8
Lee gathered speed as he left the crossing, careful to secure the coffee pot at his feet. He tried looking at the manifest again, but his eyes were still swimming. Anyway, it was pretty simple. It was single line track through LaPlace, so he had to pull in to the siding at Kenner and wait until the southbound train rolled by. Then it was clear all the way to Memphis.
Lee knew he wasn’t supposed to work in anything approaching this state. Then again, he wasn’t supposed to be working at all. He’d been up for two days straight with little or no rest. Not that he minded too much. It only happened now and then, and the extra pay made it worthwhile. That’s what happens, he always said, when you work this route. Men don’t show up and the train can’t wait, not with bananas spoiling in the back. He wondered what happened to the man he was covering. Probably laid up after a brawl on Bourbon Street, he guessed, or got jumped down Smoky Row. Or, he chuckled at the thought, fast asleep in the arms of a big-breasted whore on Basin Street.
He felt bad about the plans he’d made with Mamie, but he’d be home soon enough and would do something nice with her and the kids. They didn’t usually hang around too long in Memphis. The boss was always anxious to get them back home, so the train could fill up with another load fresh off the steamers. He could hear his boss’s mantra: “Empty trains cost me money. Slow trains cost me money. Stopped trains cost me the most. I like full trains. I like fast trains.”
Lee liked fast trains too. He liked moments like this, on his own up front, barreling down a lonely stretch of single-line rail. Somewhat dozy now, he stuck his head out the side-window, buffeted by the dewy morning air rushing past his face. He closed his eyes and yelled. Still drowsy. He took another swig from the coffee pot at his feet.
He yawned once more.
The coffee wasn’t having the desired effect. His eyelids felt heavy, and he could feel his head drooping. Lee pinched himself; he had to stay awake. Another train was coming in his direction, so he had instructions to pull in at Kenner. Maybe he’d get a chance for a quick nap then.
Liking the sound of that, Lee went full throttle to buy himself a little more sleeping time. He picked up the coffee pot and drained what was left, straight from the spout. His guts clenched for a moment as the coffee went down, but his nausea dissipated before he could open the cab window.
He knew Mamie was right, and her damn mother. He was spreading himself too thin. Not spending enough time with Ed and Hattie. Sometimes he felt like every time he blinked they’d grown another few inches. But he would be twenty-nine in a few months, and he didn’t want to be doing this for another ten years. If he could get hooked up with a city job—which was looking good if the tallymen were right and Remy Klock was a shoo-in for Sheriff—he could cut back on his hours on the road. Maybe even work the yard with Boyd.
He knew men like O’Brien weren’t ambitious; they were happy for the extra coin, especially when they had to do nothing for it. But Lee reckoned there was a lot more to this game. He didn’t want to fight this hard just for a seat at the table. He wanted the damn table. Lee saw what politicians did, and how they lived. He wanted a piece of that game. Then he could really treat Mamie like she deserved. Then he could show the Reid family that Lee Christmas was meant for something different. Something special.
As he surrendered to wild fantasies of wealth and power, with armies of men to do his bidding, Lee didn’t even notice he’d run straight past the switch at Kenner. His eyelids drooped until the horizon became nothing more than a dot.
A dot that soon filled with the light of an oncoming train.
9
The first thing Lee remembered—in fact, the only thing he could recall since being hoisted into the cab back in New Orleans—was being pinned to the crossties underneath his engine, his face scalded by the steam pouring forth from his 2-6-0 Mogul. So powerful was the blast that it knocked his right eye clean out of its socket.
He didn’t scream or holler, despite the intense pain; or, to be more accurate, the presence of pain. The actual sensation was something he was only tangentially aware of, something he thought he was supposed to feel, like when a doctor prods an injured limb to check for paralysis. He didn’t move either. The pressure on his chest told him he was trapped, at least until someone had the wherewithal to check if he was still alive. Instead, Lee just lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness, listening to the cries of harried men attempting to clear the wreckage.
