Leaving Aunt Martha's country home was bitter sweet. She made sure that my leaving would be late. That was good. I would have been less enthusiastic in the morning to drive past the site of their death. It would have been like reliving the experience.
Leaving this place on my own was a sort of closure, for a lack of better words. The sweet rush of relief poured through my body when I arrived at the train station. I sat on a bench and looked at
my watch. It read eight-thirty, but I was ready to leave. In my spare time, I felt like an old man from the earlier half of the twentieth century. With my monocle in hand, I began wiping it down diligently with a cloth. The large, expensive suitcase that held my many gold bars was under my watchful eye. The wind gently pushed my velvet top hat to the side. The imaginary children beneath me, who happened to be milkweeds, ran about with no intentions to sit and behave.
"9:00 to New Loreans," the usher was hanging out of the car calling for passengers, "all aboard!" he stroked his gaudy mustache and drifted back into the car. I lifted my small, cheap suitcase and entered the car before a few passengers who happened to arrive later than myself. The carpet in the train car was very nice. I enjoyed the soft seats on my hands as I passed each seat. The windows were wide and clear, which is nice for people like myself who enjoy the view. When I sat down, people
had just begun to enter the car. I had chosen the best seat. Just ahead of me, a little girl walked with her mother to their seats. A bitter looking old man sat next to them. I looked at him and he looked at me. The look he gave me was one of those go to hell looks that up-tight gents use to obtain the last word.