Vista Dome

"Fine, yes," he heard himself say aloud. "Hide, evade. Isolate myself further. Why not become a monk?"

And so Crossfield's separate rhythm continued, just as the California Zephyr continued westbound. Polk brought his meals to the compartment, and while he'd picked at them as best he could, Crossfield was lost within conflicting waves of presumed guilt and an almost somnambulant inability to focus on anything but his reflection in the glass. He focused on his eyes, but so easily on the dark circles that had formed around them, but now Clair's eyes were there too, and they followed his everywhere he looked. The blazing white covered plains west of the Great Salt Lake, the climb into the Sierra, the descent to Sacramento, the fertile Central Valley...such vast emptiness, such a vast collection of realities, and with each passing mile the more divorced from reality he felt.

Finally, he made out the Golden Gate and Bay Bridges in the distance, felt the train slowing for street traffic in Oakland, and he suddenly knew that that "other world" out there was closing in. No matter how fast you run, the consequences of our choices were always there, always waiting. He could see the station's platform's ahead, red-capped porters already standing by to help people with their luggage, and as the train slowed to a crawl the weight of the world seemed to press in from every direction.

He sat for a long time after the train came to a stop, and looked out on happy family reunions as they broke out on the platform below. He watched as Clair and Mary were greeted by, he assumed, her parents, and with a feeling of cold dread locked around his heart he watched his future walk off through the terminal.

She never once looked back.

Polk came to the open door and leaned in. "Can I help you with your bags, Cap'n?"

"Not much to carry, Polk. Thanks, though."

"Okay, Cap'n. You take care."

Crossfield stood, handed the old man his tip. "It was good to see you again, Polk. Maybe next time?"

"Yessir, Cap'n. I'll be here. While longer, anyways." The old man started to turn, but stopped. "Cap't, could I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"I got a granddaughter, she's going to college, first year, wants to be a doctor."

"Oh? Good for her!"

"Well, thing is, she don't know nothin' about bein' no doctor. You reckon you could talk with her sometime?"

"Sure thing, Polk. I'd be happy to."

"Really? That would be great, Cap'n!"

"I don't have a phone number at home yet, but here's my office number." Crossfield handed over a business card. "Let me get settled in, so have her give me a call in a week or so."

"I sure will, Cap'n," Polk beamed.

"By the way, Polk, what's her name?"

"Loretta, Cap'n." Polk took the card Crossfield handed him like it was a precious thing, then took Crossfield's hand and shook it. "Golly, Cap'n, thanks. I mean it. Thanks. I been worried about her. She needs a hand."

Crossfield smiled and watched the old man leave, then turned away and grabbed his two bags, looked out the window one more time. After a moment he turned back to the door.

Rebecca St Cloud was standing in the corridor, looking at him, that gentle, empathic smile on her face.

Crossfield dropped his bags. The sight of her was like a sunburst of joy. Despite all he'd thought about the last twelve hours, that was the reality of this moment, and he was powerless before the honesty of his reaction. She must have seen it in his eyes; she came to him and fell into his arms. Crossfield breathed her in and was immediately - and once again - lost in the heady aires of her perfume, and she turned her face up to his and they kissed again, longer and deeper than before.

When at last she broke away, he looked down into her tear-swept eyes. "Was it that bad?" he finally asked.

"Well. I'm homeless, if that's what you mean."

"Yup. That's pretty bad." He held her in his eyes for a moment, lost in her soft beauty, all decisions made. "I've got a little place down in Menlo Park staked out. Would it be too forward of me to ask if you'd like to bunk-out down there for a while?"

She bit her lip - her eyes atremble - as she looked at him, measuring the seriousness of his offer. "I'm hungry, John. Know anyplace where we could grab a bite?"

"Nope, but I reckon we can find something."

"Yup. Reckon so. Maybe we can just make it up as we go, eh?"

He took her hand and they made their way from the train.

"Yup. Sounds good to me. We'll make it up as we go."

+++++

A few weeks later, on a crisp December morning, Clair St Cloud called John and Rebecca, and asked if she could drop Mary off for the rest of the weekend. She came by later that Saturday morning, and Mary seemed excited to see Aunt Rebecca, though she was more than a little reserved around 'Captain John'. Clair was bright and animated, and went over what she had packed for Mary. She was headed, she said as she headed back out to her car, to Big Sur for a conference, and her baby-sitter had called at the last minute, canceling, and the parents were in Seattle for the weekend.

