“Mario’s fine,” Christie smiled. “His practice is going well. I just hope Maria and little Anthony are behaving themselves. Mario spoils them too much.”
“What about Nick and Eddy?” Owen asked. He was carving the turkey expertly. He grasped the fork in his left hand and had fastened the gleaming, razor-sharp carving knife in his steel hook. Years ago he had learned to do practically anything a person with two hands could do. “I worry about those fellows a lot. I think a lot of them.” Owen felt a bond with Eddy due to the time they had served together in France. Owen prayed earnestly for the Castellanos—for their safety and especially for their salvation.
Amos shook his head. “They’re still involved in the rackets. I wish we could talk to them—but you know how they are.”
The talk ran around the table and they enjoyed the meal tremendously. They were a close family. Amos looked around thinking, This is the first year we’ve met without the children. Maybe it’s best this way. But we can bring them next year, I guess.
Amos’s gaze went around the faces. He studied Owen, an evangelist now, who spoke to thousands. He knew that out of the offerings that came in, Owen only kept enough for his family. The rest he used to help struggling young ministers. Owen held a congressional medal from the Great War, although he himself never mentioned it.
Amos’s eyes shifted to his sister Lylah. He admired her beauty and loved her dearly. He was thankful daily that this sister he was so close to had finally accepted the Lord after going her own way for so many years. He wondered about her son, Adam. Very few knew that the movie star, Lylah Stuart, had been involved in an affair with Baron von Richthofen and that Adam was the result of that brief affair. I wonder if Lylah’s told him yet who his father is. Amos had told his sister that she was making a mistake by keeping his father’s identity a secret from Adam, but, though she was now married, Lylah thought it would be better to keep it quiet.
Amos’s eyes moved around the table, stopping on Logan. He was a farmer and had been chosen by the rest of them to stay on the old home place. Too bad he hasn’t had more of a chance, he thought. He could have done better than any of us. I guess he’s worried about Ray and Violet—that’s enough to drive a man crazy—not knowing where his children are, out there in this world somewhere. He spoke up, asking, “Any word at all about Ray and Violet, Logan?”
Logan glanced at Anne and she replied quickly, “We’ve gotten one postcard from Ray. Violet ain’t got where he is in Rockford yet, but I guess she’ll get there eventually.”
“I wish you had let me know,” Amos said with some irritation. He tapped his water glass with his fork nervously. “We could’ve helped.”
Logan’s jaw was stubborn. “You’ve helped enough,” he said. Amos glanced at him and saw that it was the end of that conversation. He shifted his glance to Lenora and Christie, then looked at Pete. “Tell us more about the oil business,” he said. “I keep hearing about Indians who never had a dime getting rich out there.”
Pete shook his head. “Most of that’s just talk. When Indians do have land, some big company like Kingman manages to force them off it.”
“Kingman?” Owen asked. “Who’s that?”
“Kingman Oil Company,” Pete said grimly. “They’ve been trying to buy me out, and they ain’t real partic’lar how they go about it.”
“I’ve heard a little about that,” Amos said. “From what I hear, the big outfits, like Kingman, hire a bunch of thugs who make it rough on those who won’t sell out. They giving you any trouble?”
“Some.” Pete’s face turned hard, but he said no more.
After the meal, they sat in the parlor and opened presents—simple gifts, none that were expensive—and there was a great deal of laughter and joking about some of them. “I remember,” Owen said, “when I was about six that we made presents for each other. There was no money then.”
“I remember that,” Lylah said, half closing her eyes. “I wanted a doll and didn’t get it.” She hardened her jaw and said, “That’s why I want Adam to have everything—everything I didn’t have.”
“I’m not sure that’s best,” Owen protested. He leaned back in his chair and held up the pocketknife that Amos had given him. It was a good one, and he loved knives. Amos had said jokingly, “You only have five fingernails, but you still need a good knife to clean them with.” Now Owen said slowly, “I’ve seen it happen often—people want their children to have it easier so they spoil them and pamper them.”
