The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  “I can’t believe we did it,” Morgan said. “Can’t believe we’re out of there. It feels— Hey, Fontana, it feels pretty good.”

  Lee smiled. “I told you we’d make it,” and he forgot his earlier uncertainty.

  Now that they were clear of the yard he rolled the door open and sat with his back against its edge looking out at the city slipping by, at the little stores, their windows softly lit, many with Christmas decorations, at the little box houses with Christmas trees in their windows. But then soon they were in open country, gathering speed, the mournful cries of the whistle echoing across the night, a siren call that eased and comforted Lee. They were moving on, fast and free, heading toward a different kind of job than he’d ever pulled. Not a robbery but an adventure that would, if all went well, set straight the lives of those he cared about. He was sitting with his back against the wall of the boxcar, thinking about Sammie, when he felt the ghost cat walk across his legs. Unseen, the big tom settled down in the straw, his head on Lee’s outstretched knee. Had the tomcat been with them all along? Was Lee more aware of him when he paused to rest, when he was not distracted, his senses more alert to the ghost cat?

  And, he wondered, did Misto like the trains, too? Did the ghost cat like their galloping rattle and screaming whistle as they ate up the miles? Sure as hell the spirit cat seemed mighty pleased with himself.

  Maybe he, too, was happy they were out of there, that they were on their way?

  Their bold and chancy plan might be infinitesimal, Lee thought, in the vast scheme of the universe.

  Or, in that eternally unwinding tangle, did even the smallest blow for good matter? Was the very effort to right a wrong, in fact, the heart of mortal life? Was this the secret that made life real?

  30

  THE TRAIN’S SPEED altered, jerking Lee awake as they passed through a switch. He’d slept cold, and the ghost cat had left him. When he eased the door open, the icy night chilled his bones. As the train slowed to a creep he cracked the door wider and looked ahead.

  They were approaching a freight yard, he could see the edge of the dark platform, a lighted tower marked Birmingham. He shook Morgan awake. There’d been a couple of stops during the night when Morgan had risen to keep watch, but then they’d moved on again. Now as Lee reached for the canvas bag, out of the blackness half a dozen men swarmed off the platform running in both directions, fanning out along the train.

  “They’re searching,” Lee hissed, grabbing the canvas bag. “Move it.”

  They dropped to the track bed running, ducked under a line of standing cars, ran dodging across the freight yard behind and under boxcars, Morgan still half asleep. Beyond a row of freight cars the beams of powerful flashlights swung toward them. Four lights, five, leaping up the sides of the boxcars, searching along their tops, then down among the train’s wheels. They followed behind the lights’ wake, but were stopped by a six-foot wall.

  They scaled the brick barrier fast, helping each other over. Were the cops checking every train heading out of Atlanta? If they searched this yard, would they hit every yard, every station, one town to the next? That meant they’d have to drop off each train before they reached the station, keep away from the freight yards, stay to the outlying fields until they were past each town, catch another train on beyond, and that would sure slow them.

  On the other side of the wall they lay flat, listening, until the reflection of lights stopped roaming above and the sound of running feet faded. Rising, double-timing away from the walled yard, they moved on past a metal plant, a junked-car lot, a pipe yard. In the dark, the rough, weed-tangled ground slowed them. They made their way through the industrial section of Birmingham, avoiding occasional security lights mounted on rooftops or cyclone fences, but trying to stay near the tracks.

  But soon the sky lightened toward dawn and the rough industries gave way to run-down houses. In another half hour of shabby streets they were beyond the city in another industrial area. They could see a railroad signal ahead, then an overhead crane lifting sheets of metal, maybe a steel fabrication plant. They were both hungry, and Lee’s back ached from the hard jolting floor of the boxcar. “Men working down there,” he said, “there should be a food wagon.”

  Moving on fast, they soon stood on a low hill above the steel plant, the top of the crane just at eye level. The yard below was surrounded by a six-foot wire fence, its gate open. A snack truck stood just inside, surrounded by men swilling coffee, eating doughnuts.

  Leaving Morgan, Lee angled down the embankment and in through the open gate to mingle with the crowd of workmen. At the truck’s coffee urn he drew two paper cups of brew, then gathered up a dozen doughnuts and a couple of sandwiches, dropping them in a paper bag from a little rack. The vendor, watching him, took his five-dollar bill, punched out some coins from his belt and added three ones. “Haven’t seen you before. Just start on the job?”