"Glad to help," Crossfield said to this new reality, looking at her eyes as she spoke. "Anytime."

Clair started to reach out, to touch his face, but she caught herself and pulled back. "It was nice to see you again, John. On the train. So nice, so very unexpected."

"Yes, it was."

She held out her hand. He took it.

"Well, goodbye then," she said, turning and walking down to her little cream colored M-G convertible.

She drove to downtown San Francisco - not to Big Sur, and wound her way to California Street, to the Stanford Court Hotel, then to a room on the seventh floor. She looked around the elegant room, walked to a large window and opened it, looked out over the city and the bay beyond.

Clair St Cloud sighed, then went to the bed and opened her purse, took out a bottle of Seconal and looked at it for a long time, regarding it with curiosity. She looked around the room, found a glass on the bathroom counter and filled it from the tap, then walked to the bed and took all the pills. When she began to feel light-headed, perhaps even light enough to fly, she ran for the open window and flew off into the midday sun - and into the cool embrace of her beckoning clouds.

+++++

November 1963

Oakland, California

Soft white clouds scudded in low over the bay, occasionally enveloping islands and bridges in cool mist, the waters of the bay dappled with sudden bursts of pure sunshine as clouds raced through the Golden Gate. Gulls circled above and dove into the churning waters behind busy fishing boats, while insect-like tugboats led a huge aircraft carrier between Alcatraz Island and Fisherman's Wharf towards Oakland, towards John Crossfield and his daughter, Mary.

Train number 18, the eastbound California Zephyr was loading in Oakland, and Crossfield held his daughter's hand as he helped her up the stainless steel steps that led up into the Silver Planet, the domed observation car at the end of the train where so much of their history together had been born. An ancient Polk handed the 'Cap'n' her wheelchair when the frail young woman was up on the landing, and Crossfield wheeled her down the narrow corridor to Drawing Room A. While they settled in, and as the Zephyr pulled slowly from the station and made it's way through the city, Polk came and talked with Mary while Crossfield rolled her wheelchair back to vestibule and stowed it in a luggage cubby. Before Polk left to work his way through his assigned sleeping cars collecting tickets, Polk spoke softly to Crossfield when he returned:

"Miss Rebecca...she workin' today. I reckon she knows you two are onboard."

Crossfield's jaw clenched; it had been several years since he had laid eyes on her, and the memory of Clair's suicide came back in a blinding flash. "Luck of the draw, I suppose. When's lunch, Polk?"

"Eleven, as usual, Cap'n. You want I should make a reservation?"

"No, Polk, why don't you just bring us a couple of hamburgers and Cokes. Whenever it's convenient."

"Alright, Cap'n." He looked at Mary again before speaking, this time quite softly, almost under his breath. "She don't look so good, Cap'n. She doin' alright?" Crossfield shook his head; Polk put his hand on Crossfield's shoulder. Polk's grand daughter Loretta was in her first year at Stanford Medical School, and living at Crossfield's house to help out with expenses. The two families had grown close over the last couple of years, especially after Crossfield had taken an active role in helping Loretta through the tougher parts of her pre-med sequence. "I'm sure sorry, Cap'n," Polk said as he looked at Mary. "Well, you let me know if you need anything."

Crossfield nodded, appreciated his friend's concern. When Polk was gone, Crossfield sat beside Mary and together they watched the bungalows and warehouses of East Oakland give way to the eucalyptus covered slopes of the Coastal Foothills, and while the train wound it's way through hills and canyons to the fertile Central Valley, Crossfield talked about what was passing by outside the train. Mary asked questions from time to time, but for the most part she just held her father's hand and looked up at him when he spoke. Sometime before noon the train crossed a river on a noisy metal bridge, and then pulled into Sacramento's Union Station. The platform was deserted, he noticed, but inside the station huge throngs of people stood transfixed.

Polk entered carrying two plates and put these down on the small fold-out table just under the window, then returned moments later with two glasses of Coke.

"Something's going on out there, Polk. Everyone's in the station; it's like they're all staring at something on the walls."

"I'll see if I can find out, Cap'n. Got to help a few folks just got on get settled in first." Polk closed the door and disappeared down the corridor once again.

