The Lost Station

By E. Joseph Benner

Two lovable adolescent characters embrace a four-year journey during the late fifties. Although life turns out to be unpredictable for each of them, they remain constant by just being themselves. Join them in their separate journeys to see where lifes twists and turns take them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514431504

E. Joseph Benner

E. Joseph Benner is an inspired author who resides with the love of his life in Pennsylvania. He is a hopeless romantic and an old soul with a gigantic heart. He thoroughly enjoys spending time with his children and grandchildren. In his spare time, he also enjoys riding motorcycles and raising hell.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

SHERYL

Blitzkriegs by the Soviets and Germans swept the nation of Poland in the late ’30s and ’40s. It was during these invasions, I was told, that my parents or family left me on the doorstep of a Roman Catholic convent at the edge of Warsaw. I was only a few months old when Sister Theresa, who was also the Mother Superior, found me there.

Sister Theresa treated me as if I were her own daughter. There were also twelve sisters living at the convent who protected, nurtured, and sheltered me from the outside world. I grew up within the confines of the convent walls, and I became dependent on them for my security.

While my apparent destiny was to be a woman of the cloth and live accordingly at the convent, there were several starlit nights that made me question my purpose. Where did I come from? Would I be different on the outside? Is there such a thing as true love? Could there be a special someone out there in the world meant for me? Will I be restricted here, for forever? To escape from brooding over uncomfortable feelings and wrestling with many thoughts, I submerged myself into playacting scenarios with my fellow sisters. It was fun; we created typical human affairs and how we would respond.

My peers, who had relocated from America during the turn of the century, spoke English. This became my first language. By their example, the sisters taught how to live a disciplined, virtuous life. However, I convinced myself that this was not the way and that an entirely different world existed outside the convent. I had a craving for adventure and the unknown.

During the spring of ’56, at age thirteen, I ventured outside. It was on a Saturday evening before the setting sun. Fear and anxiety, coupled with a rush of emotions that I had never experienced before, overwhelmed me as I snuck out of the convent. It was euphoric. The neighboring town was my destination. Upon approaching, its lights and music thrilled me. My heart was racing, my head spinning.

Once I reached the rural community, I stumbled across a small bookstore. The smell of the leather bindings, musty pages, and candlelight store gave me goose bumps. One of the books lying on a shelf, The Lost Station, caught my eye. Feeling compelled and reaching for the book, I opened it . . . The paragraph read,

Love cannot be denied

No ocean can extinguish its fire

Love—it must submit to itself

Making every effort to preserve its union

Love’s power surpasses all wisdom

Love, Oh My Goodness! Love

We act crazy for this thing called love

Yet it endures every trial and never seeks fame or glory.

I left the bookstore with a hunger. No, it was an appetite for romance novels, poems, and courtship. Abruptly though, my heart sank when I saw real pain. Everywhere, men and women by the dozens were physically disabled. Some were missing limbs, crippled, and blind. Using what little Polish I’ve learned, I spoke to them and found out that they were war victims.

The feeling of helplessness descended like a plague, but then suddenly, a yearning penetrated my soul. Could I—me, make a difference? A positive difference to people like these who are disadvantaged!

Fear then gripped me when I realized that my absence from the convent would be discovered. Rushing and retracing my steps across town, the shadow of Basilica shrunk as I neared. Mother Theresa was waiting for me by the convent entrance—with a disappointed look on her face.

Warnings on how dangerous the outside world were given to me within the next few ensuing weeks. All thirteen nuns of the religious order took their turn ominously pointing out the horrible fate that could have been bestowed on me by my excursion.

In the cathedral, on my fifteenth birthday, I stood at the foot of the altar. A bishop from Italy anointed me into the sisterhood where I took the name Sister Sheryl. Luminous colors of red, blue, and gold streamed in, dancing on the walls through the stained glass windows. I had this feeling—warmth—vowing my life to God.

Right before I became an adult, restlessness, irritability, and discontentment encased my being. There was a sense of not belonging and a belief that a greater purpose lay outside the walls. I cannot live such a confined lifestyle. My talents and abilities are needed, somewhere else. Whatever my destiny was, it had to be fulfilled!

