by Pati Nagle
There were more lights ahead, electric lights on top of preposterously tall posts that he could see even above the buildings and trees. A drizzling rain began to fall and he turned up the collar of his jacket, wishing for his greatcoat that, alas, had been in his valise. He uttered a curse at Orson Jones’s expense.
The rushing sounds grew louder as he crossed a final street. On the far side he found not the canal, but a wall, a good ten feet high or better, and made of concrete. The noise came from beyond it, a river of sound, and a line of the lights on tall posts stood beyond it as well. A road of the same tarred gravel upon which he’d awakened ran alongside the wall.
Hearing a mechanical growl to his left, he turned and saw two bright white lights barreling toward him at phenomenal speed, raindrops sparking in their beams. He caught his breath and stepped back, blinded. An airhorn sounded, making him jump even more, then the thing swept past him, spattering him with water. It resembled the locomotives he’d woken among.
Perhaps he was still dreaming. He knew of nothing like that contraption, even in Manhattan.
Suddenly his knees felt weak. Not wanting to faint, he squatted at the side of the road. He rested his face in his hands and took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. After a moment he had a sense of not being alone, and looked up.
To his right, a riverboat was gliding toward him where a moment before there had been nothing. The boat was black as soot all over, with lanterns flickering orange on its upper deck like evil, winking eyes.
Clive shuddered. Another dream? He almost hoped he was asleep, but reason told him he was not. Reason could not explain the steamboat, though, floating along without any water beneath it.
The boat was coming for him. It was Charon, come to take him across the river Styx, to the underworld. Come to claim his life. A sense of doom washed over him, and endless sadness.
He heard the rushing of another locomotive from the left. He had time to do no more than glance up before it was upon him. This one slowed, rolling to a gentle stop beside him. A woman’s voice called out from it.
“You OK?”
Clive slowly stood up, blinking rain from his eyes. The lights were pointing off into the night, raindrops glinted in their twin beams until they fell upon the riverboat which swallowed them into its blackness. The boat was closer now, and he could see a young man dressed in black standing on its deck, the orange lights from the torches glinting in his eyes. The youth waved to him.
“I-I was looking for the Morris Canal,” Clive said, turning away from the boat.
“You’re right next to it. It’s the JFK Parkway up here, mostly.”
Her face, dimly seen in the darkness, seemed kind but her words made no sense to him. She turned her head away and he heard her talking in a low voice. A man’s voice answered, then she looked at Clive again and smiled.
“Lousy night for a history walk. Want a lift to someplace dry?”
Clive’s heart rose at the suggestion. He glanced at the riverboat bearing down on them and hesitated no longer. “Thank you. Much obliged.”
“Climb in.”
He stepped toward the vehicle and hesitated. It was smaller and lower to the ground than the locomotive things. He had no idea how to get into it.
“You sure you’re OK?” the woman asked.
“I-I’m sorry, I—I was robbed.”
“Oh, you poor thing! Let me help you.”
“Sheila—” called the man’s voice.
A hatch on the side of the contraption swung open and the woman stepped out, wearing a greatcoat over trousers and boots. She pulled open a second hatch behind the first, then took Clive’s elbow and guided him toward the vehicle.
“Watch your head,” the woman said, putting a hand on the vehicle’s roof above him.
Clive obeyed, ducking his head as he sat on a cushioned bench. The woman bent closer to him.
“Let me find the seat belt for you. It likes to slip down behind the seat.”
He sat completely still, afraid to move while she leaned across him. In the front of the vehicle, a large, heavyset man sat looking back at him. Clive couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but knew the fellow was keeping an eye on him. Beyond him, through the rain-dappled glass window at the front of the vehicle, the orange eyes of the riverboat loomed. Clive drew a sharp breath.
The woman stepped back, and Clive found that she’d lashed him into the seat with a couple of broad straps. He was about to protest when she shut the hatch, startling him. The vehicle sagged as she climbed into the seat in front of him. Instead of facing his as it should have in a carriage, it faced forward, like a rail car’s.
