When she left school that day, Sarita was very excited.  The previous day her grandmother had given her a gift: a gargoyle.  Usually, when Sarita thought of gargoyles, she envisioned large, cumbersome beasts made of granular stone that sat petrified into wholly unpleasant poses.  She often thought it quite cruel that their sculptors had permanently frozen them into place like that.  What if they wanted to express other emotions, she thought?  Love, joy, boredom, anger, hatred, jealousy, rage (the difference between this and anger being that rage caused you to break things whereas anger solely to yell and perhaps grind your teeth).  Committing them to one emotion for a lifetime seemed intolerable and criminal at the minimum.  

But she liked the gargoyle her grandmother had given her.  It was small – she could hold it in her two hands – light – she could fit it into her backpack with little incident alongside her pencil case, books, and lunch – and sleek – for all this talk of gargoyles being unwieldy, hers was the epitome of grace with its elegant lines and smooth contours that made you want to rub your hands across its blue-gray surface.  In fact, she thought, quite confidently, if her gargoyle were placed alongside other gargoyles of a less fine breeding, the other gargoyles, she was sure, would hang their chipped and worn heads in collective shame.  It made her feel good to possess something so seemingly perfect.  

But it was not hers really.

Not really.

Her grandmother, who had not left her home in some time, had said that Sarita must deliver it to her friend in another town, to which she would have to take a train.  She was also to keep it a secret from her mother, something with which Sarita did not entirely feel comfortable.  But she also did not feel entirely uncomfortable with it.  

It would be an adventure.  

Her grandmother had said that Sarita would have to take the commuter rail, which went out into the country, after school one day and she would have to travel for an hour until she got to Framingham.  Once there, she would have to walk to 34 Newburg St. to deliver the gargoyle to her grandmother’s friend Sonia.  It was only a short walk, her grandmother had assured her, and she would be back before anyone took notice.

But why did she have to deliver the gargoyle?

Her grandmother would not say.  

Why could she not keep the gargoyle?

Because she could not.

Why couldn’t she tell her mother?

Because she could not.

Why couldn’t they just mail it?

The gargoyle might get broken.

Of the many things her grandmother did not say, what her grandmother did say was this: “If you do not deliver it, Sonia might die.”

Once her grandmother had said this, Sarita was understandably silenced.  So important was this gargoyle to Sonia that her grandmother was risking the safety of her only grandchild to deliver it to her.  Sarita was veritably impressed by her grandmother’s degree of dedication and quashed the need to ask any further questions.  

In truth, though, Sarita simply did not know enough to ask anymore questions, such as:

Why couldn’t Sonia come to her grandmother’s house and pick up the gargoyle?

        Later, she thought that Sonia, too, must be confined to her home.  

Why would Sonia so urgently need a gargoyle?  Who ever needs a gargoyle?  Churches certainly didn’t, even back when they needed them.

Later, she thought there must be something inside the gargoyle, however, after shaking it, with her ear against it, and attempting to unscrew its head, she discovered there was nothing inside.

    So then why did Sonia have to have this gargoyle?

    It was all that preoccupied Sarita’s mind that day at school.  She could not focus on any of her studies and was caught staring out the window by her teacher, who then asked her to clap the erasers outside at the end of the day, while all the other children got to prepare to go home.  This did not bother her, though.  The excitement of pretending to walk home with the other students only to diverge from their path at the Riverhurst train station (with the excuse that she had to go to Framingham, while they went on to their dull, decidedly unglamorous lives), provided her with more than enough stamina to endure the minor humiliation of having to clap erasers.

    On the train, Sarita sat next to the window.  Outside, she could see the landscape flying past her and she began to entertain herself by focusing on objects (like trees, cars, or houses) for as long as she could so that they would not be a total blur.  She felt that, if she did this, she would either improve her vision or contribute to damaging it so badly that her mother would finally be compelled to buy her the wire-frame glasses she had secretly coveted since September.  

    Soon, though, the thrill of being on the train struck her.  She was not supposed to be on the train at all.  Least of all, alone.  This is what it must feel like to be adult, she thought.  Constantly plagued by the guilt of the disobedient things you did, you were free to secretly revel in them, while all the children around you had to obey and wear ill-fitting, scratchy sweaters.  She turned around and saw the half full car: various middle aged men, some old women (possibly grandmothers), an odd child or two.  None of them looked like they wanted to cause her any harm.  They all seemed to be preoccupied sleeping, reading, listening to music, or looking out the window, like herself.  

