Tracks

by K. M. Tolan

  She laced her words with dire promise. “We both know it won’t be just like that.”

  He slept in the living room that night.

  The next day began with a hardy breakfast before Chepi outfitted them with buckskin backpacks brimming with food and utensils. The supplies were a sobering reminder that merely casting tracks toward Cleveland didn’t preclude having to walk the distance. Samantha looked more the hobo part with jeans and a red-checkered shirt. For Vincent, his old black T-shirt and jeans, along with the long coat, was enough for what might come ahead, though he did take the heavy leather boots Chepi offered.

  He took turns with Samantha at not speaking to each other while enduring a bone-jarring ride in the back of Red’s rusty black pickup. There was only one road—little more than graveled ruts, but the passage brought them out where the sun spread itself along a creek lined by milkweeds and cranberry bushes. The humid midday air was alive with the coming and going of various insects, no doubt attracted by both the water and the sweet scent of wild tiger lilies in a nearby field. A light wind mixed the perfume of flowers with gravel dust and green waters.

  Red brought the truck to a stop and pointed toward the field. “We’ll lay our line far enough away as not to bother folks. Shawnee’s idea of things might take a turn if they stumbled into Hobohemia.”

  “We?” Vincent inquired after helping Samantha from the floor bed. She handed him his cane, her face set in a carefully neutral expression.

  Red pulled his own cane from the front seat. “Yep. Thing about laying track is it doesn’t stick around long if you’re not sure where you’re going.”

  “I found that out for myself,” Vincent acknowledged sourly, remembering his first and only time calling track.

  “I’ve been to Kingsbury,” Red continued, standing aside while Chepi and Samantha exchanged hugs and muted words. “We’ll drop this track together so a conductor can get notice of it. Might save you a long hike if we can coax a freight up from Lima.”

  Vincent watched Chepi reach back into the pickup for a brown bottle. “That whiskey? Bit early for drinking, ain’t it?”

  “We’ll be needing it,” Red assured. “You’ve been to Lima, so you’ll pin down the southwest part of the line. I’ll take care of the northeast part.”

  Vincent grinned. “Looks like I owe ya for both the help and the drink.”

  A sober shake of the old man’s head met his gratitude. “No son, you don’t. Think it’s time I square with you about your father. Jack didn’t set down those tracks to Detroit. I did. I hightailed it here after finding out what was at the other end. Your father took the blame for Taylorists getting a foot inside Hobohemia.”

  Vincent let Red’s words tumble around in his head for a minute before speaking. Even Samantha’s jaw went slack with the revelation. “Why?”

  Red’s shrug appeared more of a nervous twitch. “For gandy dancers, scouting out a profitable city is like hitting the mother lode. You ride on the fortune, or misfortune if the line goes bad. I took one look at this Taylorism stuff and wanted to kill the Detroit line, but your father stopped me. He figured the old baron wouldn’t buy into what those soul-suckers were selling. So, Cracker Jack paid me a nice sum of money to go hide, and he took credit for making the line. Had things worked out, your father would’ve ended up a very rich man.”

  “Instead of being drug through the dirt,” Vincent finished, not liking any of what he heard. “You could’ve gone back. Saved our name.”

  Red sighed. “Deal was a deal. You father insisted on keeping to the agreement. Told me it was his bed to lie in. Be sure where you set your track down, son. Be damn sure, and don’t make no deals you’ll come to regret.” He hefted his cane. “Let’s get this done.”

  What if Dad had been right? Who would’ve been the one holding the wrong end of their bargain then? The thought kept Vincent from uttering the barbed accusations rising from his gut as they walked through the field with Chepi and Samantha. Nobody had to tell him about living with guilt. Forgiveness, well, that was something he rarely found himself in a position to offer.

  He put a hand on Red’s shoulder, pausing them for a moment. “I’d say your debt’s more than paid—leastwise with me.”

  The elder gandy dancer’s lips pursed for a moment before Red nodded. “I appreciate that. If you do get around to seeing Jack, you pass on my regards.”

  Vincent clasped the man’s hand. “I’ll do that.”