GOODIE

My mother gave birth to me in a small town called Parsippany on July 5, 1943. I am, by far, the youngest child of five. In this order, Joe is the eldest; Trish is next in line and then Steve and Barb. Our father worked as a coal miner in the mountains of Scranton, Pennsylvania. My parents—God rest their souls—were afflicted with an illness. Father constantly missed work because of his condition, which left us in a seemingly tough financial predicament.

And so it came to pass that Joe started hustling for work in various occupations trying to better our lives. Trish is the hopeless romantic and actress of the family. She always pretends to be on stage, especially around the boys. My sister Barbara is a gifted literary scholar. Through hard work, she won an academic award at the age of seventeen. She wrote an essay titled World Peace through Worship. Steven is also gifted, but his skill lies within his hands and fixing cars. It is his passion. He’s always tinkering and dreams about owning a business that will service automobiles.

Music is my desire—tunes are always playing in my head. I view the world as one huge angelic symphony. I’m mostly scholastically inept because my mind is always preoccupied playing tunes. Despite my ignorance, Barbara taught me how to read. It opened potential from her teachings. I was able to familiarize myself with songs, chords, various instruments, and whatsoever related to music. I’ve become obsessed with the thought of someday owning a guitar and being famous.

My brother Joe constantly scolds me about it, saying, Your head is in the clouds. Even though I’m only thirteen, Joe pleads with me to get a part-time job so that I can help out with the bills. Once I saved some aluminum cans, scrapped them, and made four dollars. Then I took the money and put a new guitar on layaway instead of sharing. I felt guilty about using the money for my own benefit and was careful to hide my actions from the rest of the family.

With my onslaught of adolescence, our parents’ health declined, leaving them bedridden. Their illness, cancer, was directly related to the coal dust in Scranton’s mines. My poor mother contracted the disease from washing Dad’s dirty clothes. Although my parents were good folks, because of sickness, they were unable to teach me, especially these virtues—faith, hope, and love.

During the winter of ’57, Mom and Dad passed away. I was devastated. Joe, Trish, Steve, and Barb told me that I should take comfort and have faith because Mom and Dad went on to meet Jesus. But I only felt bitter and hollered at Jesus for taking my parents away.

Joe, whom I believe to be the most loving person in the world, did his best to comfort all of us in this time of loss. I came to believe in Joe’s love when we went (actually, I carried him piggyback) to the department store for my first and only visit to see Santa Claus. On a different occasion, he patched the knee on my pants, for I had fallen and ripped them open. Joe took good care of me. But after my parents’ death, his love was not enough to hold our family together. Everything changed!

Trish and her steady boyfriend Brian packed up his sedan and moved to Hollywood. Barbara was granted a teaching position at the prestigious college of Philadelphia. Steve had the prospect of taking over a car servicing garage in La Junta, Colorado. Joe, thinking it was in my best interest, made accommodations. I was to reside with forty-three orphans at an institution, managed by Catholics, in New York City, New York.

We argued over this. I pleaded with him to stay with one of the family members. He refused. In desperation, I wrote a letter to our lone relative, Aunt Peggy, and asked her to take me in. She lived in Boston and had fifteen kids of her own. My heart sank, and tears stung my eyes when I read her reply: Impossible . . . there is absolutely no room for you here.

Surrendering to my fate, I conceded the bout to Joe but was determined to be a big man about it. I wanted to pay for the trip to New York City on my own. The cost for a one-way bus ticket to lower Manhattan is $4. So I went back to the music shop and asked for the owner to refund my layaway. With his misgivings, the matter was resolved. And so began the traveling to a distant place, far away from home.

It was a bitter cold January night when Joe walked me to the bus depot. Snow was falling and the wind howling. Joe gave me a gift right before we left the house—a brand-new pair of Finelli blue suede shoes. Joe made a promise along with the gift. These shoes have power, he said. Take good care of these, and they will reunite the family!

I took his promise to heart and wrapped the suede with plastic bags and bound them with duct tape. It was to keep the suede free of moisture and also from untying. My corduroys and flannel shirt were certainly able to make the trip along with the rest of my earthly belongings: boxers, socks, and music sheets, which were safely stowed away in my luggage container, a brown shopping bag.