  Lee nodded, and dropped the change in his pocket. “Just this morning.”

  The vendor raised an eyebrow. “Big appetite.”

  “My buddy missed breakfast.” Turning away, he eased back through the crowd toward the nearest metal building, and glanced around. When he thought no one was watching he doubled back between two sheds, behind some parked cars, and up the hill again to where Morgan waited. They ate as they walked, devouring half the doughnuts, sucking in air to cool the coffee. They tucked the rest of the doughnuts and the sandwiches in their jacket pockets, ground the empty cups down into the weeds and kicked dirt over them.

  “We need blanket rolls,” Lee said, glancing at the meager canvas bundle Morgan carried. “Some food staples, couple of cook pans. Too risky to eat in restaurants. The less we’re seen the better.”

  Morgan had stopped and was listening. Then Lee heard it too, the wailing whistle of an approaching train, and across a winter-brown field they could see the raised track bed. They left the road, crossed the field running, crouched low beside the track. They had no way to know if the train would slow, but here on the industrial outskirts it was likely. They could hear the rumble in the tracks now, they watched the black speck grow nearer. “It’ll be different this time,” Lee said. “If it only slows some, we’ll have to run like hell.”

  Approaching the steel plant the train dropped its speed, its whistle screaming short, hard blasts. They could see it didn’t mean to stop. As the engine sped by, Lee picked a car and ran, gave it all he had. He grabbed the iron rung and jumped. The forward momentum slammed his body against the ladder knocking the wind out. He held tight, gasping for breath. When he looked back, Morgan was still running, losing ground trying to make the next car, a flatcar with a row of heavy crates down the center covered by a canvas tarp. Lee was about to drop off again, keep from getting separated, when a man appeared from under the canvas, knelt, grabbed Morgan’s hand, and lofted him up onto the flatcar.

  The hobo and Morgan stood beside the canvas tarp looking up along the cars at Lee. Carefully he worked his way along the side of the car to the back, clinging to the metal handholds, sucking air, trying to get his breath. He was sweating hard when he’d crossed the swaying coupling to the flatcar. As he scrambled onto it, Morgan and the hobo grabbed his hands to steady him. The hobo was maybe twenty-some, his stubble of beard grizzled brown and gray over thin, caved-in cheeks. He wore loose jeans with threadbare knees, a rusty leather coat, and, on his head, a war surplus helmet liner. “Name’s Beanie.” He looked Lee over, took another good look at Morgan, seemed comfortable with what he saw. “Come on in, it’s nice and warm inside.”

  They followed him in under the tarp to a small, cozy space between the crates, as snug as a little house. Blanket folded lengthwise to form a sitting pad, a Sterno burner snuffling away under a blackened coffeepot, a second Sterno rig burning under a stewpot that bubbled with meat and vegetables. Lee and Morgan held their hands near the little flames as Beanie dug tin cups, tin plates, and half a loaf of French bread from a canvas duffel.

  “Mighty fine camp
,” Lee said, accepting a plate of hot stew, sitting cross-legged at one end of the pad.

  Beanie grinned. “Latched onto this out of Waycross. A fellow learns to make do. Had to roll up camp twice before that, once going through Atlanta—railroad dicks all over the place. Don’t know what they were after.” He gave Lee a long look. “I dropped off, waited until they checked the cars, slipped back on as she was pulling out.” His accent was as Southern as Morgan’s, but his diction was not that of most hobos.

  Lee was quiet, mopping up gravy with the good French bread. When they were finished he passed Beanie the bag of doughnuts and settled back against the vibrating crate. “Feels mighty good to have something warm in the belly and a warm, fine shelter.”

  “It’s all woods along here,” Beanie said. “The trees in those woods? They’re full of Civil War shot. I found an old musket along here once, buried in a trench, nearly all rusted away. I used to make camp along in these woods. There are several old Confederate trenches in there.” He looked at Lee. “Guess they fought that war different out in the West where you come from.”

  Lee nodded. “Most Westerners were for the Union, but a lot of the Western Indian nations, they sent men to fight for the South.”

  “A terrible war, the Civil War—those old single-shot powder rifles and the cold,” Beanie said. “Men froze to death, starved to death, died of infection and every kind of sickness.”

