I was sitting cross-legged beside the open boxcar door. The boy sat beside me. The train slowed and stopped as if answering our prayers. In the stillness, our bodies continued to rattle.
‘I feel sick.’ A girl lurched for the open door.
Soon the heat crawled back in and our fickle hobo prayers switched to willing the train to move again. Mrs. Claus talked over a map with her girls and had them mark their water bottles with a pen to ration their supply. The girls were always embracing or touching, even if it was only a hand left casually on another’s knee. They were beautiful in their filthy clothes in the dark space of the boxcar.
Out beyond the car was the endless expanse of the Midwest. It had none of the obvious charm of the Rockies but the colours were all there. A sky bigger than God, clear and rich, so demanding of attention you wondered why it took so long for people to have a word for blue. Below it lay the fat brushstrokes of green and yellow and the daubs of lonely buildings to make you wonder about the lives lived beneath the roofs. A landscape that threatened poetry, but I had none to give.
The boy beside me pointed out a town close to the horizon. ‘Look at that shit, dude.’
I followed his finger out to a handful of the roofed squares of houses below the benign gaze of a water tower with a smiley face painted on it.
‘Fuck that town and everyone in it. Slaves in air-conditioned cages.’ He pointed his middle finger.
‘That’s not where you’re from,’ I said and took out my cigarettes and lighter.
‘No, man. Some other shit-fuck town full of assholes.’ He thumbed behind us.
‘You run away?’ I offered him a smoke. He grabbed one and nodded his thanks. I lit it for him and he exhaled his answer, ‘Yeah,’ blowing smoke toward the scenery.
‘Why?’
‘Old man always on my shit. His new wife loves her some Jesus and wants me to love him too.’ He raised his hands above his head. ‘Hallelujah!’
‘And?’
‘And she doesn’t like me smoking weed.’
‘You get busted?’
‘Three strikes and out like a mofo.’
‘And you ran off?’ I was channelling Jack.
‘Ran like a mofo.’ He pantomimed his arms pumping, his head down, as if running hard. ‘If I get caught this time, it’s Fed for me.’
I put out the cherry on the ground by writing my first initial with the black soot and put the butt back into the pack to save it for later. The kid watched me. I knew he wasn’t going to listen to me, but I said it anyway.
‘That was pretty stupid then, huh? You couldn’t just be a little smarter about smoking? I mean it wasn’t unreasonable for them to ask you not to smoke weed while they pay your bills, give you a place to stay. Sounds like basic courtesy. Or at least, it’s reasonable for you not to be stupid enough to get caught.’
After a silence, he asked me why I was here.
‘The freedom,’ I said sarcastically.
‘New places. New people. That’s what this is all about.’ He pointed to the girls and me and the boxcar roof. ‘Free to see the world. I’m sixteen and I got more experiences than those nine-to-five niggas living their rat-race lives for thirty years. I’m free to do what I want.’
I kept my eyes forward. If I looked at him, I would start crying. I was him and he would be me.
‘I’ll hop a train to anywhere,’ he bragged. ‘It’s all bullshit, dude.’ He fidgeted from my lack of response. The train blew its horn and a shudder ran down the cars. The girls squealed and clapped. The boy retreated to their circle and I was alone with my view.
We had several more hours of the rattling pain. Days later, after my first shower, I had a leopard print of bruises.
The sun set with more poetic flourishes. Mrs. Claus assured us we were close. They were going to aim for a hotshot west. I still wasn’t sure where I was going, but I was done with trains.
The boy announced he had to take a fierce shit.
‘I got to take a fierce shit.’ He dropped his trousers. His ass, glowing white in the expanding gloom of the car, was pointed at me.
He turned and gripped the sides of the door and squatted. He was grinning and joking with the girls.
