by Homer Hickam
Pauline smiled. “I believe Papa wants to have a word with your husband,” she said, then took Elsie by her hand and led her from the room.
“So, you met Steinbeck,” mused Hemingway over his port after the women had left. “It is a fateful peculiarity that you might meet him and me at virtually the same time. To what do you attribute that, Homer?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Homer answered. “Just the way it worked out, I guess.”
“Don’t you believe it. There are no coincidences in life. Although the big God of the Hebrews might be the greatest of them, I believe there are small gods who watch out and sometimes determine our fate. I believe they also like to have a little fun with us from time to time. Kismet. You heard of it?”
“I may have, sir.”
Hemingway nodded. “There is a reason you met me and Steinbeck but what that might be, I will probably never know. Maybe Elsie will indeed become a writer. To be successful, perhaps she needed to meet writer bookends, the alpha and omega of American literature, so to speak.”
“Yes, sir,” Homer said, uncertain which of the two writers was the beginning of American lit and which one was the end of it. He hastened to change the subject. “I’ve been ordered by the railroad to head north first thing in the morning due to a storm coming,” he said. “Do you know anything about it?”
“I do, indeed. The navy told me all about it this morning so I got out my charts and figured its path. From my calculations, it will be here on Monday, three days from now. The Conchs—that’s the locals around here—say it’s going to be a bad'un. The railroad company is right. You’d best get out of here.”
“How about you, sir?”
Hemingway made a dismissive gesture. “We’ll be safe enough. This house is a limestone fortress. You’re welcome to stay here if you can’t get out. But if you’re going to go, go at first light and don’t stop until you reach Miami. Even there, seek out the strongest possible structure to withstand this storm.”
“You give sound advice, Mr. Hemingway. Thank you. Elsie and I will leave in the morning.”
“Cigar?” Hemingway asked, proffering a box of Cubans.
Homer took one. Hemingway showed him how to cut the ends off with a little cutter and then how to light the tight roll of tobacco. When Homer took a puff, it was so strong it made him cough, which caused Hemingway to chuckle. “It has to be savored in the mouth, not inhaled,” he advised. “No matter how long you live, Homer, you’ll never have anything finer in your mouth than an expensive Cuban cigar after sipping fine port. That is, of course, other than the voluptuous parts of the female body.”
Homer didn’t know how to reply so he instead concentrated on learning how to smoke the cigar. Before long, he thought he’d mastered the process. He listened while Hemingway told fish stories and the wonders he’d seen at sea. Although Homer could have told how he and Albert joined the Coast Guard and fought a sea battle, he decided it would be impolite to interrupt the famous writer with a tale that might be even more outlandish. He listened quietly as Hemingway went on and on with how he’d caught marlins and sailfish. Afterward, he launched into several tales of France during the Great War.
After a while, Homer was feeling warm and sated and was looking forward to a nice sleep in the plush feather bed in the railroad hotel. When the women returned, Homer and Elsie collected up Albert—the kitchen staff was most reluctant to let him go—gave their thanks, and said their goodbyes.
On the stroll back to the hotel, Elsie said, “You reek of tobacco and alcohol. I think I like it.”
“What did you learn during your tour?” Homer asked.
“That it is not easy being married to a famous writer. His mind is never in the present reality. It is more inside his stories. It made me decide that maybe I don’t want to be a writer after all.” She leaned in closer. “Yes, I like the way you smell.”
The nice sleep Homer was looking forward to was put off after the feather bed was reached, Elsie still liking the way he smelled, but the rest of the night was pleasant and he slept as if he’d been drugged. He was awakened just before the sun was up by a patter on the metal roof.
“It’s raining,” Homer said, rousing Elsie. “We need to get going. Fast as we can.”
When Homer and Elsie and Albert got to the Buick, they discovered the rooster waiting for them in the back seat. Homer thought the rooster looked worried, which made Homer even more worried. “Get in the car, Elsie,” he said. “We’ve got to go.”
