by Ronald Kidd
I had a dark place of my own. Sue Dean was there. She never had asked much of me, and when she did, I had let her down. I thought of our times at the cabin and how we had listened to music together. I didn’t go there now. The cabin had been our special place, and it wouldn’t be right to go there by myself. Staying away was like a punishment for what I’d done.
The crystal set, the books, the flowered curtains, the stack of Popular Mechanics—I left them all there. Maybe someone else would stumble across the cabin, see them, and wonder who had been there.
Meanwhile I was trapped inside Daddy’s house, and I could barely stand it. The days dragged. The nights pressed down. I’d lie in bed, imagining a better place. Sometimes I’d go to the window, look up at Holston Mountain, and think of that night with Sue Dean, when we rode our bikes and escaped together.
After the church closed, Daddy needed to earn some money, and he’d never been very good at it. He picked up a few odd jobs, but most people turned him away. I guess if somebody saves your immortal soul, you feel funny hiring him to wash your windows.
With school out, I put in more hours working for Mr. Lane, partly to help with money and partly because it was the one thing left that I enjoyed. I knew every inch of the Packard, and somehow that made driving it seem better. But I paid a price. I would haul Mr. Lane around town, and sometimes I’d imagine Sue Dean standing on the curb, glaring at us as we passed.
Every Friday afternoon Mr. Lane went to the Bristol Bank on State Street, and one week Gray came along, sitting in the back seat with his father to make sure everyone knew I worked for them. When we got to the bank, a crowd was waiting for us, yelling and shaking their fists. I recognized the man who had lived next door to the Bakers. I waved, and he scowled.
As we pulled up, the crowd surrounded the car, shouting.
“Up with the union!”
“Lane, go home!”
“We need jobs!”
I saw people who had come to Daddy’s church, decent people who were desperate. They pushed up against the car. Behind me, Gray shrank back, gripping his father’s arm.
For some reason I wasn’t scared. I was angry, like the people. They were losing their jobs, fired by a man who drove a Packard and lived in a mansion on the hill. Suddenly I wondered what I was doing in that car.
Mr. Lane sat behind me, calm and cold, his stiff expression like a coat of armor. He gave a nod, and a police whistle sounded. Four uniformed officers appeared, holding billy clubs.
“That’s enough!” they yelled. “Get out of here!”
The protesters pulled back. They gave a few more shouts, then broke up and headed off.
One of the officers approached the car. “Sorry, sir.”
He walked Mr. Lane into the bank. Gray shot me a grin. “We showed them.”
“We?” I said.
“You and me. Dad. Us.”
Hearing his words, thinking about what they meant—something inside me burst. “I’m not us. I’m not you.”
“Huh?”
“I’m the hired help. I’m not us. I’m them. Those people.”
Gray stared at me. “No, you’re not.”
“You think we’re friends? How come you’ve never been to my house? Why haven’t you asked about my family? You’ve never even met them.”
“Your father’s a preacher. I know that.”
“The church closed,” I told him. “Now he’s doing odd jobs for people like you.”
“You have a brother, don’t you?”
“His name is Arnie. A few weeks ago he almost died.”
“I’m sorry,” Gray mumbled.
“But you know all the important stuff, like your latest gadgets.”
“You like my gadgets,” he said.
Mr. Lane was back in a minute, his pants creased, his shirt starched, every hair in place. You’d never know he had just faced an angry crowd. How did he escape without a smudge? The answer had been in the police officer’s face and in the easy way Mr. Lane carried himself.
Power.
It’s what I wanted, what I didn’t have, what had run Sue Dean out of Bristol.
I hated it.
Mr. Lane stood beside the car, brushing dust from his suit.
“Do you remember a man named Harley Baker?” I asked him.
“Baker. Hmm, yes. Union.”
“You had a fight with him.”
Mr. Lane snorted. “That wasn’t a fight. I fired him.”
“Like all the others,” I said.
He shot me a little smile. “It’s simple economics.”
I wanted to wipe that smile off his face. I wondered if Sue Dean’s father had felt the same way when he had grabbed Mr. Lane.
“You’re hurting people,” I told him. “You’re ruining lives.”
“Just doing my job,” he said. But I noticed that he wasn’t smiling anymore.
“You don’t just fire them. You beat them up. You make them bleed. Or at least your goons do.”
“Goons?” he said.
“That’s what the union calls them. But you know that.”
He gazed at me. “Why are we talking about this?”
“Because it’s wrong,” I said.
“Let’s go home,” said Gray from the back seat.
I had to say something more, to speak up for Sue Dean and her father, and maybe most of all for myself. The words tumbled out.
“Mr. Lane,” I said, “you’re a terrible person.”
It was out there, and I couldn’t bring it back. I didn’t want to.
His eyes narrowed. The gaze turned into a glare. Something in his face slammed shut.
“Get out of the car,” he said.
With those words, he cut me out of his life, the way he’d cut out all the workers at the mill. In the end, I was just another employee, and employees can be fired. Simple economics.
Gray looked at his father, confused. Without his gadgets, he was a small, sad boy.
