The Railroad

by Neil Douglas Newton

  But it wasn’t going to be that simple. About an hour into the movie Eileen came out of the bedroom. Her look was tentative as though she’d committed some kind of ugly sin that she was ashamed of. “More wine?” I asked her.

  She nodded sadly and I got up and poured her a glass of the stuff we’d been drinking all week. She took a couple of good pulls at it before she spoke. “What can I say? I think we should go.”

  “I understand that,” I told her, trying to be earnest.

  She paused and seemed to gather herself. “But I don’t really want to.” She waved off whatever words I was prepared to say. “Let me just say this. I’ve had more of a family in the last week or so than I ever had with my husband or, to be honest, with my parents. I know Megan and she loves you. I know that may be a bit much to dump on you all at once but it’s true. If I thought that the best future we had was out there then I’d go. But I’m not sure it is anymore. I know I’ve only been around you for a little while but…”

  She didn’t sob this time. She just squeezed her eyes shut in a feeble attempt to fight off the tears. They squeezed out of her eyes and made it to her jaw before I was up with a box of tissues, dabbing at her face.

  “You don’t have to go,” I heard myself saying over the little voice that screamed, You fucking idiot! Send her away!

  She only looked at me with unreadable eyes and took my hand.

  *

  For a short time it all seemed to make sense. Looking back it made no sense and only could have been acceptable in the face of an odd sort of insanity that I’d come to adopt as my normal state. Eileen and her daughter were fugitives from justice, very badly damaged and unstable with basically no future in or around New York. I was a full-fledged alcoholic, depressive with no way of fixing myself. But I suppose that Eileen and I, and maybe Megan, looked into the pit of despair that comprised our respective futures and grabbed for the only shelter we could find.

  The next day dawned with Megan watching television like everything was normal. She gave me a little smile which convinced me that Mom had already told her there would be no underground railroad; that this was her home for quite a while. I’d downed enough whiskey the night before that I wasn’t feeling very sociable but some of my discomfort lifted when I smelled the breakfast that Eileen was cooking. She smiled at me as well and I found myself smiling back.

  “Bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee,” she told me, gesturing to the table where a plate waited for me. Just like a wife, I thought, with a sinking feeling. As I sat down to eat I realized I was glad that she was there and that I wasn’t grabbing some shit out of the refrigerator in a vain attempt to settle my hung-over stomach.

  “This is good,” I mumbled around the food, echoing what Eileen had said days before over her cocoa. “I guess you told Megan what we decided.”

  “Did you want to tell her?” She looked stricken.

  “No. I just wondered. She’s pretty stoic when she wants to be.”

  “I haven’t heard that word in a while.”

  “You pick words like that up from going to good schools and going to the right parties.”

  “I never finished college. Bob saw to that. I didn’t need school, or at least he told me that.”

  “You do and you don’t. I have a lot of friends who ended up with jobs that had nothing to do with what they studied in college. But he should have let you try.”

  She nodded, clearly not interested in pursuing the subject; something else was on her mind. “We can’t stay inside this house forever you know.” It was said with a trace of bitterness and I started to wonder if she was regretting her decision.

  “I don’t want to keep you here if you think it’s a bad idea.”

  “No. That’s not what I mean. I mean that maybe you’ll get sick of having us here and having to pick things up for us. We can’t even go to the store.”

  “I think we’ll have to see how that goes. But, honestly, I’m not in love with this house. I can sell it. I don’t really even like it here.”

  Her eyes were full of something intense when she turned to me. “You’re throwing your life away.”

  “Do you want me to do something different?”

  She just shook her head and started in on cleaning the dishes from the night before.

  Chapter Seven

  Petra Johnson drives an SUV through the dark of Westchester County .The road she is on is deserted, paralleling a swampy body of water. Her neck muscles clench as she does her best to ignore the swamp. Water in the dark has always held a morbid fascination for her. As the moonlight catches and highlights the water, she feels as though she is being drawn to it, as though it will swallow her. Although she’s experienced these fears for years, she still finds that it takes her breath away.

  Through the trees she can see the flicker of distant lights, the lights of houses. This is a road no one has bothered to develop; the swamp is large and would undermine any building foundations. Her daughter, Karen, sleeps on the seat beside her. As she comes around a bend she sees a vehicle pull onto the road. Breathing raggedly, she slows her SUV and comes to rest eight feet from the vehicle. Her daughter jerks awake at the sudden lurch.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  “But-” It’s all the little girl can get out before her mother raises her hand, motioning her to silence.

  A few seconds later a shape detaches itself from the shadow of the vehicle in front of her. A man walks quickly toward them. As he comes abreast of the car he raises a crowbar. “Get out of the car,” he tells them.

  The child shrieks as her mother grabs her and, unlocking the door, pulls her out. The woman stares questioningly at the man who leans forward and whispers something in her ear. A tear makes its way down her face.

  Then the man smashes the crowbar into the driver’s side window. Karen cowers against her mother’s body. After a few strikes, the window shatters, scattering glass over the front seat.