When his legs started to grow cold, Lee started to worry. It was as if he only then realized the seriousness of the situation. Between fevered lapses of consciousness, he berated himself for his predicament. He swore that if he made it out of this wreck, he’d give up his fancy notions of a political career and stick to the railroad, maybe even cut back on his hours and find a way to make do.
He heard a voice from above somewhere, and he was about to yell back a response when the pressure on his chest increased unbearably. He figured someone was climbing around in the ruins of his cab, unaware they were crushing him beneath. He wanted to scream a warning, but couldn’t, his shame further compounded by the realization that the warmth spreading down his legs wasn’t a sign his strength was returning; he’d pissed himself.
Again the creaking came from above, and the weight on his chest made him feel like he was going to burst right open. Straining his one good eye, Lee lifted his head to see what was trapping him, but he couldn’t see shit. Instead, he twisted his hips, trying to relieve the pressure, sucked in as much air as he could, went to holler, and then passed out.
Everyone was sure that the battered engineer they finally pulled from the wreck was dead. Even after they discovered a pulse, popped his eyeball back into its socket, and rushed him to the hospital, nobody expected him to pull through.
10
That’s two now, Pa, if you’re keepin’ score. Let’s just pray I don’t have to go to such lengths next time. Lee smiled and gave the reporter another quote, looking forward to tomorrow’s newspaper. Although he was still more than a little woozy, the pace of Lee’s recovery had stunned the nursing staff.
Mamie had been in to visit on most days of his two-week convalescence, usually without the children. Ed and Hattie were so delighted to see him the first time that they wriggled free from their mother as soon as they entered the room and mounted the hospital bed to embrace him. Mamie, noticing Lee’s eyes watering with pain, had grabbed the kids and rushed them out the door, right as Lee turned the air blue enough to embarrass a fisherman’s wife. Toward the end of his convalescence, he had even convinced her to smuggle in a mint toddie. He sat up to sip his drink, taking her hand in his. “If you’re short of money, talk to Boyd.”
“There’s no need. He’s already been ’round. You’re on half pay until they determine the cause.”
Lee chuckled. “I think the cause of the crash was two trains running into each other at top speed.”
“Don’t joke! You could have made a widow out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand and smiled. “And anyway. You think you’re getting rid of me that easy?”
* * *
Lee and Mamie arrived a few minutes before their appointment and were asked to take a seat by the receptionist—a humorless lady with no interest in small talk. Opposite them was a door with frosted glass: Capt. Sharp—Division Superintendent. Mamie had insisted on coming with Lee to Memphis to help him plead his case with the railroad company, and they sat in silence in the musty reception, occasionally looking at the clock, and at each other. After they had been there for close on forty minutes, Lee shuffled in his chair, attempting to catch the secretary’s eye.
She turned to him with a forced smile. “Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
As if on cue, a silhouette appeared behind the glass. Laughter spilled out into the corridor as a rotund man, puffing on a cigar, backed out of the office. Lee could see Captain Sharp leaning against his desk with a broad smile, and he nudged Mamie with his elbo
w.
The secretary stood, indicating the open door. “Captain Sharp will see you now.”
Lee held the door for Mamie and then followed his wife into the small office, thick with cigar smoke. Captain Sharp, his back to them, rummaged in one of the metal filing cabinets that lined one wall. Without turning, the superintendent acknowledged them with a wave of his hand. “Please, sit.”
Mamie raised an eyebrow, and Lee followed her gaze. The small, windowless office was piled high with clutter. Files were stacked at the base of creaking cabinets. The walls were covered with old photographs of the great locomotives and with framed newspaper clippings trumpeting that famous day in Utah when Leland Stanford had driven in the Golden Spike.
“Ah, found it!”
