If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  Gradually the depot wall reappeared, blurred and grainy. I made out the two blackbirds on the platform where they had been, their wing-markings again visible. I took a deep breath and touched my face where it felt swollen. My fingers came away bloody.

  Moments later I was mystified by the sight of cordwood around me. It was split in three-foot lengths and stacked neatly against the depot, the sawed ends looking fresh cut. Nearby, a loading cart rested on enormous iron-rimmed wheels. Where had that come from? I turned and peered at the wall. The peeling yellow paint was gone, replaced by whitewash. Was I in the same place? I scanned the field. It seemed unchanged. Then I looked again. Had those cornstalks been there? That rail fence? The puddle of water in the foreground?

  Suddenly the shapes of the trees looked different and the heat felt stickier.

  Then I heard the hissing again, loud and shrill, cutting the air, and I realized with a start that it came from the opposite side of the station.

  Christ, I’d forgotten my train!

  I struggled to my feet and made my way along the platform. My throbbing head forced me to move slowly. When I reached the front corner of the station, I stopped altogether, transfixed by what I saw.

  The silver Amtrak train was gone.

  In its place, coming the other way, a black locomotive rumbled slowly toward me, bursts of steam spraying from its skirts. Behind it stretched a line of creaking, swaying wooden coaches. I stared, mute and disbelieving, as it bore down on me. A scarred red cowcatcher curved downward from the swirls of steam. Behind it, a long ebony boiler gleamed like a polished boot. Brasswork glinted on the headlamp—enormous, square, shining in the thickening darkness—and on the elegant bell and myriad pipes and fittings that wound like lace around the boiler. Fragrant hardwood smoke curled from the diamond-shaped tip of the stack. The noise was deafening. I backed up and leaned against the station wall.

  The cab passed, the engineer twisting to stare at me from his square window. Behind him came a tender piled high with cordwood like that stacked on the station platform, Baltimore & Ohio on the tender’s side in block letters.

  I tried to make sense of it: a steam locomotive pulling a train out of Currier & Ives. Someone must have spent a fortune restoring it, and yet it looked oddly work worn. The passenger coaches drew near, silhouettes moving inside.

  A wispy elderly man in grimy overalls and a striped trainman’s cap stepped onto the platform carrying a sputtering lantern.

  “Some sort of historical thing?” I asked when he drew near.

  “What say?” His eyes were yellow in the lantern glow.

  I cocked a thumb at a passing coach. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Don’t follow.” He raised the lantern. “Something happen to your cheek?”

  “Took a spill,” I said. “What’s this train about?”

  He looked blank. “Just the reg’lar run from Shelby Junction. Stops here for wood ‘n’ water. Leaving for Cleveland now.” He held the lantern at arm’s length, scrutinizing me.

  “Okay, if you say so. What happened to Amtrak?”

  “What?” He frowned, looking down at my pants.

  “The Amtrak out of Cleveland—where is it?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ by that name comes through here.”

  “What do you mean?” My head throbbed. “I was on it.”

  “I guess you know more about ’er ’n me,” he said wryly, “so go ahead—climb back on.”

  “I can’t,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s gone. Again I’m asking, where is it?”

  “You ain’t makin’ sense,” he said doggedly, shaking his head. “First off, what’re you doin’ out here, mister?”

  “What difference does it make?” I snapped. “I flew into Cleveland this morn—”

  “Flew?” he interrupted, eyes narrowing. “You say flew?”

  “Yeah, I—” He turned abruptly and strode away, the lantern trailing a pungent paint-thinner odor. I stood dumbly, then pursued him and caught his arm. “What’s wrong with you? I’m just—” I caught a lungful of the lantern’s acrid fumes as he swung it around. “Jesus Christ, what’re you burning in there?”

  He struggled to pull away, then stood rigid. “No need to curse me, mister; it’s just coal oil.” His arm trembled in my hand. “The station’s closed up now. I’m the yardman. I got nothin’ you want. Please turn me go.”

  I released him and watched him scuttle around the corner. He looked badly frightened. Coal oil? What the hell was going on? Then I remembered the blood. I probably looked like an ax murderer. Slow down and think, I told myself.

