“The Shortcut” by Sarah Corrigan

 

St. Thomas, Ontario, was known as Railway City. We moved there, to a house five miles out of town, when I was twelve.

In the city, we’d lived on a crowded street and hung out with a gang of kids who, like us, had unbridled freedom of the type that is illegal today. We'd leave in the morning and return when the streetlights came on with the occasional stop-off for PB&Js. Our new house in the country was surrounded by farms, and it was so quiet you could hear the corn growing. There was absolutely nothing to do.

One hot day in the dog days of summer, my younger brothers Aaron, 11, and Mike, 9, were lying on their backs on the living room floor watching Hogan's Heroes re-runs. I was lying on the couch reading The Secret of the Old Clock for the third time. I had never been a girly girl, but I still preferred Nancy Drew over the Hardy Boys and Little House on the Prairie over Hogan's Heroes. A preference I kept to myself.

Every morning before our mother left for work, she put our older sister, Debbie, in charge, telling her what to make for lunch and what jobs had to be done. Debbie was exempt from jobs as she looked after the babies.

"You better finish vacuuming before Mom gets home, or you're in for it," Debbie nagged at the start of the summer. By July, she’d long given up nagging. We knew there would be hell to pay if our jobs weren't done when Mom got home, but we always left it to the last minute.

Like clockwork, most days that summer, baby Zac would start to fuss mid-afternoon. His fussing soon built into bursts of indignant wailing, which started two-year-old Anne crying. Nothing drove us away from the television and out of the house faster. 

"What do you want to do?" asked Aaron, sitting on the deck railing.

"There's nothing to do," said Mike.

"Wanna go to the store?" I said. "I've got a dollar."

"You don't have a dollar," said Mike.

"Where'd you get a dollar?" said Aaron.

"None of your beeswax where I got it," I said, pulling the bill from my pocket. "I'll give each of you a quarter."

A quarter bought a lot of candy at Gifford's Farm Market in 1977. For a country store, Giffords had a great candy counter, from penny candy to my favorite – mystery bags.

“Heck yeah. Let's go!”

We rode our bikes down the dirt road and turned onto the paved Bush Line Road. As we rode, we discussed in great detail what candy we’d buy. We even speculated about stealing some.

We road past cornfields, a forest, and the Mennonite's house with the twelve kids. At the train tracks, we reached the buffalo farm.

It was Mike who spotted them.

"Look," he said, pointing toward a large oak tree where the buffalo stood underneath in the shade. "The Herd."

We had never been so close to them. We stopped our bikes and walked over to the thick wood fence. The buffalo looked at us as we approached, but they didn't move.

The big ones were the size of a car. They had large heads with short horns, humped shoulders, and a mane of long shaggy brown fur.

"Let's feed them," said Aaron as he pulled dried grass from the roadside.

"If we get caught, we’re dead," I said as Mike climbed the fence with a fistful.

"Lighten up,” said Aaron. “There's no one here,"

I squelched my concern. What was the harm in feeding grass to the buffalo?

We stood on the fence trying to coax them to eat, but the buffalo weren't biting. They swatted flies with their tails, completely ignoring us.

"I could probably ride one," said Aaron.

"Yeah, let's ride one," said Mike.

"Are you both crazy? We aren't supposed to be anywhere near the buffalo. Anyway, we need to hurry, or we won't be home before Mom."

"Let's take the shortcut," said Aaron.

The road to the store wound down Horseshoe Hill, around the town's sewage treatment plant, and up Sunset Drive hill. The shortcut was the trestle across the valley. Our school bus driver reminded us, at every crossing, that kids were strictly forbidden from the train trestle.

I considered the shortcut idea. If we took the long way, we wouldn’t be back in time to do our chores and we'd be in big trouble with Mum. “Okay,” I said. “We'll leave our bikes and get them on the way back."

Aaron and Mike started hopping railway ties down the track. It smelled of tar one hop and oil the next. The foul smell made me think we might be doing something dangerous.

The No Trespassing sign was right at the edge of the wooden trestle. Treetops hid the cliff slope below. The left side of the tracks was wide open. On the right side there was a narrow walkway with a rickety handrail. The far side of the trestle was hard to see.

I started to feel scared. "Some of those boards look kinda rotten. Let's just go to the store tomorrow."

"You’re just chicken," said Mike as he stepped forward.

“I want those jawbreakers,” said Aaron.

There was no turning back. I followed Mike, and Aaron followed me. Slowly, we edged forward. I clutched the handrail so hard that I soon had slivers.

About halfway across, we looked down into the churning sewage vats. Surprisingly they didn’t stink. Aaron worked up a goober, leaned over the rail, and spit out.  

"One 0ne-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand," we counted before it disappeared. We all tried a few times before deciding we were at least a hundred feet high.

We were still looking at the churning sewage vats when we felt tremors. We knew instantly what that meant. The 3:30 train our school bus driver had warned us about so many times was coming. He’d also warned us – just as many times – that the train was too heavy to stop on the wooden trestle.

We froze.

The train engine roared into sight. The whole trestle started to vibrate.

"Run!" I screamed.

The train whistle shrieked. The boards under our feet started to bounce.

Mike was the youngest and fastest by far. I chased him hard, clinging to the railing driving the slivers deeper. I tried to run faster, but the bouncing boards were jack-knifing my legs up and down with every step.

I watched Mike launch himself in a triple jump and land on the grass just off the cliff's edge. He turned, and I could see the terror in his eyes.

When the train blast seemed an inch from my head, I hurled myself toward Mike, my legs pedaling through the air. I landed. Clung to the grass for dear life.

I waited for Aaron to land beside us. But he didn't. I held my breath and turned.

I couldn't believe what I saw. There Aaron was with one arm looped around the railing, leaning out over the abyss as the train passed, looking for all the world like a sailor in America's Cup.

When, at last, the yellow caboose went by he ducked back under the railing and casually walked over.

"Only me and John Wayne could have pulled off that move," he said.

We looked at each other in shock and then started laughing.

When at last we could talk, the first thing we agreed was that not a word of this could be mentioned to anyone, especially our mother.

"She'd kill us if she knew," said Mike, and we erupted laughing again.

"We are so taking the long way back," I said.

No one argued.

***

Sarah Corrigan survived her childhood and lives in beautiful four-season-fun Collingwood, Ontario. Since retiring, she has been honing her skills writing short stories inspired by her travel adventures and her family. When she isn't glued to a book, she spends her time in the great outdoors, adventuring with her partner Dave, and trying very hard to learn how to golf. 

See Brian Henry’s upcoming weekly writing classes, one-day workshops, and weekend retreats here.