This story begins outside the shower houses of Grand Canyon National Park. We were newly married, newly showered, and late. The shuttle was scheduled to leave for Flagstaff in thirty minutes and we had a twenty minute walk to get to the stop.

Amy was a tender twenty, taught well in the ways of Christian marriage. Submission to her husband, she understood, was the catalyst that drove responsibility and trustworthiness in him. Her trust in his abilities, her submission to his intentions, her affirmation of his competence–these responses would enable him to become ever more godly, ever more a leader worthy of her trust. 

We had no money. We were broke. We had spent the night in a mouse-ridden cabin. We drank at public water fountains. We were only here because of Amy’s logistical genius, riding the rails on a 10 day pass. Every day was strictly budgeted, every meal chosen for maximum value.

I extended the handle of our suitcase and we set out for the bus stop. 

“It’s this way,” said Amy, pointing left. I chuckled. I took her hand and turned us to the right. I wouldn’t embarrass her with a scene. Women had a hard time with directions. 

“It’s not that way, it’s this way,” she said again. She didn’t move. 

“It’s this way. Let’s go,” I said. I knew women responded well to confident leadership. This could actually be good for her. 

A look was on her face, one of intense internal conflict. If we missed the train in Flagstaff our rail pass would be worthless. There were no second chances, no getting on the next train, not unless we paid for another ticket. My heart ached for her. Submission was not easy. We set out briskly, the rollers on the suitcase clattering on the pavement. Amy followed me silently. 

The road wound around through the juniper brush. We’d be seeing signs for the shuttle any minute now. I walked faster. I didn’t remember it being like this. Five more minutes passed. There were no more signs, no sidewalks. Only a road. The shuttle left in twenty minutes, and we were ten minutes the wrong way. 

“We need to go back.” I turned abruptly, the suitcase described a half-circle and we rushed back the way we came. There was no time for talk. The roller wheels whined and buzzed. I had a lone $20 bill in my wallet, a little cushion in case an unexpected contingency presented itself. The urgency of the moment pressed onto me. I would step out into the road and stop the next car, wave the money, get in, and they would take us to the shuttle stop. I switched hands on the suitcase. Behind me somewhere I could hear Amy sniffling. A car! I turned as a small SUV pulled up and stopped. A woman in a park uniform rolled down her window. 

“You guys are lost, right? I don’t see people walking to Flagstaff pulling a suitcase every day.”

Indeed we were, I said, could she take us to the shuttle stop please. 

I didn’t have much to say on the shuttle ride to Flagstaff. I apologized. I promised to take her objections more seriously. But the damage was done. I could sense a subtle shift in our relationship, a vague wariness, a re-calibration. In the reflection of the bus window she watched me. 

We got back on the Southwest Chief and continued west and north. I did what I knew to win back my young wife. I doted on her, I cared for her as best I could. The hours passed and time began its patient work of healing. 

The train took us west and north. At San Fransisco we sat in the station awaiting the Coast Starlight to carry us north. An hour passed, then two. The station announced the Starlight was delayed. The afternoon went slowly by. From time to time the station informed its waiting passengers in various ways what was obvious to all, the Coast Starlight was running late. Evening came. The train would arrive in the morning, we were told. 

We read what few books we had. We cuddled. We watched the people around us. We looked at the rail passes I carried in my coat pocket. We commented on shoes, we massaged shoulders.

The night was endless. Under the glaring station lights the people slept, fidgeted, had meaningless phone conversations with un-interested friends. I gave Amy the pillow and jackets, and stood guard, roaming the station, pacing. I tied my shoes. I did stretches. I emptied my pockets of all trash. I read every placard, every schedule.

Someone brought donuts and coffee when morning came. The sun rose and shone outside. 

About 9 am, a cry arose and we felt the distant rumble of an approaching train. We sprang to our feet and gathered our belongings. I reached into my pocket for our rail passes. A cold rigor gripped me. The passes were gone. 

We spilled open the suitcase. We pawed through our clothing, the books, under the seats, outside pockets, inside pockets. Amy would not, could not, look at me. The station was emptying as people lined up on the platform outside. Amy searched me again herself, every pocket, every fold. The passes were gone. BOARDING NOW, BOARDING FOR SEATTLE NOW, the speakers boomed in the empty station. Get in line, I told her, hold our place. Tell the conductor I’m coming. Amy did not speak. She gathered our belongings and walked slowly through the door. The platform was quieting as the passengers boarded. BOARDING NOW FOR SEATTLE! BOARDING NOW FOR SEATTLE!

I stood in the station and looked at our empty seats, the gleaming floor, the clocks on the wall we knew so well. I ran into the restroom. I ran back out of the restroom. My eyes fell on the trash can, overflowing with the night’s litter. The trash can! I leapt at it and with both hands began pawing the contents onto the floor. Soggy napkins, food cartons, sloshing cups, receipts. Had I had the mind for it I could have likened myself to a geologist, descending through the earth’s stratum, layer by layer, the history of the night revealed by the candy wrappers, the bottles, the unmentionable hygienic crises’ swaddled in napkins. I neared the bottom, up and down like a crazed oil derrick, my wet, sticky hands churning up a boil of refuse. The napkins drifted silently to the floor, the cups bounced and sloshed, the cartons clattered. The ticket agent was silent, suddenly busy in the back room. He knew a situation best left to play itself out. My fingers brushed the silky texture of the two rail passes and I came up with a triumphant sob. I bounded across the station, through the door, down the empty platform to where the conductor and my wife stood waiting. 

We boarded and found seats. In the restroom I took my time washing my hands. I wiped them thoroughly, looking at myself in the mirror. I returned to our seats and sat down by my wife. We watched the scenery pass. 

“Why were they in the trash?” she asked, low, staring out the window. “How did they get in the trash can?” I had the sense to not answer. 

The hours passed. The day went by. The years have rolled on. 

My wife loves and trusts me. We’ve traveled many miles together. In the years since our ride on the Coast Starlight our roles and responsibilities have become clear. Amy carries any and all papers and documents of importance. 

My strengths lie elsewhere.