  Maybe somebody was making a movie. I didn’t see film equipment, but a couple at the far end of the dock looked like costumed actors: he wore a stovepipe hat and swallowtail coat, she a bonnet and long bustled skirt. They were waving to someone on the train.

  I started toward them. A voice suddenly boomed over the slow clacking of the wheels. “You! Hullo!”

  I looked around.

  “Up here!”

  He leaned out a window of the last passenger coach and waved in my direction, a straw boater shading his features.

  “Hurry up!” he called. “We’re pulling out!”

  “You talking to me?”

  “You out from Cleveland?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ve been waiting for you!”

  The cars were gaining speed. I tried to walk faster. “Where’d the other train go?”

  “Other train? Next one’s in the morning.” He waved his arm. “Jump aboard! I’ve got your ticket! I’ll fill you in!”

  I hesitated. A train going the wrong way—even this museum piece—was better than staying here, I decided. With luck I could catch another Amtrak out of Cleveland in the morning. And it was time somebody filled me in.

  As I clutched the handrail at the rear of the car and stepped upward, momentum swung me onto the metal steps far faster than I expected. Nausea swept over me for a moment. Pressing hard against the door, I watched cinders from the smokestack wink like fireflies in our wake. There was something familiar in the moonlight silvering the rails and the depot’s solitary light receding in the distance; I had a fleeting, deja vu sense that I had passed this way before.

  “Where’d he go?” said a muffled voice inside.

  I gathered myself and pushed through the door into a small compartment smelling of kerosene smoke. A sooty lamp glowed dimly on the opposite wall, illuminating a wooden table and chairs, a hat rack, and tarnished brass bowls that I guessed were spittoons.

  “Jupiter! I was afraid you’d fallen off!” The man in the straw boater appeared in the opposite doorway. He adjusted a key on the lamp and brightened the compartment. “Here’s your ticket.”

  As I took it he jumped backward. “Hullo, you did fall off!”

  “Just a scrape.” I said, eyeing his wide floppy tie. It and the boater lent him a Fourth of July look. He was in his midthirties, I guessed. He had thinning blond hair and a pudgy face made owlish by round steel-rimmed spectacles. He wore a strangely cut linen coat, badly rumpled, with wet splotches under the arms.

  “Expected you in Mansfield proper,” he said, wiping his brow. “Which are you—Jacobs or Jones?”

  My head pounded in the compartment’s stale heat. I could imagine nothing sweeter than lying down. “I’m a little confused,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Thought you’d been told,” he said officiously.” “Millar of the Commercial.” He pumped my hand. “I have all you’ll need: this afternoon’s tallies, all the boys’ histories. I confess I haven’t started my own piece yet—we’re having a little celebration here—but you’re welcome to a look-see when I do. Had to play in a field today as Mansfield’s new grounds were flooded. Did you get the score off the wire, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Fowler.”

  “That’s singular—they said they’d send either Jacobs or Jones.” He was looking at me closely. “Where’d you come by that suit? Is that what you wear in Cl
eveland?”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “Who sent somebody from Cleveland?”

  “Why, the Leader. You’re in their employ, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m ...” I tried to arrange my thoughts. “I’m with the Chronicle, on leave—”

  “Cleveland Chronicle?” he said skeptically.

  “No, the San Francisco Chronicle.”

  His jaw dropped. “San Francisco?”

  “Right.”

  “You came all this way to cover us?”

  “Cover you?” I stared at him. “Who are you?”

  He looked startled.

  “Look, I missed my train. Next thing I knew you were yelling at me to climb aboard this relic and saying you’d explain. So let’s hear it.”

  He shook his head. “There’s been some mistake, Mr. Fowler,” he said. “I’m sorry. May I have the ticket back?”

  “As soon as I have an explanation.”

  He pursed his lips tightly and extended his hand. “Please return it.”

  “Listen, I’ve had one hell of a day.” I waved at the compartment. “This is all pretty weird, to put it mildly.”

  He kept his hand extended.

  “Talk,” I told him.