"Sacramento's the capitol, isn't it, Daddy?"

"It sure is, Mary. I'm not sure if we can see the capitol building or not. Maybe after we leave the station..."

He heard the train being called on speakers outside the train, probably on the platform, and then he saw a few people in the station turn and make their way out on to the platform; Crossfield saw that almost everyone appeared to be in shock; a few people - both men and women - were crying. Perhaps ten minutes later, after the Zephyr pulled out of the station and turned east toward the Sierras, Polk came and stuck his head into the compartment.

"Cap'n, there was something on the TV. President Kennedy, in Dallas. He's been shot."

Crossfield stared at Polk in disbelief. "What?"

"Mister Kennedy, Cap'n. He been shot."

Crossfield saw that there were tears in the old man's eyes, and that much at least was easy to understand. Kennedy represented a real break with the old old ways, and a lot of people were ready for that kind of change. Crossfield considered himself a Roosevelt Democrat, always would be, so the impossibly close electoral battle between Kennedy and Nixon had rattled him. Still, President Kennedy had, to his way of thinking anyway, acquitted himself reasonably well so far in office, but the idea that the president, any president from any political party, could be shot struck him as ludicrous beyond reason.

"Was there any word on his condition, Polk?"

"Some folks are saying he was shot in the head, Cap'n. That a priest been called."

"Dear God."

"What is it, Daddy?"

Crossfield turned, saw that Mary wasn't looking out the window any longer.

"Did something happen to Mr Kennedy?" she asked.

"Yes, he's been hurt. Something happened in Dallas."

"Is he okay, Daddy?"

"I don't think so, honey, but I don't know for sure."

Her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled . "Oh Daddy! Why? Wasn't he a good man?"

"Don't matter none," Polk said. "Good men get killed all the time, darlin'. It ain't written nowhere that only evil men get killed." Polk looked from Mary to Crossfield, then shrugged his shoulders. "I guess he was just tryin' to change things some people didn't want changed, so they had to go and kill him. Maybe it's just all this hate in the world..."

"I don't know, Polk. Maybe it's that simple, but I just don't know."

"Why is there so much hate in the world, Daddy? I don't understand."

Crossfield dried a tear on Mary's cheek, ran his fingers through her hair. "Neither do I, Mary. And I hope I never do." He saw Rebecca St Cloud out in the corridor and she whispered something into Polk's ear. He stiffened, then turned and walked away.

She stepped into the compartment, and Crossfield's eyes narrowed. He'd not seen her in almost five years, and though he rarely talked about her with Mary he was almost certain his daughter understood that something bad had happened between her father and aunt.

"What is it, Rebecca?"

"We heard on the radio. Kennedy is dead."

Mary broke out in deep sobs, and Rebecca rushed to her seat, knelt close and hugged her. Crossfield stood and walked from the compartment, turned and walked down to the bar under the dome. He found a subdued covey of people gathered there, talking about events in Dallas and wondering, like everyone else, what was going to happen next.

He ordered a ginger ale and walked back to his compartment; Rebecca was waiting for him in the corridor.

"Polk's in there with her. She's calmed down some."

Crossfield nodded his head, but he said nothing.

"You're not going to talk to me, are you, John?"

"What's there to talk about?"

Her eyes narrowed; Crossfield folded his arms protectively across his chest.

"She looks awful, John. What's happening?"

"The walls of her heart, the septa, are malformed, and they're beginning to, to leak, very badly now."

"And there's nothing you can do?"

Crossfield shook his head. "Nothing, short of replacing her heart."

"Can you do that?"

Again, Crossfield shook his head.

"So. You're taking her to see your parents? Where do they live?"

"Still on the farm. North of Philadelphia; we're going for Thanksgiving."

"Do you think...think you'll ever stop hating me?"

"I don't hate you, Rebecca." He stared into those lovely eyes, unsure what to say, then: "You frighten me."

She recoiled, speechless, disappointment clear on her face.

Crossfield looked towards his compartment: "Well, I've got to get back..."

"John?" She reached out, grabbed his arm. "I'm sorry. I fell in love with you. I don't know how or why, but I did. Can't you at least forgive me for that?"

"Forgive you!?" Crossfield very nearly shouted. "How can I forgive you...when I can't even forgive myself!"