Ahead was the riverboat, still coming nearer. Would it crush them? Didn’t these people see it?
The young man on the boat’s deck put his hands to his mouth, calling out, “Mr. Sebastian!”
The vehicle rumbled, then started forward, rolling smoothly over the road. The riverboat vanished, the vehicle passing swiftly through the space where it had been. Clive stifled a gasp.
“Do you want to go to the police station?” the woman asked. “There’s one close by.”
Clive shook his head, weak with relief. “No, no. I just want to get to the coast.”
“Where are you headed?” the man asked.
“Atlantic City,” said Clive, naming the first seaside resort that came to mind.
The man harrumphed in his throat. The woman spoke to him in a low voice again. Clive let the sound wash over him as they conferred. It was marvelously warm in the vehicle, so warm it made him realize how chilled he’d become.
“We can drop you at the bus station in Newark,” the woman said. “That OK?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.”
“I think there’s an evening bus to Atlantic City,” the woman continued.
“It may have left already,” said the man.
What was a bus, Clive wondered? He’d find out, he supposed. If it was a means of conveyance and would take him to Atlantic City, he’d be satisfied. He had an intuition that his troubles would be solved if he could hie himself to that resort.
A spell by the sea would soothe his soul. A game or two of bluff would restore his pocket, and he might find some pleasant feminine company. All would be well.
“We’re Bob and Sheila Dickerson,” the woman said, turning her head to speak to him. He could hear the smile in her voice.
“Clive Sebastian.”
“Nice to meet you, Clive. I’m sorry it’s under such unhappy circumstances.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am. And thank you for your assistance. I’m most humbly grateful.”
The vehicle was accelerating at a frightening pace. Clive was suddenly glad of the lashings holding him to the seat. He bit down on a scream of terror as they hurtled forward into the night.
“You really ought to report being robbed,” said the man sternly.
“If he doesn’t want to, that’s his choice,” said the woman.
Clive couldn’t answer, as he was still occupied with fighting not to scream. Lights of other vehicles sped toward them, then just when he was sure they would collide they swept past, so close he could hear the rush of wind. The car leaned from side to side as the man, who was driving, followed the road that disappeared before them into the dark.
It was a nightmare after all, Clive decided, which might be a blessing. Eventually he’d have to wake up.
“Sometimes the police aren’t any help, I’m sorry to say,” the woman added.
Clive had an intuition these were God-fearing people, in spite of how the woman had been dressed, how familiarly she addressed him and how intimately she’d touched him while lashing him to the seat. He knew how to speak to such folk.
With an effort he swallowed, then unclenched his teeth long enough to say, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”
“Amen,” said the woman.
Aha. He’d been right. He revised the little plan he’d been making of suggesting a game of cards t
o the gentleman when they stopped. He’d been hoping to begin repairing his pocket. Not with these folks, though, and just as well. Their generosity should not be repaid with despoiling their financial resources. Clive made a silent vow, in case Mr. Dickerson did want to play cards, not to cheat.
“Where are you from, Clive?” asked Mrs. Dickerson.
He cleared his throat. “Tennessee, ma’am. Clarksville.”
“And what do you do?”
That question posed him a difficulty. To admit that he made his living by gambling would not win him any favor from these good folk. He decided on an answer that was truthful while avoiding the mark.
“I am a traveler, ma’am.”
“A traveler?” said Mr. Dickerson, sounding displeased. “You mean a migrant?”
“Bob, please,” said Mrs. Dickerson.
Clive sensed he was on dangerous ground. “I have been a stevedore, a fireman, and a roustabout,” he said. “I make my living where I can, sir. It may not be glamorous, but it’s honest work.”
“Of course it is,” said the lady, her tone reproachful toward her husband. “And how terrible that you’ve been robbed! Oh, my goodness—are you hurt? I didn’t even think to ask!”