  Red Socks took a long breath, glanced up at the sun then back at his wife. “All right, Brass. Put your back to me. What you do next is jab your bar as deep into the ground as you can, and let it take you. Get back to where you remember the most hurt, and head a pace further to what got you there. Keep Lima on your mind and the rest will take its course. Laying track is that simple, and that hard.”

  Vincent regarded the clump of grass at his feet, and glanced back to where Samantha stood watching. Lima. Back where he last saw his sister. He raised his walking stick, already seeing the tall lining rod’s steel instead of the smooth ash. The shaft’s sudden weight helped him drive its pointed tip into the soil.

  He felt himself pushed down along with the rod, propelled by the ugliest of truths. This is how I lost you, Katy. This is how my family tore itself apart. Because of me.

  The rod kept sinking until the heated metal arrived at his own personal hell. He fell through layers of anguish—from his sister’s horrified expression as the diesel sucked her in, to the final look on his father’s bloodied face for a son who failed to save him. Finally, Vincent arrived at the steam-wrapped core of his wrenching sobs, his fingers still curled around Katy’s missing hand in the gray fog of the passing engine.

  One pace further. Red’s instruction forced him to step into the musings of a bored young boy on a summer outing with his little sister. The horror faded, giving him a brief respite amid daydreams of those knights and rail barons Dad talked about. He dreamed of long tracks that would take him there.

  The tracks came.

  Vincent took a shuddering breath, blinked, and stared down shimmering rails lancing across an Ohio meadow. Chepi and Samantha were running toward him and Red, the older gandy dancer having slid down to a sitting position, his hands still wrapped around his imbedded lining rod.

  Groaning, Vincent sagged down beside Red and leaned against his own metal shaft buried between the ties. “Jesus.”

  “Amen,” Red added, his face lined and drawn from facing his own devils. He managed a dry laugh. “Now you understand, don’t ya, boy?”

  Vincent had to ask. “So what did you have to remember?”

  Red’s grimace crept across his weathered face, his eyes wrinkling as if opening an old wound. “I wasn’t always in the service of trains, son. Up in Canada I used to rob them. That was a long time ago, just not long enough.”

  Fourteen

  Vincent sighed. Nothing but trees or the occasional cow pasture. God, Ohio could be boring. Glancing back down the rail line, he couldn’t tell if the shimmering serpentine of steel was already fading or simply a reflection of a hot afternoon sun. He glanced at his equally grumpy traveling companion. “Two days of this shit. You sure we’re in Hobohemia?”

  “Get off the tracks and find out for yourself,” Samantha returned listlessly, her tone as weary as his legs. She shifted the backpack strapped to her red-checkered shirt. “I told you we were still a long way from Cleveland.”

  “Which Cleveland?” Considering the alternate Ohios he’d been in, it seemed a fair question.

  “The same Cleveland as always. Some cities never change because they’re anchored to Hobohemia by a big hobo jungle like the one at Kingsbury Run. My father never liked the Cleveland authorities, so he tried running everyone out of the Run. He sent yegg to commit murders and blame Cannoli for it. Grisly stuff, really bad.

  “Why? To make Cleveland go away?”

  She nodded. “Leaving guess-who with a big slice of Hobohemia under his control.”

 
; “You tell Cannoli or Willy this?”

  “No.”

  Vincent decided not to pry further, her dark eyes already looking to burn holes through the ties beneath their feet. He let her stony silence take its course, now used to the girl’s mood swings.

  Finally, Samantha favored him with a sour look. “My real father took me hunting, remember? Guess where.”

  Here’s another conversation gone straight to hell. “How about we take a break and I keep my trap shut so we can eat in peace?”

  She slumped down on a rail and set aside her sack, a collection of cooking gear rattling like tin drums. “This from a man who’s barely talked since we started.”

  He sat beside her, injecting humor into a touchy subject. “I don’t believe in yelling at storm clouds without having an umbrella handy. You’re not an easy person to say no to.”

  “You didn’t say no,” she corrected. “You said you’d give me the rock if your sister refused it. She’ll refuse it. Trust me.”