Elsie sat and pulled the door closed. “I swan, Homer. Look about you. This is just a little rain cloud that’s already passed. Over there’s a glorious sunrise and you don’t even see it. There’s no poetry in your soul at all, is there?”
“Roses are red, violets are blue, if we don’t hurry, we’ll be in a stew. Okay?”
Shaking her head, Elsie leaned back in the seat. Homer grimly set his jaw, his eyes, and the Buick north and prayed nothing would keep them from reaching Miami before the storm hit.
On Matecumbe Key, they saw nothing of Slick and Huddie or any of the work crews. Homer drove to the shacks along the shore and found a camp cook, his occupation apparent from the dirty apron he was wearing. He was sitting on a stoop, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
“Looking for two men, one very short and one very big,” Homer said.
“Slick and Huddie? Foreman took all the fellows down to Lower Matecumbe and some of the other keys to pile sand up in case there’s a storm.”
Homer thanked the man and, after a moment’s hesitation, continued driving north. “It’s not your fault,” Elsie told him. “You can’t take the time to look for them. Anyway, they’d not turn over a leaf to help you.”
“I know, Elsie, but—”
“No buts, Homer. Keep driving.”
Homer kept driving. Clouds were scudding in and more than a few of them were gray. Once in Miami, he, Elsie, Albert, and the rooster settled in their room at the railroad hotel located there.
All day Sunday, Homer kept checking the sky, which kept filling up with more clouds. That night, the hotel clerk knocked on his door with a message. He was to go to the North Miami Depot, there to await further orders.
“What is it, Homer?” Elsie asked.
“I don’t know,” Homer answered. He handed her the message. “But something to do with the storm, I’ll bet.”
Elsie read the note. “I’m worried,” she said.
“Don’t be. I’ll probably just need to help shore up the track around here in case it floods.”
“I’m still worried,” Elsie answered, then impulsively took his hand. “Don’t do anything dangerous.”
“I won’t.”
“Yes, you will,” she said. “If you think it’s your job. Well, your job is right here, me and Albert.”
Homer smiled. “And the rooster?”
“I don’t know about him,” Elsie said. “I can’t figure him out.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to figure. Not everything has to have a meaning, does it?”
“How about love?” she suddenly asked. “Does it have a meaning?”
“I don’t know about love,” Homer admitted, “but your kisses surely do.”
“That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” Elsie declared, but she kissed Homer anyway.
41
MR. JARED CUNNINGHAM, SUPERVISOR OF TRACK FOR the Florida East Coast Railway, met Homer and several other railroad men at the station in North Miami. “Boys,” he said, “according to the ships at sea, this storm is a big and bad’un and it’s liable to hit pretty soon, which means we got ourselves a bit of an emergency. The government’s got a bunch of vets on the Keys working on the road and they’ve got no way to escape because the ferries have left to keep from being sunk. The feds should’ve figured this was going to happen but they didn’t so we’ve been asked to go get their workers. I’m looking for volunteers.” He turned to Homer. “Homer, if you’re willing to go along, I need you to assess the track and the bridges. You’ve got t
he best eye for structures of anybody I’ve got. How about it?”
Certain of his duty, Homer instantly nodded his agreement.
The locomotive engineer, a man named J. J. Haycraft, said, “I’ll go, too, Mr. Cunningham. Old number 447’s way too heavy to get blown off a track by any storm. We’ll do just fine. What say you, Jack?”
Jack was the fireman. “Sure, I’ll go,” he said.
Cunningham solemnly shook their hands. “Get going, then, and hurry.”
Elsie and Albert were waiting inside the depot. “I’m going on the train to pick up the vets,” Homer said after the meeting.
“We’re going, too,” Elsie said.
“No, Elsie. I can’t let you do that. Take the Buick and you and Albert hole up at the hotel. I’ll be okay. We should be back by midnight. I’ll hitch a ride with Jack. He’s also staying at the hotel.”