The boxcar jerked; the doors shifted. He was gone in an instant, quick enough to doubt whether he ever existed at all. The girls screamed and screamed. They stamped and held each other, held on to me. The last hour was black and silent. The exhausted drawn-out slowing to a stop of the train was more horrible than usual. We alighted emptied of anything human, followed a trail through the weeds to the chain-link fence, mechanically dropped our backpacks through the hole, then pulled ourselves through. The girls walked toward the Super Walmart that we had passed a couple miles back. The moss-haired girl talked about calling 911. I went toward the highway to hitchhike into town.
49
I woke up to see Jack’s face close to mine. The black eyes shone under the brow as he studied my face.
‘Are you naked?’ Jack asked.
I nodded, not sure if I was awake. After I buried Mister Shakey, I called into work sick and spent the day hiding in my room. I had heard Jack talking on the phone to Sarah and Patrick. Something was going on. It reminded me of when he got me locked up in the psychiatric hospital. Crawling under the bed probably wasn’t going to help my case if that was his plan again.
‘What’s the attraction of hiding under here?’ Jack rapped the underside of my bed. ‘You used to do this as a kid. Always hiding away in closets or under beds. Do you remember hiding in the neighbour’s garage? It worked out for the best. Cheaper than a babysitter. The wife used to check in on you from time to time and phone me.’
‘Really? I always thought I was on my own.’
‘Never in your life, kid. Listen here. Forget about the collection agent. He was here to apologise. To both of us. The guy was messed up. He’s in more debt than we are. Forget him. I always have time for you.’
‘It’s not about that.’ I banged the back of my head against the underside of the bed a couple of times.
‘Can we have this conversation sitting with both of us fully clothed? I don’t really want this moment to go in my memoir just as it is now.’
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘Do you need any help?’
‘I’ll manage.’
He straightened up. His leather shoes were the colour of brick. The years of scuffs and wear polished out. White socks peeked out from between the shoes and his old-man slacks. The bed creaked as he used it for support.
‘See you in the living room. Wear something smart-casual.’ The shoes moved over to my wheelchair. The wheels and shoes moved closer.
‘About here?’
‘That’s fine,’ I said and used the slats under the bed to pull myself out.
Jack closed the door as he left.
When I had dressed, I found him in the kitchen.
He said, ‘Your phone’s ringing.’ He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and finished it in one gulp.
‘It’s Sarah,’ I said.
‘You aren’t answering it?’ He poured himself another glass and went into the living room.
I followed. ‘No.’
‘That’s not very gentleman-like.’
‘Probably not.’
‘Did you guys have a fight?’
‘No.’
‘I’m sure you know what you’re doing.’ He sat down in his chair, kicking out the leg rest. ‘I have to be in the hospital for a bunch of tests. They’re tuning my ticker, minor surgery. I’ll be in there for a week, which I’m not happy about. I was hoping you’d be okay on your own, but it looks like I need to worry about you again. How are you feeling?’
‘I killed my cat.’
‘Stop. Jesus, change the record,’ he said. ‘Are you going to call Sarah and apologise for whatever stupid thing you did?’
‘Probably not.’
‘I tried,’ Jack said. ‘While I’m away, Patrick will come by a couple tim
es just to check in.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘He’s coming for my peace of mind, not yours.’
‘Fair enough.’
Jack pulled back the leg rest and stood up. ‘You know? I think this world needs a good fuck you. Let it know the McGinnis men aren’t beaten yet.’
‘What? No.’
‘C’mon.’ He walked to the front door and opened it wide. ‘C’mon.’
‘It’s embarrassing.’
‘When did that ever stop you from acting like an idiot? Get out here. You worried about your reputation? Father and son say fuck you to the world. Let’s go.’
I followed Jack outside. The neighbourhood was quiet and still. The day was hot but pleasant. Jack’s car sat in the driveway.
‘Fuck you!’ we yelled.
‘Do you feel any better?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Let’s see if donuts will help. My treat,’ I said.