    Still, though, something did not feel right.  She turned once again to look out the window.  The landscape continued to race past her, however it was no longer as brightly illuminated as before.  The sun had begun to go down.  Suddenly, the train reached Glendale and stopped.  A handful of people got off.  She saw one woman being greeted by a man.  Probably her husband, Sarita thought.  Or maybe her brother.  She couldn’t tell.  She wondered if the woman had any children.  A house maybe?  What about a dog?  And where did they live?  What kind of car did they have?  Had they ever left the United States?  Did they speak any other languages?  What things did they have hiding in their house?  The train began to pull away and the couple receded.  

    The sun immediately began to make Sarita sleepy.  The light in the car was so warm and welcoming.  She took off her bag and sank back into the red leather chair.  Her coat was so soft and warm and the light hit her face with such delicacy and just the right degree of warmth that she could not help closing her eyes and thinking of…  but, oh, no, she should stay awake…but she loved her bed on afternoons like these because the light from outside would warm it up and her pillows would be so soft and smell just like her mother’s hair.  If she fell asleep in her jeans and a light sweater, sleep would be best then because everyone else was awake and either already home or on their way home…and Sarita was secretly sleeping…and then she would wake up to the smells of her mother’s cooking and she would look out the window at the final rays of daylight alighting on the ground before the night devoured them… and then, oh, no, what about her homework?...but she could do that after she ate and maybe watched a show or two…and then there was always the morning…because she might…

 

***

 

    Sarita opened her eyes and saw, lit by a station lamp, the sign to Riverton.  She rubbed her eyes and quickly got up to look at the station map.  They had already passed Framingham.  Three stops ago!  She sat down and looked out the window.  She picked up her backpack and then got up.  She walked to the next car.

    There was no train staff member.  She walked to the next car.  There was no train staff member.  She walked to the next car.  There was no train staff member, but there was a woman.

    “Excuse me,” Sarita said, her voice wavering slightly, “do you know how long until the next stop?”

    “Probably a few more minutes,” the woman said.

    “Thank you,” Sarita said.

    “Did you miss your station?”

    “Yes, I did.”

    “Oh, don’t worry.  The trains come every few minutes so you should be OK.”

    “Thank you.”

    She returned to her car.  On her way back, though, she saw that it was now dark.  What time was it?  Four thirty maybe?  Five, perhaps?  Her mother would be home if it was five.  Her mother would have been calling her from three, like she did every day.  What would she tell her mother?  She had not thought about that.  Well, actually, she had, but the excuse (that she had gotten home, fallen asleep, and been unable to hear the phone) she had fabricated would be useless now.  

    But she could not think about that now.  The train was approaching the next station.  

    Sarita got off.  The air was crisp.  There were leaves scattered all over the ground.  The wind blew them.  It was obvious that everyone was now home and having dinner and she wanted to be home, having dinner, too.  What would her mother cook tonight?  She stood on the platform until the train left.  She did not expect to miss her stop.  She shouldn’t have fallen asleep.  She understood now that she was being punished for doing something that she should not.  Upon hearing of such a twist in a story, she knew her mother would emphatically declare of the unfortunate character, “She deserved it!  Ha!  Well done!”  But she refused to believe that she was part of any story her mother would be watching.  And she knew that there were always logical solutions to problems.  In this instance, the train would be arriving in a few minutes.  

    She looked at the platform on the other side.  Since the station was nothing more than a sign outside with some benches on each side of the tracks, she would just walk from one side to the other.  There did not seem to be a point, though, where pedestrians could cross for on each side of the tracks was a parking lot so that people could go to the platform for their corresponding train.  As such, there would not be a need to cross the tracks if you drove to the station.  But what about if you were on foot?  She decided that she would have to take the chance and cross the tracks.  She resolved not to let her feet go anywhere the tracks.  In school, they regularly warned students not to play near train tracks.  She was hardly playing, but still she felt the warning applied to her, particularly now because she was disobeying.  

    One foot.  

    One track.  

    Another foot.

    Another track.

    Left foot.

    Second track.  

    Right foot.

    Final track.  

    She made it.  

    She immediately sat down on the bench.  Ha.  She had won and proven her mother wrong.  Now, to wait.    

    As she did, she looked up at the night sky.  It was not really black, like everyone said.  It was purple.  The kind of purple your skin becomes when someone punches or kicks you or when you fall down.  How could everyone be so easily deceived?  It was obvious that the sky was purple at night.  Not black.  It alarmed her that entire generations of children would construct pieces of art with black skies when, in fact, they should have been purple skies.  The mystery of it all.  Perhaps this was one of those things that everyone noticed, but never said anything about because the truth of it was so obvious.