  “You’ve been drinking,” he said abruptly. “I smell it on your breath.”

  “Millar,” I said, taking a step forward, patience gone. “Fill me in—like you said!”

  “I’m bringing Mr. Champion in here.” He edged back nervously. “He’ll know how to deal with you.”

  The door clicked behind him. I slumped onto one of the chairs and rested my feet on another, too exhausted to worry. The train’s jiggling and clacking heightened my overwhelming sense of dislocation. Staring numbly at a tobacco-spattered wall, all I knew for sure was that I was moving. And that I needed desperately to sleep.

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANDY!”

  It was shouted by male voices from a distant part of the car. My eyes snapped open. Moments later I heard a single tenor voice.

  “Oh, once I was happy but now I’m forlorn,

  Like an old coat that is tatter’d and torn,

  Left in this wide world to fret and to mourn,

  Betray’d by a girl in her teens.

  The girl that I love she is handsome,

  I tried all I could her to please,

  But I could not court her so well

  As that man on the flying trapeze.”

  And the chorus of voices boomed:

  “Oh, he flew through the air with the greatest of ease,

  This charming young man on the flying trapeze, . . .”

  More verses followed. And more. I drifted off again, only to be awakened by pronounced New York accents just outside the compartment.

  “I mean it, Acey, no more.”

  “Ain’t every day you’re twenty-three, Andy. Let’s celebrate it!”

  There was a belch, then laughter.

  “We’ve celebrated plenty. You know the rules. Harry’ll bounce us if we’re caught out. Tell him, Sweaze.”

  “Let’s chew on it some in the smoker,” said a third voice.

  I sat up, feeling no better for having dozed. Seeing the first man who entered didn’t help matters. Like Millar and the couple at the station, he was dressed for the wrong century.

  “Well, how’s this!” He stopped short as he saw me. “We got a visitor.”

  The other two crowded in. They were all well-built, compact men—none topped five nine—with deeply tanned faces. The one who had spoken looked to be in his late twenties, older than the others by a good five years. His hair was glossy black and he sported bushy muttonchop whiskers. The others were smooth shaven and wore high stand-up collars; they looked like they’d stepped from a barbershop quartet poster. They scrutinized me with considerable interest.

  “Care if we sit?” Muttonchops asked politely, his dark eyes spaniel soft. There was a hint of the dandy about him, with his striped cravat knotted carefully and a flower peeping from his buttonhole.

  I sighed and waved at the chairs, wanting to sleep.

  “May we know your name?” asked Muttonchops.

  “Sam Fowler.”

  He nodded in a friendly way, spaniel eyes roving over me. “I’m Asa Brainard.” He gestured toward the taller and chunkier of the smoothfaced men. “This gent’s Charlie Sweasy.”

  Though bantam-sized, Sweasy looked like he was constructed of solid slabs, enlarged deltoids swelling his coat, muscular thighs stretching the fabric of his pants. Meatball, I thought. He reminded me of undersized guys I’d known in college who’d pumped themselves up with steroids and lifting. Even Sweasy’s bulgy face seemed to strain against the skin. Just now it regarded me with a beady stare. I felt myself disliking him.

  “Who fixed yer noggin?” he demanded, thrusting his chin out, head cocked roosterlike. The flat, East Coast tones held a hint of Irish brogue. A gap between his teeth added a sibilant hiss. A cocky little shit, no doubt about it.

  “Did it myself,” I said shortly, meeting his stare.

  “That so?” He studied me. “I’d say it rendered you homely enough to tree a wolf.” He laughed, a series of nasal snorts.

  Maybe what he wanted, I thought, was a solid boot in the ass.

  “Our lad of the hour,” Muttonchops/Brainard went on—his whiskers moved as he spoke, little shag rugs rising and falling—raising his voice over Sweasy’s snorts and nodding toward the smallest of the three, who grinned at me, looking for all the world like Huck Finn’s understudy; his face was splashed with freckles, his hair was carrot red, his eyes green as glass. “Andy Leonard, who’s toasting his birthday and his good fortune in collecting no broken fingers today. We’re taking a little nip of the rosy. Maybe you’d like to—”

  “Acey, there’s a curfew!” Andy Leonard broke in.

