Max the Mighty

by Rod Philbrick

  “I can’t,” I say, whispering. “Not with her right here. She can’t think about it right now, even when she’s asleep.”

  Dip stares at me a long time and then he nods to himself and says, “Well, I guess I’ve got to trust my instincts on this. I’m not going to turn you in, son. But somebody else might.”

  That’s when the flashing blue lights come gliding into the campground.

  “It’s my fault,” Dip says when he sees those lights. “I never should have let that con man on my bus.”

  My feet finally come loose and I turn and see the police car coming around the curve of the campsites. As it passes under a streetlight, there’s Joanie in the backseat and Frank in the front. He’s showing the cop which way to go.

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do,” Dip is saying. “But you’d better do it fast.”

  Then he shoves some money in my shirt pocket. He pats Worm on the head and he goes, “Trust yourself, Max. I’ll see you again someday. That’s a promise.”

  The next thing I know, I’m running off into the night with a girl in my arms, away from the Prairie Schooner and the cop car and the campground. I don’t know where I’m running, or why exactly. All I know is this: Worm is still asleep and she’s not ready to wake up yet.

  My brain has stopped thinking. The only thing inside my head is Run, boy, run.

  The thing about running at night, you can’t even see your feet, let alone the ground. You can’t see the holes or the rocks or the old roots grabbing at you. The only thing to do is run faster. Fast enough so that nothing sticks. Fast enough so the shadow things can’t find you. Fast enough so the dark is cool in your face, and you feel like running forever.

  It’s a train that finally stops me.

  I’m coming down this hilly area of woods and brush, dodging around low tree branches like I’ve got radar or something. Like I can feel things without actually seeing them. And then I’m out of the woods and into the open, picking up speed, flying downhill like I’m an airplane getting ready to take off and Worm is my only passenger and she’s still asleep.

  Ahead of me something big is moving and that’s when I put on the brakes and hear the screechy groan of a train grinding along the tracks. Not going fast, but kind of bumping along, kerchunk kerchunk, like no hurry, no problem.

  There’s just enough light from the stars so I can see the long, dark cars moving against the sky. They’re so heavy and slow and solid it looks like they’ll roll on forever, as far as the track will go.

  Worm wakes up and puts her hands around my neck. “I dreamed we were flying and I wasn’t afraid,” she says.

  I figure she’ll ask me about what happened and why we ran away from Dip and the Prairie Schooner, but it’s like she already knows and doesn’t want to talk about it right now.

  “Hold on tight,” I say and she hangs on with all her might.

  I start jogging along beside the track, like we’re in a race or something. Me against the train. Which turns out to be going faster than I thought, because I can barely keep up.

  In the movies you see dudes jump on moving trains like it was nothing. Believe me, it’s not that easy, especially if you’ve got a girl in your arms and you’ve only got one hand free.

  First, you have to run exactly as fast as the train is going, even though you’re slipping in the gravel by the tracks and scared you’ll slide under the wheels. Then you’ve got to grab hold of something and yank yourself aboard and not fall.

  By the time we finally climb onto this low-car part of the train, I’m so scared I almost wet my pants. But Worm acts like she wasn’t worried, like she knew I could do it.

  “You’re amazing,” she says, and sounds like she really means it.

  Yeah, right. The Amazing Dork.

  When my heart settles down I look around. There’s this big piece of farm machinery chained down to the car, but plenty of room for me and Worm to stretch out. We’re barely settled when the train starts to pick up speed, and then we’re rolling around this long curve, out into the countryside. I can’t see much except to tell it’s pretty flat and wide open.

  Funny thing about the stars, when you’re looking straight up they seem to hold still in the sky, even if you’re on a moving railroad car. Like the stars won’t change, no matter what happens. A long time ago some old dinosaur, he probably looked up and saw the same stars, mostly, and I bet he had big feet and a small brain just like me.

  I know I should feel terrible about getting run off the Prairie Schooner, and having to leave the Dippy Hippie behind, but instead I’m feeling good. They didn’t get us and they won’t be sending Worm back to the Undertaker, not so long as we’re on this train. And it’s like the running part is fun, as long as you don’t get caught.

