The train scooted toward Manhattan. Evelyn had planned to crash at Charlotte’s place in Brooklyn—Charlotte was visiting some textile factory in Georgia—for a few days while she checked out Craigslist apartment shares and hit the streets. Google said Brooklyn Heights had several good coffee shops, and while she pulled double shifts, she could look for a longer-term job, something in magazines, maybe, or e-commerce. As long as she earned $31,000 a year, and spent it on little besides rent and groceries, Evelyn could stick to the payment schedule she’d made with her credit counselor.
When the train pulled into Penn Station, Evelyn got out quickly but then stood on the dark platform as people pushed by her and up the stairs to the station. Brooklyn. Cheese makers and beer designers, or whatever Charlotte had said. The same song in a different key; her trying to create a life that other people had deemed worthwhile, Evelyn fighting to prove herself once again.
People were rushing off the train around Evelyn, who expected someone to ask her what she was doing here, or where she was headed, or what her plans were. Instead they barreled by, one hitting her with his backpack, another with his briefcase, and she realized she was now the irritating out-of-towner interrupting traffic flow. She started moving, dragging her bag up the stairs. As she reached the crammed waiting room, she read the Amtrak board. Adirondack, Carolinian, Crescent, Northeast Regional. Departing tracks 7E, 12W, 14W, 9W. An arrangement of travel brochures was displayed underneath the board, and she recognized the brochure sticking out of the top: Boston—the City on a Hill. The same quiet-looking city, the same pretty lights, that she had considered when she was waiting for Camilla in her final visit to Lake James. The same place where she had once been a good friend to Charlotte, to Preston. What was it that station attendant in his USS cap had said? Sometimes it’s good to take a train somewhere else?
She pulled a brochure from the stand and, with a yank on her bag’s handle, ran through a side door and along the hallway, her Tretorn soles squeaking as she veered around the corner to the Amtrak ticket counter. There was no line, and the clerk, a small woman with short gray hair so vertical and curled it looked like it had been through a fire followed by a washing-machine cycle, asked, “Where are you going?”
Evelyn held up the brochure. “Boston.”
“Business or pleasure?” the woman asked.
“I guess both.” She unzipped her money-belt thingy with her other hand. Her cash was stored in there, and she felt absurd wearing it, but she also wasn’t about to get her Caffeiteria and Hub money stolen due to pride.
“Nice town, Boston.”
“If you can make it there…,” Evelyn said, but the clerk didn’t get the joke. “They do a lot of out-of-town tryouts for musicals there. People can get their footing,” she explained.
“You an actress?”
“No. No. I’m not. I…” She pulled some twenty-dollar bills from her money belt, then looked up with her eyes bright. “I can work in theater, though. I mean, not onstage, but take tickets for Harvard musicals. I don’t know. Sell ads for programs. Maybe stage-manage someday. Along with working in a coffee shop. But mostly I’m going to see my old friend.”
The clerk shrugged. “One-way or round-trip?”
“One-way. Just one-way.”
The woman handed over the ticket. “Boarding now. Better hurry. Northeast Regional. Track nine west.”
Evelyn pulled her bag back through the Amtrak waiting room, flipping open her phone and trying to call 781-555-1212 as she ran, and pressing connect over and over again with no luck until she got to the bottom of a staircase that led up to Eighth Avenue, close enough to the exterior that she had a bar of coverage. “Hi, I need a listing for Marblehead. Seaview House. Yes, please connect me,” she said. The phone rang twice, and someone on the other end picked up. “Hello, Seaview House, offering specialized addiction treatment since 1987, how can I help you?” said the woman’s voice.
Evelyn started laughing. “Was 1987 because of all the traders?” she said. “A friend told me that.”
“I’m sorry?” the voice said.
“I’m trying to reach Preston Hacking. He was a patient there for a while and I think he’s out now, but I need to get a message through to him,” Evelyn said.
“One moment, please,” the receptionist said. Evelyn checked out the “Boarding” status for her train and tapped her foot.
“I can’t give out his number, but you’re welcome to leave a message,” the receptionist said.
“Thank you,” Evelyn said. “Tell him that it’s Evelyn, and I’m sorry for being out of touch for so long, and I’m sorry about everything, but I’m coming to Boston and I’m coming to see him. I don’t know where I’m staying, or what I’m doing, but I’ll figure it out, and I’ll be there tonight, if I can see him. If I can help him. Even if I can’t help him, I’ll be there. That’s it. I’ll see him soon.”
With her other hand, she pushed in the backing of her pearl earring so hard that she could feel the blood pulsing in her ears, and felt the comfortable discomfort of the even beats.
“Evelyn,” the receptionist said kindly. “Very good. I’ll pass on the message.”
Evelyn gave the woman her phone number, then ended the call.