DAY FOUR
Upon awakening, I felt for my hair: bushy and full.
Nebraska heard me stir from on high. “Let me guess—we’re still eight years old?”
I grunted, in no mood to talk.
“The Orneries?”
I didn’t answer, but threw on clothes and sneakers and weaved through five sleeper cars to order hot chocolate at the service counter.
And there I sat, bleary eyed, staring out the window, sipping.
This is it, I mumbled to myself, resigned to the idea that I’d be stuck at eight years-old forever, perhaps somehow related to Nietzsche’s philosophy of eternal recurrence.
The train was now in California, and for the first time since we had embarked three days earlier, transforming from adults into children after a near-death experience, heavy cloud obscured the sun. The irony. Sunny in Portland, moody in Cali.
This railroad journey, the recycled air, was starting to get old and claustrophobic. Yet we still had ten hours more to endure. And only God knew how we were going to function, as eight year olds, when the trip was over and daily adulthood ritual cut back in.
And as I thought about this, my mood brightening from whatever effect chocolate had on my serotonin levels, I realized that the nice thing about being eight is you don’t get caught up in a ritual, but instead open yourself to spontaneity and new experiences, without fear of deviating from normal routine.
I returned to my Sleeper Suite and found Nebraska struggling in the limited space between bunkbeds and tiny sink to brush her teeth. “Mularski up?” I asked.
“Haven’t seen him.”
I knocked Mularski’s door.
“Yo.”
I slid the door open. His suite was a mess. He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. “I don’t get it, I don’t get it, I don’t get it.”
Nebraska didn’t want breakfast; had decided she didn’t like train food and didn’t want another bite.
So Mularski and I trudged to the Dining Car, where it was first come, first served, and all the obese passengers gobbled pancakes and eggs and bacon and toast as if there were no tomorrow.
Finally it was our turn. Mularski had a good appetite, and a dictum to match his artist’s pose: Never turn down food, you never know where the next meal is coming from. (Meals were included in the price of a Sleeper Suite.)
I picked at a poached egg, a side of bacon, and washed it down with orange juice.
Said Mularski, “What are we going to do all day aside from hoping we grow up? This train ride was your idea.”
Clearly, it wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had.
Nebraska saved me answering, plopping herself next to Mularski, across from me, setting a cardboard box on the table. “Ouija time,” she said.
Snapped Mularski, “I’m not playing that.”
She shrugged. “Who invited you?”
Mularski snorted.
“Aboiement back?” I asked.
“No. That was my own contempt.”
“What have you got against Ouija boards?” I asked.
“You’re going to tell me that something that is mass produced in plastic could possibly provide any answers to anything?”
“It’s just an instrument,” said Nebraska. “The answers come from elsewhere.”
“Oh, really?” said Mularski. ”Like where?”
Nebraska thought for a second. “The unknown.”
Mularski snickered. “Which means people who do this are the unknowing.”
Nebraska glared at him.
“Aww, you’re not gonna cry, are you?” he taunted.
“No,” she said, lifting the board out of its box. “But I might crack this over your head.” She looked at me. “It only takes two. Let’s sit in the Parlor Car.”
Mularski gaped at me as I rose. “You’re leaving me?”
“What are you, a little kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then come with us with you don’t want to be by yourself. You don’t have to play, you can watch.”
Mularski wavered a moment, and reluctantly followed us into the next car.
We sat on a curved couchette. Nebraska placed the Ouija board on a kidney-shaped low table and began reading the instructions.
“It’s easy,” said Mularski. “You just put the pointer on the board and both of you put your fingers on it. And watch your subconscious talk to you. That’s all it is.”
Nebraska plopped the planchette in the center of the Ouija board, placed her fingers upon it and beckoned me to do the same.
“Ask a warm-up question,” said Mularski.
Nebraska closed her eyes. “What is Mularski’s mother’s name?”
“Don’t bring my mother into this!” howled Mularski.
But the planchette had already begun to slide across the board, and back, until its window settled over the letter G.
I glanced at Mularski. His eyes widened two sizes.
The planchette moved again, settling over the letter L. And to O. Then R. And finally Y, where it settled and refused to budge further.
“Glory?” I said.
Mularski remained tightlipped for a few moments. “It’s Gloria,” he finally said, looking at me. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
I shook my head no.
“My father,” said Mularski. “He calls her Glory sometimes.”
Nebraska held fisted hands above her head in triumph. “This is great!”
“Ask it what happened to us,” said Mularski.
The planchette began to move without further instruction. It swung south to numbers. And settled on 8.
“We know that,” said Mularski. “Ask why.”
Slowly, the planchette spelled out H-O-U-R-G-L-A-S-S-S-A-N-D-S-O-F-T-I-M-E.
“Hour glass sands of time?” said Mularski. “What does that mean?”
The planchette immediately began to move. It settled on H—and refused to budge a millimeter more.
“H?” Mularski demanded. “Have we gone to hell?”
The planchette began to move.
“No, I didn’t mean that as a question for…”
The planchette zipped to the northeast corner, stopping at No.
“Heaven?” asked Nebraska.
The planchette stayed where it was, at No.
“Next letter, after H,” said Mularski.