  “You were in the military,” Lee said.

  “Career army, starting in World War I. But that’s all behind me.” He dumped some water from his canteen onto his plate and put it to heat, to wash their dishes. “I’m heading for Memphis, the riverbank south of the bridge, real nice camp there. You’re welcome to join me.”

  Lee smiled. “Not many good camps left anymore. But I guess we’ll keep moving.”

  IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON when they hit the outskirts of Memphis. They said their good-byes to Beanie, knowing they’d likely never meet again. One of those chance encounters you’d carry with you for the rest of your life, a nostalgic and lasting memory that saddened Lee. Dropping off as the train slowed, they hit the ground running.

  Cutting away from the track they were soon in a quiet neighborhood of neatly kept houses. Lighted Christmas trees shone in the windows, and beyond the cozy houses were several blocks of small businesses decorated up with candles, holly, red and green lights. Morgan said, “It’s nearly Christmas, and they’ll be alone . . . except for Becky’s family. But not the three of us together.” He turned to look at Lee, trying to shake off the loneliness. Up ahead stood a small brick church, its brass cross cutting the low skyline, and on the lawn, racks of used clothing and a small hand-painted sign: THRIFT SHOP.

  “Tacky,” Morgan said, “old used stuff cluttering up a church yard.” But the door of the church basement was framed with Christmas lights, and when they’d moved down the steps and inside, Lee began to grin. The shop had everything they wanted. From the crowded tables they selected four thick blankets, a coffeepot, a saucepan, two tin plates, tin cups, and some soft cotton rope. Lee found a good canteen and a couple of switchblade knives, which surprised him. He picked up a can of heavy grease to coat their aging waterproof boots, and a couple of burlap feed bags. The two old women who ran the shop sat side by side behind the counter, knitting colored squares for an afghan. Lee remembered his mother making afghan squares, as well as quilt squares to be stuffed with goose and duck down, to keep them warm in the harsh Dakota winters.

  He paid for the gear, shoved the small stuff in the two gunnysacks except for the knives, which they pocketed. He laid the folded blankets on top, cut the rope in half, and tied the bags closed. Two blocks down the street at a dark little grocery they bought coffee, bacon, bread, a slab of cheese, and four cans of beans. It was dark by the time they’d crossed Memphis and set up camp in a little woods. They cleared a space of brush, made a small campfire, heated up the beans, and made coffee. Morgan said, “Think I’ll get to a phone tomorrow, some little store maybe, and call Becky. Let her know we’re all right.”

  “The hell you will.”

  “The hell I won’t. She’s got to be worried.”

  “I told you, no phone calls. The bureau boys have questioned her by now. They sure have her place staked out and her telephone tapped. You phone her, not only will the feds trace the call and find us, pick us up, Becky will be charged with aiding our escape.”

  “I didn’t think,” Morgan said, picking up a stick and poking at the coals. “I just—I know she’s worried.”

  “Better worried than getting us caught.” Lee doused the fire with the last of the coffee and rolled up in his blankets. “We’ve got a long pull ahead, important things to do. Let’s concentrate on that.” He shivered even in the thick blankets. And before they reached warm country again, the weather would get colder. The newspaper Morgan had picked from the trash, in the last town, said the Midwest was having the coldest winter in twenty years. Lee thought about Christmas when he was a kid, snow piled high against the house and barn, great chunks of snow sliding off the steep roofs. A spindly little Christmas tree with homemade paper ornaments. A wild turkey for their Christmas dinner, or one of the pheasants his mother canned, the prairie was overrun with pheasants. That always amused him. Back then, on the prairie, pheasants might be all a starving family had to live on. The exact same delicacy which, not many miles away in some fancy city restaurant, would cost them a small fortune.

  From that night on, moving west, they were always cold, slogging through snow in boots that took up water in spite of the aging waterproofing and the grease they applied. They continued to avoid the cities, dropping off the train to circle through farms and open country or through slums. Most of the farms had Christmas lights, as did some of the slum houses. It was in such an area that they faced a surly, mean-tempered drunk and Lee saw in the man’s eyes not drunken bleariness but the dark’s cold presence, eyes hard with promise as the man crouched, his knife flashing. They dodged, circling him. Lee received a slice across his arm before Morgan had the guy down; and now the man’s eyes went dull again, reflecting only the bleary look of a common drunk.