  The man places the crowbar on the hood of the SUV and pulls something from his pocket. With a practiced hand he pulls a scalpel out from its case. He grabs Petra’s hand and slices her forefinger. She winces but says nothing. Karen watches in horrified silence as the man squeezes the finger and blood begins to drip onto the road.

  Using her blood he writes on the windshield. Once he’s finished Karen can hardly see what he’s written: 4-5-1.

  *

  It was after dinner that night when Megan brought me a rocks glass filled with ice. I could see by the color what it was.

  “Megan! You don’t have to bring me this.”

  She seemed confused. “It’s the frog. Is that okay?”

  I looked up and saw Eileen smiling. Clearly she’d taught Megan how to make me a drink. I think my eyes must have shown what I was feeling. Eileen smiled.

  We sat and watched the seven o’clock news. Megan had just recently allowed us that time to do a few things that adults did. She sat with us for perhaps the sixth day in a row and fidgeted through the half hour show until she could watch something that fit her taste. This particular evening she had fallen asleep which made both her mother and I less tense.

  There was still news about the 9/11 attacks. Once I’d stopped caring about the Twin Towers, I’d learned to turn myself off long ago to just about any news there was and tonight was no exception. I was drifting in and out when I felt Eileen stiffen by my side. I turned to see her face, but I could tell that she was doing her best to pretend nothing was happening.

  When I spent ten seconds concentrating on the television I could see what had set her off.

  …car was found on route 86 near the junction of route 42 near Haysford. As with the previous disappearances, the numbers 4-5-1 were found scrawled along the windshield in blood. Police are in the process of investigating, but it’s assumed to be the blood of the car’s owner, Petra Johnson. Both she and her 9 year old daughter Allison disappeared Tuesday evening. The alleged abduction fits the
pattern of the earlier abductions of Sally Brodman and Cassie Jenz. In all three cases, the women were involved in civil or criminal cases in which child abuse was a central issue. Captain Jennifer Downs of the Haysford police force has told us that, while murder is being considered a possibility, police are awaiting further developments.

  Due to the intense speculation as to the biblical nature of the numbers 4, 5, and 1, a writer at the New York Post has dubbed the alleged assailants the Chapter and Verse Killers. Police in Westchester County have stated conclusively that as many as four persons might be involved in each of these attacks, this contingent on the multiple sets of tire tracks found at each scene. Police have speculated that the victims are trapped between two vehicles before the abductions take place.

  Police have added that the abductions require quite a bit of coordination and knowledge of the victim’s movements.

  I listened with half an ear as the anchors followed up on the interview. I had just begun to calm down when I heard a small voice that made me jump.

  “What’s that they were talking about?”

  Both Eileen and I turned to see Megan staring sleepily at the television. My heart started to pound.

  “It’s nothing, sweetie,” Eileen said hastily. “Just the news. You know the news is always like this.” She gave me a look; her face was red.

  “They said something about children.”

  “Yes, they did. It’s just the news. They’ve gone on to another story. Look! It’s about the Bronx Zoo.”

  To our great relief, Megan shifted gears immediately and seemed to forget what she’d seen. As she settled herself in between us on the couch, I watched Eileen compose herself silently.

  “I think I’d like a little wine, Mike,” she said softly. There were tears in her eyes.

  I walked into the kitchen quickly and poured some wine. Then I poured myself a scotch.

  As I walked out Megan stood up. “Are you sad, Mike?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You’re making a sad face.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Can I have something to drink?”

  “Oh, god. Sorry. It’s impolite of me not to ask you if you want something.”

  “Can I have what Mommy is having?”

  “I think you’ll like juice more.”

  She made a little girl face, thinking about it. “Okay. Billy Bear likes juice.”

  Three days later we sat around my ugly dinner table. Things were slightly different; we had breadsticks and some wine glasses for our wine. There was olive oil and hard bread, all at Eileen’s suggestion. I didn’t seem to be having much trouble with the changing of the guard considering what I’d been eating for the last few months.

  I had spread out a map and was showing Megan and Eileen an area of Michigan that was still relatively desolate. Near to the Canadian border in unforgiving country, it seemed the perfect place for us to go. There, my modest New York savings represented comfort. We could build a house for fifty thousand and I could probably do some type of work there, even if it meant opening a computer repair shop.

  Megan was dubious; she held up the Places Rated book, which listed what were supposed to be the most desirable places to live in the United States. I’d read to her from it only two days before. “Why can’t we live in one of these places?” she asked.

  “Because there are too many people there. And they ask questions. Maybe after a few years no one will care where you and your mother are but right now…”

  “I won’t have any friends.”

  “Mike is trying to help us,” Eileen told her daughter.

  Megan stared at the wall and Eileen and I shared a glance. How could I blame a seven year old child for being dissatisfied with half a life?

  I tried the only gambit I could think of. “Megan, don’t you want to go with me? I’m trying to keep you safe and I don’t want to stay here in this house.” It was my first stab at fatherhood and I felt stupid saying it.

  She stared at me aghast, and then began laughing. “This house looks like shit!” she screamed, laughing all the time.