  Pretty dumb, huh? Well, sometimes the truth is just plain stupid, and you can’t help it.

  Before long, the train settles into this rhythm, rattling along the tracks, kerchunk, kerchunk, rackety-roo, kerchunk, kerchunk, rackety-roo.

  For a long time Worm doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s thinking hard, and finally she goes, “I wasn’t really asleep when the cop car came.”

  As usual I go, “Huh?”

  “I just pretended,” she says. “Because I knew Max the Mighty would come to the rescue.”

  Suddenly my ears feel hot and my throat is thick and part of me is mad, but I don’t know why. “Cut it out,” I say. “There’s no such thing.”

  But Worm won’t stop. “I heard stories about you,” she says, insisting. “Kids talking. Grownups, too.”

  It makes me feel weird to think that people talk about me when I’m not around, and I bet most of it is lies.

  “They said your father killed your mom, is that part true?”

  I go, “Yeah,” and then I’m not going to say anything else because I hate talking about it. But I’m looking at Worm and seeing how the stars make her face glow, and it’s like a knot unties inside me and all of a sudden I want to tell her everything.

  “It happened when I was a little kid,” I say. “My dad got in a fight with my mom and he grabbed her around the neck and he wouldn’t let go even though I tried to stop him. Then afterward he put me to bed and told me it was all a bad dream, but I busted out a window and shouted for the police, and that’s how he got sent to prison.”

  Worm doesn’t say anything. She’s waiting for me to finish.

  “For a long time I never wanted to think about it, until Kevin and me got to be Freak the Mighty. Then he showed me how remembering can be a great invention of the mind. He said you can’t forget the bad stuff because it’s part of who you are.”

  “He was a really cool guy, huh?”

  “The coolest,” I say. “He even saved my life once.”

  “Yeah? What happened?” Worm wants to know.

  “Killer Kane — that’s what they call my father — they let him out of prison. Which really flipped me out. And then one night he broke into my bedroom and kidnapped me.”

  “How come you didn’t fight him?”

  I shrug. “It was like I was paralyzed or something. I just couldn’t.”

  Worm nods and I’m pretty sure she’s thinking about the Undertaker, and how he makes her feel the same way, like she can’t do anything to stop him.

  “Anyhow, Kevin found out where Killer Kane took me, and he figured a way to get me out of there. He filled this squirt gun with soap and vinegar and curry powder and stuff and sprayed it at my old man and we got away.”

  “Pretty smart,” Worm says.

  “Yeah. I lost it when Kevin died. It was like the whole world died, you know? Then I started thinking about all the cool things we did and I wrote some of the stuff down. And then I wasn’t angry anymore, just sad. I still think about him all the time.”

  Worm sees how bad I’m feeling and she takes hold of my hand and gives it a squeeze and then lets go. After a while she says, “You think when you die you really go to heaven?”

  �
�I hope so.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Me, too.”

  The rackety-roo of the train makes my eyelids heavy, and even though I’m supposed to stay awake and keep watch over the Worm, I fall asleep almost as soon as she does.

  When I wake up again, the stars are gone and there’s this orange blob on the horizon where the sun is coming up. It looks kind of hot and melted and really old somehow, like I’m looking back in time.

  Worm is sleeping on my rolled-up jacket. She’s holding her book tight against her chest like she always does. Probably most girls her age would throw a fit if they went to bed without a pillow, but Worm never complains about anything. When you think about what happened to her in the last few days, that’s pretty amazing, and it makes me feel even better about being a notorious criminal with a ten-thousand-dollar reward on my head.

  They say you can go blind if you stare at the sun too long, but I can’t help it. It’s like there’s this message written in the sunrise and I can’t quite make it out. Finally I quit looking and close my eyes, but I can still see the bright orange spot kind of burning a hole in my brain. And my brain, which is pretty irritated with me, goes, This isn’t a cool adventure, you moron! You messed up big time. The whole world thinks you’re a monster for kidnapping an eleven-year-old girl. They’ll hunt you down like a rabid dog. The smart thing would be to split. Let Worm find her real father on her own. Just leave her and run for your life. Keep on running until they forget all about the son of Killer Kane. Until you forget about yourself.

