Night Train

by Thom Jones

  “You see. You aren’t the only one, either; there are thousands like you,” Blaine said. “We could wipe out the national debt.”

  Freddy shook a Kool from his pack and lit it. He put an arch in his voice, “Excuse me, do y’all mind if I smoke?”

  “I like them too much,” Zona said as she mashed hers out. “I better go check on Walter.”

  Blaine waved his daughter-in-law over to him and spoke quietly. “Was there some kind of precipitating event? What the hell really happened?”

  “A neighbor—this guy, this asshole hurt his back at work and is collecting disability. If you ask me, it’s a bullshit claim. He sits in his garage and drinks beer all day, or you’ll see him doing real heavy labor, like he’s got the strongest back in the world. Anyhow, he comes over here and says Walter’s birds are too loud. Calls the city. They come out and say Walter isn’t zoned for an aviary. You know how Walter lives for those birds. Well, not only do we have to get rid of the birds, move them out to the stables, but they want us to tear up the construction. If I were a man I would take that guy out with one punch. One punch! End of conversation. End of problem.”

  “I can’t believe Walter is cowed by some guy with a bad back,” Freddy said. “He’s a damn Sumo.”

  Zona said, “Yes, but he’s not mean, and he really gets into the Christian lifestyle. So now it takes a half hour to drive out to the stables. It takes an hour to cut up fruit. You have to bleach the tables, the cutting boards, and all the paraphernalia because of salmonella, which can wipe out a flock overnight. Lories eat fruit and nectar; they aren’t seed eaters. That’s the big downside on lories. You do that twice a day and try to run a business and it will snap you. Of course, the city is right. We aren’t zoned for an aviary. So there you are.”

  “And I’ve got to sell the stables,” Blaine said. “I wish we’d dumped the business ten years ago and bugged out for Mexico. We got an offer for seven million at the time, but we were taking in a hundred and ninety-five thousand a month clear. Now I’m stuck. Our traffic is down by half, the lease payments and payroll are killing us. The next thing, I really will be living in a double-wide. In fact, I don’t see any way to avoid it.”

  “We’ll all be living in the double-wide when I pay for this last caper,” Zona said. She picked up the laundry basket and headed upstairs.

  Blaine looked over at Freddy. “So you really love it over there, in Central Africa?”

  “I do,” Freddy said. “I feel that my life has meaning there. I can’t do any good over here. I’m just not built for here. In Africa, I thrive, although it’s very hard. Africa generates and consumes at an accelerated rate. You can feel it buzz. An hour of rain can turn a desert green in a day, the grass will grow three inches in a week, and two more days of sun can turn the green brown. Production, consumption. It’s so instant. It’s just…super. You can understand the whole ‘cradle of civilization’ business the minute you take a breath over there. They gave me a medical leave. I just came home to recover. This is a horseshit life back here.”

  “Joanna and I did Kenya and Tanzania just before she died—what, two summers ago? I guess that’s just Disneyland compared to Cameroon, but I think I know what you mean.”

  At these words, Freddy did an ultra-femme double take, and Blaine’s suspicions were confirmed. He thought of AIDS, and found himself cringing inwardly, as if in the presence of a vampire.

  “Shit,” Freddy said, “I didn’t know you guys went to Africa. What about your pathological fear of lions? You told me when I was little that a lion was going to eat you.”

  “You are right. I thought a lion would get me. As a kid, I saw the picture. My mother said it was a dream. They took me to the doctor, but it wasn’t a dream. It was some sort of ESP. I was terrified that Barnum and Bailey would drive by in a convoy, have an accident, and let a lion loose—that it would make its way to my house and eat me. This was my greatest fear.”

  “But you went to Kenya. Why would you go there? To tempt fate?”

  Blaine said, “Well, when we rented the cherry farm out, up in Oregon—didn’t I tell you this? When we rented the cherry farm to those hippies, the lions almost did get me.”

  “What lions on the cherry farm?” Freddy said.

  “Jesus!” Blaine said. “I drove up to the cherry farm in Salem to check on the property when your dad was in the nuthouse. I knew something was going on, and I was right.”

  “What?”

