He whisper-sings the punch line. “Toot toot, peanut butter.”
Little peanut sitting on the track/Her heart was all a-flutter/Along came a choo-choo down the track/He pauses, nudging me, and whisper-sings the punch line. “Toot toot, peanut butter.”
MILK’S ABOUT TO SOUR BY AMY PURCELL 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 14
The locomotive comes hissing and clanking up the rails, gliding to a stop in front of us. And because it’s a beautiful train I hate it even more. It is circus-gorgeous, festive almost, in its flamboyant blues, cherry reds, and neon yellows.
“They sent the Jupiter, Peanut,” he says and I try not to grimace at my childhood nickname. My father lets go of my hand and steps forward, smiling as another steam cloud explodes from the train’s smokestack.
“The old Central Pacific Number 60. Look at the chassis on her. She’s a beaut.”
I don’t want to know about the chassis. I don’t want to know whether they sent the Jupiter or the Storm or the Bullet or the gravy train. I don’t want to be here at all.
Dad runs his hand along the engine, petting it almost, and I look away. This train doesn’t deserve him.
He limps a little on his arthritic knee as he walks toward the passenger car. I thought maybe the limp would be gone by now but it isn’t, nor is the star-shaped mole on his cheek or the needle-bruises on his jaundiced hands. He brushes a stray leaf off his favorite wool sweater—the one with the holes at the cuffs and the snags around the collar—and picks up his leather briefcase, like he is going to work. I sneak a look at my father’s bare feet. I’d never thought about my father’s feet before, that he actually had them or what they looked like, dads and feet not being things you think about at the same time. Or any time. But the sight of them now, his crooked and craggy toes like the veiny roots of a tree, feels too intimate, like I am learning something too late.
“Where will you go?” I ask.