“Thad’s biggest pride was a pack of prime huntin’ dogs that he was always braggin’-up. And they was always the best, winnin’ first place in any contest and sure showin’ off their stuff on a real hunt.
“But one time, he got a litter with one pup that wouldn’t take the scent. A dog that just wanted to be friends with the world, I guess. Well, word got around of Thad havin’ a hound that wouldn’t earn its keep and he took some pretty stiff razzin’ over it from his better class friends.
“S’pose he could’ve shot ‘em, then and there and been done with it. But, Thad was out to prove what a good trainer he was. So he whupped on that dog and whupped ‘em and whupped ‘em; tryin’ to make him a tracker. It just wouldn’t take, though, and the hound, he started runnin’ off.
“Then came one time, when that ole mutt somehow ended-up at my place. I knowed right off whose animal he was and sure didn’t want no trouble. But, I did feed him some scraps and watered him and tried to show him some kindness. And he seemed grateful. Then, I did the proper thing and got him back where he belonged and old Thad only wailed on him some more, right in front of me.
“After that, that ole hound started runnin’ off regular, back to me each time and it about broke my heart to turn him over. If I’d’ve had the money, I’d’ve bought him right out and let ‘em just be at my place to lay in the shade and enjoy life. But, how’d I ever hope to afford a full-blooded hound, even if he wasn’t no good?
“Then that one day, that dog came by and he was hurt bad. Broke ribs that I could see pointing, right under his skin. Blood comin’ out his nose. I did my best to tend ‘em, until Thad came along, by then knowin’ easy, where he’d be.
“That time was different, though. Thad was drunked-up good and just plain hateful. He ranted and raved, ‘bout how I was nuthin’ but a backwoods lowlife with no rights to his property and then began to wail on that old hound even more.”
Ulees choked back the bitter recollection, forcing his words on.
“And the gaze in that dog’s eyes lookin’ up at me was more’n I could bear. It wasn’t a look of pain, but one of almost bein’ sorry that I had to watch what was bein’ done to ‘em. So, I stepped up and shoved Thad away.
“Well, he pulled out a big ole gun and gave me some real bad words. Yet, even that was nuthin.’ ‘Cause, as hurt as he was, that busted-up hound got to his feet ‘atween me and Thad and growled to try and protect me. Me. I never had nobody ever stand up for me, in my whole life and there, that hurt-bad dog was willin’ to try!
“At first, it even caught ole Thad off guard. Then, a big devil smile came over him and he gut-shot that poor hound, right at my feet. Blew his whole belly out and then laughed about it, while that dog pained to his death, sayin’ if he wanted to stay there so bad with me he could sure do it then.
“I looked to that poor mutt, who never did nothin’ wrong, taking his last breaths and I flew outta my head. I grabbed at that gun and me and Thad began fightin’.
“It went off and put one round in the dirt at our feet. Another, went up in the air. And one more, right by my ear. But, I finally got my thumb under the hammer to jam it up and a good enough grip to bend way back, ‘til I heard Thad’s trigger finger snap. Then he yelled and let go.”
“Thad grabbed up his broke finger, cussin’ me out some more and threatenin’ to get the law on me, like he still had all the rights and I still had none. But then, the demon in him came over me too and I realized that I was the one with the gun.
“I aimed it at his head and I must’ah had me one real hard look on my face. ‘Cause, for the first time I ever knowed of, old Thad went ice cold, scared. I could’ah - should’ah - let ‘em go. But, that scared look in his eyes made me feel good. Strong. Right there, we traded places like we never else would have. He was the nobody and I was the somebody.
“With that gun pointed right ‘atween his eyes I cocked the hammer back and set my finger to the trigger. And, like a baby, that tough guy, he started to cry. But you know what? From nowhere, I felt sorry for him. For him! With all he had and all he was, I was the one who felt sorry!
“That kept me from shootin’ his fool head off. Instead, I guess I meant to just slap ‘em up some, ‘afore I let him go and then got me arrested. But still holdin’ that gun, I couldn’t give up the power it gave and instead of slapping him with my hand, I swung that gun and busted his cheek wide open.”
