"Burlington Northern" by Jack111

1. Burlington Northern

2. There was nothing wrong with Jenny’s old phone; technically it worked fine. However, with its short cord tethering her to the wall it became a nuisance a cordless phone could remedy. The phone was cornered at the end of the kitchen counter by a wall and a cabinet. Hanging from the wall, and next to the phone, was a calendar from the paper mill where she used to work. For February the calendar, from Burlington Northern railroad, had a photograph of a train going through a snowy mountain pass. The clean, cold river running alongside the track and beautiful blue sky were a world away from her tiny apartment. With her baby Andrew in her arms she stared at the calendar, dreaming of high mountain vistas and of playing in blinding snowdrifts. She noticed the date; today was a holiday she would not be celebrating.

3. The phone rang giving her a start.

4. “Hello,” she answered, leaning on the kitchen counter, praying it was about a job.

5. “No,” she said, rolling her eyes. She sighed, her exhalation echoing in the earpiece. It was a salesman.

6. “Yes. Yes, I do think that firemen are important to our community.”

7. The salesman droned on. Jenny bounced Andrew on her hip to keep him entertained. She had finished nursing him and he would be asleep soon.

8. “I am not interested.”

9. The salesman changed tactics.

10. “I am sorry but I cannot help you. I would love to but I am unemployed,” she said impatiently. She planted an elbow on the kitchen counter and sandwiched the phone between her hand and face. Andrew, tugging at the phone cord, leaned toward the wall behind her. She looked down at the counter top and noticed an ad from a jewelry store. On the cover was a smiling blond with beautiful teeth. She wore a white cashmere sweater with pink hearts and sported a diamond ring and diamond earrings. A beautiful man stood behind her. Jenny jealously fixated on the man’s strong hands clutching the blonds’ delicate shoulders. She thought of something, someone, then looked away.

11. Andrew began crying and Jenny considered it a blessing. Now she had an excuse to get off the phone.

12. “Look. I have to go,” she told the salesman. “My baby is tired and he needs a nap.”

13. Andrew stopped crying and drew in a long, sucking breath of air. The sound of his inhalation caused Jenny to turn and look at him, her cheek still resting on the receiver. She went cold, disbelieving her eyes. Horrified, her lips mouthed the word “what” but no sound come out. Andrew’s face was crimson, his wide eyes frozen with terror during that silent moment just before a baby starts to cry. His teeth were red with blood and it dripped from his chin. His screaming exhale, when it finally came, silenced the jabbering salesman. Saliva, mixed with blood, pooled in his mouth as he wailed. His hands, with their fingers outstretched, trembled as he cried.

14. Jenny dropped the phone and it bounced to a stop on the Formica, the hapless salesman quickly forgotten. She sat Andrew on the counter and saw blood dripping from his hand. The blood made a ticking sound as it dripped on the face of the junk mail blond.

15. “Andrew, what did you do?” she whined.

16. Andrew, eight months old, had never been sick or hurt. He had never fallen off the bed or stuck his hand in a light socket. Now suddenly, and for no apparent reason, he was covered in blood. His deafening screams made Jenny’s head throb. The sight of blood nauseated her. Jenny began to lose control.

17. She ran toward the couch but stopped halfway, looked around the room, stepped, and stopped again. She turned to her left and took one step toward the bathroom, stopped and ran for her bedroom. She needed to put Andrew down but refused to let go of him. Finally coming to her senses, she turned again, ran to the couch, and gently wedged him between the cushions. She raced back to the kitchen, grabbed a handful of paper towels, stopped suddenly, stopped breathing, and stared; there were Andrew’s pale, bloody hands rising above the edge of the couch, reaching, searching for his mother. The searing image branded her memory and pierced her heart with guilt.

18. “It’s okay baby. Mommy is here, ”she said with trembling lips. A tear rolled off her nose and landed on his burning forehead.

19. The blood became sticky dry and bits of paper towel stuck to his face and hands. However, blood flowed freely from a deep incision on his left index finger. Jenny’s stomach grew heavy at the sight but she held back a wretch. Wrapping the finger in some paper towel she instinctively applied pressure. Andrew continued to cry but the sucking inhalations and blasting screams had eased. She wiped his face and she lifted him off the couch.

20. “Time to go, sweetheart,” she said in a soft voice. The hospital was just a few minutes away. She threw her pocketbook over her shoulder and opened the door. “Grab purse and go,” she thought. Everything she needed was in it. No need for the hunt and curse routine of a man as he looks for the essentials of modern life. Thinking of Andrew’s father she wondered why he refused to see what a beautiful boy—

21. “*****,” she spit out under her breath. She had no insurance.

22. Her face wrinkled with indecision. Was she overreacting? What if she did nothing and it was serious? This wave of doubt, strong as it was, vanished at the sight of Andrew’s pitiful face. Going out the door she heard an alarm ringing in her apartment; the phone was still off the hook. Ignoring it she ran toward the elevator but stopped abruptly at door 4B.