  “Well, hell, the tenants were five months behind in the rent,” Blaine said. “Dope-smoking hippies. I rented them the place because they were Walter’s friends. ‘Oh, Mr. Blaine, we’ll take care of the place just like it was our own.’ Shit! Everything was either missing or ruined. They even cut a hole in the front door so their Rottweiler could go in and out. They had opium poppies in the front yard—the little pods were oozing juice from razor slits. I figured that if they’re growing opium in the yard, they had to have grow lights in the basement. I told the hippie housewife I was going to go down in the basement to check on the furnace, and she panicked—no, no, you can’t do that. When a little kid started crying upstairs, I had my chance. Down into the basement, I turn around and there’s a fully grown African lion—”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Blaine came up from the couch with his palms out as if he were summoning up a vision in a crystal ball. His eyes darted from left to right as he reenacted the scene. “A fully grown lioness crouching down in the seven o’clock position, and from the front comes a male. I knew then that my picture was coming true. The male let out a growl that shook the rafters, almost knocked me down—Christ! Ten seconds later the hippie earth-mother bitch is down the stairs with an umbrella, popping it in the female’s face. Those were a long ten seconds.” Blaine sat back on the couch and sipped his coffee. “The coin shop was a romp.”

  “God! Mary Poppins,” Freddy said, squealing with delight.

  “She says, ‘Back, Sheena!’ ” Blaine extended his left leg, pulled his pant leg loose and laughed.

  Freddy rattled off a laugh of his own and dabbed at his face with another of Zona’s linen tea napkins. “Jesus! You never told me this.”

  Blaine scowled as he took a swig of coffee. “Freddy, you’ve got that too-much-Elavil, no-energy fairy voice again.”

  “My voice isn’t that bad,” Freddy said. “I’m starving, sleep-deprived, malarial, and if I don’t take a leak pretty soon, I’m going to piss my pants! Give me a break, dude.”

  At this Blaine slapped his thigh and laughed. “It is that bad,” he mimicked. Then he was on his feet again, acting out the scene in the basement. He would imitate a lion, then himself, then the hippie housewife, and then a lion again. “Back, Sheena!”

  Freddy mopped his face. “Zona, he’s making me laugh. I’m gonna pee on the rug!” He jumped up, and cupping his genitals, began to dance like a pair of scissors. “Quick: what happened to the lions? A zoo?”

  “Euthanized,” Blaine said. “But the point is my picture was right in the ballpark. I went to Africa because lions in Africa weren’t my problem. It was lions in Oregon.”

  “My voice isn’t that bad. It’s…normal.”

  “It’s airy-fairy,” Blaine said. He held his hand out and let it quaver. “I’m just telling you because you’re my nephew, and somebody has to point these things out. It was really bad when you said, ‘Excuse me, do you mind if I smoke?’ ”

  Freddy threw his head back and laughed. “That was intentional! I was doing the nineteen-thirties movie thing. You’re just getting crabby because you need to eat. Did you have anything for breakfast?”

  “A doughnut,” Blaine said.

  “Well, you were sugared up and now you’re down. You came in booming with good cheer and now you’re Mr. Crab Patch. Maybe we should make some eggs or something?” Freddy said.

  Zona came downstairs with a thick red copy of the Physicians’ Desk Reference and shoved it at Freddy’s chest, knocking him back on the couch. “Page 2,2
57,” she said. “Interpret the lingo, buster.”

  “What’s going on up there?” Blaine said.

  Zona said, “I put Boo Boo in with Walter. They’re talking.”

  “They’re talking? You mean like ‘How’re ya doin’?’ ” Freddy said.

  Zona stroked her cheek, “ ‘Whacha doin’?’ ‘Just layin’ here, Boo.’ ‘Are you feeling bad, Captain?’ ‘I feel pretty rough. I sure do.’ ‘Give me a kiss.’ Talking like that.”

  “Well, at least he’s talking. Last night—last night was bad,” Freddy said.

  “It’s tearing me up,” Blaine said, reaching through the buttons of his shirt to rub his chest. “This on top of everything else.”

  Zona rapped the P.D.R. with her knuckles. “How long before the pills kick in?”

  Freddy’s finger ran expertly down a column as he scanned the entry for Eskalith. “ ‘Typical symptoms of mania include pressure of speech, motor hyperactivity, reduced need for sleep, flight of ideas, grandiosity, elation, poor judgment, aggressiveness and possibly hostility. When given to a patient experiencing a manic episode, Eskalith may produce a normalization of symptomatology within one to three weeks.’ Why, it sounds great. We could all do with some.”

  There was a large crash and the sound of heavy footfalls upstairs. “Goddamn it! Who’s laughing down there?” The voice came down like thunder, with an overlay of fear and paranoia.

  “I’ll be right back,” Zona said. She rushed up the stairs, swung open the bedroom door, stepped inside, and pushed it shut.

  “Shit,” said Blaine. “I’m going up there.”

  “Zona can handle it. He finds men threatening. We better wait. He’s got the strength of twenty.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Blaine said. “She’s really been good for him. An angel. Really.”

