Field Notes on Love

by Jennifer E. Smith

  Mae pauses. “What?”

  “Your friend. Don’t forget to tell her I wouldn’t even harm a spider.”

  “I will,” she says with a smile.

  Outside the compartment, she begins to work her way down the length of the train, feeling like a pinball as she’s jostled from side to side. The halls are lined with rooms, some small like theirs, others much bigger, with private bathrooms and sinks and seats lined up to form couches. She can see the people inside leafing through books and examining maps and staring at their phones, their socked feet propped up on the seats, and she thinks of Hugo alone in their compartment, his legs stretched out in the empty space where she’s meant to be.

  When she reaches the café, she buys a cup of coffee and sits at one of the picnic-style tables. There’s an old man reading a newspaper behind her and an Amish couple eating a packed lunch nearby, but otherwise it’s empty.

  Just as she’s about to call Priyanka, she notices a new text.

  Nana: Well? Have you fallen in love yet?

  Mae: No!

  Nana: Tell him he has lovely eyes. That works every time.

  Mae: There’s no way I’m doing that. How does it feel to be home?

  Nana: Wonderful, but your dads won’t leave. I told them I’m fine and they should go, but it was like swatting a couple of puppies on the nose. Now I think they’re staying the night.

  Mae: Roommates for life!

  Nana: So it would seem.

  Mae: I’ll check in again tomorrow.

  Nana: Sounds good. But don’t forget what I said.

  Mae: What?

  Nana: Tell him he has lovely eyes. Trust me on this one.

  Mae: What if he doesn’t?

  Nana: Does he?

  Mae: That’s really not the point.

  Still, when she puts the phone down, Mae finds herself thinking about Hugo’s eyes, the peculiar mix of brown and green, and the way they were shining when he first saw her. To distract herself, she tries calling Priyanka, but she must be in class now because it goes straight to voice mail. Instead Mae opens her computer and stares at a blank white page for a while, hoping an idea for a new film might magically appear. But when that doesn’t work, she grabs her book—a technical guide to filmmaking that’s required reading for film majors, which she’s not, but that she wants to read in case she manages to transfer early—and passes the time that way.

  Later, as the sun dips lower in the sky, getting tangled in the tops of the trees, the train begins to slow for the first time. Mae looks up from her book, spotting landmarks that are familiar from her many trips to the city: the bend in the river where the geese always gather, the old boathouse with crumbling blue paint, the church with the narrow steeple. Just beyond it, she can see the very top of a redbrick building, the one next door to her dad’s gallery, and the rows of telephone poles that run along their street.

  She has no right to be homesick. Not yet. But she feels a tug of emotion at the sight of it all, and even though nobody is home right now—the three people she cares about most are still in the city—the proximity to the old yellow house makes her heart ache.

  A few people spill out of the train doors when it comes to a stop, and others start to climb on, hefting their suitcases aboard with the help of attendants. Mae looks out the other window at the Hudson, which has turned flat and gray, mirroring the sky.

  It occurs to her that she’s never taken the train beyond this point before, not in the direction they’re going. She has no idea how much longer they’ll hug the river, at what point the houses will give way to farms, what the landscape will look like as they move deeper into the western part of the state. And she realizes she’s excited to find out.

  The train begins to move again, and she leans her forehead against the window, taking one last look at the town, the word home pounding in her ears like a heartbeat as it disappears from view.

  Hugo, alone. He leans forward until his nose touches the window, and watches the river slip by. All afternoon it’s continued to change, shifting from blue to gray to brown. Sometimes it reminds him of the river Wey back home, where he and Alfie and Poppy and George and Oscar and Isla used to play the stick game when they were little or else paddle around in their wellies, coming home speckled with mud. The thought tugs at him, a hook to the heart, but then he blinks again and the river is something entirely new: wide and white-tipped and glittering beneath a sun too bright even for the England of his memories.

  He supposes all rivers must look somewhat alike.

  Their compartment is quiet, tucked in a corner toward the end of the train, so there aren’t too many people walking by. At one end of the car, there are two small bathrooms and a shower that Hugo hasn’t brought himself to peek at yet. A pile of luggage is sloped on the racks near the metal doors. But that’s about it.

  At first he’d been delighted to have it all to himself, this little corner of the train, and he settled inside all that silence and space like it was a woolly blanket. There was something so peaceful about it: nobody telling him to take his feet off the seat or asking him for help with their homework or nattering on while he’s trying to read.

  But soon the quiet starts to feel loud, and he’s unable to shake the feeling that something is missing. Maybe it’s that Margaret was supposed to be here, the two of them wedged together on a single seat, the hours flying by as fast as the telephone poles. Or maybe he’s just not used to being alone; maybe that’s something you need to practice, like playing football or the violin.

  He picks up the phone and sends a text to the group.

  Hugo: Hi from New York.

  Poppy: Hi from the kitchen.

  Alfie: Hi from the loo.

  Isla: Gross.

  Oscar: Hurry up. I need to get in there.

  George: How’s the train?

  Alfie: How’s the girl?

  Hugo: Nice.

  Poppy: The train or the girl?

