Whistle Stop by James D. Fratto

Whistle Stop by James D. Fratto

We met three years ago in The Hague. I was on faculty leave, conducting research at the Gemeentemuseum, on Dutch women artists. Jeffrey Landers was a reporter from Portland Oregon, assigned to do a piece on the World Court. The occasion was a formal dinner for an expat group of scholars and thinkers. I’ll make it brief. We remained together ever since – or, I should say, until recently. To keep things going, we boldly dropped our stateside commitments while he took a job in Geneva and I accepted a part-time teaching post in American Art, in Munich. On most weekends, we met at various places in between: small towns, cities, or an occasional country resort. Things went well at first; then dipped to pretty good; then barely bearable. Then, at some point, while he seemed to hold steady at bearable, I, entered a dark closet and it got increasingly harder to breathe.

For no particular reason, things came to a head on the Saturday, after classes ended at the college. Jeff had spent the night at my place. It was hotter than usual for Munich, and we decided to head south for the weekend; normally the wrong direction for avoiding the heat but not when the calming balm of Swiss mountain grandeur and breeze-gifted Italian lakes lie ahead. Besides, the train was comfortably cool.

Our single window seats faced each-other and Jeff kindly sat facing the rear, allowing me to face forward, which is my preference. The passing view was gloriously alpine while ascending and luminously vernal in descent. Up then down; up then down; the widely recognized formula for pleasure. But who could have predicted the outcome? Not me, and I’m the one who brought it about: innocent me: guilty me.

The Station Stop at Innsbruck lasted for nearly an hour due to the need for unexpected repairs to the train’s engine. Then, at the tweet of the departure whistle from the conductor on the platform we plied our way out of the station. As is our custom, we splurged on first class seating, viewing its relative quiet and greater spaciousness as being better suited to our joint penchants for over-reading. Our companions comprised a few senior travelers; three corporate types huddled around a table and a seemingly well-heeled Asian family with two sweet young girls, quietly under parental control. Upon taking our seats we instantly opened our respective books: his, a recent biography of Martin Luther; mine, an account of the sparsely known role of Switzerland in World War II. For no reason that I can think of, Jeff looked especially tired. It’s been like that for the past few weeks. At some point, I rose to go to the restroom and when I returned, he had transformed into a dreamland still life; his head resting on his right shoulder; legs stretched forward, ankles crossed, exposing the brown and white argyle socks I bought him as a joke. He didn’t get it.

A short while later the train stopped at Bolzano, the regional center of the Sud Tyrol in the Dolomites. Passengers swapped exits and entrances while Jeff snored a tad lighter, possibly in unconscious awareness of his public presence. The final destination of this particular train is Milan with an intermediate stop at Verona. However, at Bolzano, on an urge that I cannot fully explain except to say that it was necessary, I suddenly stood up, lifted my suitcase from the rack above and tip-toed my way forward. I exited onto the platform as the train pulled away, carrying a dormant Jeff along with it. While my move was deliberate, it had not been planned and so I had no sense of what was next.

So, with just a walk of perhaps five yards down the aisle, and two steps onto concrete, I found myself in a radically new situation. Indeed, I had now walked the plank into solitude and my partner (should I say, lover?) was not party to it, at least as far as the actual implementation was concerned.

At this point, it seemed that the only sensible thing to do was to walk toward the center of town, which was minutes away through a pleasant park-like street. Once there, I stopped at a Viennese knock-off for a kaffee mit schlag. As the coffee was served, I turned off my cell phone after a quick check to see if there was a message from Jeff. There was nothing. I had no idea where to go nor what to do. I might as well have been the first woman in outer space.However, I knew I should leave Bolzano in the likelihood of Jeff’s returning to conduct a search. The quick solution, though clearly temporary, was to take the commuter train to the nearby resort town of Merano to the northwest. Trains were frequent and the next one would leave in twenty minutes, so that worked for me.

Merano
Merano is a lovely town, enveloped by a dramatic Dolomite range. There, the matron in the local tourist office recommended an inexpensive boutique, riverfront hotel pleasantly convenient across a short bridge from the town center. Since it was mid-spring and therefore too late for skiers and too soon for hikers, I was able to negotiate a discounted weekly rate for a room facing the river and the town; light breakfast included. I thought I might rest there for a short time to get a feel for the place and enjoy the views. Then, if things seemed amenable, perhaps I’d even take on temporary employment while the imminent summer tourists impacted the town.