50
That lonesome boy disappeared from the open boxcar over and over as I walked into what turned out to be Kansas City. Over and over, the screams of the girls roiled and built to a sound no longer human. Even the memory of their keening sent splinters of anxiety through my bones. I argued with myself about what we could have done, but there was nothing. I tried to imagine happy-ending scenarios for the boy splayed out on the grey ballast in the empty hopelessness of a midwestern plain. I lay there with him feeling the broken bones. We eyed the infinity of rail stretching away from us. Maybe the girls’ 911 call saved him. It’s possible. The best I could come up with was an instant death. A broken neck and done.
I ended up back in Austin again. I tried to convince myself that it was just a coincidence. I thought about visiting Mom’s grave, maybe seeing if I could stay with Patrick or Jack for a few days, maybe looking up old friends, Fritz maybe, Melissa. I didn’t, though. I found a room to rent and got a job at an Italian restaurant across the street from the apartment. I had compressed my world down to the apartment, the restaurant and a twenty-four-hour grocery store a block away.
Right down to the dust-covered plastic grape bunches on the shelves, no cliché of an Italian restaurant was missed. The tables all had Chianti bottle candle holders, big-bellied shakers of parmesan and dried red pepper flakes on checkered oilcloths. One wall was a trompe l’oeil Tuscan landscape and framed photos of Italian heroes hung on the others. The portrait of John F. Kennedy seemed to be a mistake until the owner explained his theory on the Italian origins of the former president who had, according to him, been adopted into the Kennedy family from their Abruzzian gardener’s widow.
The husband and wife owners completed the exaggerated Italian atmosphere with regular arm-flailing, door-slamming arguments flecked with Italian obscenities amongst bewildered diners and cooling plates of linguini. Her favourite complaint was the husband wearing his wedding band on a necklace rather than his finger, the sight of which would pique her to frenzy. Most of the customers were somehow related to the husband and wife and often took sides.
‘Quiet down, Sara!’
‘Drop it, Stefano!’
Before evening shifts, the wife prepared a huge bowl of pasta and placed it at the centre of the big round table. As soon as she sat, she impatiently told us to ‘Eat, eat’ and all of us – the waiters, the dishwashers, the cooks, the wife and husband – would eat, eat. One big service-industry family. We talked about work: shitty tips, horrible customers, menus, bookings. We commented on the food with humming mouthfuls and pleasured nods. The husband expounded on his idea that the Italian race invented everything and all notable persons in history were paisans; mentioning that the Chinese invented the noodle caused a sputtering apoplexy. The wife always fretted over me. I was never eating enough. Such a handsome boy, why didn’t I find a nice girl. It was mothering and I devoured it.
After my shifts, I hung around and helped the kitchen or the owners and delayed the time I went back to my tiny empty apartment where I inevitably got drunk or high, watched tv and looked up Melissa on the internet. She had become more beautiful. There were photos of her in a bikini smiling before a plate of food, sapphire sky and sea in the background. Photos of her in what looked like a private jet. Cocktail bars full of beautiful faces full of perfect teeth and her in the centre of them. My jealous heart spat epithets of ‘spoiled rich girl’ but I knew the truth. The money never saved her from anything. She’s doing well despite her childhood. She had a married name now, Al-Thani. A heavy-browed, swarthy, handsome man. The beginnings of a paunch in his tailored shirt and ill-judged sideburns were the only critique I managed. In the photos there was a confidence that stung me. I could have clicked ‘Follow’ beside her name, could have written a breezy hiya message, could have suggested we meet up the next time she was in town. As far as I could tell she was living in San Francisco.
One Saturday at the restaurant, Stefano gave me an envelope of money and told me to give it to the man coming out to balance the ceiling fans. A little later a station wagon pulled up, and I went to help the stooped figure struggling with the ladder, which had caught on the passenger-side headrest. His too-big jeans and shirt made him look like he was shrinking perceptibly before me. His iceberg-blue eyes must have been striking as a young man. Now, set into the tired skin of an old man, rimmed by the inflamed red of his eyelids, they seemed an unfair reminder of a lost vivacity.