  I studied him curiously, intrigued by some quality about him. His surface boyishness was instantly engaging—a cinch for Most Popular in his graduation class. But something deeper spoke to me from the wide-set green eyes, the forthright gaze, the quick smile. I’d want a brother like him, I thought. The idea pleased me. Huck Finn, my brother.

  “—join us,” Brainard finished smoothly. “Care for a stogie?” He opened a silver case and displayed a row of fat cigars. “Genuine Conestogas . . . the cash article.”

  “Don’t smoke,” I said. “But I could use a drink.”

  “Very good.” With small scissors Brainard snipped the ends from two cigars and turned to Sweasy. “Your phossies handy?”

  Sweasy grunted and flexed as he worked a brass match safe from his tight pants. He extracted a wooden match and struck it against the bottom of the cylinder. It was about twice the thickness of a kitchen match and emitted a powerful sulphur odor. Drawing on his cigar, Brainard produced a flask from his jacket and passed it to me. “Not exactly store-bought,” he said, “but the finest readily had in Mansfield—although it mayn’t do for you.”

  Sweasy snorted. “Hell, Acey, I saw you buy it off them tramps down at the railroad. Ain’t nothin’ but forty-rod poison!”

  I took a healthy swallow. It bucked and burned down my throat. “What is this?” I asked, eyes watering.

  “Rye.” Brainard grinned. “Gets smoother with practice.” He tipped the flask and a gurgling sound followed. Sweasy did the same. Andy hesitated, then followed suit, giggling afterward.

  “Now, Sam,” said Brainard tentatively, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask about your garb. I’m a clothes fancier—”

  “That’s equal to saying Grant’s an army fancier,” Sweasy said, emitting another nasal snort.

  “—and I’m curious as to where you got your outfit. Can’t place it. Ain’t exactly a sack cut, though it bears a resemblance. Don’t look full enough to take a waistcoat.”

  “My clothes are fascinating lately,” I said. “Which is something, considering what you guys have on.”

  “Guys?” said Andy Leonard.

  “Andy’s from Jersey,” said Braina
rd, winking. “Thinks everybody oughta talk like him.”

  “What’s at fault with Jersey?” demanded Sweasy.

  “Why, not a single blessed thing,” Brainard said, his ironic tone lost on Sweasy, who sat back, mollified. Brainard turned to me. “You were about to say where you came by that suit—and also them hard slippers with no buttons?”

  Whatever Muttonchop’s act was, he had it down pat. I wondered where it went. “Well, the suit’s Brooks Brothers and the loafers are imitation Italian—”

  “Eye-talian?” said Sweasy, tensing again.

  “Sam’s trying to come a dodge on us,” said Brainard, shooting me a sly glance. “I was in to Brooks Brothers last winter. They don’t make coats with them little lapels or pants with them crimps you got down the front. You claim them duds was cut for you in New York?”

  “They’re off the rack,” I said. “In San Francisco, where I’m from.”

  “Frisco?” said Brainard. “Brooks Brothers?”

  “Right. Say, how’s the whiskey?” The second slug went down easier. “Thanks,” I said. “Now, exactly what in hell are you guys up to?”

  “Hey, now, we didn’t mean to rile you,” Andy broke in, looking worriedly at Sweasy. “We shouldn’t even be here. Harry, our captain, wouldn’t like it one bit. But we’re not up to nothin’, honest. We’re just ballists headin’ to the next town.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Ballists,” Andy said. “Base ballists.”

  “Baseball players?”

  He nodded. “First nine of the Cincinnati club. Acey pitches, Sweaze fortifies second, I’m generally in left—except today I had to handle Acey’s swift ones. The club made a starring tour to the East last year, just like now. Maybe you heard of us.” He paused and reflected. “Well, maybe not, out on the Pacific Slope.”

  “You’re pros?” In my weariness I felt a quickening of interest. In earlier, sweeter years, baseball had been my first love.

  “Professionals, you mean?” said Brainard.