As it turned out, Merano was a good choice – at least for the time being. Two days later, I took a job as a hostess in the upscale restaurant of the signature spa hotel just across the bridge from my boarding house. It had been many years since I had a job solely for its income – and for its free meals. But what about my faculty post in Munich? And my family and friends; didn’t I have to let them know what had happened? And Jeff; did I really care? After all, this had been a long time in coming and he should have guessed that something like this might happen – well, maybe not quite as it did. One thing for certain is that I had to notify my bank back in the States of my whereabouts; now my major source of long-term security.

Dad’s dying gift to his children was a generous bequest of nearly two million dollars to each of us girls with twice that amount going to mom. This now allowed me with enough of a monthly stipend to avoid working for others. So, I tendered my university resignation post-haste and decided that my time was better spent reading, writing and visiting museums as required for any future professional work I might attempt. Would it be productive? Who would know? I hadn’t the faintest notion that life could really encompass so few variables. Nevertheless, I knew with certainty that I was not insane, perhaps just the opposite. Time would tell.

One might wonder why, with sufficient cash on reserve, was there now the need for what was, after all, menial employment? It wasn’t about the money; it was about toying with a new life. The hostess is a different person; in my case, a ‘new’ person who works for a living like most folks, although my job didn’t require many hours and even less drudgery. My sense was that some form of work and the requisite mingling with others would help me think like a normal person rather than a scholar, academic, sophisticated world traveler and on and on in those narrowly privileged boxes. Now there were no boxes; only life itself: crossing the bridge each afternoon and wishing a smiley ‘good day’ to my manager and co-workers. And that’s what I needed: the relaxed feeling of complete newness, at least for now. And in the long run? Who knows? Oh, but what if by some unlikely chance in the near future, Jeff, who loves the Dolomites, should enter the restaurant, it being the most popular one in town, while I stood as a greeter fully exposed? Guilt-ridden, do I repent by offering him a privileged seat by the window? Don’t be silly. It won’t happen.

Forward Two Weeks
Still, aside from having e-mailed my college that I would not be returning – not a big deal since I was only an adjunct professor and easily replaceable – I at least had to notify friends and family that I was still alive. So, I e-mailed mom and sister Vera, both of whom live in Vermont, not together though less than an hour apart. It was this brief: “Hello you two Dears: Don’t worry I’m OK. Had to make a break. Life is good. Will be in touch. Love you both, Gilda.”

Gilda Jennings
New England born and bred; athletic in the early years; turned brainy at fourteen: private school; stellar freshman year at Dartmouth; falling out with boyfriend and switched to Yale for the remaining three years; MFA in Art History at NYU. Having published a few widely read publications led to teaching positions at two Liberal Arts colleges: one in the Midwest the other in the Mid-Atlantic of Quaker origin.

I cultivated friends easily, especially a few really bright women colleagues whom I still see on occasion. There was little time for men except for one, an archeologist, who wrestled between being a cave buff and a scotch buff; more so the latter, which led to our relationship’s demise. While in Europe, I studied in England and Holland and the brief stint in Munich. Holland is where I met Jeff; oh, I already told you that. Our time together spanned nearly two years and they really weren’t bad years but thinking back, after the initial spark, they became more a matter of mutual convenience than emotional bliss.

Exit Merano
I lasted the summer in Merano and while I enjoyed the benefits of its Dolomitic setting: clean air, natural beauty, undemanding work and unencumbered personal freedom, its persistent cultural vacuousness took its toll on my habitually rattled psyche. And so, it was back to reality.

I left Europe in September and returned to the States where I was offered a part-time teaching job at a junior college way upstate in Pennsylvania. Since my recent wanderings now disqualified me for immediate employment at the Platinum Level, I gladly accepted the position. It was OK; I liked the students. In fact, I liked them a lot. Having meager financial support behind them, they wondered and worried about themselves and about their futures. Unlike their more privileged peers, their uncertainties made them eager to learn. Learning was a key to life beyond the wall – to something else; but that had to be earned.