It was as if Homer hadn’t spoken. “Albert and I are going to ride in one of the passenger cars,” Elsie said, “and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”
“That’s true, beyond common sense,” Homer replied. “But if you stow away I’ll have to be worried about you and Albert the entire time and I won’t be able to do my job. Elsie, for just this once, do what I ask. Go to our room, take Albert with you and the rooster, too, please, and wait for me. I’ll be along safe and sound. That’s my promise to you.”
Tears streamed down Elsie’s cheeks and she fell into his arms. To his utter shock, she was violently trembling. “Don’t go,” she said. “I’m so afraid.”
Homer had never seen her so vulnerable. It was almost as if she were a different woman. The journey had changed her, probably had changed him, too. He would have to think about that if he ever got the chance. “The engineer and the fireman are going. How can I not go?”
Elsie took a step back, wiped her cheeks, and held her head up. “All right, Homer Hadley Hickam, and if I never see you again, I will say that I love you and I guess I will still love you to the end of my days. But go. Go! And be done with it and your precious job and your precious duty.”
Homer grinned. Having heard with his own ears Elsie Gardner Lavender Hickam tell him that she loved him, he could die happy now. He admired her as she marched away with Albert scrambling behind her. He was the luckiest man in the world to have married this beautiful, wonderful woman.
Albert, after a glance back at Homer, grunted his no-no-no unhappy sound. Homer nodded at him and silently bade him to take care of Elsie.
Haycraft, the engineer, came over. “Homer, don’t know if you counted but we’ve got six passenger cars, two baggage cars, and three boxcars. That’s more than I like, considering our job, but it would take too long to change them out so that’s the way it is. You stay up here in the cab with me and Jack. If I see something on the track I don’t like, I’ll slow enough for you to get off. You run ahead, check it for me. Understood?”
Homer understood very well, said so, and climbed into the cab with the engineer and fireman. The steam was already at the necessary pressure and old 447 was soon pumping its way down the track toward the Homestead yard.
When they reached the rail turntable, Haycraft said, “I’m going to turn us around and push the cars down the track backwards. That way we can head north at top speed after we pick up the boys on Matecumbe. It’ll probably be dark by then but we can use the headlamp to watch the track. Homer, you go down to the last car and keep watch. Take this lamp. Wave it if you see something and I’ll stop. When it’s clear, wave it again. You up to that?”
“I am,” Homer said. He climbed out of the cab and walked down to the last car, which was fortunately a passenger car that afforded him a view. He climbed inside and set the lamp down, then walked out onto the back platform. To the south were dense gray clouds and the occasional flash of distant lightning. The wind was picking up and he could feel a slight change of pressure in his ears.
After the train was turned around, it continued down the single track while Homer watched for debris on the track. The wind was howling and a driven rain slapped the windows of the passenger car. The sky turned a sickly yellowish green, the sand and brush along the track disappearing into the nasty, vaporous soup. There was a low-pitched hum, which Homer realized was coming from power and telephone lines being vibrated by the high wind. When a telephone pole fell, the broken wires hanging on it whipped around like deranged snakes. A grove of myrtle bushes suddenly flew into the sky and whirled away.
When the train reached Key Largo, the sea had risen so high, it was lapping along both sides of the track bed. Homer saw that a lot of gravel had eroded, threatening to remove support of the rails. Homer considered waving the lamp but decided Haycraft could see the embankment, too. He would stop if he thought it was unsafe.
The train rolled on. Sheets of rain began to fall, making it nearly impossible to see the track ahead. Even if he saw something on it, or saw that its rails had separated or washed away, Homer estimated the train was traveling around fifteen to twenty miles per hour, too fast for him to signal Haycraft in time to stop. If his car turned over, it would be crushed like flimsy cardboard by all the other cars piling on. Still, he remained at his post.
Using a map of the railroad he found in the train car, Homer tried to figure out where they were, guessing that they were approaching Windley Key. When the rain briefly subsided, he saw a mountain of black clouds lit by flashes of blue-yellow lightning. When a lightning strike revealed people alongside the track, he leaned out and waved his light and the train slowed and stopped.
