The Railroad

by Neil Douglas Newton

  “Okay,” I said, trying to act like I was weighing my options. It seemed like there would be nothing but trouble if I stayed in the Bulwark Arms. And I clearly wasn’t going to get any information. “I guess I’ll go. Thanks for the help.”

  I felt his eyes bore into my back as I left. It was a feeling I was getting used to on this trip.

  I stood on the near empty street and watched the sun making its arc down to the horizon. What I needed more than anything else was sleep. I found that I couldn’t decide what to do next. Finally, in desperation, I asked someone on the street if there was a motel nearby. I was glad to hear that it was out of town; I wanted to get as far from the creepy Bulwark Arms as I could get.

  The D-Ron motel was a generic shitbox. I figured the name must have been some creative combination of syllables from some important part of someone’s life. However, I was able to keep my curiosity in check as I took the keys to room 215. It was on the second floor, I was assured proudly by the owner, almost as if that implied that there’d be a really spectacular view.

  As it turned out, there was, only it was of some wasted carnival rides that had obviously sat in the back of the D-Ron since the Watergate scandal. I regarded the tilt-a-whirl with grim satisfaction as I worked the door open. The room was a tribute to anonymity and then some. I locked the door, set up some of my clearly useless booby traps, put the gun on the bed next to my hand, and fell into a deep sleep.

  *

  It was dark when I woke up. The antique marvel by my bed, blared 8:17 at me in bright red numerals, each numeral was the size of a subway rat. I supposed that Ron or “D” had considered this boon of elephantine clockwork an act of generosity. I figured it must have cost at least an additional fifty cents over other mere clocks.

  To my disappointment I didn’t feel that much better than when I’d gone to sleep. After walking around the room for a while I concluded that it might have been better if I hadn’t slept at all. My eyes felt gritty and I was irritable and had a hard time completing a thought. What was worse was that I felt like crying. I supposed it was a lot like the serious jet lag I’d experienced when I’d come home from Australia several years before. I could feel the tendrils of the dreams I’d had playing in my head, half-forgotten. It felt like I’d gone down into my subconscious and hadn’t quite come back out.

  In the lurid red light of the “Accu-time” clock I felt like I was in a nightmare landscape. I sat back down on the bed and stared. It was another five minutes before I seemed to move without really wanting to; I had to get out of my room and keep moving or I might just collapse and never find Eileen and Megan.

  I found myself standing out on the highway that had brought me to the D-Ron. I could see some of the lights of the town a mile or so away. There didn’t seem much of anywhere else to go. So I got in my car.

  The Bulwark was clearly out, so I drove through the town twice before I decided on the Three Rivers Inn, a bar that seemed touristy enough that I could entertain a hope that I wouldn’t get the shit beat out of me. I sat down at the bar and immediately discarded the idea of ordering any single malt they might have, though I saw a couple. I didn’t need the attention. I ended up ordering a Jim Beam; it wasn’t exactly high profile liquor.

  I scanned the bar and found only seven people there; none of them seemed like they’d be open to having a conversation with me. I realized that it could be a long night and, in my condition, I had better nurse my bourbon.

  As it turned out, nursing wasn’t going to help; I was farther gone than I realized; after the second sip I entered a state that I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager and what I took to get high was far stronger. After an hour and a half went by, I was almost incapable of coherent thought. Somewhere along the line, depression set in. This was my last stop and I realized that, if this didn’t yield anything, it would all be over. I’d never really considered that completely; that I might have done all this for nothing. That I’d be driving back home, my enemies laughing at me. And I’d never see Eileen or Megan again.

  I had one chance left and I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t waste it. I stared at the clock just to find some point of reference in the haze that I was floating in. I did what seemed like composing myself, but actually amounted to shaking my head back and forth. I decided I might as well talk to the bartender; she’d most likely seen and heard just about everything that had gone on in this small town. I raised my hand for another bourbon, simultaneously pulling the photo of Eileen and Megan out of my pocket.