The clouds were thin and wispy, like stretched out cotton balls, and they were moving.  The wind blew and rustled the trees, which were black in the night.  Now they were black.  Why didn’t people say that trees are black?  She supposed, she thought, because people only thought of them in the day and in the day they were brown.  But then, by that logic, the sky was blue in the day and black at night and people did not feel compelled to refer to it by its daytime hue.  Why, then, the discrimination against trees?  

She decided it would be best to focus on something else.  Since there was light from the station lamps, Sarita took out her math book and notebook and began to do her homework, which she would have already begun if she were at home.  

 

***

 

    She looked at her watch.  A half hour had passed.  Where was the train?  Maybe she had misunderstood the woman.  She instantly recalled the moment.  

She approached the woman and asked her how long it would be until the next stop.  The woman told her and then said, “Oh, don’t worry.  The trains come every few minutes so you should be OK.”  The woman didn’t seem like she would lie, but what if she wasn’t lying?  What if there was a special schedule today and the trains, in fact, weren’t arriving every few minutes?  This was it, she thought.  This was where her mother would righteously say, “Ha!” and she immediately began to feel very bad.  

What would she do now?  Well, there was nothing she could do, except wait.  

Maybe one of the cars that passed by every so often would take pity on her and take her home.  Admittedly, it would be a far drive, but she would be very thankful and she would be sure that her gratefulness would register on her face in the most sincere of ways.  She knew that this would not happen, no matter how desperate she was.  Oh God, why was this happening?  Why was she being punished like this?

    But she knew why.  And so would her mother when she told her.  The humiliation.  She just knew her mother would keep the story to herself for months and then launch it at some party or gathering of friends and in so doing single-handedly destroy the successful, youthful, and mature image Sarita would have lobbied so hard to create for their guests that afternoon.  And the shame of being so stupid as to fall asleep would make her cheeks tingle.  Why did humans have to sleep at all?  Why couldn’t we just be awake all the time?  We would be so much more productive that way.  Poor people would become rich.  Rich people would become richer.  The world population would also benefit, she thought.  If we were awake longer, then, in turn, that would have to mean we would be alive longer.  (Sleep did not really count as it required so little effort)  And, if we were alive longer, then we would die more quickly, which would ultimately be a sadder thing, but, in the end, beneficial for the earth in that we would not consume so many of her precious natural resources.  

The train!

It was coming.  She could see its light and hear it coming closer and closer and closer and then pulling into the station and then …and then…and then…not slowing down…not slowing down…not slowing down…continuing to move right past the station and, by extension, her.

There were people on the train.    Surely, the conductor must have spotted her, sitting alone on the bench.  At night!  What was wrong with this world?  Did no one think it suspect that a young girl would be out this late at night?  Alone?  At a seemingly abandoned train station?   Was no one going to help her?

She looked in her bag and touched the gargoyle’s head.  This was her grandmother’s fault.  She vowed to never again listen to her grandmother.

And now she was hungry.  And tired, too.  She had had a particularly good tuna sandwich that afternoon for lunch.  She had used whole wheat bread and just the right amount of mayonnaise for the tuna.  From the time that she had prepared it to the time that it had sat in her lunch bag during the morning to the time that she unwrapped it from its plastic wrap, the sandwich had had time to become perfect.  The bread was extraordinarily soft and aromatic.  The tuna was room temperature, which she knew disgusted some people.  Most liked their tuna cold, but she did not.  She liked her tuna to be as warm as her bread.  And, to top it all off, she had had Cape Cod potato chips, which were unique in the potato chip kingdom in that they were kettle fried, thus giving them a singularly hard and crispy texture unmatched by all other in comparison soggy, and therefore ridiculous, potato chips.  The combination of the softness of the sandwich and the curled rigidity of the chips was to her, and perhaps to most other grade school children, the very concept of divinity.  Especially when washed down by a fruit-based juice box.

The wind howled and she continued to wait.

 

***

 

An hour had passed.

She promised that she would never again disobey.  She promised that from now on she would head back home directly after school everyday for the rest of her life.  If this is what it felt like to disobey, then she wanted no part in it.  She had disobeyed before and even been lead to believe that she was an unruly child, which she was not.  She knew she was not.

It was clear to her now that the train was not coming.  She would have to get up and walk out of the station onto the main road and flag down a car.  It had been at least a half an hour since a car had come (the train had come in the opposite direction. Oh, how she had wished that it had come in her direction!), but she would have no other option.  Her mother had refused to buy her a mobile phone.  Otherwise, she would have called her by now.  If she survived this ordeal, she was convinced her mother would buy her one.  

It was so cold.  It was only the beginning of the fall, but for some reason it seemed to be colder out here than it was back in the city.  Perhaps it was because she had been outside so long and usually, when it was cold, she was only out for short periods of time.  

