My Uncle Ordered Farewell Tickets Beside My Grandfather's Funeral Cups

Uncle Victor put the ticket roll in my hand before we had cleared the cups from my grandfather's wake.

Grandpa had died in his little house in Mount Dora four days earlier. I was still carrying his spare key.

"Twelve dollars a seat," he said. "You can run the booth for your farewell ride. Give folks a chance to thank you."

Outside, rain dripped from the station roof. Beyond it, our fifteen-inch track curved through wet grass toward a stand of live oaks. Grandpa had called the place Lantern Loop. It sat on six acres outside Mount Dora, far enough from downtown that we heard sandhill cranes instead of tour groups.

I was a thirty-one-year-old Polish American woman with broad shoulders, pale skin, and dark hair cut blunt at my jaw.

My black work shirt still had grease along one cuff. I was Lantern Loop's mechanic. I could hear a worn bearing before anyone else felt it shake.

Three even knocks, then a drag. That was how our old locomotive, June Bug, had asked for help that spring.

"My farewell?" I said.

Victor smiled at the cousins behind me.

My uncle was a broad, sixty-year-old Polish American man with silver curls, a round pink face, and spotless tan shoes.

He had made money turning orange groves into rows of houses. He could make a bad offer sound like a birthday gift.

"Change hurts, Annie. But your grandfather made his wishes clear."

He opened a blue folder on the refreshment table. A cup left a damp ring beside it.

The will was dated February 12, 2025. It gave Victor the land and all railway business interests, equipment, and funds. One line left me June Bug, described as an inoperable miniature locomotive.

"You can keep that old thing," Victor said. "Put flowerpots in it."

I looked at the signature page. There were two witnesses and a notary block bearing Beatrice Rios's name.

I knew Bea. She had once made Grandpa sign a fresh page because his pen had skipped through the last letter of his name.

"Where's the original?" I asked.

Victor's smile thinned.

"My lawyer has it. You're holding a copy."

"And the earlier papers?"

"Replaced. That's what newer means."

He closed the folder before I could read the witnesses' addresses.

My mother touched my elbow. "Let us get through today."

I had been letting people get through today since I was sixteen. That was when Grandpa gave me a socket set and a paid Saturday job. By nineteen, I had rebuilt the switch stand. By twenty-six, I handled maintenance, staff schedules, and the state inspection file.

Yet Victor still called me the girl who oiled the wheels.

"When is this last ride?" I asked.

"Saturday. Then we close. The equipment sale will cover the costs."

"What costs?"

"Estate costs. Don't start counting pennies over your grandfather's sandwiches."

There it was. The warm voice had a hard edge now.

I set the ticket roll down.

"I'll need a copy of that will."

"Ask nicely."

"Please give me a copy of that will."

He did, as if he had taught me something.

After everyone left, I walked to the engine shed. June Bug sat over the service pit, green paint dull under the lights. Her drive bearing was on my bench. She could not pull a train until I replaced it. That did not make her scrap.

Grandpa had known that.

He had also known which folder held the stock records and which drawer held the lease. During his last good autumn, he had brought both to a lawyer.

"An engine needs track," he had told me. "Make sure the paper follows the iron."

I had kept the signed result where he asked, in my home fire box, separate from the station files. Two witnesses had watched him sign it. Bea had handled the sworn page.

I had never hidden it from Grandpa's lawyer. But that lawyer had retired, and Victor had hired someone else before calling the family.

I took pictures of the shed, each passenger car, and every serial plate. Then I saved the maintenance files to a drive I owned.

The station printer woke behind me.

Victor had sent something to the office email. I could still hear his easy laugh from the wake as I lifted the sheet.

It was an auction intake form from Cypress Hammer Sales. Victor had signed as owner. Six passenger cars, one service engine, track tools, spare rail, and June Bug's loose parts were listed for removal.

The estimated gross was $186,000.

At the bottom, someone had typed a note in red.

"All lots to be collected Monday. Seller requests early access Friday for loading preparation."