  The bartender was friendly as she took my drink order. Then her eyes became unfocused as she saw me put the photo on the bar. “My sister!” I shouted over the noise. “We were supposed to meet here tonight, but she…she never does what you expect her to do.” I smiled, knowing that I must have looked like shit. My own words echoed in my head as though I was hearing them through a wall; I shook my head once more to clear it.

  She took one look at the photo and moved off down the bar to get me my drink. There was no nervousness in her movements and she didn’t seem interested in talking to me. She tried to turn away once she’d put my drink in front of me, and I found that it made me oddly angry. I stopped her by standing up and touching her arm. She whirled on me like I’d hit her.

  I held up my hands. “Sorry,” I yelled. “I just wanted to know if you’d seen my sister and her daughter. If you have, I have reason to stay here. Otherwise…” I shrugged. I was getting tired of shrugging.

  “I’ve never seen them,” she said with no expression and moved away. I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach and I knew I didn’t believe her at all.

  I sat there feeling defeated. I could go to everyone in the bar and show them the photo, but all I’d do is get people angry at me. My anger grew as I took a good pull at my drink. And as far as I could see, it was over. I had no business being in that bar, in Piedmont, or anywhere north of Westchester, for that matter. I finished the last of my drink and sat staring. Some proper part of me wondered if I looked homicidal and if I’d be thrown out of the dive. But mostly I didn’t care. I called for another drink—at least the bartender owed me that much.

  Oddly, she brought it to me. I guessed that if I was completely shit-faced, I’d present less of a threat. My next sip hit me like a hammer when it got to my stomach. The stress and lack of sleep over the last few days rose to a crescendo—it was like I was seeing the world through the bottom of a glass.

  I must have sat there staring moodily into the surface of the bar for a good hour before someone tapped my shoulder. I was still aware enough to become nervous—who knew who’d want to escort me out of the bar and threaten me still one more time. But what I saw wasn’t a bouncer or some surly male. It was a female who smiled benignly at me. I wondered for a moment if she was a distraction sent by them to befuddle me and throw me off the track. I stared at her stupidly, waiting for her to say something.

  She looked a little puzzled. “I’m not trying to bother you. You look…well you look like you’re in trouble. Maybe you don’t need to be drinking anymore.”

  I watched her awkwardly, trying to size her up; the two people I’d met in this town hated me already so what were the odds that she wasn’t one of my enemies, whoever they were.

  I looked around suddenly for Benoit or someone like him, but there was no one to fit his description. Then I realized that Benoit was dead and that my mind was drifting again.

  It was another few seconds before I decided she wasn’t there to kill me. “Uh, I know. Thanks.”

  The look of concern stayed on her face. “You think you might want some coffee?” she asked, putting her pocketbook on the bar.

  “No. I’m just tired. I haven’t gotten much sleep lately.”

  “You sound like you’re from south of here.”

  For some reason that made me laugh. “Uh, most of the country is from south of here.”

  She smiled sadly. “I see what you mean.” She stared at me. “Do you know that you’re
crying?”

  I put my hands to my face. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

  She sat down at the bar and signaled to the bartender. “Karen! I’ll have a Rolling Rock.”

  Karen hadn’t noticed her until that moment. When she saw both of us sitting together, her jaw set. Then she set about pulling out a Rolling Rock and popping the top, all the while glancing at me and my new companion. When she came down the bar she placed the beer on the surface somewhat theatrically and made a point of standing there for a moment before she spoke.

  “You made a friend, Bailey?”

  Bailey gave her an odd look. “Just someone who needs a friend. And maybe some coffee.” She stared at me meaningfully.

  I looked back at her, there was no guile in her eyes. She seemed sincere. “Well, I guess I’ll be here for a while. I might as well sober up.”

  Karen gave me a not so friendly smile and moved back up the bar to get a cup of coffee for me.