He shuffled and wheezed behind me as I brought the ladder in and set it up under one of the fans. I asked if he wanted me to bring in his tools. He said softly, no, thank you.
Each of his steps up the ladder was the moment before I had to phone 911. He didn’t need me to get his tools, because he had no tools. Using the top step as a workbench, he set out a roll of tape and a mix of pennies, washers and slugs. He asked where the switch was. I pointed and he began the cautious descent and trek across the room. He flipped the switch. The fans came to life, turning, picking up speed, all wobbling. Back at the ladder, he paused, holding it firmly, and climbed once again. He studied the swaying fan as it rotated. He made his way back down, across the room, flipped the fans off and he went back to the ladder. A penny was selected. A length of tape was cut between his teeth, an operation too precarious to watch. He pushed the blade, watched its progression, and seemed satisfied. Again, down the ladder and across the room to the switch he went. It worked. The blades followed each other clockwise in a smooth orderly motion. He turned them off again and positioned the ladder to balance the second fan. Halfway through the diagnosis of the second fan, the weight attached to the first flew off and pinged off the portrait of Pope John Paul.
He moved the ladder back and retrieved the penny slowly, carefully, with cracking joints and sighs. He started again. This went on and on. As soon as one wobble was fixed, the balancing weight from another was shot across the room. It was getting close to the dinner shift, and only fan number three was interested in holding on to the bit of metal he had taped to it.
Stefano returned. He stared at the old man. ‘What’s he doing here?’
I told him what had been going on for the last five hours.
‘No. No. No.’ His voice rose with each ‘no’. ‘Give me his envelope.’
Stefano snapped the ladder closed and carried it out to the car, complaining about paying him for nothing. The old man submitted meekly to Stefano’s tirade. I stepped outside to have a cigarette, wanting to avoid Stefano, who would continue his complaining all night. The old man was expressionless as he inched back out of the parking lot.
I clocked out and walked home. In my head, Jack became that fan balancer. Was he still working when he should have been able to retire and take it easy? Was he as sad and lonely? Was the pride beaten out of him too? I didn’t even know if he was still alive.
I ignored the restaurant’s phone calls and the knocks at my door when I missed my next shift.
51
‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ Patrick said.
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‘How are you?’ I asked.
‘Good. You?’
‘Good.’
‘How are you doing home alone?’
‘Patrick. I’m not that crazy.’
‘Sorry. We never really knew each other, but you’re still my brother.’ After I didn’t respond, Patrick continued: ‘Dad seemed to think you don’t need to know.’
‘Know what?’
‘Dad had a valve replaced in his heart. They used cow tissue, which he was strangely excited about.’
I still didn’t say anything.
‘He thinks he can be back on his feet in a week. Pretend nothing happened. He’s not getting old gracefully. He’s becoming a pain in the ass, actually.’
‘Becoming?’
‘He’s got some infection, but it’s responding to treatment. Hey.’
‘Huh?’
‘Dad has really loved having you home. He’d never tell you that, but it’s true. He’s kind of woken up this last year. He’s been just flat for a lot of years.’ Patrick moved his hand to cut the air, signalling flat. ‘He’s been puttering about in his greenhouse and watching tv. We’d bring the kids to see him. He’d play with them for half an hour or so, but he’d just go blank and quiet after a while. He really likes you. I mean, loves you. We’ve never been close. I’ve never felt close to him. I love the guy but we never really . . . we don’t have much in common. You should go visit him.’ He read something in my expression and added, ‘Don’t worry. He’s okay. He’s just going to be in for longer than he thought. Do you want me to take you?’
‘I’ll go a bit later. Thanks. I can take the bus.’
‘He’s been putting the surgery off. He was worried about you leaving.’
‘Patrick. Please, don’t. I don’t need anything else that’s my fault.’
‘No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. I was just saying. You mean a lot to him. He’s always talking about you.’
‘Patrick, do you mind if I take a nap? I’m pretty tired.’
The Coward Page 21