  I tell my brain to shut up, but it won’t listen.

  Leave the kid, it says. She’ll be better off without you. Somebody else can take care of her. Somebody smarter and stronger than you are. You’re not a hero. Max the Mighty doesn’t exist.

  “I know that!” I shout out loud, and that wakes up Worm.

  She yawns and looks around and gives me a big smile. Right off she says, “You know what? I bet this train goes forever. I bet it goes to the end of the world.”

  All I can think to say is, “I dunno. I guess so.”

  Which is a flat-out lie. Even a total bonehead like me knows the world is round and you can’t get to the end. You just keep going around and around and you never get there.

  When the sun gets a little ways higher, the train starts to slow down and the clackety-clackety noise changes. We start passing big buildings and you can tell we’re getting close to a city. I’m thinking maybe there’ll be a train station and I’ll be able to buy us something to eat. A hot dog or a hamburger or a candy bar — anything. Because all of a sudden I’m really, really hungry.

  But when the train finally stops, there isn’t any train station or any food. We’re in the middle of this huge junkyard. All these cars crushed up into rusty cubes of steel, and stacked five or six high in row after row.

  A wicked-looking barbed-wire fence surrounds the junkyard and I’m thinking who would want to steal a squished-up car? That’s when Worm says, “Good doggie. Good doggie.”

  I go, “Huh?” and then I see the dog.

  It’s a really mangy-looking animal without a collar or a tag and it looks like it’s been rolling in the dirt, or worse. From the way the ribs stick out it doesn’t get fed regular and when Worm puts out her hand the dog starts edging closer, keeping low like dogs do when they’re afraid.

  “Oh,” Worm says. “Can we keep it?”

  I go, “Be careful.”

  “I always wanted a dog,” Worm explains. “But You Know Who said no.”

  The dog is growling deep in its throat and its eyes don’t look friendly. I grab hold of Worm’s jacket and pull her back — just as the dog snaps at her hand.

  “Hey!” she says. “You scared him!”

  But the growling dog doesn’t look scared anymore. It makes a high yipping noise, and then things start to happen fast. Because the yipping was like a signal, and now three, four, five wild dogs come out of nowhere and leap into the railway car, heading right for us.

  “Get back!” I yell, grabbing Worm around the waist.

  I climb onto the piece of farm equipment that’s chained to the railway car and the wild dogs are leaping up and snapping their fangs, lunging at my feet.

  One of the dogs grabs hold of Worm’s sleeve and tears at her jacket. “Ahhh!” she screams. “Get it off! Get it off!”

  The sleeve rips and the dog falls but it doesn’t matter because the rest of the dogs are scrambling up on one another’s backs, fighting to get higher, wanting to rip us to shreds. It’s like they can smell the blood inside us, and it doesn’t matter that we’re human, all that matters is we might be good to eat.

  Worm is crying and holding tight to me, like she thinks I can save her. But there’s nowhere to go. We’re surrounded, and now the dogs are crawling up the other side of the farm equipment. They’ll be able to jump on us from the top.

  I want to yell for help but my throat is squeezed so tight all that comes out is a pathetic little squeak. Then a dog has me by the ankle and I’m trying to kick it loose but it won’t let go and Worm is screaming and kicking and hanging on to me all at the same time.

  I figure this is it, we’re going to die, when all of a sudden this loud, horrible howl fills the air.

  “Ahhhhh-ooooooooooohhhhh!”

  And this scrawny little dude with a big stick leaps into the middle of the dogs, swinging the stick and howling at the top of his lungs.

  “Ahhhh-oooooooohhhh! Ahhhh-oooooooohhhh!” He’s screaming and laughing and yelling like a total lunatic, smacking at the dogs with his stick, kicking at them with his feet.