  I giggled. “She doesn’t like me,” I told Bailey.

  “Don’t worry about her. This is a small town. They don’t like anyone.”

  “Then why are you talking to me?”

  “I’m not from here—Massachusetts actually.”

  I nodded and stared at the lights over the bar. Bailey wasn’t going to let me drift away, it seemed. “So what brings you up here?” she asked.

  I smiled, knowing, even in my haze, that she was being motherly and trying to help. “I’m trying to help someone. And I can’t.” I shook my head as it hung.

  She put her hand on my shoulder. “That’s okay. At least you’re trying.”

  I shook my head again. “No, I’m not. I can’t find them.”

  “Where are they?”

  I felt a cold stab of suspicion—why was she asking me these questions. “Why do you want to know?”

  I looked up and saw fear on her face; I had scared her. “I’m just trying to help you,” she said.

  “Noah’s Ark,” I said, my words slurring.

  “What?”

  “There’s a barn. That’s where they are. At least that’s what they told me. Maybe everyone’s lying to me, even the people I’m looking for.”

  “Karen! Where’s that coffee?”

  “In a second.”

  The next hour or so was a blur. I remember coffee. I figure I must have had at last three cups—it started to sour my stomach. There came a point where I was tired but not quite so drunk anymore.

  “Are you feeling better?” I heard Bailey ask.

  I looked up at her. The bar came into clearer focus. I blinked my eyes. There was a man standing next to me. “Time to go,” he said.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Let him sit for a while longer, Tim.”

  “He needs to go." He leaned over me.

  “Who’re you?” I asked him.

  “The manager. You need to go.”

  “Can you drive?” Bailey asked me.

  “I think so.”

  “Okay,” Tim growled. “Time to go.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I asked. I started to giggle. My hand flew out and knocked over the remains of my drink.

  Tim put his hand under my arm. “Okay. That’s it!”

  Bailey put herself between him and me. “Let me walk him to his car. You don’t need to treat him like this!”

  “Fuck off, Bailey. This isn’t your business.”

  “And why the hell is it yours?”

  Karen came into view. “You don’t know what you’re messing with, Bailey. He has to go.”

  “You’re full of shit, you know that?” Bailey shouted.

  As Tim reached for my arm again, Bailey knocked him out of the way. “Okay! He’s going. I’ll take him to his car.” She began to help me up.

  “See that he’s gone,” Tim said.

  I’d managed to stand up, with Bailey’s help. I found that I felt marginally better. Maybe the booze had let me relax for the first time in days. I decided that I deserved some sleep.

  Bailey and I shuffled out of the bar and into the parking lot. She helped me fish out my keys and opened the door for me. As I moved into the front seat, she grabbed my hand. “Are you sure that you can drive?"

  “I think I’m okay now. I can make it to the motel.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  I had to think for a second. “D-Ron?”

  “Ugh! That’s a shit hole.”

  “That’s the place.”

  “Do you want some more coffee before you go?”

  “No. I think I’ve had enough.”

  She stared at me, studying my face. “Okay,” she finally said.

  I nodded at her. “Thanks.”

  “By the way,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You mentioned a barn before. Were you serious or was that just the booze talking.”

  I didn’t remember saying anything about a barn. “What did I say?”

  “You said something about a barn and Noah’s Ark.”

  I became more alert. “I did?”

  “Yeah. Because…well it seems like a coincidence if you were just babbling. But there’s a barn near here in the shape of Noah’s Ark. I thought that might help if that’s what you’re looking for. It’s in Gaston. About an hour north of here.”

  A voice exploded in my head telling me to go to Gaston right away. It made sense; Gaston was the last town on my postcard list. Then I forced myself to take stock of my mental state and I wasn’t pleased; things seemed far away and sounds created a dull echo. I needed to sleep more than anything.