  “Megan!” her mother gasped.

  “Come on, Mom. You say it all the time. You said it when we were home.”

  “This is our home now, honey. With Mike.”

  Megan digested that. Then she began to cry. I watched while Eileen held her.

  *

  I jerked awake to a gasping sound. At first I wondered if there was some animal outside that had gotten a bone and choked on it, but soon I knew it was in the house. I took a quick look at the clock. 3:47 A.M. I jumped up, pulled on some underwear and went padding out into the living room.

  The sound was clearly coming from the other bedroom. I lurched through the door and saw Eileen holding Megan just as she had been earlier. Only now the child was gasping for breath and flailing her arms.

  “Asthma?” I asked.

  “No.” Eileen shook her head. It was as if I wasn’t in the room. Somehow I knew this had happened before.

  “What is it?”

  “Panic attack.” She stroked her child’s head methodically, trying to will away the beast that was holding her.

  I’d heard about such things. One woman I worked with was prone to attacks that would leave her hyperventilating and dizzy. But it had never made any sense to me. “Is there something you can give her?” I asked stupidly, becoming one with the panic.

  “It’ll pass. Just give her time.”

  “Why hasn’t this happened before since she’s been here?”

  Eileen grimaced. “It has. I just hoped it wouldn’t wake you.”

  “Oh,” I said stupidly.

  I thought of all the things that might help and, of course, alcohol was at the top of the list in the adult world. Not a good alternative. “I could play her Billy Bear CD. Do you think that would calm her down?”

  “No!” It was almost a screech. I quickly realized that I was a superfluous nothing in the face of a mother trying to protect her child. Anything I did would just be a distraction.

  “Remember what the doctor told you, honey. Breathe deep and slow,” Eileen told her daughter from only inches away.

  The little girl continued to gasp and, to my dismay, I could also see that she was crying. I stood frozen, not knowing what to do. Megan tried to obey her mother; her breaths became slow and even. But each time she seemed to be getting it under control a new spasm would hit her and the gasping would start again.

  Eileen began to rock her daughter, slowly. Megan dug her face into her mother’s shoulder and held on for dear life. After a few minutes it seemed that her breathing was beginning to slow.

  Finally I realized that Megan was asleep. I looked at the clock and realized I hadn’t moved for twenty minutes; my legs cracked when I finally did. Eileen put her daughter down on the bed and pulled the covers over her.

  “Is it likely to happen again?” I asked lamely.

  “She’s so exhausted after one of those things she’ll probably sleep the rest of the night.”

  “What causes it?”

  “In general, no one knows. But in her case I can guess what contributes to it.”

  Before I could say anything else, she got up and walked out of the room. I walked out to find her pouring herself a glass of wine. She finally sat on the couch and stared at the blank television screen, a tear rolling down her cheek. “I always said that if that judge had been able to see her like this, but my lawyer told me that these attacks are increasingly common in children. They could explain it away the way they did everything else.”

  I sat next to her, feeling useless. “How often does it happen?”

  “There’s no pattern. I’m not sure it’s in response to anything that’s actually happening to her at the moment. It could be what she’s dreaming.”

  “We can get her help.”

  “You mean drugs? Great. I know children who get pumped full of Ritalin when they’re little just because they have a problem. A
nd then they become little walking zombie versions of their parents who are taking Paxil or something like that.”

  “If it helps…”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it is the answer. I just don’t want to give up yet.”

  “On what?”

  “On being responsible for what happened to her. For helping her through it.

  “Okay.”

  “You’ve really picked a pair of fucked up girls haven’t you?” She said it with a smile but there was fear in her voice.

  “My choice. I had good reason.”

  She smiled at me and leaned her head against my shoulder. “I wonder what it would have been like if I’d met you ten years ago.”

  My heart jumped; there weren’t too many ways you could take a remark like that. Looking back on it, we had been leading up to this point all along. “It probably would have been better for both of us. I wouldn’t have had to live as yuppie asshole of the month in New York.”

  “I don’t know why you keep saying that about yourself.”

  “I don’t know. It’s odd to look back on yourself and know that you did something for years that makes no sense. I was just on an adrenaline high. Once I came down from one big achievement, I’d have to have another. I don’t really think I can explain it.”

  “Working hard?”

  “No. A lot of people do that. It was the realization that it was a waste of time that really got to me. It was good enough. And then it wasn’t.”

  “You don’t talk about 9/11 much.”

  “There isn’t a lot to say about it.”

  “But it brought you here.” She put the wine glass beneath my mouth and tilted it. I took a good swig. “I don’t think I can stand flirting with you and having you reject me. Not when I’m in a state like this. So I’ll just be a slut and ask you if you want to make love to me.”

  We weren’t looking at each other at that point which made it easier. “I think I do. But sometimes I think that I’d be taking advantage of you if I did. You’re sort of vulnerable now.”

  “I know that.” She put down the wine and stood up, stretching. “Come with me."

  I took her hand and followed her into my bedroom. She giggled. “This place is really ugly.”