It was a hot one.

A scorcher, and the man was sort of gray.

The grandfather they assumed,
at 61 the gray man looked every bit of 81,
and some recalled a package on the seat beside him;
some said, could've been a present.

What everyone remembered was the girl.

Pretty white dress and white lace anklets.  Fidgety, and turning in her seat.

She giggled and she beamed, know-what, she said, first to one and then another, I'm-going-to-a-party-birthday-party-this-is-my-first-time-on-the-train.

The porter called Westchester, 
and the gray man was certain someone would remember,
at the station when he tried to take her hand
and the little girl ran away.

Heart racing. Handkerchief dabbing beads of sweat.

For a moment he was certain they all knew.

Until he felt a tiny hand tug his trouser leg,
know-what, she said, you-forgot-you-left-the-present-on-the-train;
she giggled and she beamed and she held the package out to him
so proud that she remembered.
She could just see mama clap her hands and say,
My, aren't you clever, and, You're such a big girl now.

The package.

“Instruments of Hell”, the gray man said.

He brought her to a cottage almost hidden in wisteria,
 Pick a nice bouquet of flowers for the party—
he left her in the garden picking flowers in the sun.

Inside, he stripped and stroked himself
and watched her from the upstairs bedroom window;
so close now, the gray man called,
 Come here my little dear...

Someone at the station would remember, he believed;
someone must remember, that day she held the package out and she had been so proud.

But seven years went by, seven years without a word;
seven years, until the day the letter came.

Addressed to the mother of the girl,
unparalleled, in both content and intent,
the letter opened with a tale of missing children
and practices brought about by famine in the East;
 how she did kick, and bite and scratch, the letter said
and ended on a note of caveat,
her daughter died a virgin,
assurance far more dark than it was gray.

Once they traced the letter to the gray man,
he led them to a hole dug roughly seven years before,
where he laid to rest those parts of her which he had not consumed.

It had been a scorcher, some remembered.  And some recalled a package that could've been a present.

Instruments of Hell, the gray man said.

The porter called Westchester, and now seven years too late—

what everyone remembered was the girl.

—for Grace Budd