Pete said grimly, “I’m not likely to spoil and pamper Mona and Stephen. Not with this depression going on.”
“It’s got to end sometime,” Logan said desperately. “Things can’t keep on going down.”
A knock on the door sounded, and Christie said, “I’ll get it.” She walked to the front door and opened it. She was greeted by a man who threw his arms around her and picked her up off the floor and kissed her soundly on the cheek. “Merry Christmas! How’s the best-looking woman in the country doing?”
“Denton! You put me down!” Christie protested, laughing. “I’m an old married woman now.”
“You still look good to me,” Dent said. He put her down, but kept hold of her arms. At thirty-one, Denton DeForge was tall and as lean as he had been at eighteen. He had jet black hair and dark eyes to match and was as fine looking as ever.
Christie hugged him suddenly and said, “I remember the time you kissed me in the kitchen. It scared me to death!”
This delighted Dent. “I always remember that! I heard you got that family of yours started.” He was delighted again with her blush and said, “You’re just as bashful as ever. Come on, I’ve got presents for everybody.”
Christie took his hand and pulled him into the dining room, where he was warmly greeted. He was a favorite of the younger Stuarts who had grown up with him. Lenora came over and kissed him. “You haven’t been caught yet by some woman? I’m surprised at you, Dent! I thought you’d be the first to go.”
“Too contrary to live with,” Dent said and grinned complacently. He leaned over and kissed Lenora right on the lips. “How about you and me going out and partying a little bit and getting rid of these squares, Lenora?” He winked at her.
“You tried hard enough to get me to do that, didn’t you, Dent?”
“Never made it though! Too bad.” Dent could joke about these things, for though he had been a wild young man, he had been converted in a revival meeting. Most of it was the result of being witnessed to by Lenora. Now he handed out presents and joined in like one of the family.
After the presents had been opened, Logan pulled Denton to one side. “I’m worried about Violet,” he said.
Dent’s cheerful grin faded. He scratched his head and said, “Me, too. If I had known she was going, I would have kept her home.”
“I don’t think you could have,” Logan said. “You know how stubborn she is.”
“Well, she doesn’t have any business traipsing around. It’s rough enough for a man, but a woman—well, what she needs is a husband.”
Logan stared at him. “For a long time I thought that might be you.”
“Aw, I’m too old for her. And I’m too ornery for any woman to live with—stubborn, have to have my own way—just a boring old bachelor.” Dent was not through with the question, however. He had been fond of Violet ever since Logan had moved his family to the farm and felt that he had had a hand in her raising. “She may think she’s a woman, but she’s not. She’s led a sheltered life here. I have half a mind just to go find her and bring her home.”
“You’d never find her.”
“I reckon that’s so, but you let me know as soon as she gets settled down.” Denton DeForge had some stubbornness himself and now his dark eyes glinted. “If I get a chance, I’ll go get her and bring her home. And I won’t take any sass either.”
Logan suddenly slapped Dent on the back. “By george, I believe you would!”
Almost at the moment that the family was talking a
bout Violet, she was seated on the floor of a railcar wishing desperately that she were home. She and Bailey had found slim pickings on the road and finally had taken to riding the rails. It had been hard for her to learn the tricks of climbing onto a moving train. This was a world of which she knew nothing. Some of the bulls, as they were called, were brutal. She had seen them club men off trains. She’d also seen a group of angry riders seize one of the railroaders and throw him from a speeding train. On the other hand, some of the bulls were friendly enough and even helped the homeless men and women from time to time.
She’d found that there was danger in it, too. People got killed if they were careless. The cars were recklessly loaded and sometimes the load would shift with a sudden lurch of the train. A far more common accident occurred when riders misjudged the speed of a train. They made their grab for the ladder and often their legs were crushed.