Rebecca St Cloud literally threw herself into Crossfield's arms, she hugged him with all her might, but soon realized his arms hung limply by his sides, and she pulled back, looked up into his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Rebecca. But...no, I just can't..."

"Could I at least spend some time with Mary?"

"Sure. I'm sorry, sure. Go ahead."

She went into the compartment; he turned, walked back to the stairway that led up to the Vista Dome...where all these spinning gyres had started fifteen years ago. He paused, took it all in, then walked up the steep stairs into the light, looking at the clouds overhead as he climbed, then at the Sierra Nevada mountains looming ahead as the California Zephyr arced along a broad curve. He stopped when he topped the stairs, looked at the seat Clair St Cloud had been sitting in all those years ago, and he thought of Mary, and Tetsuko. But there was Clair...always Clair.

Then in his mind's eye he fought off the overarching vision of an impossibly large flash of light above the city of Hiroshima, then he saw John Kennedy, his cold, shattered body in Dallas, and of like an equation on a chalkboard, it all came down to Mary's last question.

Why was there so much hate in the world? Sitting under the Vista Dome - looking out on such a pristine landscape - it was hard to imagine so much hate loose in the world.

Then he was staring into echoes of Rebecca's question: Why couldn't he forgive her? But was forgiveness really the issue? If it really was as simple as she claimed, that she had simply fallen in love with him, what was there to forgive? So, wasn't the real issue his inability to forgive himself for being angry at Clair, and for falling in love with her sister?

Crossfield looked at his reflection in the dome and felt revulsion. For himself. His mind filled with an inconsolable rage as he realized he hated himself. Hate, for what he was, and for the role he had played shaping the ragged confines of the cage humankind created for itself.

Could the survivors of Hiroshima ever forgive the people who had rained the fires of creation down on their heads as dawn broke? Could Americans never forgive their own divisions long enough to stop killing one another? Was it really as simple as old Polk believed? Would the dialectic of good and evil truly command every human endeavor - for all time? Were humans simply puppets on unseen strings, moving to the music of the spheres? Was Free Will a farce, or were good and evil the constructs of simple-minded children, children doomed to always live in the dark, watching the shadows on the wall?

The Zephyr was approaching a small mountain town in late afternoon light; all was golden-hued optimism, the air seemed pregnant with subdued possibility. As the train slowed for a crossing, Crossfield looked out the dome at two schoolboys fighting in a schoolyard, dust rising from their feet as they circled one another, waiting to land the next blow. A few hundred yards further along, he looked down on a young couple walking along a creekside trail, holding hands. Fighting, loving. Living, dying. Humans would never be perfect, never, but why was there so little room in this thing called life for simple forgiveness?

'What hope is there,' he asked himself, 'without that one, simple act of faith?'

Here, up under the dome of the sky, in the clear light of day, the answer had never seemed so obvious. He looked back at the small town as it receded from view, looked back on all the good and ill that he had seen in this life, and he wondered if to forgive was a show of weakness, or a sign of strength? Wasn't that what Tetsuko-san had shown him inside her misty fortress in the clouds? Hadn't she, against all odds, opened the gates to her world for him?

Her's had been an act of love, the very essence of strength. That was how she had met her world's need.

How would he meet his?

+++++

Crossfield stood in the doorway to his compartment, and once again recalled this was the very same compartment he had been in with Clair, back in 1948, and that now he was looking at Rebecca and Mary. Mary, the last part to Clair he would ever know, and Rebecca - so similar to Clair, yet so utterly different. Mary was on the sofa, the same sofa, now lying on her side, her head in her aunt's lap, while Rebecca traced little circles in her niece's hair, looking out the window as she did, lost in thought.

So many reflections. So many important moments, there in that glass.

The sun was setting behind their car, and deep shadows blotted the pine covered slopes of the eastern Sierra. Now the immense high desert that led to Salt Lake City lay ahead, and beyond that far horizon...another home, from another time.

He slipped into the compartment, went and knelt before Rebecca, and slowly took her hand in his. He kissed her fingers one by one, saw tears well in her eyes.

She looked down at Mary, then at John.

"Do you have time," he whispered, "to come back east with us?"

Rebecca St Cloud nodded, smiled, but more than anything else, Crossfield sensed deep peace in her eyes.