  “Most women couldn’t handle the psoriasis, let alone the—”

  “She doesn’t even see it; it’s not a consideration,” said Blaine. He sat with both arms extended on the top of the couch and managed to sneak a look at his new Timex Indiglo.

  At last, Walter appeared at the top of the stairs. He was a huge man, balding, with a six-week beard. He cinched the tie on his white terry-cloth bathrobe. He held a worn Bible in his hand and looked crazed. Zona followed him as he grabbed the railing and worked his way down the steps.

  “Hi, Dad. Hi, Freddy,” Walter said meekly. He paused on the third step from the bottom and looked down at the two men.

  “Walter wants some breakfast,” Zona said. “Or should we have lunch? It’s getting late. Would you guys like to eat?”

  “We were just talking about that,” Freddy said. “Eggs. Protein. Whole-wheat toast. Tomato juice. I’m a nervous fucking wreck. I look like hell. At least Walter looks like a human being. I’m just a skeleton in a bag of skin. And I don’t have AIDS and I’m not gay, if that’s what you’re all thinking—so you can quit boiling the silverware.”

  Walter stared awkwardly at the two men and then raised his left hand like an Indian. “I would like to read something. A prayer.”

  “Read?” Blaine said.

  “Great,” Freddy said. “I’m going to piss my pants, but first a prayer.”

  Walter fumbled through his Bible. At first it seemed that he was okay, and then it appeared that the effort was almost too much for him to bear. He had to grab the banister to steady himself. His lips were dry, and he kept running his tongue over them. Large beads of perspiration began to form on his forehead. The onionskin pages of his Bible were sticking together. He flipped through them, stopping occasionally to study the text. From the look on his face, it seemed that he was trying to decipher an incomprehensible language. The Bible began to wobble in his huge hands like a divining rod. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Geez! Are you guys hot? Is it hot down here?”

  “It’s just hotter than a motherfucker,” Freddy said. “Africa hot! The Libyan desert at high noon!”

  “It’s warm,” Zona said. “Air conditioner or no. But you’re sweating because of the lithium, and Freddy has a fever. Don’t indulge yourselves with symptomatic lingo. It just makes everything worse.”

  “You’re right, baby,” Walter said. He opened the Bible again and, leaning against the wall, studied the page, while Blaine, Zona, and Freddy waited expectantly. At last Walter was ready. A gleam came to his eye. He was running with sweat. He pulled the Bible up close to his face, as if he were severely nearsighted. He read at an infuriatingly slow pace, but his audience watched with rapt attention:

  He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High,

  who abides in the shadow of the Almighty,

  will say to the Lord, “My refuge and my fortress;

  my God, in whom I trust.”

  For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler

  and from the deadly pestilence;

  he will cover you with his pinions,

  and under his wings you will find refuge;

  his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.

  You will not fear the terror of the night,

  nor the arrow that flies by day,

  nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,

  nor the destruction that wastes at noon-day.

  A thousand may fall at your side,

  ten thousand at your right hand;

  but it will not come near you.

  You will only look with your eyes

  and see the recompense of the wicked.

  Because you have made the Lord your refuge,

  the Most High your habitation,

  no evil shall befall you,

  no scourge come near your tent.

  For he will give his angels charge of you

  to guard you in all your ways.

  On their hands they will bear you up,

  lest you dash your foot against a stone.

  You will tread on the lion and the adder,

  the young lion and the serpent you

  will trample under foot.

  “Because he cleaves to me in love, I will deliver him;

  I will protect him, because he knows my name.

  When he calls to me, I will answer him;

  I will be with him in trouble,

  I will rescue him and honor him.

  With long life I will satisfy him,

  and show him my salvation.”

  By the time Walter finished, his robe was soaked, and the sweat was popping off his face, plopping down on the pages of the Bible. His hands were shaking. He continued to work his tongue over his cracked lips. He closed the book and pressed it to his breast.

  “I’m still a little bit messed up,” Walter said. “But I think I’m going to be okay. The lithium is starting to work. That’s why I’m sweating so bad. I’m dehydrated, too. Honey, can I have some Diet Shasta—black cherry, two cans?”

  Zona put her arm around his shoulder. “You’re going to be just fine, babe. Just fine. I’ll get you the pop and then fix all you boys up with some grub.”

  Freddy got up and hugged his cousin. “It’s cool, Wally. I love you, man. But I gotta hit the water closet. Was it a good trip?”

