The Last Martin

by Jonathan Friesen

  He shifts into thinking gear.

  “Please, Dad. Say something.”

  “You think you’ll die in a few months? My counselor friend specializes in helping veterans following their tours of duty. He’s an expert on death fixations. He can help.”

  “I don’t need a shrink.” I lift the page. “I need anti-curse lotion or un-naming powder or something! Dad …” I lower my voice. “I need … I need help.”

  He puts his arm around me. It’s been awhile since he’s done that and it feels so good. I bury my head in his big shoulder. Everything will be okay.

  “I see. Yes, Martin. You need help. And that’s what Dr. Stanker can give you.”

  “You don’t believe me.” I push away from Dad, fly down the stairs, and into the backyard. “The man is blind.” I stare at the numbers on the sheet. “What is hard to see about this?”

  “What, friend?”

  Poole yawns and stretches and leans against the garden train.

  I throw the page at him; it bounces off his chest. Poole bends over, flattens the sheet over his thigh, and reads. Two seconds later his gaze raises to me. The paper flutters to the ground.

  “You are going to die.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I START A NEW ROUTINE. I CALL IT THE BIG PACE. EACH afternoon, I log hours wearing a trail in front of the boxcar.

  I’m hyperaware of my body — each twinge, each sensation. Especially each wave of dizziness. They waft over me like the scent of mashed skunk. And like skunk stink, they don’t blow over. The confusion sticks.

  Mom stares out at me through the kitchen window. Her nose twitches, and her fingers tap nervously on her lips. I don’t care. The Big Pace calms me and clears my head. There’s got to be a way out of this. A back door. There must be a way to cough up death’s hook and swim away from this mess.

  Poole seems to enjoy my torment. Today he joins me in crisscrossing the grass. I peek at the window. No Mom. Where is the Owl when you need her?

  “Let me guess,” Poole says. We meet in the middle of the yard. “He thinks you’re nuts.”

  “Excuse me?” We continue on, turn, and meet back in the middle.

  “Your dad.” Poole points toward the house. “The man thinks you’re crazy.”

  “Certified.”

  It’s been weeks since Poole pelted me. I know I’m supposed to stay far away from violent vagrants, but this one half-believes me. That changes things — if only he could keep his mouth shut.

  On our next pass, he grabs my arm, and I glare.

  “It’s not your fault, Marty. Adults never get this stuff.” He lets go. “They don’t know that words have power.”

  “Words what?”

  “Your string of dead Martins isn’t a coincidence. Your name is cursed. And a curse means words. Maybe written, maybe spoken. Words have power.” Poole forces his hand through his hair and exhales hard. “Why do you think I’m still here?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll outlive me, so maybe you think you’ll inherit the house.”

  He rolls his eyes and smirks. “Follow me. I’ll show you something.”

  Poole hops on the track and heads east, toward the depot. I glance over my shoulder at my back door. I take three steps after him and pause. “Couldn’t you describe whatever it is from here?”

  Poole says nothing, and I scamper to catch up. One track turns to two, then four, and soon rails stretch in all directions. Midway Depot. BNSF. Canada. Even Amtrak. Every train in the city must pass through this bottleneck. Train cars rattle tracks beneath my feet, and I leap off the rail each time I feel vibrations.

  But Poole doesn’t flinch. A train rushes by on the next track over, and he doesn’t flinch. Poole just smiles and waits for me, and on one occasion, points to a wrought iron bench in the middle of the yard. Poole hops over, sits, and stretches. He’s in his glory.

  I won’t sit. Too many birds have flown overhead and left their mark on the seat.

  “Your boxcar isn’t my home; it’s more like my summer cabin. This …” Poole waves his arms around him. “… is home.” He leans back, sighs, and clasps fingers behind his head.

  “You don’t like your family?”

  Poole sighs. “Getting right to it, now, aren’t we? This is family.” He stares out at a slow-moving Burlington caboose. “There. The last place I saw my dad. Wavin’ off the back end of a caboose. He drove engines all his life.” He nods. “See, Ma had taken off and it was Dad and me and the trains.” He pats the bench. “Take a load off. The bird stuff’s dry.”