I met a man named Jack Leiter while there, though not at the school. He was a trained artist of modest talent who headed up a non-profit organization dedicated to “Youth Empowerment Through the Arts”. When he wasn’t in his studio, his days were spent talking to others: artists, donors, musicians, donors, actors, playwrights, donors, poets, fiction buffs, educators and – you guessed it.

I moved into his flat, which sits in an add-on third floor above his training facility. It shares space with his studio that rests on the north side. The facility, itself, was a prior firehouse that now housed a proper stage for performance with a seating capacity of 200 plus. In its basement were two smaller rooms for readings and discussion, a glass enclosed student art studio added on to the west wing and a too-narrow-for-elbow-bending conference room. There are 125 children involved in various activities and half that number of professionals, volunteers – and donors. Also included, was a light cavalry of support workers: carpenters, plumbers, glaziers, and the like who would show up as required.

It was early in June of the following year with the Spring rains leveling off when I first got the news from Dorothy Graber, who runs the local deli. Jackie boy had been having a fling with her cousin Blair since Easter, which pretty much explained his periodic absences from work. It only amounted to occasional two-hour breaks, but it was upsetting, especially with his public pretensions to dedication.

That night I confronted him with his misalliance with Blair and his missing allegiance to me. He claimed it meant nothing; that his loyalty and love was directed solely at me and that he would desist seeing Blair. I pretended to accept his promise and forgave him with a light kiss on the forehead. But at dawn the next morning, he would awaken to find me gone. I finished out the school year in a nearby flat that boasted running water and two windows. I then notified the college that I would not be returning in September. That was no problem for them: under-employed art teachers were in abundance, although my contribution did not go unnoticed as revealed afterwards in a few flattering letters from colleagues.

Having no particular place to go, I took the easy route of finding myself comfortably seated on the 7:14 Yankee Express, heading north to my family roots in New England. While there, I stayed at my childhood home in small-town Vermont to the joy of my ailing mother.

A few minutes after I entered the house and after hugs and assorted invitations to make myself comfortable, mother informed me that the day before yesterday she received a call from Jeffrey, of all people, who informed her of his identity and told her that at some point in Holland I had given him her phone number. And, that the purpose of his call was to learn if she had any knowledge of my whereabouts or if she had heard from me. Naturally the answer to both questions was truthfully negative except she mentioned the brief, uninformative email I sent her from somewhere in Europe. He then added that he was moving back to the States and left his cellphone number in case she heard from me, adding that he was anxious to speak with me. She then presented me with his cell number, which, of course I already knew.

The second day at mother’s, sordid memories of childhood came to haunt me. Here we go again: the hasty exit of early morning as I swore to myself that this time it would be for good. I lied to mother, telling her that I had some unfinished business in New Jersey but that I’d remain in touch. As I left, she waved from the front door, doubtful of my excuse and saddened by my departure.

The AMTRAK Regional stops at New York on its way to Washington, which was my intended goal, owing to an important German Expressionist show at the National Gallery, but as the train stopped at Penn Station, all my resistance broke down. I could almost feel the pulsing city a few floors above waiting for me. Repeating my earlier ‘Bolzano Moment’, I snapped out of my seat as if suddenly pinched from behind. Off the train I went, along the platform, up the escalator, through the bustling, architecturally morbid hall and out into the humming street. I had no thought of staying, but now that I was there why not make the most of it until I decided what was next; rather where was next.

I took the #6 Local down to Greenwich Village and walked the streets that were familiar to me from prior NYU days. It was invigorating and tempted me to consider staying put for a while. I had nothing better to do – not to mention nowhere to go.

The neighborhood had improved slightly what with the recent ongoing construction of condos, tasteful shops and the multi-storied infringements of the university’s overstretched neighborhood incursions. There were a few patches of open space left and the fast-paced rhythm of street life was exhilarating: high-speed motion everywhere with everyone seemingly intent on their next encounter. Something or someone was always waiting for them: nothing was suspended. I noted its contrast with my recent wanderings: pointless and directionless. Here I was: a trained scholar, supposedly focused on any direction I might choose, yet in their hurried demeanor, those raggedy jean wearers shared a more purposeful worldview than me. It is they who should be at the front of the class while I squirm with uncertainty in my seat.