“No, I’m all right,” Clive said, even as a memory of Jones’s knife flashed in his mind.
“We could take you to a hospital—”
“No, no. Thank you, ma’am, but I am unhurt.”
Reminded of how unexpected that was, Clive fell into silent pondering. Where had Jones got hold of a trick knife? If indeed that was what he’d used. Maybe Clive should get one. He had a general dislike of weapons, but an item like that might prove to be handy.
The vehicle leaned to the left, following a curve in the roadway. Clive’s stomach protested. He closed his eyes, hoping the queasiness would subside.
“What’s a stevedore?” said Mr. Dickerson after a moment.
Clive took a deep breath and swallowed. “One who loads and unloads freight from a boat, sir.”
“Oh, a dock worker. Longshoreman?”
“I’ve worked on the rivers, mostly.”
“You a union man?”
“Absolutely, sir, of course. Though I was too young to fight in the war.” He didn’t bother to add that his father and elder brother, who had fought in the war, had been Confederates.
A long, uncomfortable silence stretched out. Clive had the feeling he and the gentleman had not quite understood one another properly, but never mind. They would not be in company together for very long. An hour at most; Newark was a matter of six miles from Bloomfield, and this vehicle was traveling inordinately fast.
Even on the thought, the vehicle slowed and he cautiously opened his eyes again. There were more lights now, everywhere on both sides of the road. Lighted signs flashed by, too quickly to read. Trying made his head ache, so he kept his gaze forward.
“You said you’d been a fireman,” said Mrs. Dickerson in a kindly voice. “That’s a hero’s job.”
He hadn’t quite thought of it that way, but then womenfolk tended to have romantic ideas. Maybe the thought of a man shoveling coal into the belly of a steamboat’s boiler appealed to her.
“Why did you quit, if you don’t mind my asking?” she said. “Was it nine eleven?”
“Ah—no, ma’am,” he said, wondering what the time of day had to do with anything. The thought made him reach for his watch chain, which he was unsurprised to find missing. He’d give Jones what for when next they met.
“I suppose I just got tired of all the soot,” he added.
“Oh, I see.”
“I’d do it again, if I needed work and the opportunity arose,” he added for the benefit of the husband.
“I’m sure you could find a job,” said Mrs. Dickerson. “They always need more firemen. It’s such dangerous work.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
That was one of the reasons it wasn’t his favorite way to earn a few dollars. He’d been on one steamboat whose boiler had exploded. On that occasion, he’d been traveling as a passenger, fortunately, and had escaped the misadventure intact, but a couple of the firemen had been scalded to death.
The vehicle slowed suddenly, and Clive instinctively grabbed at anything his hands could reach. The lashings held him to his seat as the vehicle swung hard around a corner. His stomach protested again. Had there been anything in it, he would surely have disgraced himself.
“Well, here we are,” said Mr. Dickerson.
The vehicle rolled to a stop. Clive peered out the window beside him and saw a long, low building with several peculiar-looking rail cars sitting in a row beyond it and one standing in front of it.
The rail car was uncoupled, sitting by itself on its strange, rounded black wheels. It was made of shiny silver metal, curved on all its edges, and had two bright lights on the front of it like the Dickersons’ vehicle and all the others that he’d seen on the road.
Was this a railroad station? That was all right—he could get a train down to Camden, and from there take the spur out to Atlantic City. Except that he saw no tracks.
His benefactors were conferring in whispers again. Clive gazed around, trying to make sense of the lights and all the rest. Through the rain trickling on the window beside him, everything looked dreamlike, divorced from reality.
Mr. Dickerson shifted in his seat, then reached an arm over the back of it toward Clive. “Here’s fifty dollars, that should be enough to get you a bus ticket and some breakfast and what not,” he said gruffly. “Don’t gamble it away.”
“N-no, sir! Thank you, sir!” stammered Clive, amazed at both Mr. Dickerson’s prescience and his generosity.