As the train clattered along, she turned to Bailey, who was sitting beside her. They were on an open car filled with big sacks of lime that farmers would use to fertilize their fields. As the train slowed down, three men jumped onto the car. They stared at the pair, but said nothing. Once again, Violet was happy that Bailey was with her. More than once, men had approached her, but Bailey had scared them off, sometimes by just putting his huge forefinger on their chests and pushing them backward, and sometimes by doubling up his fist and holding it up before them. This was a lethal weapon that most men did not care to taste.
The train picked up speed and she said, “We’ve passed Chicago. We ought to be getting close to Rockford soon.”
“Okay!” Bailey didn’t care. They had passed farms and small towns, brown with withered cornstalks. They’d passed rivers, low and sluggish, or sometimes filled with brown water. It was all the same to him. Now he was whistling “Bye, Bye, Blackbird” perfectly on pitch. He turned and grinned. “Sing it, Violet!”
Violet glanced at the men at the other end of the car and shrugged. She began singing the song, keeping up with his melody. It had become fun for them to do. He was amazed at her ability to know the words to so many songs. She was equally amazed at his ability to whistle so many tunes. He couldn’t read a note of music or a word, but he had the uncanny ability to remember any melody.
They slept for a while. When they woke, Violet pulled out a piece of bread. Borrowing Bailey’s pocketknife, she cut it up into chunks. They kept each bite in their mouths a long time. Finally she handed him the rest of hers and said, “Here, Bailey—you eat this—I never liked the crusty part.”
Two hours after dark, the train jolted to a halt. There were sounds of loud voices in the car next to them, and Violet sensed trouble. “Come on, Bailey. I think we’re going to have to leave.”
She was correct. Two bulls stuck their heads in and said, “Get off the train! And stay off—the whole lousy lot of you!”
One of the men at the other end of the car complained. “Aw, we ain’t hurtin’ nothin’,” but it was useless.
“You’re getting off, and don’t try to crawl on again. This stuff of free rides is over! We’ve got our orders and the company isn’t fooling.”
Leaping to the ground, Bailey turned and helped Violet by catching her and steadying her as she hit the ground. All along the length of the train, figures were piling out of the cars. Some of them were running on the tops of the cars like frightened rats.
The air was filled with shouting and cursing, muted by the noise of the engine screaming in the night. Stumbling away from the cars, Violet was startled by a movement to her right. Turning, she saw a line of men walking toward the car, most of them carrying clubs, sticks, and pitchforks. One of them even had a shotgun.
“You ain’t coming in here!” one of them shouted. “Take your empty bellies somewhere else. We’ve got enough of your kind. If you come this way, we’ll club you down!”
One of the free riders demanded hoarsely, “What do you want us to do?”
“That ain’t our business. We have enough to do to take care of ourselves. We can’t feed a bunch of bums.”
Violet touched Bailey’s massive arm. “Come on, let’s walk down the tracks.”
They left at once, followed by others. They knew that in some towns, rail riders had been beaten into insensibility by mobs such as the one that greeted them. When they were out of sight of the town, one of the hobos glanced at the two. “Well, there ain’t but one thing to do now.”
“What’s that?” Violet asked.
The hobo grinned. He was a sharp-faced man, smallish and quick. “We’ll catch that same freight.”
“The man said not to,” Bailey said.
“It’s a long way to Rockford. I ain’t walking it.”
“You’re going to Rockford?”
“Sure. This train goes right through there. All we’ve got to do is get on.”
“Let’s try it, Bailey.” Hope ran through Violet and she said, “All we’ve got to do is get on one more train.” As it happened, it was easier than she thought. The train seemed to be feeling its way down the track, moving less than five miles an hour. And then by some sort of miracle, it ground to a halt. None of the hobos knew why, but immediately they all piled into a car and pulled the door shut. One of them whimpered, “If they find us here, they’ll beat us half to death!”
Violet whispered, “They won’t find us—God’s going to take care of us.” She had little faith, but almost at once, the train started moving and picked up speed and was soon rushing on toward Rockford.
Bailey turned to look at her with wonder in his round blue eyes. “Was it God who took care of us, Violet?”