  He pulled his long coat off his shoulder and risked putting an arm around her. “Sammy, I’m not sure I can go through with this anyway. Red’s right. My father’s dead. I don’t want to be. I’m not even sure I want to take Freedom home again. Maybe it’s best to free her and stay out of her life. She’s not Katy. Not anymore. All I’ve given her is trouble since I got here.”

  Samantha was on her feet in an instant. “Stop talking like that. You free her, and free your father too. If Freedom said he’s in trouble, you best believe he needs your help. Alive or dead.”

  He gauged the anger in her eyes, seeing none of the malignancy waiting behind them. Was there anything still left there? Her nights with him had passed without incident, making him hope Chepi’s last attempt at curing the yegg inside her had met with more success than Samantha dared admit to.

  He felt safe to let off a little steam of his own. “Don’t act like you’re only after that rock. You care about my father because you finally give a damn about me, right?”

  “I only think about myself,” she replied, sinking down beside him again. “At least I’m honest enough to admit as much, which is more than I can say about Freedom. When Red told you about your sister and me working together, he wasn’t kidding. She wants me to have the rock, too. Do you seriously think she’ll want to become human only to run off to a mother who wouldn’t recognize her anyway?”

  He dug his cane into the ballast, wanting to pry himself out of this discussion with the same ease he flipped bits of granite against the rails. “I’d say we already had this debate, remember?”

  She folded her arms, her brow creasing. “What scares me is hearing you talk like you’re getting cold feet.”

  He laughed. “It’s the part about me having to die that’s hard to swallow.”

  “Almost die.”

  Vincent raised a hand. “Again, we already went through this, okay?”

  Samantha’s lips curled back, and for a moment he feared glimpsing the yegg pacing behind the acid dripping from her words. “Not all of it. Not the backstabbing part. When your father gave Freedom the rock, she threw it away. My one chance to cleanse this filth inside me and she just tossed in a boiler then had the gall to tell me afterward. Damn addle-headed bitch didn’t realize what she’d done until I started screaming at her.”

  Vincent sighed. Yeah, he could imagine his sister doing that on a whim. “I take it this is when you two parted ways.”

  She nodded, her anger cooling to a mournful frown. “She couldn’t even look at me after that. I didn’t see her until years later when she returned to free the steam children my father planned to use for the hybrid diesels. I was the one who actually opened the valves to let them out, by the way.” Her laugh came out dryer than dust. “They should’ve named me Freedom.”

  “She promised you another rock in exchange for your help?” Vincent guessed.

  “Freedom was going to tell your father she changed her mind about going home in order to get him to go back for another piece. My job was to bring Cracker Jack back to her—he’d been deliberately staying away after their last meeting. Instead, I came down the tracks with you, so Freedom and I made a new plan. One that doesn’t have her using the rock herself. She’s still lying to you, Vincent.”

  Her assertion sounded about as steady as a dry leaf in an autumn wind. You’re afraid she won’t go along with the deal this time. Neither of them could’ve foreseen the twin misfortunes of his father stuck on the Westbound and Freedom equally trapped inside the baron’s hybrid diesel. Circumstances had a habit of changing the tightest bargain. Still, the last thing he wanted to do was shove Samantha deeper into the shards of broken hopes. She was already dangerous to be around without adding desperation to the mix, not to mention he didn’t want to hurt her.

  “I can always go back for a second rock, Sammy.”

  Her lopsided grin dripped with scorn. “Of course you will. Right after you free your sister. Oh, and find Timepiece’s train for him. And, while we’re on the subject of avoiding promises, don’t forget about King Willy wanting you to break the line between Erie and Detroit. All while I rot from the inside out.”

  “You haven’t gone yegg once since we left,” Vincent pointed out. “You sure it wasn’t pulled out of you?”

  She let out a breath and folded her arms. “Trust me, I’m sure.” Samantha turned toward him with a hesitant smile. “The answer’s yes.”

  “The what?”

  “About me liking you. I’m just not wanting to deal with that right now, okay?”

  He laughed, and hugged her. “Fair enough.”