  Hugo: Both.

  George: Do you miss us yet?

  Hugo: At least two or three of you.

  There’s a knock at the door, and then Ludovic pops his head in.

  Hugo pulls his socked feet off the opposite seat. “Hello,” he says so brightly that the attendant looks a little startled.

  “Hello,” Ludovic says, examining his notepad. “So we’ll need two sets of sheets in here, yes? What time do you want me to make up the beds?”

  “Uh,” Hugo says, wishing he’d thought to ask Mae before she left. “I’m not sure. What time do you reckon?”

  “A lot of people have requested nine,” Ludovic says with a shrug, “but a lot of people are also very old. How about ten?”

  “Sure,” he says, but once Ludovic is gone, Hugo glances at his watch and realizes that ten o’clock is still hours away. He yawns and presses his cheek to the window, still knackered from all the travel and excitement and jet lag. The rumble of the train is enough to make his eyes flutter shut, and he wakes later to an announcement about dinner.

  “All passengers for the six-thirty dinner seating, please make your way to the dining car. That’s six-thirty, folks.”

  Hugo stands and examines what he’s wearing: worn jeans and a fraying yellow shirt and a thin pair of flip-flops. He wonders if he looks smart enough, suddenly picturing the scene with all the tuxes in Titanic, which is probably not the best image to call to mind. But it’s not as if he has anything much nicer to wear, so he pulls a jumper on over his shirt and heads off, swaying as he makes his way down toward the dining car.

  When he reaches it, there’s a backlog of people waiting to be seated, and so he stands in the metal section that joins two of the cars, the plates sliding beneath his feet like the base of a Tilt-A-Whirl. He looks around for Mae and spots her at the other end—past all the waiters and white tablecloths and oth
er diners, the bread baskets and silverware and menus—waiting in the same spot, and she gives him a smile.

  They’ve spent only twenty minutes together. Maybe thirty.

  But still, there’s already something familiar about her, standing there in the doorway with a book in her arms, and Hugo can’t help wondering if maybe the thing he was missing earlier was her.

  For the past few hours, Mae had watched a steady tide of people drifting into the café, ordering hot dogs and cookies and chips, trying not to spill their cans of beer as they tottered out again. Each time the door opened, she found herself looking up as if waiting for something, though she wasn’t sure what.

  It isn’t until this very moment that she realizes maybe it was Hugo.

  The waiter motions her over, and she picks her way through this strangest and narrowest of restaurants, giving Hugo a nod as they meet in the aisle.

  “Hi,” she says, and he grins at her.

  “Hi.”

  They’re seated at a table with an elderly white couple who are already poring over their menus. Hugo slides into the booth first, and Mae joins him, careful to leave a few inches of space between.

  “Hello there,” the woman says with a faint Southern drawl. “I’m Ida. And this is my husband, Roy.”

  Mae starts to introduce herself at the exact same moment that Hugo says his name. They exchange a glance, both a little flummoxed, but Ida just smiles at them.

  “Where are you two from?”

  Hugo says, “England,” and Mae says, “Just up the road,” the words once again crossing between them. Part of her wants to laugh and part of her wants to crawl under the table. It’s like dancing with someone you don’t know very well, and she feels like she should apologize for stepping on his toes.

  “You two are either very much in sync,” Roy says, “or very much out of sync.”

  “England and New York?” says Ida. “That’s quite the long-distance relationship.”

  “Oh no,” Mae says quickly. “We’re not—”

  “You know, Roy was in the navy when we first met, so we had to write letters between visits. But I suppose the world is a lot smaller now.”

  “Not too small,” Hugo says with a smile. “Still takes a bit of time to cross it by train.”

  Their waiter appears, and Roy is ready for him. “I’ll have a burger and an apple pie. I know what you’re gonna say—you’ll be back to take dessert orders later. But last time, they ran out of pie. So I’m not taking any chances. In fact, we should get slices all around.”

  The waiter seems to realize it’s pointless to object.

  Once they’ve all placed their orders, Hugo sits back in the booth. “So you’re old pros at this train business, then?”

  “Oh yeah,” Roy says. “Ever since I retired, we’ve been going pretty much every summer. Right, hon? Different route each time. It’s a great way to see the country.”

  “Is this your first trip?” Ida asks, and both Hugo and Mae nod. “You’ll love it. Trains can be very romantic, you know.”

  Hugo—who has just taken a bite of a roll—starts to cough, and Mae tries not to laugh. “We’re actually not—”

  But Ida is already off again, talking about the various trips they’ve taken: the one where they stopped off at the Grand Canyon and the one where the train broke down outside Baltimore. At some point, Roy picks up the thread, and then Ida tags in again, and they go back and forth like that through the salad course and straight into dinner.

  “We did one in Canada once too,” Ida says when they’re all done eating. She glances down at her empty plate. “The summer after our son died.”

  Mae lowers her glass, her throat suddenly tight. Across the table, Ida’s eyes are watery, and they all go quiet for a moment, searching for the right thing to say. Then Roy reaches out and puts a big hand over his wife’s smaller one.

  “Remember the dinners on that trip?” he asks in a gruff voice. “We ate like royalty.”