The tune in my head was rudely interrupted by Joe giving me some last-minute advice. Joe instructed, Always follow your heart to do what is right—and you will be okay. Angered about leaving my family and hometown, I kicked at the snow while boarding the bus. Without a wave good-bye, the vehicle motored off to the outskirts of town. I knelt on the rear seat looking out the back window to catch a last glimpse of Parsippany.

A solo yellow light coming from a lantern rose in the night sky. It made me wonder many things. Aside from that, I thought, how can one tiny light bring hope?

CHAPTER 1

THE BALL AND HAT

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My instructions were to meet a nun, Sister Ignatius, three blocks southwest on Lexington Avenue. Traces of slush lay on the ground from a recent snowfall. Howling winter winds were blowing debris up and down the street. A sheet of paper hovers, slapping me in the face. The instant I peeled the paper from my cheek, I felt a thud directly at my feet. Welcome to New York, I thought, taking a quick glimpse of the paper.

It seemed familiar, so I quickly stuffed the page in my pocket and examined a purple top hat lying on the ground. What, this hat must have blown off someone’s head. Who lost it? I looked around and saw nothing. The next right thing, Joe said. Yeah, I picked it up and began searching and walking toward Lexington Avenue.

One person mimicked when I asked if he lost the hat, another ignored me, and the last shrugged. Then that awful feeling of being late panicked me, so I gave up on the idea of finding the hat’s owner and broke into a brisk walk. A newspaper truck was barreling carefree within sight. Just as its tires were about to connect with a huge puddle, I dashed to my left, smack-dab into a woman.

Dear heavens! Don’t tell me you’re Edward!

I am afraid so, Sister.

Is that how young ins from Pennsylvania act?

The new encounter had already gotten ugly. A notion to shrug my shoulders, not knowing how to act, possessed the occasion. Sister Ignatius launched into a lecture about the kids of today and that they have no matters while marching toward a trolley. She fished a nickel out of her pocket and held it out. Enjoy this ride, boy, because it is the last free one you’ll get from me.

The trolley doors swung open, inviting me to step inside. Inside the transporter, a shiny linoleum deck bragged of green leather seats that were supported by chromed framework. This combination brought a peaceful sentiment, but then Sister Ignatius shoved me into a seat and took hold of the hand rail in the aisle. The inside lights blinked when the trolley driver closed the doors and then returned to normal.

The vehicle was brightly lit, giving and allowing a close-up look of Sister Ignatius. Her body was fully clothed in a black dress; a long veil was ruffled, covering her head and extending down to the middle of her torso. I had jarred it loosed when bumping into her. Sister straightened the bonnet while the trolley gained speed. She was tall and skinny but, man—old!

The skin on her face was sagging, like leather. The impulse to reach out to feel her face was uncontrollable. My hand lifted to touch her. What is wrong with you? Sister Ignatius fumed, slapping my hand away. Have some respect!

Humiliated, I placed my newfound hat on my head, shielding myself from further harm. Sister Ignatius began reciting house rules and things of that nature as I plucked the paper out of my pocket and examined the document. It was not musical notes arranged on the paper, as I first thought, but rather a stock chart from Wall Street.

I slapped my forehead and thought, Anyone could have easily made the same mistake because the diagram followed bass chord patterns. These chords were very familiar, logical, and predictable. The stock has rhythm equivalent to music. An epiphany ensued, leaving me with an urgency to investigate!

Sister broke my reverie. Do you understand, child?

Yes, ma’am. What did I just agree too? Oh, boy, I learn everything the hard way, usually because I’m not paying attention.

Exiting the trolley, I kept pace with Sister Ignatius who complained, I can’t believe I’ve come out here for you—can’t believe it. Her ranting continued. Too cold for this. The whipping wind stung my eyes. I could feel frostbitten while we ventured down a particular path leading to a building that stood alone.

The structure reminded me of the white house. Well, it was actually a smaller version though; and the dome, made of glass, was lopsided because it was designed at the end rather than the middle. A large yard encasing the entire property had a sign on the front lawn with missing letters . . .

Em_r_ _ d Ball ___ _.

Ice-covered windows were dimly lit with shutters hanging. They banged against the house from gust. The outside shell was painted white, chipping and badly peeling. The warped floorboards on the porch creaked as Sister reached for the aluminum door handle. She held the door so I could step inside.

