The Flagman

Milton DuPree was awake before his alarm went off. He lay silently in the dark going over the route again for the umpteenth time, not because he thought he’d forget it, but because it made him smile. And he had learned that anything that could make him smile was to be held onto and carefully rehearsed against the prospect of losing it.

When the alarm finally rang, he rose - a man with purpose and an important day’s work ahead of him. He limped into his tiny bathroom, that blamed hip acting like it always did whether the morning was cold or not, but he didn’t care. Nothing, not even that, would keep him from the work set before him that day.

The fluorescent light flickered a second before it decided to come on, revealing a sink in need of cleaning cluttered with medication bottles, tubes of toothpaste and hair products, and a stack of glasses he kept forgetting to take to the kitchen. A casual onlooker would say he was messy – he would tell you that he had a system that no one who valued their personal wellbeing should interfere with. He peered at his reflection in the mirror, noticing the swelling in his face and neck, and the yellow-tinged whites of his eyes. A little worse than usual today, but no matter. A little worse was the norm these days and he paid it scant attention anymore. Life had a way of narrowing down to the things that were important and discarding the rest, and he liked it that way just fine.

As he brushed his teeth, he noticed how the yellowness of his eyes seemed deeper against his dark skin, especially when contrasted with the whiteness of his teeth. At 57, a good many things had started to go, but his teeth were not one of them and he brushed with vigor, intending to keep it that way. A little blood on his toothbrush indicated that maybe he’d used a little too much vigor, and he spat and then flashed that incandescent smile of his into the mirror. All his life people had commented on his smile and since he still had that left, he intended to use it as well as he could for as long as he could, yellow eyes or not.

A quick breakfast of Cheerios accompanied by an Our Daily Bread reading, and he felt ready. He made his bed, an old habit from Army days, hung a pair of dog tags around his neck, and stepped out into the hallway, locking his door behind him. He made his way down the hall, stopping to greet Willy James and Clyde, new friends on an old ward, as he passed. He paused at the front desk because it was Rhonda sitting there, and he liked her better than all the rest of them put together. There was something real about Rhonda, something fine and deeply human that put him at ease like little else could.

“Heading out again Milt?” Rhonda said, her eyes smiling up at him.

“Important business to take care of today,” he said, returning the smile.

“Don’t I know it,” she whispered conspiratorially.

She was the only one who knew, the only one he trusted to share his secret mission with. And his secret she had kept for the last three and a half months. He liked that she knew and that this was something just the two of them shared. And no matter how Willie James or Clyde would press or try to trick him into revealing where he went every day, he shared his secret only with Rhonda – their special thing.

“Mum’s the word,” he said.

“No sinking ships here,” she said, giving him a little salute.

“All right then. You have yourself a righteous day, Rhonda.”

“Same to you, Milt.”

The phone rang as he turned toward the front door but as he limped out, he imagined her watching him go, and when the early morning sunshine hit his face, he was smiling.

He was glad his silver 1998 Toyota Celica wasn’t parked too far away – he would need to preserve his strength to complete this day, so no sense wasting it on walking any farther than he had to. He opened the banged-up liftback, pulled out a flagpole and a flag, and went to work attaching the flag to the pole. When it was done, he threw it into the back of the car, settled himself into the driver’s seat, and coaxed the car to life. When the engine came on, her patted her dashboard and whispered a prayer of thanks – she was an old girl and when she was done, he would be too. So, every day she roared to life was a good day.

He headed toward downtown, in some ways the trickiest part of his route because it was high tourist season in Durango and parking was always an issue. Situated where it was in the southwest corner of Colorado, Durango drew in visitors from Arizona and Texas hoping to escape the heat and enjoy the beauty of the Rockies. They came in cars with tents and ice chests, in jeeps hoping to conquer the 14,000 peaks, and in every type of RV imaginable including big Class A motorhomes pulling car trailers. And there was one thing that nearly all of them couldn’t pass up – a ride on the Durango Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad.

It was a three hour ride up to the little mining (now tourist) town of Silverton through some of the most beautiful and rugged country in the state, following the path of the Animas River whose Class 5 rapids would test the skill of the most experienced kayaker. Some people got off at stops on the way up, backpacked up into the mountains, and hopped back on for the ride home at their leisure a few days later. But most of the passengers rode up and back in the same day, staying long enough to have lunch and frequent a few shops in Silverton before the trip back.