They took their seats as Captain Sharp turned from the cabinet, clutching a file. “Christmas, Leon. Engineer.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Sharp was in his late fifties and was stocky, but not overweight, with graying skin to match what was left of his hair. Thanks to a luxurious mustache that gave him the appearance of an amiable walrus, it was hard to tell if he were smiling or grimacing. As the superintendent waddled toward his desk, Lee noticed the open box of cigars.
Captain Sharp slammed the box shut, and shook his head. “You’re the man that got drunk and had that wreck, ain’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, sitting up straighter in his chair. “I’m the man.”
“What do you figure on doing now?”
Lee was confused. “I want to keep on railroading.”
“Well, all I got to say to you is that it’s a pity they ever got you out from underneath that engine.” He shook his head. “That’s all I got to say to you.” Captain Sharp looked at Mamie. “With all due apologies, ma’am.”
The sharp tone returned to the superintendent’s voice as he addressed Lee once more. “You couldn’t get another engine on this railroad no matter what, and I don’t want to see your sorry ass ever again.” Captain Sharp walked to the door and held it open, ignoring Lee and nodding to his wife. “Ma’am.”
Lee wasn’t just fired. He was blacklisted.
11
Mamie seemed to take the news in her stride, even when Lee made sure she understood that his railroad days were over. She only started crying as they approached New Orleans. He put an arm around his wife and drew her close, whispering, “I’ll have a new job in days. You’ll see.” He donned his hat and set it at a jaunty angle. “What with all my new connections.”
“You better.” Mamie forced a smile and dabbed at her eyes with Lee’s proffered handkerchief. “Because I don’t fancy eatin’ that stupid silk hat.”
But he soon found that loyalty only lasted as long as he could pick up the tab. Favor after favor was called in, all to no avail. He had plenty of promises of work, but the jobs seemed to evaporate when he showed up. Someone else had beaten him to it, or business had suddenly slowed, or the boss remembered he had promised the job to a cousin—there was always something. Despite innumerable disappointments, Lee never lost hope. He remained convinced his luck would turn.
“It’s just a matter of time,” he’d tell Mamie, when she read him the latest headlines despairing the surge in unemployment. “I’ll get something.”
One day, while killing time around Congo Square, Lee spied two young Italian kids in high spirits. As the kids passed, one of two cops resting in the shade of their horse-drawn police wagon, called out, “Hey kid, who killa da chief?”
The other laughed, but the kids kept walking, ignoring them.
“Come back here, I wanna talk to you.” One of the cops began following.
The older kid turned and cocked a finger, pulling an imaginary trigger. The cops started chasing them, but the kids were too quick, and they disappeared down an alleyway. As Lee passed them, one of the cops sneered, “Fucking dagoes, worse than niggers.”
The city had been on edge all year. Feelings had been running strong against the Italians ever since the police-chief—an Irishman called Hennessey—had been gunned down on the steps of his home. As the trial had approached, witness after witness dropped out, refusing to testify. Those who were compelled to testify soon developed a very hazy recollection of events. The city had exploded with anger when the nineteen men indicted for the murder were found not guilty. The next day, a mob formed at Congo Square, right on Tremé Street at the entrance of the Parish Prison. They stormed the building and lynched eleven Italians. For a while, things were running so hot that some folks thought Italy was going to declare war.
Lee knew some of those guys too, the Matranga Family, or knew of them at least. They pretty much owned the waterfront, controlling fruit shipments into New Orleans. They seemed okay, but he sure never wanted to cross them. The lynchers, of course, were cleared of any crime, and anyway, the jails wouldn’t have been big enough to hold everyone involved. It didn’t take much to get people riled up. A few newspaper articles and a couple of speeches—pretty soon you had ten thousand people marching with pitchforks and torches.
What the newspapermen left out of their accounts was that Hennessey was a corrupt bastard himself, famous for putting the squeeze on brothels then turning a blind eye, and he had even killed one of his predecessors, shooting the incumbent during their election battle and successfully claiming self-defense. The Italians had a personal beef with him too. Ten years beforehand, he had bagged Giuseppe Esposito—a fugitive from Sicily who had fallen in with the Matranga family. Hennessy had him shipped to New York and extradited back home, where he faced eleven murder charges and the death penalty. The Italians never forgot it.
