“Whatever? Unbelievable.” Ben backed from the spot. He tried not to get irritated; he didn’t have to stop when she asked. But that irritation grew again when he looked over and watched her sip her latte so prim and proper so she wouldn’t mess up her lipstick which matched her perfectly manicured nails. She sat in the car as if she were some sort of high class princess. Her business suit skirt was perfectly pressed, her shoes shiny and her hair pulled back so tightly it gave her a pseudo face lift.
They weren’t going to miss the train, not by a long shot, but Ben liked to play it as if they were cutting it close. He huffed at every stop sign and sighed when they caught a traffic light.
“You know, I could have driven to the station myself,” Lana said.
“You should have.”
“I would have.” She paused to sip her coffee. “But you asked. In fact, I believe you insisted, because you didn’t want me using the gas in your other car. Not my car, mind you. Your car.” She waved her hand in a dismissive manner.
“I paid for that car.”
“I don’t know where you think my salary has been going. Funny how the cars are yours and the house is half yours. I must own the utilities.”
“Enough.”
“You started it.”
“No, you started it when you asked to stop at Starbucks.”
“You didn’t have to stop.”
“Yeah, I know.” Ben grunted. “I’m an asshole.”
“Yes, Ben, yes, you are. And don’t worry; I’ll make other arrangements to get to the train until my apartment is done.”
“Good.”
Lana said no more. She turned her body more toward the window, gazing out, sipping her coffee.
Ben kept glancing over at her, not saying anything or wanting to. They had said enough in their twenty-three years of marriage and Ben was glad it was only a matter of days until they were finally apart from one another.
He hoped, as they rode to the station, that she was right and it was indeed the last train they’d ever take together.
His name wasn’t really Foster, it was James Mason. But Foster was the nickname that he acquired from his peers because he was constantly being shuffled from one foster home to another.
Of course his latest set of foster parents refused to call him that. His foster mother number eight said, “No, no, it’s so ugly.”
Okay sure.
He had been in and out of foster homes since he was three. The state told him his biological mother was a prostitute with an addiction, but Foster knew she was a crack whore. He knew it because he lived with her several times.
Each time he held high hopes of staying with his mother in Queens. But those hopes diminished each time she was arrested.
The latest stint kept her in county and, by Foster’s count, she was now out.
He was sixteen now, old enough to make his own decisions and he wanted to be the one to help his mother.
But no, the state kept moving him about.
The latest set of foster parents was the final straw. They not only moved him out of New York City, they moved him out of the state. How was that possible? He had been moved to a tiny cottage style house in Connecticut with these latest foster parents— working father, stay at home mother, bible studies and republican parties.
No.
Not him.
Foster homes kept him from being stereotyped as the typical oppressed black youth, actually, Foster considered him culturally diversified. He had stayed with white families, Hispanic, Greek, Jewish. But the Lawrence’s… they were too much of a cultural shock for Foster.
So he booked.
They weren’t mean; they were just weird.
1950’s sitcom weird.
When Mr. Lawrence stated he was on vacation and that he and Foster were going to do some fishing in a boat, then head down to work on Mayor Noon’s Campaign, Foster said enough.
He went on line, checked the prison status of his mother, saw she was released, and took off before Mr. Lawrence could pack the car for fishing.
He left a note of thanks, filled his backpack with snacks in case he had to live on the street and headed to the train station on foot.
He arrived before most of the commuters, and just in case the Lawrence’s woke up and went out to search for him, Foster stayed hidden in the shadows.
Harry was already on the train as it neared Hartford station. He had boarded in Windsor and was one of the first on board. He got a good window seat in the second car and sat there. His hands rested upon his gift for Leo which rested in his lap. He looked only briefly out the window and then closed his eyes again, never seeing those who stood on the platform waiting on the Number 141.
And they were there.
All of them were there.
Ben, Lana, Abby, TJ and Tyler all waited on the 141.
They weren’t standing together; other commuters separated them.
They never saw each other.
Certainly Abby never saw Foster sneak up to the platform when the train brakes squealed out loudly. He squeezed in and stood next to her.
TJ and Tyler joked around. They spoke about the things they would do at the office. They were happy and bubbly, unlike the other zombie-like morning commuters who seemed to be going through the motions of their day.