Milton had ridden the train exactly twice, once when he and Amelie first moved to Durango, and once more thirteen years later when he carried her in an urn in his backpack to leave her in the mountains she so dearly loved. The first time they rode as newcomers, anxious to explore their new hometown and all it had to offer. The second time he decided to ride the train because he knew where Amelie wanted to be but wasn’t sure he could drive the treacherous mountain road safely in the fog that grief had settled in his mind. So, he took the train alone, trying not to notice the couples who sat close together on the narrow seats or the happy families on excursions with very different purposes than his. After he said his goodbyes to Amelie and reboarded the train, he decided never to ride it again. It would forever be linked to the curious new emptiness that filled his heart on the ride back down the mountain with the empty urn in his backpack. By the time they reached the station, the sounds of the train, the chugging and belching and the mournful fullness of the whistle had become a symphony of loss that played in his mind that entire night as he tried without success to sleep. For many years he did his best to avoid the train, but the sound of it echoed throughout the valley multiple times a day so there was really no escaping it.

Then last year happened and amidst the rush of getting to another doctor’s appointment for another diagnosis that he didn’t want to hear, he forgot to alter his route and found himself stuck at the train crossing at 14th Street and Main as the train began its journey up the mountain on a brisk August morning. His pulse quickened as the arms of the railroad crossing came down, and he would have backed up and gone around if there wasn’t a line of cars behind him, locking him in. And suddenly, there it was, two steam engines, then the water car, then the passenger cars one after another full of people of every age and ethnicity all doing the same thing. Waving. Waving and smiling. Which struck him as very odd – why were these people waving at him? Then a movement to his left caught his eye – an elderly couple out walking their dog, and they were waving too. Not at him, but at the train. Milton looked around to find that everyone standing on the streets waiting for the train to pass were waving at the train. He’d never noticed that before.

After that day, it was impossible not to notice that every time the train went through town, people stopped to wave at it. And more surprising, the people on the train waved back. And as he sat in sterile medical suites awaiting or recovering from procedures that were not cures, he found his mind drifting back to the train and the people it brought together. Not together in the way that he was together with Amelie, or even with Willie James and Clyde, but the train connected people somehow, in a way that was as profound and beautiful as it was mysterious. And then one day, a particularly discouraging day as he recalled, he found himself stopped by the roadside waving at the train. He felt foolish, truth be told, but the deeper truth was that he couldn’t stop waving until the last car had rattled by. And if you’d have asked him how he felt when the train disappeared from sight, and if he’d been in the mood to be gut-level honest, he would have said that his melancholy lifted, ever so slightly, and from that moment on he harbored a secret longing to cross paths with the train whenever he was out.

That secret longing had become a notion that grew into a thought and burst forth as a plan at a time when the doctors seemed to be saying make peace with the end of your life. Not that they said those words exactly, but Milton could read between the lines and his training as a medic in the army enabled him to hear what the doctors weren’t saying. And the more the doctors told him to slow down and take it easy, the more the plan grew, sprouting details and answers to logistical questions until the day came and there was no more to plan. There was simply to do. And so he did.

Today he drove the same route that he’d driven the first day, three and a half months ago to the place where it all began – 14th and Main. He parked at the Smart Enterprises shop, grabbed the Colorado flag from the back of the car, and took a seat on the hood of his car to wait. He checked his watch – 8:55 – she would be coming in a little over five minutes and he was ready.

Soon enough he heard the train whistle, and he stood up, planted his feet wide (he’d learned the importance of this one windy day when he nearly got blown over) and held the flag high. As soon as he saw her rounding the bend toward him, he started waving the flag as high and as wide as he could, and a smile lit up his face as the engineer gave him a friendly salute and a few of the passengers waved at him. He kept it up for the entire length of the train and he didn’t lower the flag until the last car had passed and the crossing started to clear.