Inside was surprisingly cozy and warm. I soon found out later that the secret to this home’s warmth was a potbelly heater at one end and a wood-burning stove at the other. I took a few steps into the foyer and checked it out. There had been a second floor added overhead, which I assumed was built for sleeping accommodations. An oversized kitchen to the right boasted two huge wooden tables with four long benches. In the center of the building was a massive office with partitioned walls erected.

The furniture—couches and chairs—were randomly placed. Children were talking and playing in various groups. There was actually some kind of harmony within all the chaos. Taking a peek under the dome, which was unattended, my eyes grew wide! Was that a baby grand piano underneath table linens and folding chairs?

Then an ear-piercing shriek filled the air. Is he here?

All surrounding chaos stood still. Emerging from the center office console was old Sister Clement, a.k.a. Mother Superior. She was not walking but rather wobbling. A quick assessment of her measurement made me conclude that she was the same size from head to toe as she was around. Her face, puffy and stuffed into a bonnet, was plush.

She waved an instrument in her right hand that was thicker but about the same length as a wizard’s wand. There was a hard marble-sized ball at its center. Another shorter stick was attached to the side with a rubber band. Mother Superior was maneuvering the smaller stick with her thumb back and forth, causing a clicking sound. Within an instant, I named it the Clicker.

Clement motioned Sister Ignatius to bring her a chair and then summoned me with her wand to come near. As I took baby steps, my eyes drifted back and forth between the two nuns, and my mind wondered which one of these old bats would croak first. Mother Superior struggled, trying to climb on the chair.

HELP ME UP! HELP ME UP! she yelled at three kids. A young black boy, a tall skinny girl, and a tomboy quickly rushed to her aid, boosting Mother Superior onto the chair. Once Clement got settled, we were now at eye level. She raised her clicker up, rapping me twice on the shoulder. Pay attention, boy!

I didn’t know whether to run and hide or stay and fight. Instead, I dutifully nodded my head. Yes, Sister.

Breakfast is at 7:15 a.m., dinner is served promptly at 5:00 p.m., and bedtime is 9:00 p.m. That means lights out! School starts for you on Monday. You are to respect the rules and the people of this house at all times, she declared, "Do you understand?"

Yes—

Sister Clement pointed her clicker at the three kids. Show him the way.

They darted to the nearby steps, waving. The path to the steps was in front of Mother Superior. I dared to cross. When I passed, she grabbed me by the arm, pulling my ear close to her lips so she could speak and not be heard. Sister Clement whispered in my ear with surprising gentleness, If you have any questions, I am always available for you.

Her original outburst of strength followed by her meekness made me uncertain of what to believe. In a haze, I followed the three kids upstairs till we paused at the landing. The three of them were a few years younger, and my height towered over them considerably. Bedrooms were at each end of the corridor and two bathrooms situated in the center.

The young black boy pointed his finger in front of me. Your room is this way. I reached out and touched his arm. He pulled back and hollered, What are you doing, man?

I thought black would feel different, I explained.

Don’t be prejudiced. I am no different than you on the inside!

I didn’t have to think about that very long, for I knew what it was like to feel different. Because of the fact that I had grown abnormally tall for my age, it made me clumsy, never able to conquer the simple task of tying my shoelaces. To me, it was a complex feat, and I needed assistance from others to tie them, sometimes even strangers. It was humiliating when they would laugh or mock me because I could not tie them myself.

"I’m sorry for thinking that, but I am not prejudiced. I have differences of my own." I gestured with my hands landing at my plastic -covered shoes.

Yeah, what’s up with that?

I’m much too embarrassed to say.

The three shrugged, and in single file, we made our way down a narrow hallway past the bathroom and into a rectangular bedroom. Along each wall, there was a row of beds spaced evenly apart.

New guy sleeps under the window, said the boy as the two girls agreed.

I took a seat on the bed under the window, placing my bag on my lap quietly. The three took a seat on the adjacent bed. Silently, we just looked at each other. Although we had never met, we had a common bond of sorrow and loss. People like us could sense that in one another.

The silence was painfully awkward until the young boy introduced himself and the others. Hi, I’m Rollins. This lanky dark curly top next to me is Terri, and that’s little Ronnie on the end.

Ronnie, a tough-looking girl dressed like a boy, pointed to the purple top hat. What’s that?

Oh, that’s my new hat.

No, she insisted. There on the brim.

We all spelled the word