  But there was a small voice that told me that there was no time to lose, that I’d found Eileen and Megan and any time I lost might be disastrous. The coffee had made things worse, in a way. While I was wired and a little more aware of my surroundings, I felt stretched and pulled tight. It was a dangerous frame of mind and I wasn’t sure what state I’d be in within two or three hours

  I ended up compromising with myself. I planned to spend a few hours sleeping and then get up and go straight to Gaston. As I pulled into the D-Ron’s parking lot, part of me knew I could make no guarantees about how long I’d sleep once my head hit the pillow.

  *

  When I did wake up, I’d only slept about two hours and I found that, despite my horrible exhaustion, I couldn’t really sleep anymore. As hard as I tried, each time I closed my eyes, my mind would race with incoherent thoughts and I’d jerk awake. Finally, I gave up and decided to meet whatever fate there was for me in Gaston. In the end, something told me that my clumsy attempt at getting information in Piedmont might become news in Gaston within a couple of hours. The more quickly I moved the better.

  I had wondered if Gaston was a French name as I searched for it on the map. During the hour drive there I became certain it was—most of the towns and most of the names I saw on signs seemed to be a remnant of some Quebecois immigration from the past. Gaston itself wasn’t much to look at. There was a post office, a fire station, a store of sorts, a restaurant, and a bar. It was clear that only the bar would be open at that time of night.

  The Pea Soup was in an odd building for a bar. It looked more like a Victorian house in San Francisco than a drinking establishment on the northern fringe of New England. The inside turned out to be a regulation dive. About fifteen locals sat at the bar and a few more at tables. It was obvious from the first impression that this was purely a townie bar. Not a great place to ask questions.

  The reaction was immediately hostile as soon as I walked through the door. Several heads turned and faces told what the patrons didn’t want to say aloud: You’re not from around here. I tried to act as casual as possible.

  It took a good five minutes for the bartender to get to me once I’d sat down at the bar, despite how little business there was. “What’ll you have?” he asked coldly, slapping a coaster down in front of me.

  “Bourbon,” I told him. It was the first thing that came to my mind.

  He looked at me strange
ly and smirked. I heard a few chortles from down the bar. I noticed that everyone else was drinking beer. I’d struck out already.

  The bartender brought me my drink and placed it before me. “You want to run a tab?”

  “Sure,” I answered. At least it would make me seem less of an asshole if I wasn’t paying for my drinks one at a time, like I was ready to run out at any moment.

  I decided to wait. If I asked him anything right away it would make me seem too anxious. If I was just drinking like the rest of them, they might start to get used to me. I nursed my first drink for a while, not wanting to repeat my performance back in Piedmont. After about 45 minutes I ordered another drink. The bartender placed it in front of me gingerly, like he was near to the source of some deadly infection.

  “Excuse me,” I said as he moved away.

  “What?” he asked warily.

  “I was just wondering. I’m a photographer and I’m doing a book on New England architecture. I heard something about a barn shaped like Noah’s Ark. Is that for real or just a legend?”

  He stiffened a bit and I heard a couple of chairs squeak across the floor as they were turned. “I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Well, I don’t know much about it but someone down in Piedmont told me about it.”

  The temperature seemed to be going up quickly in the Pea Soup. I could feel eyes on me and conversation seemed to have stopped completely. “I guess you should go back to Piedmont then and ask." someone said.

  I turned and looked at the speaker. He stared back at me, a regulation red hunter’s cap on his head. Turning my head made me feel dizzy and I was finding it hard to completely understand the meaning of what he said. He looked away after a few seconds. I saw the bartender out of the corner of my eye, making a phone call and casting glances my way every few seconds. I wondered if he was talking to someone in Piedmont, maybe Tim. And maybe I was just being uncontrollably paranoid.

  I downed the rest of my drink, wondering what to do. After about fifteen minutes I found myself returning to the state I’d been in back in Piedmont: incredibly tired and disoriented. I put my head down on the bar and tried to gather my wits.