It wasn’t until he was loading the flag into the back of the car that he noticed the soreness (or maybe it was just stiffness) in his shoulders, but he shook it off, jumped in the car and got back out on Main Street heading north. He didn’t have much time, so he swerved around a few pokey cars and jetted up to 29th Avenue, hung a right, then a left and glory be, he made it with seconds to spare. He leapt out of his car, grabbed the flag and he was waving again by the time the first car passed him. He saw a few kids pointing and some quizzical looks on some faces, but that was normal at this point on the route. Once the train passed by, Milton jumped back into the car and started his northward journey again.

            And so it would go for the rest of the morning. His carefully planned route had been refined over the first couple of weeks to the point that now he could anticipate when the train would pass within a few minutes give or take. During the first stretch, where the train followed the path of the road it was easy to pull off the road a mile or so ahead and be ready when she chugged by. It got trickier after the train crossed the road at Hermosa and headed deeper into the mountains. But that was the most challenging and fun part for him, to take the side road at Baker’s Bridge and see the pointing, the looks of surprise, and the smiles widen as he magically appeared along the route, always waving his Colorado flag, always with a smile.

            His last stop on the trip up was Silverton itself. He took a dirt road south as far as it would go, then walked the last 200 yards so he would be the first to greet them as the train emerged from the forest. As usual, the response from the passengers was worth it. Kids were jumping up and down waving for all they were worth, and it felt like the entire train was waving and pointing as they passed by him. As the train moved into town, he lowered the flag, wiped the sweat from his brow and turned toward town. The 200 yards felt like 400 and he used his flagpole to keep himself upright as he hobbled back to his car.

            He opened the liftback, lay the flag down and sat down heavily, more exhausted than usual. He fished out the tuna sandwich that he’d packed the night before and had a quick, quiet lunch. It had been a good morning – he’d made 9 stops, all of them on time, and the people on the train had grown more excited each time they saw him. As he curled up in the back of his car, he was glad for the two-and-a-half-hour turnaround in Silverton – it gave him just enough time for a quick catnap and to take care of his other business before heading back down the mountain.

            He awoke with a start, the sun’s position in the sky telling him that he had slept far longer than he’d intended. He checked his watch – 2:00. Just enough time if he hurried.

            He wiped the sleep from his tired, yellow eyes and gunned the car to the east side of Silverton, past Boulder Gulch then right toward Arrastra Creek. He stopped the car at the boulder that had one word scratched into the surface and touched the word, as he always did, as he passed by and headed up a short hill into the forest. When he reached The Spot he sat down on the stump that he’d sat on that first time, the time when he had a prepared speech with only her to hear it. He cleared his throat, took a swig of water, and spoke.

            “I know, I know. I’m late today. Got so tired I laid down to rest my eyes for a minute and fell dead asleep. So, I can’t stay long this time. I know you don’t mind, but I do. I made nine stops today. I know, I know, but I’m tired of listening to doctors telling me to stop living while I’m still alive. So yeah, I added an extra stop today and I’m not sorry neither. You should’ve seen the kids this morning, jumping up and down, hollering and waving. It would’ve warmed your heart to see it. There was this little girl on one of the gondola cars, and I swear if she didn’t look just like Cora. How’s she doing, our little Cora? Do you see her every day? Maybe you don’t have days where you are. But I know you must see her, hold her, because it just wouldn’t be heaven if she wasn’t with you. I wish I knew how these things work. I guess I’ll find out myself soon enough. I stopped taking the drugs the doctor has me on. They make me too tired to make the trip up here every day, and there’s nothing going to stop me coming for as long as I can. When I don’t come anymore, keep an eye out because I’ll be heading your way for good. And I can’t wait to see you. There’s a string attaching my heart to yours and it’s stretched so tight right now that it hurts. Not in the same way that the cancer hurts – this hurt is worse because it never gives me a break. It’s a constant throbbing reminder that I can’t reach you. Yet. I’m not looking forward to what comes next, the dying part. But I sure am looking forward to being dead because that means I’ll be with you again, and I can’t wait for that.”

            The train whistle echoed through the valley, pulling Milton back to the task at hand.

            “I guess that’s all I got time for today. But I’ll be back tomorrow. So, you be good, and I’ll see you soon,” Milton said, rising slowly. He had stiffened up sitting on the stump, so it took him a little longer than usual to make his way back down the hill to his car. He coaxed her to life once again and sped away, thinking of Amelie, thinking of seeing her soon, and despite the pain in his body, his heart was a little lighter as he drove back toward Silverton.