Then, as if I hadn’t enough-already, yet another shock while I ambled through SOHO. Like an apparition, it was completely out of context with anything I might normally anticipate. It occurred as I looked up and there it was: an ‘Apartment for Rent’ sign on the third-floor window of a four-story building over a lamp store, midway down one of SOHO’s many semi-dilapidated cobble stone streets. Why not? I thought. Money wasn’t an issue and this would grant me some museum time. Furnishings could be gotten easily; just try any sidewalk on trash day. Lots of people around to take my limp mind off ME. Then it hit me: WAIT A MINUTE!!!! Did I walk away from Jeff just so I could keep walking, while aimlessly covering THE ENTIRE EASTERN SEABOARD? I really didn’t want to be in the city; memories are bad. BUT WHERE DO I REALLY WANT TO BE? Do I plop down on the curb and sit until I make a decision that can claim at least some semblance of finality? Sit yes, but not on the curb. The steps across the street looked inviting. They led into a dated boutique hotel that once must have served a financially rewarding purpose by manufacturing nylon stockings in the late thirties. I figured it probably had a café where intellectuals go to think – nope, wrong country – what the heck.

The dated lobby was characterized by its brownness, ‘highlighted’ by assorted reddish touches that would prefer to be brown along with a few tans that hoped for brown when they grow up. The carpet was brown as was its surrounding framed wooden floor. The counter, serving as the climactic visual moment of the room was an even deeper brown, almost black, that begged for recognition. Seeing it made me wish for something chocolate.

A formerly handsome man in his late fifties entered the counter area from its rear door, wearing a matching brown suit draped over an orange shirt, happily minus a brown tie. He saw me at once since I’m the only element of navy blue with a dash of white trim in the room. He almost pleaded to offer help. I responded by asking the price of rooms. He said they started at $195 up to $350 for the ‘sunshine suite’. I asked for the meaning of the ‘sunshine’ reference and he informed me that it’s the only room in which the morning sun is not blocked by the peanut packaging factory in the rear. “Visitors love it”, he added. I asked if the place had a bar or a restaurant; anywhere to sit and relax after pinballing around town all day. He pointed toward a smallish bar down the hall to my left; adding that the bartender was gone since it was now past 10 o’clock but he’d be willing to fix me a drink. I acceded.

Not surprisingly, it too was brown, even more so than the lobby owing to the profusion of wood to include booths and open tables and chairs. The ceiling was intended toprovide visual relief by replicating the lobby’s smatterings of tan this-and-that’s. I chose a booth at wall-center and in keeping with things, I ordered a brown Amaretto straight up, which barman generously accompanied with a small plate of complimentary assorted tan nuts, claiming it’s a normal custom; that they try to always do one better than the competition. Looking at the paltry offering caused me to wonder about the competition. I told him that I’d probably take a room; the one at $195 while retaining the right to reject it should it not meet the standard of one who spends considerable time in sophisticated European capitals. He approves.

After a long night of wrestling with myself, I awaken, dress, have breakfast in the bar now converted to a slightly bustling breakfast culture; pay my bill and scoot out the door, planning to skip the museums and get out of town. Upon exiting, I noticed for the first time, a metal nameplate pinned on the wall next to the front door, identifying the place as ‘BROWN’S B and B’. They got that right.

Anyway, there was simply too much New York in my youthful past. There was nothing wrong with it, but I had my fill and being there brought back the old feeling of just being there.

I realized that the situation was getting serious; one of perennial yet pointless roaming. I wondered if I only function like a normal human being when I’m somehow attached to another person, presumably a man. I realized that, statistically, I stay put roughly ten times longer when I’m going with someone. Otherwise, I’m literally out on the street no matter the city or country. Perhaps there’s a name for this disease, which is what it must be. OK, now, having established or, at least, suggested, the possible root of the problem, the next step was to work toward a cure. Take a deep breath. Find a solitary park bench and dig into the problem. Washington Square: it’s far from solitary but has plenty of benches; so, I sat and thought – and thought.