What if a car did not come?  What would she do then?  Where would she walk?  If she continued to walk along the road, she was sure she would eventually come to a gas station and someone would be able to help her.  

Or what if she simply slept there on the bench for the night?  There was no one around.  She was fairly sure that no one would come in the middle of the night, but what if someone did?  Or what if some thing did?  The station was surrounded by woods.  Animals lived in woods.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to her, far more troubling than the rest: what if she went to the road and someone did come and, horror, stop for her?  What would she do then?  What would she say?  Would she burst out into tears?  

All children her age had been told countless times never to get into cars with strangers or else…  The ‘or else’ was never filled in because it was assumed that what happened to those children was too ghastly to verbalize.  But, anyone with half a brain or even a quarter of one knew: those children were stabbed.  Raped.  Beaten.  Put in large plastic Tupperware containers, which were then filled with liquid lime and mercilessly tossed into rivers only to sink to the bottom. Kissed.  Fondled.  Bloodied.  Fed nothing.  Kept in basements for months at a time.  Buried alive.

She did not want to suffer.  She hated suffering.  She promised to devote her life to the worldwide ending of suffering; anything to undo this moment.  She could see her life now.  So tireless would her efforts to end global suffering be that she would be featured on the front pages of countless news magazines and newspapers with headlines like, “Suffering, You have a Conqueror and her Name is Sarita.”  And the featured photo of her would be a casual, yet stunningly dramatic and evocative, shot showing her surrounded by a multicultural gathering of people, looking away from the camera as she handed food to someone, clad in her khakis and button up oxford with the rolled up sleeves.  And she was good again!  The memory made her good.

She got up and began to walk, reinvigorated by the possibility of all that she could accomplish if she could only get past this one tiny hurdle.  She could hear her shoes against the pavement and cement.

Yet on her way to the road, the fact of the matter remained: if a car did come, she would have to resolve herself to the fact that she could very well end up dead.  Any one of the aforementioned fates being likely to befall her.  

When she got to the road, she looked in both directions for a car.  Nothing.  She began to walk up the road.  She remembered that a majority of the cars were going up the road.  

A few moments passed.  There was only the sound of an owl in the distance.

Headlights appeared and began to approach.  She stuck out her hand and breathed heavily.  

The car approached.  It seemed as though two people were inside.  Two men.

Two men.

Two men.

She noticed a light behind her and a noise: the train.

It was approaching.  Her train was approaching.

She immediately began to run back.  

The train had already stopped at the station.  

She ran faster.  

She ran faster.

She ran faster.

She did not want it to leave without her.

As she ran, she felt something banging against her back: the gargoyle.  It hurt.  She wanted to stop so she could take it out, but, if she did, the train would leave, she was sure.  It continued to bang against her with each stride she took.  Thunk, thunk, thunk.

She got on.  The doors shut behind her.  She felt her back.  It hurt where the gargoyle had hit her.  She quickly sat down and rested her head against the headrest.

And now to Sonia’s.  Then, as the stations passed, she began to think.

What would happen to Sonia if she didn’t receive the gargoyle?  What would her grandmother say?  She reached insider her bag and touched the gargoyle’s smooth, cool head.  She suddenly remembered where she had felt stone this soft and soothing before: at a hotel in Florida she had gone to with her mother and family.  The stone around the pool was just like this gargoyle’s!  She remembered being entranced by it at the time and giving into temptation more than once and simply rubbing her hand and fingernails along the surface of the stone.  So convinced was she that her fingernails would not be scratched.  And they weren’t.  Of all the things they did on that vacation, the stone around the pool was, perhaps, her favorite.  When pressed as to what her favorite part of the vacation was, she would always lie and say, “The rides.”  Why did she never say the stone?  Was stone such a socially unacceptable answer that, each time asked, she was cowed into lying?

Suddenly, the train began to slow; they had arrived at Framingham.  She could see the illuminated station sign.  A moment passed.  Someone, talking on their mobile phone, got up and exited the car.  

Another moment passed.

Someone got into their car.

Another moment passed.

The doors shut.  The engines began and the train began to move.  

The station sign went by them.

Her mother would by now be hysterical.  Why wasn’t she home?  Where was she?  Who could have kidnapped her?  Her mother would be alone in the kitchen on the phone, illuminated by the stove light, the dark outside visible through the kitchen windows.  When she arrived home, she would step on already crumpled orange leaves that had not yet been swept.  And she would walk into the house, see her mother, and break into tears at the sight of her face.  But she would not cry now.  She would not.  

She would be brave and strong and she would wait until she got home, where, when she went to the bathroom, she would see that the gargoyle had bruised her back purple, like the night.  

 

***