  “Why would a bum be interested in us?” Morgan said when they’d turned away. “Do we look like we have money?”

  Lee laughed, but he was sickened by what he’d seen in that brief moment. They moved on fast, leaving the drunk sitting against a building, his head in his hands, trying to recover from Morgan’s blows. This time the devil’s invasion had netted only a cut on Lee’s arm. But what about the next time? Good luck they hadn’t had to kill the man, Lee thought as he swabbed the wound with the iodine Becky had put in their pack. Sure, drunks got killed in brawls. But he’d rather not leave a dead body marking their trail. That kind of sloppiness annoyed him.

  31

  CIRCLING THE SMALL towns with their Christmas lights, avoiding the switching yards and then racing to grab a train as it pulled out, they missed more than one ride. Often on the ramshackle edge of a town they dodged away from a patrolling cop car, or one slowed, pacing them, watching them. “Plenty of hobos around,” Lee said, “they’re just checking us out.” But the law’s scrutiny made him some nervous. In Oklahoma a hard blizzard caught them. The temperature dropped steadily, the chill cut through them like knives. Lee was sick of cold weather, and even Texas was icy. Why did they have to pick the coldest winter of the century? Out of Fort Worth when they missed a westbound, a semi driver picked them up, a slack-faced man with wide-set eyes. He didn’t talk much, he just drove, and that was fine with Lee.

  But then, after maybe thirty miles he began to ask questions. Lee answered him in one-syllable lies, then started with questions of his own. Were did he hail from? What was he hauling? That shut the man up. Lee pulled his hat over his face and went to sleep. It was some hours later that Morgan nudged him. The trucker had slowed, they were in a little cow town, two blocks of dusty wooden buildings and a small old café marked with a wooden sign: TRAIN STATION. The tra
in track ran behind it, parallel to the highway. The trucker dropped them at the café, drove another eighth of a mile, and turned west on a dirt road that looked like it led to nowhere; maybe he was headed home.

  Stepping into the wooden building, sitting on stools at the counter, they treated themselves to fried eggs, fried potatoes, and hot apple pie. The waitress, a pillow-fat blonde in her sixties with an understanding smile, looked them over as she poured their coffee. “The eastbound’s due in half an hour,” she said. “The westbound, an hour after that.” And Lee guessed they weren’t the only hobos traveling this route. Finishing their pie and coffee, Lee thanked her for the information, made sure he tipped her, and they hiked out along the train track to a stand of pale trees. Sitting down with their backs against the thick trunk of a giant cottonwood, they made themselves comfortable, listening for the far-off rumble, for a lone and distant whistle.

  “It’s nearly Christmas Eve,” Morgan said. “A few more days. Will they go home to Caroline’s or stay at Anne’s? Maybe Caroline will drive down from Rome. I hope Sammie will be happy Christmas morning, excited to open a few presents?” he said doubtfully. “What’s she seeing in her dreams? Maybe only the good times? Maybe she dreamed of Beanie’s warm little house on the flatcar and the good hot stew?”

  Lee only looked at him. They both knew Sammie would dream of the bad times, the brutal cold, the man with the knife and evil eyes.

  “I can’t hold her and comfort her,” Morgan said. “I can’t help her.” He was in a dour mood when they left the cottonwoods running, swinging aboard a boxcar as the approaching train slowed for the small rural station.

  Settling back to watch the land roll by, they managed to stay with this freight several days, slipping behind shipping crates when they made a stop. The nights grew warmer, the wind didn’t cut like ice, Lee’s cough subsided. New Mexico was cool but not freezing. Lee liked seeing sheep grazing, and the herds of antelope that hardly stirred as the train sped past them. Approaching Phoenix, they dropped off the car onto bare red land among the red bluffs and raw canyons. The Arizona sky was blue and clear, buzzards cruising the wind searching for the stink of anything dead. Walking through Phoenix, they replenished their supplies at a small, side-street grocery. Moving on past the freight yards, they saw no sign of cops. On the far side when they slipped aboard, the boxcar was crowded with men settled in small groups. They nodded at Lee and Morgan and didn’t seem threatening. Most of them were braceros, keeping to themselves. West of Phoenix, Lee began to get nervous.