  I take off my T-shirt, lay it across the metal, and join him. Poole exhales hard and continues.

  “Well, Ma’s leaving made a mess, ‘cause Dad would be gone for days at a time. But you know about that.”

  I nod.

  He points at the depot. “When Dad was gone, the railroad guys took care of me. So that was home. Then one day — “ Poole nods toward the train, now in the distance. “Dad went around that bend, and I heard a squeal, and men shouting. Dad’s big ol’ heart stopped and that was that. Max, the conductor, tracked down my ma, got her on the phone. First time I’d talked to her in years. She said, ‘Wait right there at Midway, honey. I’m comin’ back for you.'” Poole’s eyes glaze, and his gaze sticks trance-like to the ground. “'I’ll be back for you,'” he whispers. “Well, I’m still waitin'.”

  Minutes pass and I clear my throat. “How long ago —”

  “Comin’ on three years.” He blinks and shakes his head. “See, words have power. I can’t bring myself to leave. What if she comes and I’m gone?”

  Poole changes before my eyes. Twenty minutes ago he was a grimy vagrant. Not now. Now, I feel for him. I don’t want him in my boxcar. I want him in our guest bedroom.

  “So why’d I tell you? I don’t know. Ain’t told anybody in so long, it felt good.” He straightens, stands, and breathes deeply. “What a beautiful day.”

  I frown. “Okay, right there. You did that oh-every-thing-is-so-wonderful thing again. Your dad’s dead, and your mom … well, you always talk way happy, but you live in a boxcar, and you don’t have family or Band-aids or soap or …”

  Poole dashes from the bench and leaps onto a stationary locomotive. “But I have one thing you don’t. Thankfulness, my friend. My dad’s medicine. He started taking it the day Mom left.” Poole points. “Each day he’d come round that bend and shout out something he still had to be grateful for. Maybe he was trying to convince himself, don’t know. I picked up on the habit the day he died. Helps somehow.” Poole jumps off the train.

  I glance at Poole’s ankles and wince. “Why’s it help?”

  “Don’t have a clue. I reckon if I feel thankful when life stinks, I must actually be thanking Someone.” Poole points up. “Strange way of prayin', but it works for me. How ‘bout you? Ever felt thankful, Martin? For the warm sun on your face?”

  “Without sunblock?”

  “Marty, Marty.” He walks back to me. “Try it.”

  “Try —”

  “Every stinkin’ day, say something you’re thankful for. But you got to do it out loud. You have to hear yourself say it. Words have power, you know. Here’s an example for you.”

  He cups his hands to his mouth and yells. “Hallelujah! I’ll never have to wear dentures!” Poole peeks at me and winks. “See, you’ll be dead long before that and —”

  “I get it. Very funny.”

  I don’t want to turn into a kook. A nut. But Poole whistles happily and I look like a mess. A worm of an idea wriggles into my skull.

  “I have a deal for you,” I say.

  Poole’s eyes sparkle.

  I pause. “You go to school for me tomorrow, and I’ll play your thankful game.”

  His sparkle vanishes, and for the first time Poole looks sickly.

  “Okay, I’ll play your thankful game, and I’ll get you some new boots.” I point at his flap-soled pair. “Those look way small.”

  Poole frowns and bites his lip.

  �
��All right, how ‘bout this?” I raise three fingers. “I’ll play your thankful game, I’ll get you boots and a home-cooked meal. Frank probably doesn’t cook that well, and Mom, well, she’s awesome in that category.”

  “School,” Poole repeats.

  “There’s this girl and I can’t seem to talk to her, but I’m running out of time, and I need your help.” I exhale hard. “Go to school, get Julia’s attention, you know, casually bring me into the conversation. Talk me up, fire some volleys back and forth, and make me sound, well, use some of those smooth words. That’s it. The next day I’ll swoop in and work my charms.”

  “You want me to go to school.”

  “I want you to break the ice with Julia and make me sound unforgettable.” I stand up. “Are you scared?”

  “I’m not scared, not really, it’s more about this uncomfortable rash I get whenever I think about the s word.” Poole frowns, puffs out air. “One day. I’ll go to school one day.” He pauses. “Size 10, wide.”

  “Yeah,” I grin. “Wide.”