Fifty dollars! More than most poor fellows made in a month! Clive had had the good fortune to win as much or more at the gaming tables, but for charity it was an enormous sum.
“This is most generous of you, sir,” Clive said as he took the bills. They crinkled crisply in his fingers. “I am deeply in your debt. Might I have your direction? I’d like to repay you when I can.”
The gentleman harrumphed again and reached into his coat pocket. “Here’s my card,” he said in a milder tone. “Good luck.”
“God bless,” added the lady.
“Thank you, and may God’s blessings shower down upon you both,” Clive said, meaning it from his heart.
It was a satisfactory farewell all around. Unfortunately, Clive didn’t know how to get out of the lashings, or the vehicle for that matter. He fumbled at his left side, where the lady had reached around him earlier.
“Push the orange button,” she said helpfully.
He saw no buttons anywhere, save on his own clothing. The only thing orange he could see was a square on the middle of a stub into which the lashings were tied. He obediently pushed on it, and the connection gave with a mechanical pop that made him jump. He untangled his arms from the straps and they slid away behind him as if pulled by some helpful ghost.
Clive shivered, reminded of exactly how strange all of this was: the vehicles, the roadway, the lights, the phantom steamboat. Yet other things were familiar, like the comforting crackle of the new bills in his hand.
He fumbled at the hatch, looking for a way to open it. Again the lady helped him, directing him to pull upward on a metal lever. The hatch popped open and Clive stepped out. The rain had subsided to a drizzle, and the strange electric lights gave a blue-gray cast to the buildings and the street and the rail cars.
“Goodbye, Clive,” said Mrs. Dickerson through her open window. “Good luck!”
The vehicle rolled backward away from him, then swerved to the side, its lights flashing in the puddles on the road. Clive could see Mrs. Dickerson smiling at him. He waved a hand in farewell, watched the vehicle execute an impossibly tight turn and drive away, then looked at his surroundings.
The low building had a strangely glowing sign that read “Bus Terminal.” He supposed he would be more comfortable inside it than out here in the drizzle, and maybe he could learn abo
ut the train timetables.
He cast a doubtful glance at the rail car. Now that he was outside with it, he could hear it rumbling in a way rather like the Dickersons’ vehicle had done. Could rail cars now move under their own propulsion? He had spent a lot of time on riverboats lately, but he didn’t think he’d been so very out of touch.
Maybe this was another dream. That made sense of all the things that didn’t make sense.
He walked toward the building. The doors on the front of it were glass and had no handles that he could see. As he came near they slid apart to either side. Look as he might, he couldn’t see who’d done it.
He walked into a large room lit by glowing panels set into the ceiling. Some were pink, some bluish, and one was flickering like a guttering candle. Rows of curiously rounded, unupholstered chairs sat mostly unoccupied, though there was a tramp hunched in one of them, softly snoring.
Clive walked over to a counter where an old negro clerk was punching at what looked like an accordion’s keyboard. It made no music, only clicked. Perhaps it was intended for practice. Clive cleared his throat, and the clerk ceased tapping the keyboard and looked up with tired, watery eyes.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I want to travel to Atlantic City.”
The clerk gazed at him. “Going to the casinos?”
Clive blinked, unsure how to answer. The clerk went back to playing on the keyboard and looking at a box that emitted a glowing light. Clive was about to take him to task when he spoke.
“Your best bet is to go up to the Port Authority and catch the casino bus. The casino gives you a bonus.”
Lost, Clive swallowed. “How much?”
“Five dollars to Port Authority. Then the casino bus will run you around thirty-five.”
“Thirty-five!”
Clive had thought Mr. Dickerson had been overgenerous. Apparently he had not.
“The bonuses are good. Twenty, twenty-five on the slots or the tables, depending which casino.” The clerk eyed him. “You want the ticket?”
Clive drew himself up haughtily. “Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest railway station.”