Homer braved the pelting rain and stepped down from the car. The first people he came to were a man and a woman who had collapsed beneath the onslaught of wind and water. Homer helped them to their feet. They looked at him with dazed expressions. “Get on the train,” he said and pointed at the last car. “I’ll get the rest.”
Fighting his way along the slippery embankment against the howling wind and rain, Homer found more people huddled along the track. “Go that way,” he said, pointing up the track into a wall of rain. “Trust me. There’s a train there. Go!”
When he had helped aboard everyone he could find, he made a head count. There were five women, one holding a baby, three children, and three men. They were locals, none of them the veterans the train had been sent to rescue. They were all soaked, shivering, and appeared to be in a state of shock. Homer went up and down the aisle to reassure them. “You’re safe now,” he said, smiling at the mother with the baby. She stared back at him, speechless and eyes wild. Homer went outside and waved the lantern and the locomotive pushed the cars into the gloom. The baby started to cry and then the children and the women started sobbing, too. One of the men shouted, “We’re going the wrong way!”
“We have more people to pick up,” Homer replied.
“You fool! We’ll never make it!”
Homer suspected the man was right. The train was descending ever farther into the storm. Shrieking demons shook the car and waves slammed against it, sounding more like cascades of rocks than water. “We’re going to die,” the man said. “We’re all just going to die.”
In an attempt to see better, Homer stepped out on the car platform but was immediately driven back by the wind, the rain blown so hard it felt like it was shredding his skin. When lightning briefly lit up the tracks, he saw the ribbons of steel were nearly underwater. He anxiously peered ahead, hoping to see a sign of the veterans. When the train slowed to a crawl, Homer caught sight of a building of some sort and then a passing sign identified it as the Islamorada Station of Upper Matecumbe. Dark forms rose from the platform. People!
Homer waved the lamp but the train kept rolling until Homer could make out not only the station but also a warehouse and some other outbuildings. A roof spun off one, then disappeared into the steel-gray sky. More shadowy people rose up but the train kept going. As Homer watched, someone—he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman—was picked up by an unseen hand and flung away into the darkness. Debris s
lammed into the struggling people and, one by one, they disappeared. One man got close enough that Homer could see his desperate eyes and his open mouth. He was yelling something but then a strip of roofing sliced through his neck like a guillotine. The head blew away instantly and the body cartwheeled into the water.
Finally, the train stopped. Homer put his hands over his eyes to keep them from being pierced by the needles of rain and, through the gaps of his fingers, looked south. Everything was underwater. As far as he could tell, the train was resting on the only strip of track still above the ocean.
Suddenly, dozens of men, women, and children began to climb aboard the passenger cars. Homer jumped outside and did his best to help them aboard. There were at least a hundred of them. Drenched, gasping in fear, they crammed inside.
The water suddenly rose to his waist and Homer lunged for a car handle and pulled himself aboard. Inside, the people yelled curses and pleas to God for deliverance but Homer found himself preternaturally calm. It was the coal miner in him, he supposed, or maybe it was just stupidity. He didn’t have time to figure it out.
A steel pole, ripped up from somewhere, hit a man in the back just as he climbed aboard. He was impaled, blood spurting around the spike that poked from his stomach. His head fell back and, with a final crimson jet from his mouth, collapsed on the steps. Homer, with the help of one of the other men, pushed the man and the pole back outside. “How many more are out there?” Homer screamed over the whistling wind. The man who’d helped him just shook his head. When Homer looked closer, he realized it was Huddie. “Where’s Slick? Where are the rest of the veterans?”
“Don’t know,” Huddie gasped. “Blown away and drowned, I reckon.”
“Get in a seat,” Homer commanded and Huddie staggered away.
Homer leaned outside to look for more survivors. The wind kept scouring his eyeballs and he had to rub them over and over to see anything. When no one else came, he retrieved the lantern and waved it. In response, the train lurched northward but only went a few feet before grinding to a halt. When Homer again stuck his head outside, he saw a boxcar had blown off the track. The train was hopelessly stalled.