  “And lasagna. Does the Owl do lasagna?”

  “Extra cheese.”

  “Yeah,” Poole grins. “Extra cheese.” He grabs my shirt. “You better keep up your end.”

  I grimace. “You better take a shower.”

  He smells a pit and furrows his brow. We walk back to my house in silence. Poole hops into the boxcar, and I head toward my home’s back door. I reach it and grab the knob.

  “Hey, Martin.” Poole swings his feet. “I know things don’t look good for you. Eight weeks ain’t long. But you are the only Martin right now.”

  “So?”

  “And according to that curse, there always has to be a Martin.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just one Martin?” asks Poole.

  “One.”

  “So unless I’m wrong, since there isn’t any other Martin Boyle eating ham sandwiches at your family reunions, at least for these next eight weeks …”

  I freeze, my eyes wide open. “I can’t die.”

  Poole grins and disappears into the boxcar. “Have a fantastic evening!”

  Oh, man. If he’s right, if I’m right, I could do … anything.

  I feel light, buoyant. I burst in the back door. Mom and Dad stand side-by-side wearing their worried faces. I step up to Mom and kiss her cheek. She reaches for her antibac soap. I move to Dad, raise my hand to high-five him. His stares and slowly presses his paw against mine.

  I step back, lift both arms and holler. “I can’t die!”

  That should count for today’s thankfulness.

  Mom grabs Dad’s arm. “Oh, Gavin, he’s delusional. It’s far worse than we thought.”

  “Son,” Dad wraps his arm around me. “We need to talk.”

  “Sure,” I say, “but when we do, let’s talk fast. I have a lot of living to jam into a little time.”

  Mom gasps.

  “It’s fine, Mom. I don’t know why it feels fine, but it does. For the first time, I feel great.”

  “Great?” Mom looks from me to Dad. “Gavin, do something!”

  I laugh, clear and free.

  The next morning I meet Poole by the boxcar. He sits in the mouth, his left leg bouncing. “Nervous?” I ask. “No.” He exhales. “Okay, yes.” “Here.” I toss him my most oversized clothes. “A couple pairs of jeans to choose from and a T-shirt.”

  He looks long and hard at the options before snatching ripped denims and disappearing into the blackness. “How am I supposed to find this girl?” he calls out. “You won’t need to. She’ll find you.” “How?”

  “You’re a new kid.” I say, “Everybody gawks at new kids.”

  “So I’m a zoo animal.” “More or less.”

  He slowly appears from the dark recesses of the car. He strokes the shirt flat, zips his fly, then fights his hand through his hair. “What do you think?”

  I raise my palms and scrunch my face. “Not bad. But that mop on your head. When was the last time you had that cut?”

  “Oh no. Hair wasn’t in our deal. These are sacred strands, friend, and you ain’t puttin’ your Germ-Xed hands on ‘em.”

  “Fine.” I whip a comb from my back pocket and fling it at him. “Plan B.”

  Poole pushes the teeth one inch through the brown shag rug. They stick.

  “Let me get a scissors.” I back toward the house. “Haircuts can’t be too hard.”

  He double fists the plastic handle and yanks some more. It breaks free and Poole screams and stares at the hairball matted in the tines. “I done scalped myself. Forget this, Martin.”

  “Oh no,” I grab his arm and yank him out of the boxcar. “We have a deal.”

  Minutes later, we walk toward the bus stop. We rehearse for the tenth time. “You’ll go to the office and talk to Ms. Corbitt. She’s the secretary.”

  “Office. Corbitt. Secretary.”

  “Tell her you just moved into the area —”

  “Nope. No lyin'. I’m telling her I need to start school.”

  “Fine. And she’ll want to know a ton of information from your parents.”

  “Covered. Frank, I mean, Dad, is meeting me there.”

  I shoot him a thumbs up. “That’s really good. Then you’ll get a schedule.”

  He frowns.

  “You know, algebra, phys ed — okay wait, that’s trouble. For phys ed you’ll need a gym uniform.”

  “I’m only going one day.”

  “Halden won’t care. I barely escaped The Treatment, and he’s in the mood. Okay, listen close. 14 – 2 – 15. That’s my locker combo. Locker 121 in the boys’ locker room. There’s a clean uniform in there.”