  Her admission, along with the savory aroma of beans and frying sausages, helped part the clouds between them. The waver of a distant light coming up the tracks from Lima bolstered their flagging spirits. The shimmering mirage transformed to a reality of chugging steam and vibrating rails.

  “Hope it’s going slow,” Vincent said, quickly gathering up his gear. “Bad time to admit I’ve never hopped a train before.”

  Samantha stepped away from the rails with her bindle in hand. “A gandy dancer can still die on his own track, so be careful. Toss your sack in first so you have both hands free. Pray there’s an open boxcar, and bless whoever the conductor is for using your line.”

  “Not sure we’re going to need to worry much,” he observed, gesturing to the steam venting from the oncoming locomotive—a medium sized Mikado engine from the looks of it. A hoot from its whistle, accompanied by the ringing squeal of brakes, confirmed his suspicions. Freights didn’t stop for hobos, but this one looked to be doing just that. The machine rumbled past them, moist clouds enveloping Vincent and…planting a kiss on his cheek?

  A feminine-shaped vapor whirled around him, the steam child’s wide eyes barely contained behind square spectacles. Her exclamation came in an excited whoosh. “A gandy dancer’s first track sings like none other. Congratulations, Brass!”

  “Hello, Glory,” he returned, a flash of hope smothered as he recognized her.

  “Where’s your sister?” the steam child inquired over the squeak and rattle of the tender’s passing.

  “Trapped inside Baron Erie’s diesel,” he grated, hating the stricken look that replaced Glory’s cheery disposition. “Sammy and I are going after her.”

  Her visage transformed into dark roiling clouds. “We all are,” Glory hissed, casting a sharp glance toward Samantha. “We are restoring Erie’s rightful baron and ending this slavery.”

  “Rightful baron?” Samantha coolly repeated after Glory jetted off. “William’s on this train.”

  “Along with every knight he managed to scrape up,” Vincent added, not bothering to count the waving hands from trailing boxcars.

  ~ * ~

  “Things have gotten a mite complicated during your absence, Brass,” Willy said, pulling a cigar stub from his purple vest. He produced a match and lit the stogy, rocking back and forth on the hay bale as if keeping time with the car’s sway and rattle. “My brother is go
ing after Kingsbury Run. He’s found out we’re coming, and wants to dice up Cannoli and his boys before we can join forces.”

  Vincent didn’t like how the hobo king’s eyes rested on Samantha, who shared Vincent’s bale across from Willy. “Don’t blame Sammy. The baron’s got Timepiece, remember? Had him more than long enough to squeeze information from him.”

  Willy exhaled a long puff of fragrant blue smoke, his graying eyebrows raised. “Now you’re calling her Sammy?”

  “What happens if we lose Kingsbury Run?” Vincent ignored both Willy’s grin and Samantha edging closer to him.

  The king described a circle with his cigar. “Then the only way into the Erie Railroad yards is down the main line, which will be packed with yegg and railroad police. Without a jungle to anchor the city to Hobohemia, we’ll lose Cleveland and any chance you and I have of finding a back way into Erie.”

  “Which means I can’t send a track from Erie to bring in reinforcements,” Vincent surmised.

  Willy nodded. “The castle gates stay closed, so to speak. King Cannoli claims to know a way into the Erie yards that wouldn’t be watched.”

  “As if he’ll tell you anything,” Samantha snorted. “Uncle, Cannoli still remembers when you were the last baron. You tried running him out as well.”

  “One of my many sins.” Willy sighed. “Saving his jungle might help balance the scales. I’ve sent Glory on ahead to tell him we’re on the way.”

  “Then let me do the talking,” Samantha offered.

  “You’ve done a great job getting Brass trained up,” her uncle replied with a dismissive air. “I can’t say much about the rest, young lady. You knew your father would capture Freedom the moment he had her nickel, but you went on and had Brass grabbed anyway. You and I don’t agree on agendas, so you’ll stay put in camp where I can trust you not to get into any more mischief. I’ll meet with King Cannoli, and I will be taking our new gandy dancer into Erie.”

  “You do that,” Samantha replied with a sullen glare. Getting up, she shoved her way through hobos to claim a swath of hay heaped in the boxcar’s corner.