I opened the door, got out, and shut it behind me. There was a satisfying thunk, a deep, solid sound that only a Packard makes. I ran my hand over the perfect green paint. Then I stepped back, and Mr. Lane got in. He pushed a button, and there was a low hum, the sound of a big engine running smoothly.
“You’re a fool,” he said. But when I looked at his face, I saw that he was sad too.
He adjusted the mirror and drove off down State Street. Gray, still in the back seat, watched me as they disappeared around the corner.
CHAPTER 25
Mama and Daddy heard about what had happened at the bank. It seemed that everybody in town did. At supper that night, sitting at the kitchen table, Daddy asked me about it.
“There were fifty people or so,” I told him.
“Was there a fight?” asked Arnie, his eyes gleaming.
“The police broke it up,” I said.
“What about you?” asked Mama, worried. “Are you all right?”
“Sort of.”
Daddy looked at me funny.
“I wasn’t hurt,” I said. “No one was. But it made me mad, all those people that Mr. Lane fired. I told him so. That he was ruining their lives.”
“You said that?” asked Daddy.
“Yes, because it’s true.”
“What did he do?”
I shrugged. “I guess you could say he fired me.”
“Fired you!” It was Daddy’s best Jesus voice, the one that roared and made people wince. But it didn’t scare me.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “We need that money!”
I thought of an expression I’d heard Sue Dean use. “It’s blood money,” I said. “He earned it by hurting people. I don’t want it.”
“I do!” said Daddy.
He was lit up. I needed to put out the flame.
“Then you earn it,” I snapped. “You’re the father. Get a job—a real one, not screeching at people and dancing with snakes.”
He gaped at me.
Mama’s face went white. “Apologize to your father,” she said. “And to Arnie.”
“He’s the one who should apologize,” I told her. “To you, to me, especially to Arnie. Our family’s in trouble, all because of his phony religion.”
“Phony!” said Daddy.
“It’s not real. It’s pieces and parts. You take what you want and throw away the rest—things like science and music.”
At the sound of the word, Daddy got wild-eyed, almost scared. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
“Music isn’t evil,” I told him. “It’s good.”
“Jesus, shut my ears!” said Arnie.
I gave Daddy a hard look, like the one Mr. Lane had given me. “Maybe there is no Satan. Or maybe it’s you.”
“Nathan!” exclaimed Mama. “Go to your room!”
I shoved back my chair and went into the hall, but I didn’t go to my room. I went to theirs. I opened the closet, took out the shoebox, and carried it back to the kitchen.
When Mama saw it, she froze. Daddy stared.
“What’s that?” asked Arnie.
“Our family has secrets,” I told him. “They’re in this box.”
“Give it to me,” said Mama in a choked-up voice.
I said, “I’m sorry, Mama. It’s not just yours. It’s ours too.”
Daddy was twitching and shivering.
“This is Sister’s box,” I said. “It’s filled with her things.”
I opened the box and showed it to Arnie. He reached inside.
“Pictures,” he said. “Where did these come from?”
Mama was crying. Daddy was making noises in his throat.
I took out the slip of paper and unfolded it. “There’s words to a song: ‘Lord of the mountain…’”
“No!” screamed Mama.
Daddy’s face got red, like he was going to explode.
Arnie lifted out one of the photos. “What’s this one?”
I took it from him and looked. “That’s Sister’s grave.”
Daddy bellowed and then struck, like the snake. He leaped toward me, knocking over his chair, and grabbed my arm. I dropped the box, and the contents spilled across the floor—baby shoes, the lock of hair, photos.
Mama sank to the floor. On her hands and knees, she tried to gather up her precious things, while Daddy and I struggled.
“A fight!” shrieked Arnie, eyes gleaming again, egging us on like some twisted cheerleader.
Daddy reached for the photo of Sister’s grave, and I held it away from him. He let out an angry roar and backhanded me across the face, stunning me for a moment. Grabbing the photo, he pulled. I pulled back.
There was a ripping sound. We stopped and gaped. Sister’s grave was torn in two—like me, like the whole stupid town of Bristol.
Slowly, deliberately, I put my half on the table. I reached up and touched the corner of my mouth. It was bleeding.
Daddy collapsed into a chair and leaned over the torn photo. Lining up the two halves, he stared sadly at Sister’s final resting place. Arnie brought him some tape, and Daddy tried to put them back together.
I turned and walked off.
PART IV
THE WANDERING BOY
Out in the cold world and far away from home
Somebody’s boy is wandering alone
No one to guide him and keep his footsteps right
Somebody’s boy is homeless tonight
—A. P. Carter, “The Wandering Boy”
CHAPTER 26
The whistle blew. The freight train started to move.
We watched from behind some shrubs at the edge of the railroad yard. The steam engine rolled slowly toward us—huge, black, iron wheels taller than a man.
“Now?” I asked.
“Wait,” he said.
The engine labored by, picking up speed.
“Now?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said.
The coal car followed, then a long, flat car loaded with lumber. Behind it came a boxcar. The door was open.
“Now!” he said.