  “14 – 2 – 15.”

  We reach the bus stop. “Listen. Middle-school survival is tough, but I need you focused on the goal. What’s the objective?”

  He places his hands on my shoulders. “Find Julia and tell the truth.”

  I wince. “You might need to be creative with the truth. We’re trying to help Julia form a favorable impression of me.” I jam a folded sheet of paper into his hand. “I’ve listed all your important duties. Find Julia. Make contact and engage. Look for her table in the lunchroom; it’s a good place to get something started. Etcetera.”

  A distant yellow speck grows. “I’m counting on you, Poole. Find Julia and I’ll … I’ll … be very thankful.”

  “For what?”

  “This favor,” I mutter.

  “Yell it!”

  “I’m thankful that you’re doing this for me.”

  “Scream it, friend!” Poole smacks my arm. “I’m thankful for Poole the Magnificent and his willingness to do in one day what I’ve been unable to do in thirteen years! Scream it!”

  “I’m thankful that I don’t need to endure you today!” I peek at him and grin.

  Poole smiles and jumps. “Close enough. I’m gettin’ excited, Marty. I’m going to school!” He jukes and spins.

  I stare at the bus. “Calm down. I don’t need psycho help. I need cool help.”

  I turn and race back toward my house, slip behind a telephone pole and eye the bus stop. Poole still jukes. I slap my face, shake my head.

  What have I done?

  The bus door opens, and Poole hollers at Father Gooly. “Wow, you’re a man of tremendous proportions! How are you today? Do you know a Julia? ‘Cause that’s my job. See, the name is Poole, and I’m going to school, and there’s only one rule, I gotta stay cool, and find the most attractive Julia on behalf of my friend.” He spins and does a backflip. “Oh hey, Charley! You ride the same bus? That’s helpful because you can help me find —”

  The door slams on his voice and the bus pulls away.

  I step out from behind the pole, and scuff the sidewalk with my tennis shoe. This seemed like a good idea yesterday, but now my stomach thinks otherwise. I have unleashed a monster.

  CHAPTER 9

  OPERATION IMPRESS JULIA. PHASE TWO UNDERWAY.”

  I’m confident — anxious, but confide
nt. If anyone can change Julia’s opinion of me, it’s Poole.

  I shuffle home, my house rising in the distance. My huge, bed-filled, three-shower, toasty-warm house. My empty house. Dad never came home from last night’s battle, and Mom was called in to the library.

  I glance from my summer home to Poole’s. I know Poole said that Frank and the depot guys take care of him, but making a kid sleep on wet wood in a dark boxcar is a strange kind of care.

  Think, Marty. What would Poole be thankful for?

  The thought comes in so quickly, my head aches.

  I run to the back door, lift the fieldstone, and grab the baggied house hide-a-key. I slip inside.

  “Mom?”

  Silence. Good.

  I suit up. Elbow-length rubber gloves, protective goggles, and a ski mask. I grab a table knife and walk to the backyard.

  Okay, Poole. Let’s see what we can do about making life a little more comfortable.

  I squeeze behind the evergreen shrub that hides the outside outlet, lower myself into the infested bluegrass, and slice. An hour later, I’ve dug a two-inch channel from my house to the boxcar. My hands are raw and I’m a mess, but as I search for the fifty foot extension cord, I feel good.

  I dash out of the garden shed and press the cord into the channel. I thread one end between a rotted seam in the bottom of the boxcar, plug the other end into our house outlet, and replace the grass on top. Then I tromp it down.

  Poole has power. Invisible, beautiful power.

  I race inside and check my filthy look in the mirror. I laugh. It doesn’t matter —

  I’m on a mission. I duck into the main floor storeroom, our personal cemetery for outdated and unwanted appliances.

  “Mini fridge … old microwave … lamp. And beanbag chair.”

  I haul out the goods and plug them in, careful to set things far from the visible mouth. A low hum of electricity fills the boxcar.

  “Hmm. One more thing.”

  Back in the house, I grab a laundry basket and head to our fridge. “Apples, oranges, can opener, cans of soup, Spaghettios, ravioli … hot pad.”