  The dogs don’t know what he is and they start yelping and ducking away from his stick, and one by one they jump off the railway car and run off into the junkyard, crawling on their bellies to get under the barbed-wire fence.

  The last dog makes a lunge at his stick, but the wild man raises it high and the dog turns tail and runs off.

  And that’s how we got saved by Hobo Joe.

  That’s what the skinny little dude calls himself, Hobo Joe. He’s got long scraggly hair and scruffy old clothes that are way too big for him and when he smiles his teeth are kind of crooked. Also he’s got this wispy little mustache that wiggles when he talks, and he’s talking so fast I can barely sort out the words.

  “Yes, sir, they call me Hobo Joe and I’m sorry about them dogs! I bet they give you a fright, and I shoulda warned you ’cause that junkyard is famous for the pack of wild dogs. That’s right, I seen you two get on back there in Iowa and I says to myself, now Joe, they’ll want to rest a bit, so you best wait until morning before you drop by for a visit. See, I been riding three cars up, a nice empty boxcar with a pile of hay to sleep on, it’s better than the Ritz Hotel. Got me a room with a view and room service, too. Hey, I’ll bet you two ain’t had breakfast, am I right about that? Huh? Am I?”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, because listening to somebody talk that fast makes my ears ring.

  “Food,” he says. “Breakfast. I got it if you want some.”

  Breakfast is this great big can of beans that Joe had been heating up over a Sterno can when the dogs attacked us. Now he heats it up again and pretty soon the smell of simmering beans is thick in the air.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’,” he says. “You’re thinkin’ a can of beans don’t make a breakfast. But that’s where you’re wrong, because beans is the best kind of food. ‘Specially when you’re hungry.”

  Normally I could care less about beans, but we haven’t had a thing to eat since supper last night and the sight of those beans bubbling away makes my mouth water. I ask Worm if she’s hungry and she nods and Joe shows her how to blow on the spoon so she won’t burn her mouth.

  “These beans got special vitamins,” he says. “Make you grow big and strong.”

  He’s got this old canvas bag he keeps his stuff in, and inside is a loaf of bread. Stale bread with a hard crust. But Joe says it’ll soften up good in the bean juice and we tear up the bread and so
ak it and stuff it in our mouths until we can’t eat another bite.

  If you’re hungry enough, stale bread and beans taste better than birthday cake.

  While we’re eating, Joe never stops talking and moving around. Like he’s got batteries inside that make him keep jumping and fidgeting and twitching his fuzzy little mustache.

  “Guests for breakfast,” he says. “Who’d a thunk it!” and he rattles on about how lonesome it gets, living on the trains, and how he’s glad of the company and how good it is to have someone to talk to because mostly he talks to himself, and how talking to yourself doesn’t necessarily mean you’re crazy because there has to be an exception to every rule and he, Hobo Joe, is the talking-to-himself exception.

  After we spoon up the last of the beans, the boxcar gives a shudder and starts moving again.

  “They been shunting off some of the freight cars,” Joe explains. “That means they unhook ’em and leave ’em behind. Train’ll be lighter now, and faster. By the time we clear Nebraska we’ll be flyin’, yessir!”

  He knows so much about trains because he’s been living off the land, he says, and riding the rails from one side of the country to the other and then back again. So he knows what train goes where, and why it stops at one place instead of another, and how not to get caught by the railroad police.

  “Don’t be thinkin’ I’m homeless,” he explains to Worm. “Wherever I’m sleepin’, that’s my home, and I like it fine.” He points at the wide open door of the boxcar, and the prairie grass rushing past like a blurry green river. “Can you beat that? Why it’s better than TV!”

  It sounds strange, but staring out at the countryside really is better than watching TV, because you never know what you’re going to see next. Farms and barns and windmills. Tall silvery silos that look like spaceships ready to take off. Railroad bridges built from giant Erector sets. A herd of buffalo that look like cows with fur coats on. There’s even some purple mountains way off in the distance, just like in the song about America.