            He reached town just in time to see the train moving out from the depot. He had missed the first stop but would make up for it on the next one he decided as he pointed the car south. As he drove toward Rockwell Cut, the first place he could intercept the train on its journey south, his mind drifted to the men who built the treacherous road he was hurtling down, and the hardships they must have suffered to make his trip possible. Hard men doing hard jobs in hard places. Milton respected them all the more because he had himself done hard things in hard places, and he knew how those things hung with a person. His mind drifted back to Iraq and the first Gulf War, to patching up wounds and trying to save lives in the hell of battle, and to the unknown soldier who had unwittingly given him Hepatitis B through his, or her, tainted blood. And how he had given it to Amelie when he returned home, before he knew he was sick, the gift of a death sentence passed on through the celebration of reuniting. She hadn’t responded to her treatment options as well has he had, and liver cancer came to her much too early with such a vigor that it seemed almost vengeful. And though she never said it, and he never saw blame in her eyes, he knew that he had killed her. Not intentionally, but it was his fault just the same because when your wife is dying at 45, does it really matter if you intended to do it or not? She sensed that he blamed himself and tried to reassure him that she didn’t blame him, but her words only served to drive the stake of guilt more deeply into his heart. He took care of her as her life ebbed away and held her close as she drew her final breath, and it was only after she slipped away that he allowed himself the luxury of grief. When it came it was a potent cocktail of pain, guilt, and desperate loneliness, and he told himself that he deserved it all because it was his fault. In those long years following her death, he forgot how to smile and didn’t remember again until that day he stood by the train crossing waving at people he didn’t know. His smile that day surprised him, and it set him on the road he was driving today.

            His mind came back to the present as he reached the turnoff for Rockwood Cut. He drove down the road toward the water tanks. A couple of kids were sitting by the side of the road.

            “Waiting for the train?” he asked. They nodded, apparently remembering not to speak to strangers. He waved at them and drove a couple hundred more yard down the road and parked. He was surprised at how stiff his back and hip were when he got out of the car, and how heavy the flagpole had grown since that morning. His fingers fumbled with the ties on the flag – enough of Colorado, it was time for something new. He unfolded his 1st Armored Division flag, the division he served with during the war. His mind ran through the roll call of the friends he had known, the men he patched up, the ones who made it and the ones who didn’t. He would pay tribute to all of them today.

            He got the new flag attached just as the train was coming around the bend into the depot. He was close enough to the train to hear kids shout, “there he is, it’s the Flagman!” as they went by. He waved his 1st Armored Division flag until the entire train had passed by, even though muscle spasms had started flaring up in his shoulders and he could barely keep the flag aloft. Back at the car he made a quick calculation – he figured he only have three more stops left in him that day. He quickly changed to a new flag and headed for his next stop.

            At Hermosa Crossing, Milton waved his U.S. Army Strong flag. Across the road from the Alpen Rose RV park, the train erupted into shouts as Milton waved his American Cancer Society flag. And just before they reached the depot, back at 14th and Main, the passengers applauded as he waved Old Glory, his final salute to the train that day and to the country he had sacrificed so much for.

            It was after six o’clock when Milton pulled into the parking lot at the Veteran’s Home. He had missed dinner but wasn’t hungry anyway. He was usually tired by this time of day, but the amount of pain in his body was surprising. If Amelie was still alive, she would have rubbed his shoulders and neck and eased the pain away. But no matter. He had had a good day.

            He limped through the front door, checked in with the sour-looking man who had replaced Rhonda at the front desk, and then headed for his room. Clyde beckoned him to come play pinochle with his card buddies, but Milton waved him off and continued walking.

            Back in his room he eased himself into the shower, the hot water a poor substitute for Amelie’s massage, but it would have to do. It took a bit of time and even more effort to get his pajamas onto his aching body, and as he crawled into bed and pulled the covers up around him, he thought about his day. About the smiles, and the waves, and the joy in the kid’s eyes, and the chance to tell his story to hundreds of people he would never know. People who did not know his name but would always remember the man who followed the train, who put a smile on their face, who reached across the void to make a connection between strangers.

            The Flagman slept then. And when they found him in the morning, he was smiling.

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