All so many years ago and still, on random nights like this, the man’s subconscious would dust off the old scorecard. It’d drag out the horrid sequence of events to replay, as fresh as ever, forcing him to relive each painful moment in slow motion, looking for the split second more that might’ve been shaved from his reaction time to save those helpless kids.
Steam off.
Brakes on.
Reverse engine.
Open sanders.
Tonight, the old options again leap-frogged each other in his mind. But, no matter how many times they reshuffled, their bottom line never changed. Joe was left like a powerless vessel caught in heavy seas. His only recourse was to ride out the seething tempest in his mind’s eye; forever enduring the horrid mental snapshot of those tiny, confused, horrified faces.
His cigarette continued dangling unlit as Joe leaned forward on the bench and considered the time since. Fifteen years. By now even the youngest among those kids would have been of dating age, or maybe even married and on the way to starting their own families.
Joe clenched his jaws, bitterly amazed at the ironic workings of his brain. Over the years he’d tended all the scalds, broken bones, and rent flesh that any person should ever face. He’d staunched the hard, red pulsing of severed fingers, tied off amputated limbs, and pragmatically eased the crumpled bodies of expired comrades from the splintered aftermath of fatal collisions; all with no apparent damage to his subconscious.
And what of all of that willful mayhem in the French countryside, some of it personal enough to have felt his enemy’s last breath puff in his face? Yet, thoughts of it never foiled his sleep. But this, this - incident - as unintentional a thing as might ever happen, just would not let him go.
Maybe it was the difference between wartime and peace, of grown soldiers versus harmless kids. Maybe, it was something triggered by this time of year and the smells of approaching autumn - something in the change of leaves from green to crimson that his psyche could only ever see as the splattered blood of martyred innocents.
Or, maybe this one time, it was catalyzed by something equally as fatal, the recent word of Mayhew’s closing.
Joe leaned back on the bench. In his entire life, he had never been witness to anything so profane. When the downtown shirts finished reading their prepared statement, it was as if some tremendous vacuum had been loosed and drawn off the yard’s very soul.
In its aftermath, there were no pleading questions or fiery accusations from the crowd of workers. No threats or jeers. Just a fatal silence that crashed down on the gathering as everyone soberly absorbed the news. Then, only the departing crunch of work boots on cinders punctuated a quiet and dignified group response.
Later and in private, might come the blistering allegations and frustrated vows. But right then, the herd of soon-to-be-unemployed workers were simply men who only felt dazed and betrayed; individually pondering their shattered futures and how they’d break word to their yet, unaware families.
In typical Joe Graczyk fashion, he’d plopped the news down before Sarah as indifferently as if a sack of flour. Then he avoided discussing the matter at all. He bottled it up, sealed it off, and silently bore up under the road’s decision. Yet now, a single rattle of frustration escaped him, as a light clicked on in the kitchen window, above.
It was Sarah, starting preparations for a pot of coffee. Like always, her supportive routine in these times was the only thing that made it bearable. She’d pace herself again now, going on about it slow and resolute and making just enough noise to give Joe adequate notice of her ultimate appearance - as she always did - on nights when his pain was enough for two.
He watched her shadow move to and fro. It was a wise woman who knew the earmarks of her man’s troubled soul; how long to leave him be and when best to approach. In Joe’s case, that was as long as it took for a pot of coffee to brew. And, when the java had finished, Sarah would descend into the night herself. She’d appear with a pair of steaming mugs and head for the dark shape that was her mate.
Joe would act as though he didn’t expect her. He’d mumble that she shouldn’t have bothered in getting up. But somehow, there would always be just enough room on the bench for a seat beside him. And, as those other times, Sarah would take up station. She’d glance nonchalantly about the sleeping neighborhood as though it were completely normal for two middle-agers to be outside and bench warming at that hour.
Offering Joe a new cup now, she took up her appointed spot again, speaking only once.
“Starting to really cool off at night.”
That could be all that was said. For Sarah would not speak again, unless Joe did. And as were some cases, maybe tonight nothing more would pass between them. The pair might keep mum, before silently trekking back into the house and marking time until the next hurt session came along. But she didn’t mind, for long ago, she’d accepted the man as he was.
Sarah made an oblique study of the dim profile that she so knew and loved. His, was a sturdy face. Bred from robust peasant stock, it was rugged and square, carved with broad cheekbones and the buttressing arc of a prominent, Roman nose. A lush brown mane crowned him, daring anything more than just a hint of gray to take hold there.
Solid and uncompromising, her guy would never be romantic or debonair. There wasn’t any flash or dazzle in him. Yet, neither, was he boastful nor patronizing. Of few words and quiet determination, what you saw was what Joe Graczyk was, a reasonable, restrained, and friendly individual; a solid working man and loyal husband, who staked out his existence by the simplest of personal creeds:
Always split your ticket when voting - so one bunch of crooks can keep an eye on the other bunch of crooks.