Lee shook his head. Here I am, he thought, filling my head with nonsense again, when I should be worrying about myself. He wasn’t looking forward to going home—another day looking for work, with nothing to show for it but more empty promises. Mamie was going to hit the roof. He needed some kind of job—some laboring, anything—to tide him over until something better came along. He headed for Tom Cook’s saloon. One whiskey, he thought, then I’ll go right home.
12
Lee never did make it home that night. One drink in Tom Cook’s bar turned into a fishing expedition down Royal—hunting for some Pole who was running a crew out in the New Basin Charcoal Yards. After retreating to Remy Klock’s, another tip came in: some guy from Missouri exporting mules through the port. But it all made little difference to Mamie when he stumbled home at sunrise, jobless, haggard, and drunk as a fool.
She managed to put him to bed before the children saw him, a chill prickling her spine when he cracked a dumb joke about needing some coffee to help him sleep. Mamie fretted the entire time he was passed out, barely noticing when he stuck his head around the doorframe, a sheepish look on his face. “Got a couple of leads last night,” he said. “Couldn’t track the guys down, but there should be some work when I do.”
Mamie sipped her coffee, trying to keep her temper in check. “I borrowed another twenty dollars off Ma,” she said.
He paused for a moment, chewing his lip, and then took the chair opposite her. “Really, I’m this close to getting something. I can feel it in my bones.”
Mamie snorted.
“I’ll prove it too. Sure, I just turned down a job yesterday, which means—”
“You did what?” She set her cup down.
Lee waved a hand. “It was out of town. Don’t worry about it.”
“Where?”
“Out of state, in fact. Not worth considering.”
“What was the job?”
* * *
The following Sunday, Lee walked to the station alone. He’d insisted on saying his goodbyes in the house, not wanting to confuse the kids, or have them screaming and crying in the station, truth be told. He was trying to keep a low profile as he slipped out of town. Some of the boys were still keeping their distance since the crash—it had been all over the papers—and he was sore at them for cutting him loose.
On the platform, he pulled his hat
down over his eyes, his back to the concourse. He couldn’t hide his big frame, though.
“Lee Christmas,” a familiar voice yelled his name.
He turned to see Boyd Cetti waving his cap and walking his way.
Boyd’s eyes went to Lee’s suitcase; he raised an eyebrow. “She finally see sense and kick you out?”
Lee punched him in the arm. “I liked you more when you lived in Vicksburg.”
An awkward pause followed. Even Boyd acts differently around me now, Lee thought.
Boyd’s eyes went to the case again. “So you took the job in Alabama after all.”
“Yup.”
“You’ll be back though, right? We didn’t even get a drink together.”
Lee looked up at the station clock. “I got time now.”
“Mamie and the kids not with you?”
“They’re back at the house.” Lee was about to tell him how bad things had gotten, but he bit his lip. “Say, how about that drink?”
“Can’t.” Boyd fidgeted with his cap. “Don’t clock off till five.”
Another awkward pause.
“I’ll be back by summer.” Lee broke the silence. “For a visit, at least.”
Boyd tipped his hat. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Twenty minutes later, the Alabama train pulled into the station. Lee watched couples say tearful goodbyes, and reunited lovers kiss with abandon; he was glad Mamie wasn’t there to watch him slink out of New Orleans.
He spent the next three years drifting, only holding down a job long enough to fall out with someone, the kind of disagreement that usually ended with that someone looking for their teeth on a barroom floor. Mamie returned to her parents’ house on Chestnut Street more than once; Lee’s promised financial support not materializing as planned. When he’d return from a stint on the road, his face dark and his mood clouded, Mamie often left him to stew on his own in their family home in Poydras. Eventually, she kicked him out altogether.
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