  The wrinkles on Ida’s face rearrange themselves as she breaks into a smile. “We really did,” she says, looking at him so fondly that Mae almost feels like she and Hugo are intruding.

  It’s fully dark outside now, the night punctuated only by the glowing windows of farmhouses and the occasional town, and Mae can’t help thinking about all the miles Ida and Roy have crossed, all the sights they must’ve seen.

  The waiter arrives with apple pie for everyone, and Hugo closes his eyes after taking a bite. “I have to admit I was expecting the food to be rubbish, but this is brilliant.”

  Roy grins at him. “You know what they say.”

  “What?” Hugo asks, his face blank.

  “Oh, uh…as American as apple pie.”

  Hugo frowns. “What is?”

  “Well, anything American, I guess,” Roy says a little less certainly. “But especially apple pie.”

  “Huh,” Hugo says, stabbing at his pie. “I hadn’t heard that one.”

  “How long have you been over here, sweetie?” asks Ida, and to Mae’s amusement, Hugo looks at his watch.

  “Just about thirty hours now.”

  Across the table, Ida and Roy both stare at him.

  “Oh,” says Roy. “So you two met across the pond, then?”

  Mae looks at Hugo. And Hugo looks at Mae. He lifts an eyebrow, and she can see the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

  “No, actually,” she says, her eyes still on him. She can feel a laugh rising in her throat because suddenly it all seems so ridiculous, the unusual circumstances of their meeting, and the very fact that they’re here together right now, racing through the dark on a train in the middle of nowhere. “We met a few hours ago.”

  Hugo looks at his watch again. “Five, to be exact.”

  “Would’ve been five and a half,” Mae says, “but I was a little late.”

  “So you two…just met?” Ida says, her brow furrowed like this is a puzzle she can’t quite work out. “But I thought you were—”

  “Nope,” says Hugo.

  “But it seemed like you were—”

  “Not even a little bit,” says Mae. “We’re both just along for the ride.”

  Roy shakes his head. “Well. So then how did you meet?”

  “Honestly, Roy,” Hugo says, sitting back with a smile, “it’s a bit of a long story.”

  “And kind of a weird one,” Mae adds.

  “Right?” says Hugo, shifting in the booth to face her. “I swear I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “What? Spend a week on a train with a total stranger?” Mae laughs. “Me neither. Do you think that makes us equally crazy or equally awesome?”

  “I’d prefer awesome,” he says. “Though popular opinion back home was leaning toward crazy.”

  “I didn’t even tell my parents. Well, I told them about the trip. But they think I’m with my soon-to-be roommate. If they knew it was some random guy, they’d kill me.” She stops to think about this. “Actually, no. They’d probably kill you.”

  “Good to know,” he says. “Hey, totally unrelated, but…how big is your dad?”

  Mae laughs. “I have two of them.”

  “Even better,” he says with a grin. “They can kill me twice.”

  “Did you tell your parents?”

  “They’re under the impression I’m traveling alone. But I did tell my siblings. Just in case you were planning on murdering me.”

  “And I told my grandmother. Just in case you turned out to be a serial killer. Which we’ve already established you’re not.”

  Hugo laughs and then glances over at Ida and Roy, whom they’ve more or less forgotten. The older couple are staring back across the table, their mouths open and their faces a picture of confusion.

  “Well,” Hugo says, and when he turns back to Mae, his
eyes are dancing. “Now Ida and Roy know too. Which makes it all feel rather official, doesn’t it?”

  Mae nods and lifts a forkful of apple pie. “Cheers.”

  “To what?” Hugo asks, lifting his own.

  “To being awesome.”

  “And promising not to kill each other.”

  “To really long train rides.”

  “And partners in crime who are not actually criminals.”

  “To being young,” Ida chimes in, “and adventurous.”

  “And to apple pie,” Roy says, raising his fork too.

  Hugo laughs as he and Mae clink forks. “I’ll toast to that.”

  As they’re leaving, Mae doubles back and bends to say something to Ida. Hugo watches curiously from the doorway as the old woman’s face splits into a grin. When Mae joins him again, she’s smiling too.

  “What was that about?”

  “I asked if I could interview her.”

  He laughs, surprised. “What for?”

  “Honestly? I’m not totally sure yet. But there’s something interesting about her, isn’t there?”

  Back in their compartment, Mae switches on the yellow light above the seats, then reaches for the black bag she tucked on a small shelf. She unzips it and pulls out her camera with a dreamy look. Hugo sits down across from her, watching as she tinkers with the lens.

  “You’re really making a film about Ida?” he asks, incredulous.

  “So it would seem.”

  “But…why?”

  She looks up at him, her blue eyes glinting. “Do you ever have one of those ideas where you don’t quite know what it is yet, but you have this feeling that something will come of it? That’s what it was like talking to Ida tonight.”

  She holds the camera up and points it at him, closing one eye.

  “Cheese?” Hugo says, and she laughs.

  “This is the fun part,” she tells him, lowering the camera again. “Ever since—well, I’ve been waiting for a spark for a while now. I didn’t know if it would ever happen again.”