Pick a place that will allow stability on its own merits not because of any social entanglement. It must be varied in the arts, pleasant in its convenient neighborhood and not too expensive so that I have enough cash to enjoy it. I wish I had a map handy. Oh, and definitely somewhere on the East Coast because that’s who I am. Baltimore? No. Washington? I like the museums but it’s something of a hassle getting around and I can’t stand the political jabber that screens out everything else. Boston? Expensive and cold though a great town and with access to the Cape. Hmm. Somewhere in Connecticut? Not Greenwich nor New Canaan nor Brookside nor Bay Water nor River Bottom nor Olde Whatever; and too expensive. Besides, anything within commuting distance to New York can’t get New York out of its DNA.

Maybe New Hope, in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. It’s a little more than an hour from New York yet harbors a combined historical and trendy culture – and it’s an hour from Philly where I have friends. Its surroundings are rural yet sophisticated, drawing art lovers and writers from both cities. It has theatre, restaurants, designer shops, and is calmly trimmed by the Delaware River on which George Washington commuted daily from Trenton – or something like that. And, given its artsy, trendy and playful nature, it’s one place where, being a woman, I don’t have to worry about getting involved with a man – if you catch my drift. With all that as a possibility I headed to Penn Station and was pleased to board a cheap commuter train to New Hope. With full confidence, I knew I would find a historic inn or B and B to spend the night or a few days while making a critical assessment of the town’s desirability. Little did I know that the train didn’t go to New Hope but stopped fully 20 minutes away by fairly expensive taxi. No big deal. With the driver’s help, I was dropped off at a spot where he was able to point out three places that were either inns or B and Bs. I settled on one with the name of Lueger’s Inn. It was simple but clean and abutting the main street in town where the action was. Since it was dinnertime, I strolled down the street and found a reasonably priced restaurant that served overly dressed ordinary food. After dinner, I walked back to the inn, recalling its pleasant sitting room where I would pick up where I had left off in the autobiography of the poet, Mary Frankel, who served as a nurse in World War II and was killed while driving an army ambulance. I figured on exploring the town in the morning.

After a good night’s sleep, I awakened, dressed and had a light breakfast in the inn’s pleasantly sunny breakfast room and then hit the streets, which were suddenly coming alive with visitors and shop owners. The entire stint was less than five blocks before I found myself back where I started. This gave me cause to think. ‘Oh brother, is there enough in this place? Is it just OK for a few days’ vacation?’ And then the inevitable: ‘Why am I here?’ It won’t work. It’s no use. It’s back to New York.

In the city, there is no foregone place in my mind to hinder my movements. I can move in any direction; cross the street or turn right or stop for a coffee. They’re all different yet the same. Strange that this is what I was just being critical of, preferring something more settled. Yet it’s not settling that I want; that I require. I need unexpected variety so that I can pick and choose, albeit on a whim. Nevertheless, I clearly haven’t worked all this out, but I do know I have to leave this hospice of low energy for someplace with more diversified grit.

With that in mind, I hurried back to the inn to get my things. I paid the bill, thanked the owner for a comfortable stay and told him where I was going. He informed me that the nearest commuter train was delayed for an indeterminate time, owing to some problems with the tracks. However, if I must leave now, his nephew could drive me to the Amtrak station outside of Princeton where I could get the regional train to New York. It would cost me $25 for the ride. I agreed. Nephew Ralph, seemingly otherwise unemployable, came shortly thereafter and we were off.

So now, here I am, exiting Ralphy’s ersatz taxi, heading back to New York on the Northeast Regional. I board at the front car and seeing that it is completely full I work my way toward the rear. It’s one car after another and the same crowded situation in each. Finally, I enter the last car. Seats in the first half face rear. However, beginning halfway up the aisle, the remaining seats face forward. Luckily, I see that the last of the rear-facing seats faces the first forward facing one, which, by luck, happens to be empty. All the others are taken. Intent on beating the horde closing in at my rear, I hurry to it and place my bag on the upper rack. Partly out of breath I plop down into the seat; take a deep breath and glance up at my seating companion across from me: eyes closed – head slouched left – slight snore – legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles – brown and white argyle socks…. OH MY GOD!

THE END

Copyright James D. Fratto 2021