The planchette dropped back to the alphabet, hovered around W-X-Y-Z on the second row, wavered, and moved to T, and onward, spelling out T-R-A-N-S-I-T-Z-O-N-E.
“This is nonsense,” said Mularski.
The planchette slid south to Goodbye.
“Now you’ve made it mad,” groaned Nebraska
“Yeah, right. Give me a try,” said Mularski. He swapped places with me and trained his fingers lightly on the planchette. “How do we become adults again?”
The planchette remained immobile.
Mularski picked it up and placed it at the center of the board and repeated his question.
The planchette began to move in a clockwise motion. After three circles it stopped briefly on the letter M. Then changed direction and stopped on G.
“M-G?” said Mularski.
The planchette darted northwest to Yes.
“So we’re supposed to buy an MG sports car and drive somewhere?” Mularski said this to Nebraska and me. But Ouija seemed to take offense: The planchette scooted to Goodbye, and thereafter refused to cooperate.
“I’m bored,” said Mularski. “Let’s play Truth or Dare?”
The Conductor’s voice over the intercom announced a “ fresh air and smoking” stop upcoming in Oakland.
Nebraska didn’t miss a beat. “I dare you to get off, find a Starbucks, and bring us mocha lattes.”
“Easy-peasy. And when I get back, it’s the truth from you, Miss Nebraska.”
“You still think I cast a spell on you?”
“Now that you mention it, have you ever dabbled in witchcraft?”
“In a past life I was hanged in Salem.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
The train braked into a gradual slow-down as it approached the station. Mularski re-tied his sneakers.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I said.
“Sure I do, I’ve been dared.”
The train lurched to a halt. “Bye.” Mularski tackled the stairs and sprinted out.
Seconds, then minutes, ticked by. We watched from the window of the Parlor Car, and grew nervous when, after twelve minutes, the whistle blew, signaling imminent departure.
Nebraska and I looked at each other as the train began to move and no Mularski.
We could look for Mr. Clean, but he had warned us about wandering off during stops and would not be sympathetic. If you strayed and missed the train, well, see ya.
“Shall I pull the emergency cord?” said Nebraska mischievously.
I could not remember seeing one, and ventured as much. “Anyway,” I said, “serves him right.”
“Maybe, but we’re all in this—whatever this is—together. Whatever chance we have of morphing back, it is probably based on being together.” Nebraska stood, preparing for drastic action.
And then Mularski appeared down the cabin, a huge grin on his face, three tall mocha lattes from Starbucks in a cardboard cup holder. “Whew,” he said. “I just managed to jump the last car as this baby was cranking up.”
We sipped our hot sweet drinks.
“My turn,” said Mularski, a devilish glint in his eye, which he set upon Nebraska. “Truth.” Mularski glanced at me. “He and I have traveled together before and nothing like this has ever happened. You come along, and suddenly we’re eight years old.”
“So what’s your question?” said Nebraska.
“Why did you join us on this trip?”
“I needed to get away.”
“From what? And why us?”
“That’s two extra questions.”
“No, it’s all the same—you’re supposed to be specific.”
Nebraska shrugged. “That’s funny, at the beginning of this, when I told you I thought I was dreaming, you accused me of making it all about me. And now you’ve gone full circle and you’re blaming me for this.”
“Just answer the question, missy.”
“Okay. The heat was on. My work. I thought maybe I was under surveillance and needed to chill for a few days, get away. I could have taken a road trip by myself, I often do, home to Nebraska. When I was a teenager I used to drive and drive, to nowhere in particular, across the state and back again. But there was this invitation to join you, so I thought, swell.” She paused, studying her eight year-old hands. “And I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I’m glad I did. It’s given me a kind of euphoria.”
“More like before-ria,” quipped Mularski. He looked at me. “Your turn.”
I shook my head. “I never said I was playing.”
“No? Then I want my mocha latte back.”
“You know,” I said, “Maybe we need to accept responsibility for our present situation.”
“What responsibility?” Mularski snapped.
“We’ve brought this upon ourselves, somehow. And maybe by accepting our responsibility we’ll un-do it.”
“Okay, so I’m responsible.” Mularski looked at the ceiling, as if to God, and reached out to it with arms outstretched. “Happy?”
“Are you?” Nebraska asked.
Mularski considered this. “Frankly, no. I placed all my eggs in one basket, with my wife, and now I feel betrayed and used, and inadequate. It sucked all my energy.”
“You need to lose it,” said Nebraska.
“Trust me,” scoffed Mularski. “I lost it more than once.”
“I mean, lose the anger and disappointment.”
“Just me?” Mularski pointed at himself with his thumb. “This is all about me now? What about him?” His thumb changed direction, toward me.
“How am I responsible?”
“Do you have any anger or disappointment?” asked Nebraska.
I thought about this a long time, or so it seemed to me. “In myself, I guess. There are a lot of things I could have done differently. And I had a problem, about being lost, I dealt with in Portland.” I paused. “My father had a lot of anger in him, from his upbringing. He was the last of four kids, and I think he felt unwanted, like you, Mularski. He finally let go of his anger, late in life, and became a more sweet-natured and loving person.”
“And you?” Mularski demanded of Nebraska. “What about you?”
“Me?” She smiled sweetly. “I just needed a hug.”