23. Mrs. Lipocini sat with her feet up on the sofa. She had slept in that morning after tending bar all night at Marcello’s. Her hair was pinned up, wrapped in a scarf, and a lipstick stained cigarette hung from her mouth. Her fourth cup of morning coffee, black and bitter, sat atop the financial page. Pillows supported her head and arms enabling her to read the Sunday New York Times in comfort. She read carefully, slowly turning each page, relishing the quiet. Knuckles lie next to the couch with his nose resting on his paws, wary of the occasional cigarette ash from above. He was part Great Dane, part Rottweiler, and despite his fierce some look, harmless. Knuckles was a gift from Cheap Louie, a customer from the bar.

24. She heard a door slam and fast-moving feet pounding the hallway. She sat up a bit and rearranged her bathrobe that began to ride high. Read sections of the Times lie about the floor, some of it under Knuckles. On the coffee table were a stack of letters, bills, junk mail and greeting cards in bright red or pink envelopes. The cards were unopened.

25. The footsteps stopped and a hard knock on the metal door gave Mrs. Lipocini a start. Knuckles’ ears perked up accompanied by a deep growl in his throat. She hushed poor Knuckles with a light tap of the sports section, approached the door and looked through the peephole. A baby was crying and she saw that Jenny girl from down the hall through the fish-eye lens. She opened the heavy door, its fast motion sucking in fresh air from the hallway.

26. “Jenny! What is the matter with that darling—”

27. “Please help me,” Jenny said, cutting off Mrs. Lipocini’s nicotine encrusted voice. “Andrew cut his finger.”

28. Jenny, without waiting to be asked in, headed for the couch. The scattered newsprint crumpled under her feet and Knuckles moved out of the way with concern for a crying animal on his snout. Jenny placed Andrew on the couch and peeled the paper towel from his hand. The bleeding had subsided but when she touched his swollen fingertip the blood oozed anew. She felt queasy again. Mrs. Lipocini looked over Jenny’s shoulder, saw a deep gash. The sight of blood didn’t upset her; Mrs. Lipocini’s stomach was tougher than her leathery sun beaten skin.

29. “Oh, that is bad, honey. How did it happen?”

30. “I don’t know. I was on the phone and he started crying and—do you think he needs stitches?” Jenny asked.

31. “That tiny finger?” she said waving her hand. “Honey, it’ll heal up fine. Let me get a bandage.” Knuckles followed her to the bathroom.

32. On her return she sat next to Jenny, opened a first-aid kit, and bandaged Andrew’s hand. Looking at Jenny she saw a new mother’s anguish. Their eyes met and Jenny began sobbing uncontrollably; she was alone and this holiday made sure she felt it. Mrs. Lipocini felt the urge to comfort Jenny, to tell her that she did nothing wrong, that no, she was not a bad mother. But she stopped herself from offering such platitudes. She continued dressing Andrew’s wound. Looking at the little finger and handling it gently she said, “These things are going to happen, honey. You have children and they are going to get into things. You can’t always protect them. You just wipe up the mess and hope they figure things out for themselves.”

33. Jenny stopped crying and sniffed back a gob of snot. Andrew’s finger was neatly wrapped and Mrs. Lipocini gently bounced him on her knee. She reached over the couch for a box of tissue paper and held it out to Jenny. Jenny dabbed her runny nose then abandoned all sense of décor and blew hard. Mrs. Lipocini’s nodded with approval; a good honking blow was the closing music to any drama.

34. Jenny discreetly looked around the apartment: an old wooden clock, fake flowers, and some romance novels on a bookshelf, decorated the room. An old black-and-white photograph of a beautiful young girl in a summer dress hung nearby. The girl in the picture stood alone, smiling.

35. “Yes, that is me, honey; long ago and a world away. I went to college before I was married. I studied biology all day and fought off the boys all night.”

36. “You were beautiful,” Jenny said, instantly regretting it. Mrs. Lipocini lowered her eyes and turned to Andrew, asleep in her arms.

37. “Well, here you are sugar. Good as new.” She handed the baby to Jenny saying, “Happy Valentine’s Day.” She stood, searched for her cigarettes, and not finding them, went into the kitchen. She returned with a heart shaped box of chocolates and a pack of Virginia Slims.

38. “Chocolate?” she asked holding the box. Jenny opened it, took out the first treat she saw and popped it in her mouth.

39. “Oh, my God. That is the best chocolate I have ever tasted,” Jenny said as the creamy truffle melted in her mouth.

40. “Yeah?” she said turning over the box. On the bottom was a French name she could not pronounce: Madame de Sevigne. “Big Sallie,” she said “never gets the cheap stuff.” Taking a spot on the couch next to Jenny she ungraciously landed with the box in her lap. She placed a chocolate on her tongue.

