas, and he found himself almost cold on occasion. The day was overcast and threatening to rain at any moment, the green of the trees and the gray of the rocks seemed to be even more pronounced in the bluish cloudiness. It was a beautiful area, a perfect backdrop for a girl like Belle to grow up in, he thought.

It was an awkward ride to the address he gave the one cab the town boasted. The man had looked at him with side eyes and had repeated the address as if he were making sure that it was something that Roger wanted to do. He muttered something rather rude about 'high and mighty' people and if Roger wouldn't have been shaking from the nerves that his destination was coming upon him any minute, he would have said something to discourage the slander. As it was, he could only just handle the thoughts overpowering his mind. He ran his hand through his hair a half dozen times, another time or two for good measure once they turned into a new looking neighborhood (so not an older house, he thought). The houses were all the same, lined up with pristine yards. This was nothing like he had ever known growing up. The idea of the princess that he had first conjured up when first writing to Belle presented itself. She ought to live in a house like this-what could he ever offer someone who was used to living in this type of luxury? (then again, she had made it clear that she was ready to leave. A house could be grand, yet not be a home, he reminded himself)

Dusk was settling in. Children were playing in a tree house, right next to the house the cab pulled into. The children's eyes honed in on him as he paid the man and hobbled out of the car-the rubbing of the prosthetic, long needing to come off, making him almost wince in pain as he took each step.

The door stood before him, daring him to put knuckles to the wood and pound. The children stared, waiting with bated breath (alright, so this he mostly just felt or imagined) for him to knock, his courage had all but deserted him. Belle was somewhere on the other side of that door. He took a quivering balled hand, balancing himself on his cane, and knocked.

He took a breath and then presently swallowed when he heard and saw the door opening. A boy-about twelve or thirteen, looked at him with a notebook in his hand and a curious expression on his face as he took in his uniform and cane. Light came from bulbs inside the house (electricity, he noted)

'Hi' The boy said almost as a question, waiting for him to work up the courage to open his mouth and speak.

'I, um, I am wondering if Belle French lives here?' The boy tilted his head, looked at him again and smiled a little.

'You aren't Roger, are you?' He whispered loudly. Roger started.

'Aye, I am. And would you be David?' He began stiltedly, but the smile that took over the boy's face had him breathing a little easier.

'I am!' he said in almost a squeal before checking himself. 'You know, Auntie Belle has me deliver your letters.' He whispered again, this time conspiratorially. 'And she has spoken about me to you?'

'Aye, a time or two. I heard you helped her get a new job.'

'Oh, I just heard the right thing at the right time, is all. Auntie Belle, she's very nice, and, well, I just want her to be happy.' he shrugged. Those worries that Roger had felt before for his friend at reading her letters began again. 'She'll be happy to see you, here, follow me-she was just helping me with one of my last school assignments.'

Would she be happy to see him? He limped forward, following the boy down the hall.

'You came at the right time.' David said. 'Father forgot something important at the office and since tomorrow is Saturday he didn't want to wait the whole weekend to get it.'

When they walked through the living room towards the kitchen, a middle aged lady looked at them curiously. 'A friend of Auntie Belle's' David remarked and he was not questioned.

Roger heard the sink running before he saw the person at the sink. A step more and he saw her. Photographs in shades of gray could do no justice to the true likeness in color. Brown bouncy curls fell behind her as she worked. She was deep in thought as she ran a dish through the water-if he had time to study, he would have said she looked tired. She was so tiny next to the counter-he had not thought of height or presence in a room when he imagined her, but someone so small had not been a part of his imagination, for certain. The thoughts of her wish to prove herself as older and more mature made even more sense now.

All this was the work of a second, and she was startled now at the noise at their approach. He was thankful she had put the dish down or it might have met an untimely end.

'Oh! David you gave me such a scare-Oh, hello.' He was then met with the bluest eyes he had ever seen in his life. Her cheeks weren't as full as they were in the photograph, her face had matured since the picture had been taken, and yet, seeing before him the very face that he had looked at for so long took his breath away. She was beautiful!

Author's Note:

History Stuff:
Radios were installed in trains during the 40s that helped with the entertainment of passengers on long trips, such as Roger's. His trip was one of the longest he could take-a drive taking about 20something hours taking over 40 in a train!
Thomaston, ME is Storybrook here, so it would be a little over 70 miles from Portland.

Story Stuff:
It finally happened! Well almost, lol
This is closer to my original vision for their meet up, however, my brain had explored a different option and I had written almost 3,000 words (having the next chapter almost completely written) before scrapping the idea and going back to this one. Ugh. This wound up making the most sense for me, and I hope that the end of this, and the next chapter lives up to expectations :)

Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!