Ulees sagged, woefully scanning the far horizon.
“Seein’ that blood just made me come on, even more. So, I hit him again and again and again. Way beyond common sense. At first, he tried hittin’ back at me. But, even though he was a whole better fighter, I didn’t feel none ah them punches, only the power of that gun and even once’t he quit fightin’, I didn’t stop. I just kept bashin’ ‘em, on and on, askin’ him how he liked it, over and over, ‘til he was lying there, all bloody and quiet like his dog.
“Only then did I get my senses back. But there was no changin’ what I done and standin’ over him I knowed how rich man - poor man justice worked. It sent me straight from hot hate to cold scared.
“First, I thought of shootin’ him anyway and dumpin’ him out to the deep swamp, where he’d just be gone. So, I aimed that gun at him a second time to finish things. That was when I heard me an old CC&S freight start its hard pull out by the river. So instead, I throwed that gun as far as I could and I ran. I ran over and hopped in a boxcar and rode and rode, ‘til it brought me clear up here and stopped.
“I was just gonna hop on another train and keep goin’ somewheres else. But when that first one stopped and I looked outside that boxcar, layin’ right in the roadbed beside me, was that there red book I got, back at my shack. And it stopped me cold.
“I mean, whoever throws the Good Book away? Whoever loses it? Nobody I never heard of. ‘Specially in the middle of a rail yard and right where that boxcar stopped. So, I figgered that with its red cover, it was s’posed to be there, like a special stop sign from heaven, meant just for me; one of them omens, that Auntie Marvella always talked of. Somethin’ tellin’ me to stay put right here and wait things out for some reason or other.”
Studying the area, Ulees found a thin smile.
“And I made me a pretty good little life since, doin’ work that I like. Nobody troubles me or my garden or my birds. I gots my half-sister back home, who you send a little money to, from time to time. So, she knows I’m still around.”
“That’s why no return address on the envelopes.” Said Jim.
“Yeah. But somethin’ like what I done back home, don’t never leave a man, even if he gets away. Once all that hate cools off, you’re left with a hole inside that never heals up. And rare is the day ever since, that either the first thing in my head at daybreak, or the last thing ‘afore sleep at night is ‘memberin’ me and that day.”
Ulees bowed to his aunt’s long-ago postulate.
“Mebbe me lettin’ things slip out like I did to that yard boss, was just wantin’ it all to finally be over.”
Jim was non-accusing.
“Word is that the guy didn’t die. Just hasn’t been the same. I’m no lawyer. But maybe you could get off on self-defense or something. After all, he did pull the gun on you.”
Ulees considered it.
“Mebbe. Mebbe, if’en that old hound was still around and could talk and witness for me, it might mean somethin’. But, it’s a whole dif’rent world back there, dealin’ with old blood money folks and dime a dozen, poor.”
“For what it’s worth,” said Jim. “If you were to walk away right now, I wouldn’t know a thing about it.”
Gone to idly checking the sky, though, Ulees seemed not to hear.
“Looks to be another dry day on the way. I best get some new water for my birds.”
CHAPTER 23
Railroading was an industry liberally sprinkled with blood sacr
ifice. For America’s first century of running the rails, an average of 100 men per year were lost on any single one of its many pikes. Theirs was a lethal ballet of focusing on a given task, while remaining peripherally aware of everything transpiring about them; constantly adjusting to varied conditions brought on by long work tricks, wee hours, and the worst elements that Mother Nature might conjure.
The possibilities of injury were endless. Footing lost beneath rolling wheels or tardy hands smothered in the limb-severing embrace of joining car couplers. Slick grips, miscues around moving equipment in pitch black or blinding sun. Even a simple case of vertigo brought on by being caught afoot between the passage of opposing trains, and many worker’s lives had been instantly altered, or extinguished altogether. Some died traumatically outright. Others were claimed by the slow poisoning of injuries gone septic, like that which had taken Joe Graczyk’s natural father.
In the course of a railroader’s life, if not hurt himself, he’d certainly stand witness to the catastrophic injuries of others. But, for any railroader, far worse than contending with the aftermath, was having been its cause.