41. “Oh my,” she groaned with pleasure. “Honey, we have to wash these down with some happy sauce.” She went back to the kitchen and returned with two tumblers, a cup of ice cubes and a bottle of Marker’s Mark.

42. Bourbon was not Jenny’s drink of choice; Wine-coolers and light beer were more her speed but she felt obligated to share a drink with her rescuer. Mrs. Lipocini poured a shot into each glass, swirled an ice cube into hers’ and took a sip.

43. “Oh, yeah. That will strip the hide off Cupid’s cherub-bub,” she said deliberately. “Have some Jen. Don’t gulp it; touch it to your lips then chase it with a chocolate.” Jenny did as she was instructed. The strong aroma of charred white oak filled her nostrils, pleasantly overpowering the burn of alcohol. The warm sensation was followed by a bittersweet chocolate, courtesy of Big Sallie.

44. Jenny leaned back, let out a sigh, and embraced the unexpected pleasure of bourbon and French chocolate. Another sip of bourbon, this time not reaching so quickly for the chocolates. The two sat quietly eating and drinking.

45. “Why haven’t we done this before?” Jenny finally asked with a chocolate in her mouth.

46. “I work at night sweetie. You work during the day.”

47. “Used to work during the day. I got fired three days ago.”

48. “That’s rough honey.”

49. Jenny went on. How and why she came to be in town; where she was from, her family back home, how much she loved Andrew. She began to speak of Andrew’s father, how she felt betrayed and how he—

50. “Stop right there,” Mrs. Lipocini said, raising her hand.

51. Jenny checked her ice cube.

52. “Honey, I usually don’t hand out advice but since we are not at the bar I will this once. I have listened to many people over the years singing the blues about love, the what ifs, hard luck, whatever. It’s always the same people and they never change. Why? Because they believe they’re powerless; their misery, somebody else's fault. Maybe they’re looking to me for answers, I don’t know but I refuse to help them. Why? Because I am not responsible for their misery nor, and here is the kicker so pay attention, nor am I responsible for their happiness. They are!”

53. She sipped her drink, eyed the ice cube, then continued.

54. “You can whine about a man who ruined your life and made you miserable. What good does it do? Tell me about Jenny and what you are doing about her happiness. Tell me about the good in your life and don’t tell me there is none,” she said pointing a bony finger at Jenny, “not with that beautiful little boy asleep by your side. If you choose to sit there and play helpless victim, I have an empty barstool waiting for you at Marcello’s.”

55. An uneasy silence fell over the room. Jenny came for help with a cut finger not a lecture. However, Jenny didn’t feel injured by the speech. Someone took an interest in her, cared enough to offer advice and that was a comfort. Painful as it was to hear, there was nothing Mrs. Lipocini said she could argue with.

56. Mrs. Lipocini, sensing Jenny’s unease and fearing she’d said too much, tried to break the tension. “Have another chocolate my dear,” she said offering the box to Jenny. Smiling, Jenny took out a treat, unwrapped the gold foil and bit it in half.

57. “Thanks Mrs. Lipocini.,” she said with chocolate marbles in her mouth.

58. “They are good chocolates,” she replied.

59. “Yes, they are. I meant thanks for being here as a friend, chocolates and all.”

60. “I am more than a friend sweetie,” she said raising her eyebrows and her glass of bourbon. “I’m your neighbor.”

61. They touched their glasses together. The sound of the colliding tumblers caused the sleeping Andrew to stir but not wake.

62. “C’mon sweetie. I’ll drive you home,” she said with a wink of her eye and a pat on Jenny’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Knuckles!”

63. Stopping in the hallway in front of her door Jenny said, “Not the Valentine’s day I pictured ever having.”

64. “You want me to shoot a few arrows into that heart of yours?” Mrs. Lipocini asked, aiming at Jenny’s chest with an archers’ pose.

65. “No, no,” Jenny said holding up her hand. The two suppressed an intoxicated giggle and allowed their joy to subside into silence.

66. “Thank you so much Mrs. Lipocini. You are an angel,” Jenny said.

67. “My door is always open honey,” she said with an unlit cigarette dancing on her lips. She smiled at the sleeping baby, turned, and walked home.

68. Jenny entered her apartment and heard the phone off the hook. She returned it to the receiver and noticed the calendar on the floor. After pinning it to the wall she flipped the pages to February and as she did, the soft pads of her finger tips tested the edges of the color coated paper; the edges were razor sharp.

69. The calendar, the paper towel and the junk mail blond, all stained in blood, went into the trash. The phone was unplugged and the shades pulled down; a river barge, bringing wood pulp to the mill, the only sound outside her bedroom window. Jenny wondered if the cut on Andrew’s finger would leave a scar, how she would tell him that his first Valentine was an old lady, a glass of bourbon and a dog named Knuckles. Hoping to one day again taste a chocolate as sweet, she fell asleep with her son in her arms.

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