“I think so.”
The rooming house had been difficult to find. Violet and Bailey had wandered down the streets of Rockford looking for it, discovering finally that the address Violet had was incorrect. A grocery store owner had stared at them suspiciously when they had gone in to ask for Mrs. Jensen’s rooming house. “It’s supposed to be on Jackson Street,” Violet said. “But I can’t find it. I’ve walked up and down and nobody knows a Mrs. Jensen.”
“Maggie Jensen,” the grocery owner shook his head. “Her place ain’t on Jackson Street—it’s over on Jimerson Street. Take that road right out there, go six blocks, and turn right. Follow the car tracks until you hit Jimerson, then turn left and her place is the sixth house—a big brownstone house on the right.”
They had plodded along and now finally stood before the house, and sure enough, a small faded sign said, Maggie Jensen’s House—Boarders Taken. “I’ll wait here for you,” Bailey said. “People get scared when they see me.”
“No! You come with me,” Violet ordered. She marched up the steps and knocked on the door. It was opened almost at once by a stern-faced woman in her fifties. “Yes, what do you want?”
“I’m looking for my brother, Ray Ballard.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “He ain’t here no more.”
Violet’s heart sank. “But we got a postcard—”
“I tell you he ain’t here. He was, but he had to leave a week ago. He couldn’t pay his rent, and I can’t afford to keep people who can’t pay.”
“Who is it, Ma?”
A heavyset man wearing thick spectacles came to stand beside the woman. “You looking for Ray?”
“Yes, do you know where he is?”
“Well, I ain’t for sure, but chances are he’s in that hobo jungle under the big bridge out south of town. That’s where most of them go who can’t pay.”
“Thank you,” Violet managed, and turned away dully. As they moved down the street, Bailey said, “That won’t be hard. I know how to find hobo jungles.”
Violet looked up at him and patted his arm. “Well, I guess we’d better go find it then.”
It took the best part of three hours, but finally, sure enough, Bailey said, “Look—there’s a bridge and there’s some hobos!”
The two walked quickly toward it and one hobo, who was frying something in a pan, looked up at them. He spoke cheerfu
lly, “Come in out of the cold. Welcome to the Rockford Hotel.” He waved at the bridge and the people crowded together underneath.
“I’m looking for Ray Ballard.”
At once, the hobo stood up. “Why, sure!” He pointed and said, “He’s right over there. How do you happen to know Ray?”
“He’s my brother,” Violet said. Bailey followed her as she made straight for the corner of the bridge, ignoring the stares from the men. She had not gone far when she saw a sleeping man with a ragged blanket pulled up underneath his chin. Her heart seemed to stop and she whispered, “Ray!” Going to him, she fell on her knees and put her hand on his chest. “Ray—it’s me—Violet!”
The sleeping man shook his head and opened his eyes groggily. He focused them and suddenly said, “Vi! Is it you?” He struggled to a sitting position and she threw her arms around him. He felt her tears on his whiskered cheek and when she drew back, he said, “What in the world are you doing here? How did you get here?”
“I came to get you. I’m going to take you home.”
Ray stared at her incredulously, taking in her ragged clothes and sunken eyes. “You mean you bummed it all the way from home?”
“Yes! Now tell me, how are you? Are you still sick?”
“I’m about over it. I’m a bit hungry, I guess.”
“We’ll fix that!” She turned and said, “Bailey—” reaching into her pocket and handing him a dollar bill, almost the last of the three dollars she had stuck in her coat pocket. “Go get all the beans and bread you can buy with that. This is my brother Ray.”
Ray looked up at the hulking man and blinked. “Well, glad to know you.” He looked at Violet, his eyebrows raised. “Who is this?”
“This is Bailey.” She rose and went to Bailey and pulled him forward, looking up at him proudly. “He’s kept me safe all the way, Ray. If it hadn’t been for Bailey, I just wouldn’t have made it. Shake hands with him, Ray.”
A Season of Dreams Page 7