Joe shot up in bed.
His breaths came quick and shallow, eyes working the crushing void of night. Slowly, dreamland’s cold terror thawed. Reality drifted back. Dimensions fixed and familiar, blessedly condensed, re-anchoring his world.
Joe swung his feet to the bedroom floor. He started away as Sarah whispered from the darkness behind.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He huffed. “It’s stuffy in here. I’m going to get some air.”
No more explanation was offered. But, none was needed. They’d shared in this same moment too many times before and his wife kept deferentially still, watching her husband of four decades depart in phantom-like silence.
As was his habit whenever this happened, Joe didn’t turn any house lights on. He merely kicked on his slippers, snatched up a bed robe, and passed from their room in the dark. Heading for the backyard, he snagged a pack of Pall Malls from the kitchen counter and stepped alone, into the late-night air.
A placid neighborhood awaited outdoors at 3 a.m. Its last blush of summer warmth still supported a few persistent crickets. But, otherwise, the hardworking, blue collar town about Joe shared in a deep, quiet sleep. Somewhere distant, a milkman’s crotchety delivery truck sputtered along, bemoaning its new day’s route. Yet, much closer, the rail yard’s wee hours action was thin and remote, making Joe feel abandoned and disowned by his own turf at a time when he could most use some noisy comfort.
Joe went to the gangway bench between his house and the next. He swept a brisk hand at its dewy, wrought iron skin, then plunked himself down. The unfiltered end of a new cigarette wedged between his lips and he skipped a thumbnail across the head of a strike-anywhere match. But his hand slumped and Joe let the flaring stick die. His cigarette hung unlit as he reviewed the last few minutes.
It’d been a long while since his last nightmare - over a year. Though, like the deep and unhealed infection it was, Joe knew that without some drastic purging, he could never really be free of it. Tonight proved so again.
His mind strayed back to fall of 1940. Far away, Herr Hitler’s war machine was gathering momentum for a serious push at world conquest. Closer to home, Joe Graczyk’s express mail train was holding a steady 90 miles per hour, just outside the sleepy farm community of Mattoon, Illinois.
It was near dusk under a flawless, Indian summer sky. The sharp country air carried a harvest time fragrance of newly-disked winter wheat fields and kitchen stoves kindled against the coming night chill. A blue veil of sweet hickory smoke hung peaceably low over the rolling farmland and railroad mainline running through it.
Joe was making good time with his company’s express mail flagship, the Prairie Clipper. He was in command of a Pacific model, 4-6-2 engine. Company number 2105, it led four Railway Post Office cars and six heavyweight baggage cars, loaded with time-critical parcel post items. Onboard behind Joe, RPO sorters were hectically pigeonholing handfuls of letters into numerous destination cubbyholes. All were destined for Chicago and further transfer at the Windy City interchange.
Winning the government’s fast mail contract was a prestigious feather in the road’s cap. But, with the honor of hauling express post also came stiff penalties for not bringing the trains in on time. So only its best, seasoned engineers, handled the responsibility. And today Joe Graczyk was commanding the final leg of the Chicago run. Ahead, remained one hilly set of double-S curves, before the final miles of razor-straight travel, which would lead him home for the night.
Only a couple of years old, engine 2105 had already led a checkered life. Assorted and inexplicable ailments dotted its logbook. Tales of broken springs, spun tires, and jammed feed augers filled one line after another; all developing without warning and stopping it, literally, dead in its tracks.
Being a superstitious lot, many crews were growing leery of running 2105. While no injuries had yet been caused by this jinxed engine, general opinion ran high that all of its antics were leading up to some major showdown. Yet, at the throttle today, things couldn’t have been going smoother. Checking his watch, Joe filled with a warm glow. This run might be his best time, ever.
By nature, Joe had always been suspicious of the curvy saddles he now approached. Although no formal whistle sign was officially posted for the obscured right-of-way, he’d developed the habit of giving a series of nearing blasts. This was a personal notice of his rapid advance to any loose livestock or adventurous kids, who might’ve wandered into the narrow passage.