He lit out from behind the shrubs, limping but moving with surprising speed. I followed, backpack bumping as I ran. When we reached the boxcar, he trotted alongside, then gripped one of the two metal bars beside the open door. Swinging sideways, he grabbed the other bar and pulled himself up and through the door.
Then it was just the train and me. The noise was tremendous—clacking and whirring, groaning and rumbling, as much a feeling as a sound. One step and I was on my way. One slip and I’d go under.
I reached for one of the bars, closed my hand around it, and squeezed. Then, remembering the way he’d done it, I turned sideways and reached for the other bar. As I touched it, my foot hit a rock and I stumbled.
Suddenly I was dangling one-armed from the train.
I bumped the boxcar and bounced off. My feet dragged on the ground. My hand, damp with sweat, started to slip. The wheels clattered and roared, just inches away.
He grabbed my wrist. Others gripped my arm, collar, belt. I flew up and into the boxcar, skidding on my elbows and knees.
“Nice landing,” he said.
His name was Bill, or at least that’s what he had told me. Early that morning he had spotted me in the railroad yard, headed for one of the parked trains.
He had yanked me aside and said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Leaving home, I wanted to say. Going away and never coming back.
“Getting on the train,” I told him.
He was a small, wiry man who could have been thirty or sixty. His face was grimy, and his tattered clothes hung loose. He walked with a limp.
“Don’t get on here,” he said, looking around the yard. “If the bulls see you, they’ll beat you up, then take your money and whatever else you’ve got.”
“Bulls?”
“Railroad police. They’re thugs, hired to scare us off. Don’t let ’em catch you.”
“Then how do I get on?” I asked.
“Go to the edge of the yard. Wait till a train starts moving.” He looked at me and sighed. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
An hour later I was in the boxcar. Bill and the others sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. There were three more besides him—a Negro man, a teenage boy, and a woman wearing jeans, a work shirt, and a look that said, I’m tougher than you.
I couldn’t sit. I was too excited or scared, or maybe both. I shrugged off my backpack and set it next to Bill, then stepped over to the door and looked out. The town of Bristol rolled by. But this wasn’t the pretty Bristol I was used to. It was the back side, the side facing the tracks.
There were clotheslines, trash dumps, abandoned cars. People worked and talked and yelled and fought. They showed you things you’d never see out front. A woman whipped a dog. A man stood at a washtub, shirt off, scrubbing under his arms. Children argued and played. A boy with dark skin and a missing tooth waved at us, and I waved back.
Soon Bristol was gone, replaced by hills and then mountains. It was summer, and the trees were full green. The sugar maples were my favorites. Beneath the trees were trillium and roses. I thought of the wildwood flower Sue Dean had given me, and I took it from my wallet, where I kept it pressed in waxed paper. The flower had dried and was falling apart, but I could still make out the color—orange in the center and red at the tips, like Sue Dean’s hair.
The train labored up the mountain’s grade. A hot breeze blew. Bristol was behind me. I didn’t know what lay ahead. All I knew was I had to get out.
One by one, my reasons for staying had been taken away—Ralph Peer, Sue Dean, the job. Now the only thing left was my family, which was what I’d been trying to escape in the first place. Released from the tent, they were bearing down on me. The fight with Daddy had been the final push. It was time to go.
The morning after our fight, I got up before dawn and put a few things in my backpack. I reached into a drawer and pulled out a roll of bills held togethe
r by a rubber band. There wasn’t much—maybe ten dollars I’d saved up—but it would have to do.
I found a pencil and scribbled a note. I’m leaving. It’s better this way.
Taking the note, I tiptoed to the kitchen. Mama had left the shoebox on the counter from the night before, and inside was the taped-up photo of Sister’s grave. I studied the photo, then slipped it into my wallet. I left the note next to the box, then walked out the door.
CHAPTER 27
Why do people ride the rails?
Some say it’s the sights. If you’re on a freight train, you see things you never noticed before—faces, factories, chimneys. Beyond them, the world stretches off in the distance, waiting to be discovered.
Some say it’s the smells. One man claimed to love cinder and smoke. He wore them on his clothes like a badge. I didn’t believe it though. The smells I remembered were stale urine, spoiled food, and people who needed a bath.
Some say it’s the taste or touch. When you’re hungry and alone, half a sandwich can seem like a feast. A pat on the shoulder lasts for days.
For me, it was the sounds—the click of the rails, the clang of a crossing, the shriek of the whistle going around the bend. It was music, train music. I heard it for the first time as I stood in the boxcar door that morning, watching the trees go by.
We traveled north and west into Virginia, across Clinch Mountain, through Hamilton Gap, over Big Moccasin Creek. Just the names got me excited. Bill recited them as they went by. He told me he was headed for a little town called Mendota, to find his wife.
“I left a year ago looking for work,” he said. “That’s why I was in Bristol. I went to the lumber mill, but they turned me away. It was the same most places. No jobs. I’d been planning to send money home to my wife, but recently when I’ve written to her, the letters have been returned and not opened.”
“Where do you think she went?” I asked.
“That’s what I aim to find out.”
I thought of Mama, Daddy, and Arnie. “Do you have any children?”
“None, thank God.” He caught himself. “No offense. How old are you?”