Always buy Shell gasoline. It never gums up a car’s valves.
Always keep your word.
Always be on time.
And in love of those few, simple and defining maxims, Sarah now quietly sat. Whatever approach he took on this matter, would again, be okay with her.
Joe contemplated the cup of warm brew in his hand. He gazed at the ground beyond and spoke without preamble.
“Been through our share over the years, haven’t we, Red? Went to bed more than a few nights without having two nickels we could rub together and call our own.”
Sarah took special note of his retired nickname for her, especially being said in English, rather than Polish.
“That we did,” she agreed. “But we always made it. Never once asked for or took any government Relief money to get by.”
Joe reached over, lifting her fine, strong hand in his callused paw. He traced the slim and inexpensive, gold wedding band encircling her finger, singling it out for doleful examination.
“And after all this time you still don’t even have a lousy, low-end diamond to show for it.”
Her hand in his, Sarah huffed.
“You ever hear me ask for one? That bit of gold tells my story better than some show-offy bauble ever could. And anyway, who do we know that I should worry about impressing?”
“Still, a woman should have a diamond, or a pearl necklace; something for all she’s been through, in sticking it out with a dumb hunkie like me.”
His wife raised the back of her hand and graphically spread its fingers. Her action affirmed the humble yellow loop residing there.
“This is all I’ve ever cared for. I’ve never once had it off since the day you put on and someday they’ll bury me with it still in place.”
Joe’s head sank in admission.
“Who have I been kidding, thinking that I was ever the head of this family? It’s always been you, the strong one, running the show.
“You. You and the railroad are the only things I really understand in life. Maybe, all I ever did.”
Again, he abruptly fell silent. But with the topic opened, Sarah felt a certain right to expand it.
“D
on’t stop. Let it out. Whatever it is, speak your mind.”
“Hauling freight.” He declared. “Hauling freight during those war years was probably the time when I really felt like I was part of something special and proper. Out on a late run, I’d think of you and the kids asleep and safe in our house. Then, I’d take a look back at all those flatcars of artillery pieces tied down behind me, following along in the dark. Or, maybe, the hundred tank cars of fighter plane gas stretched out farther than I could see. Or, all those boxcars, full of medical stuff, riding behind my engine and I didn’t need any sleep or food to get by.
“People far away, who didn’t even know me, were keeping you safe and trusting me to get those things to them, so it stayed that way. Your lives depended on them and their lives depended on me and I wasn’t going to let anybody down. That’s when I felt worthwhile and like I knew the limits and rules.”
Joe gazed up in loss at the attic dormer and the son sleeping within.
“But now, I’ve lost one boy who shared my love of the road and have another who I don’t understand. And the company that I always trusted and believed in has decided that they might not really need any of us anymore. Everything is so out of control - like things have just started to go by me.”
Sarah’s eyes followed her husband.
“Or, maybe you’ve stopped moving with them.”
He straightened.
“What?”
“Stop and think, Joe. When did you first notice it happening?”
He offered an uncertain shrug.
“A couple of years, maybe.”
She nodded.
“About the time Mike died.”
Her subtle observation tore through him like an axe. But he said nothing as she continued.
“Mike is gone,” Sarah declared. “As sure as little Rose. Maybe wherever they went, they now have each other. But what those of us left behind have are the living. You’ve got to get passed it. No, I don’t mean to ever forget. But don’t try to hold the world back with memories, either. All that can do is poison you inside.”
She dared going a step further.
“I bumped into Marianne Siwicki yesterday, at Poulson’s grocery. She had the little one with her. Geri is growing so fast and we’re missing out on it.
“Joe, things shouldn’t go on like this, either, pretending that we don’t know them, or don’t share in a daughter-in-law and granddaughter. Sending birthday gifts and Christmas presents over, instead of taking them ourselves, doesn’t make them any less of our blood.”
He shifted about uncomfortably and Sarah touched a finger to his stubbled chin.
“Otherwise, you know the one thing you could do that would make me happier than any old diamond ring could ever hope for?”
Joe looked on, at a loss.
“Seeing you make an effort to understand your youngest son. Because things outside of our power will change with or without us. Like they always have and always will. We can only work to mend what’s still in our reach. And aside from Lorraine and Geri, that’s Jim. He’s a good kid. Give him a chance. Don’t wall yourself off because he doesn’t seem to think like you. You might find that he does, more than you realize.”
Her insight brought a weighty admission.
“With Mike it was easy. He always understood things. You knew that and could just leave him be. But Jimmy looks at everything in ways I can’t figure out. And now, this yard closing thing comes along and my own son . . .”
Sarah shot her man a stern look.
“Is what? On the other side? How could you even think so?”
Joe slumped and shrugged, again at odds with himself.