On that particular trip, however, so captivated by the serene autumn beauty and placid thoughts of hitting the feathers in his own bed, engineer Joe forgot his routine lanyard tug on the day he would need it most.
The glory of that late afternoon - especially a Sunday - was not the proper time for a tragedy. But as if to prove a point, Fate turned a blind eye to the scene. It allowed a rickety hay wagon and old plow horse to shortcut between those very hills and trespass the CC&S mainline.
Aboard the wagon, a load of joyous farm kids were returning home from the happy afternoon spent at a local fair. In crossing the mainline their gelding lost a shoe and came up lame, regrettably stalling the wagon right between Joe’s approaching rails.
The Clipper’s speeding advance was concealed, until too late. Caught in the brutal glare of its powerful headlight, the wagon, horse, and kids were suddenly, just there. And as quickly, all were trivially swept aside by a few thousand screaming tons.
Even with engine and train brakes both dynamited, it took hundreds of yards to stop the Clipper. But the damage was done long before the last car had finally come to rest, allowing Joe to hop free of his locomotive and sprint back to the carnage.
Among the scattered bales of ruined young flesh, he found one small girl still alive. Joe went to his knees in the jagged ballast and unwrapped her from the protective embrace of a lifeless older sibling. Carefully taking up her broken form, he gently cradled the little one as her final moments slipped away.
The youngster’s liquid brown eyes quietly searched his face in unspoken hope. Maybe, somehow, this gentle stranger, smelling of coal smoke and warm oil, might know an obscure adult magic and fix her terrible hurt. Yet, all Joe could offer was a calming, soft voice.
“What’s your name, honey?”
“Anna,” she whispered.
“That’s a pretty name,” he replied. “My name is Joe.”
The hurt little girl managed a pained smile, then caught sight of her soiled, handmade dress. She didn’t see the bright splashes of blood it held, but groaned at the wash of cinders smeared in its torn hem.
“I’ve gone and ruined my new calico. Mama’ll be awfully mad, after all the cost and time it took her to make.”
Joe shook his head in assurance.
“No, she won’t. I’ll see
to it.”
The youngster blinked a moment’s relief. Yet, immediately after, her eyes grew taut and she began to tremble.
“I’m cold.”
Joe drew her tiny, broken frame closer. A single, filthy tear started down his cheek as he whispered.
“Honey, I’m so sorry.”
The little girl raised a weak finger to staunch the grimy, wet dot on his face. She gazed at him with an angelic depth of forgiveness far beyond her years and as her final breath shuddered free of his embrace, Joe could only envision his own kids, seventy miles north.
They’d be fresh-scrubbed after their evening bath about now. Probably sitting on the parlor floor before the big Motorola console, engrossed in a Western radio show or laughing at some comedy. And here he was, snuffing out the lives of someone else’s babies on a filthy railroad track.
The death count was five children, three teen chaperons, and their horse. Heads reeling with thoughts of the spinning rides they’d taken. Mouths still tasting rare, sweet treats. Young arms cuddling felt and rag dolls won by popping balloons and bowling over pins; all things they would never again know.
A railroad court of inquiry quickly exonerated Joe Graczyk of any negligence in the incident. Yet, he was a much tougher judge on himself and nearly quit the road entirely. But the industry didn’t want to lose such a benevolent, skillful man and in a rare example of total company - union cooperation, a kind of working leave-of-absence was hashed out for Joe, allowing him to knock cars in the yard at less pay, while maintaining his engineman seniority.
Then, it was Fate again, which returned to nudge the veteran back into road service. It came with the only catalyst that could ever possibly set him atop its high iron - a call to national defense that came with the attack on Pearl Harbor.
On December 8th, 1941 young men lined up at military enlistment offices all around town and Joe Graczyk overcame his dregs of self-loathing. He reported in, for over-the-road duty.
But his wound ran deep and its mending was a slow process. When Joe took up the mainline throttle again, it was in the manner of a cripple, relearning how to walk. And making his way back into long haul freight, he was forever pledged that there’d be no more hotshot runs in his life.
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