  “It was righteous, cuz. I saw the alpha and the omega, but I’m back now. Go forth and pee,” Walter said. “And then everybody get back out here so we can do a big circle hug and sing joyous praise for a multitude of blessings.”

  “Fuck you,” Freddy said.

  “That’s right, Walter, just fuck it, huh?” Zona called from the kitchen. Her tone was light.

  When it was his turn, Blaine embraced Walter and at once recalled the joy he felt forty-seven years and some before, when he first held this stranger, the adopted little boy.

  The Blaine line would end with Walter and Freddy. Zona was sterile, like Joanna. Unless by some remote stretch Freddy got married, it was over, and Blaine was sure now that Freddy was gay and suffering from the first symptoms of AIDS. Blaine took in all these thoughts in a rush, and through eyes slightly blurring with tears, he glanced outside and saw
how the shadow of the withering fig tree had disappeared at noon, leaving his Volvo a victim of the blistering sun. Heat waves shimmered off the faded paint job. Most people at least had the satisfaction of knowing that they would live on in their grandchildren. Even atheists took consolation in that.

  Blaine gave Walter a tight hug. His son was soaking wet. “You had me worried there, kiddo. It’s good to have you back.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Walter said. “I’m okay now. It’s all right.”

  Blaine broke loose from Walter and with a croaking voice called to Zona, “Just a minute, beautiful. Let me give you a hand out there.” As he stepped away from the living room, Blaine dabbed the tears from his eyes, quickly blew his nose, and fought to regain his composure before he “exploded” around the corner singing, “Bé-sa-me, Bé-same mucho, como si fuera esta noche la última vez.…”

  Way Down Deep in the Jungle

  DR. KOESTLER’S BABOON​, George Babbitt, liked to sit near the foot of the table when the physician took his evening meal and eat a paste the doctor had made consisting of ripe bananas and Canadian Mist whiskey. Koestler was careful to give him only a little, but one scorching afternoon when the generators were down and the air conditioners out, Koestler and Babbitt sat under the gazebo out near the baobab tree that was the ersatz town square of the Global Aid mission and got blasted. It was the coolest spot you could find, short of going into the bush. The baboon and the man were waiting for a late supper, since the ovens were out, too. Cornelius Johnson, the mission cook, was barbecuing chickens out in the side yard—not the typical, scrawny African chickens, but plump, succulent ones that Johnson made fat with sacks of maize that the generous donors to Global Aid had intended for the undernourished peoples of the region.

  It had been a grueling day, and Koestler was drinking warm whiskey on an empty stomach. At first, he was impatient for a meal, then resigned to waiting, then half smashed and glad to wait, and he began offering Babbitt straight shots of booze. When he saw the look of sheer ecstasy that came over Babbitt’s Lincolnesque face, he let the simian drink on, convinced that the animal was undergoing something holy. And perhaps he was, but after the initial rush of intoxication, Babbitt made the inevitable novice drinker’s mistake of trying to amplify heaven. He snatched the whole bottle of Canadian Mist and scampered off into the bush like a drunken Hunchback of Notre Dame. Koestler had to laugh; it seemed so comical—the large Anubis baboon was unwilling to share the last of the amber nectar with his master. Well, there was always more where it came from, but suddenly Koestler wondered about the rapidity with which Babbitt had been slamming it down. He was afraid Babbitt would poison himself. Koestler took off into the bush after the animal, and he was instantly worried when he did not find Babbitt in any of his favorite trees. But Babbitt, who was perched higher than usual, announced his presence by launching the empty bottle down at Koestler like a bomb, just missing him. It was a calculated attempt at mayhem, Koestler realized, as Babbitt began to rant and rave at him with an astonishing repertoire of hostile invective that not only puzzled Koestler but wounded him to the core. Koestler had been Babbitt’s champion and staunchest defender. Virtually no one on the compound had any use for the large and powerful baboon. As Sister Doris, the chief nurse, liked to say, Babbitt was aggressive, noisy, a biter, a thief, and a horrendous mess-maker with no redeeming quality except the fact that he was one of God’s creatures. Father Stuart quickly pointed out that crocodiles were God’s creatures, too, but that didn’t mean you had to let them move in with you. Almost every day someone would come up to Koestler and besiege him with complaints about the animal. Only Father Stuart had the nerve to confront Babbitt directly, once using a bird gun to shoot Babbitt’s red ass with a load of rock salt, an incident that caused the priest and the doctor to cease speaking to each other, except through third parties. Koestler and the priest had become so estranged that Koestler refused to dine with the rest of the staff, and this suited him fine, since he no longer had to sit through the sham of hymns, prayers, and all the folderol that surrounded meals in the lodge.