“No, I guess not. I guess I don’t mind him leaving train service. I just don’t want him to go the path of Stosh Dombeck. And, as far as the yard, I know that the suits have done their homework. The changes probably are the best thing for the road.
“With diesels you just turn them on, then turn them off and walk away, like the family car. So, they won’t need all the fuel stops or maintenance guys and that makes sense in the long run. And our yard probably is too small for upgrading. So, consolidating classification work somewhere else with more space makes sense, too.
“If the receiving tracks turn into long time storage for bad order cars and the caboose rebuilding stays put, then at least the woodworkers and maybe some tin benders should be safe, here. The air system and brake repair guys might get grandfathered in the new diesel trades. And, if the switcher crews and us way freight guys all do get moved 40 miles away, well, at least a majority would still have jobs.
“But all the shop craft trades’ll go right out the window.” Boilermakers, tender maintenance, flue, and motion-shop men for the yard and whole road will have no place to go.
“Some of the Mayhew guys, like Snuffy and Chick, are as old as me. That steam fitting work’s all they know. They’re too old to start over and besides, who’d be willing to take them on as new hires in anything, at their age?
“We’ve got a good gang working here; the whole yard - always have. Now, on one day not real far off, it’ll look like all the years put in service there never even happened. Whole families of this town have given their lives to that place. And what do they get in return? A boot in the ass.
“Eddie-boy heard that just in the little time since they read us that damn letter, out-of-towners are already bidding on tearing down the icing plant and coal tower.”
Joe sucked a tempered breath.
“In the meantime, they’re going to make our back tracks a holding place for all the steamers taken out of divisional service. Pile ‘em up here, right under our nose. So the yard that’s going to get hit the hardest has to see the line grow longer every day. Like watching its own damn family die off.
“Can’t stop progress. Times are changing. I’m so sick of hearing that crap everywhere I go, that I could just puke.”
Sarah considered his words.
“If you’re talking about the good old days, think back, Joe. Think back to raising the kids. Think back, to taking care of my sick folks for all those years and trying to make ends meet. Just ask me where the good old days ever went and I’ll tell you, that as far as I’m concerned, there never was such a thing.”
He weighed her logic.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe a big part of it is me. And if that’s the way it’s got to be, then I don’t want to just hang around and turn into one of those bitter old guys like I had to put up with, first starting out. Maybe I should mark off the board for good. Put myself out to pasture.”
There, Sarah turned oddly critical.
“And do what?”
Her bluntness again caught him off guard, making Joe catalog some hasty options.
“Well, we could sell the house and get away from here. With our savings and my pension, we should be able to keep our heads above water.”
She looked on, unconvinced.
“Okay. And go where?”
He courted a slowly warming vision.
“Up north, maybe. To Manitowish - Springstead. Mercer’s a nice little town. We might open a little coffee shop near the Northwestern tracks. Feed the crews and make friends with them. We could grow a nice big garden - like we did here in the old days. Maybe buy a little boat and motor and go fishing whenever we wanted. Take nice long rides down the Flambeau Flowage and out on all of those beautiful lakes.”
“North Wisconsin,” Sarah clarified.
“Sure. Why not? After all of these years, you’d finally be where your dad never did get to live.”
She appreciated the irony.
“Yes. But that was his dream, not mine.”
Her words held a broader analogy that drove Joe to silence. For the first time ever, his wife saw a painful vulnerability in the man and it softened her tone to one of a counselor.
“The truth is, you’re a big city guy, Joe. This city. Always was and always will be. There’s no other place for you, but right where you are. Even more, you’re a hands-on railroader, through and through. And there’s no changing that.”
His vision deflated.
“Really?”
“Really. Have you ever noticed that you never cut the grass, shovel snow, or just step outside to check the weather, without first looking toward the tracks?
“Even eating your dinner, if some noise comes from there that just doesn’t sound right, you perk up like a prairie dog. I’ve seen you hold a soup spoon an inch from your mouth, waiting to be sure that everything was okay at the yard. And if there was any doubt, I know you’d drop that spoon in a blink and be running full speed, to help fix whatever was wrong.”
Her candid words stunned him and Sarah chuckled.
“You’ve never seen it, have you?”
Joe raised his brow in surrender.
“Guess not.”
“My point,” she continued, “is that Joe Graczyk is a railroad engineer. He can run anything they might ever put on rails and make it toe the line - diesel engines included. And even if it means going back to roadwork, because Mayhew gets shut down, well then, we’ll just deal with it, like we have with life, all along. Railroading is what you do; what you are. What we are. After almost forty years, there’s no walking away from it - for either one of us.”
Sarah looked at her man on an alternate level.
“I’ve never told you this, because it might sound morbid. But, if the day came that you were to draw your last breath somewhere out there, on that high iron, I’d never think of a more fitting place or be prouder of where it happened. That’s how much I think of your railroading.”
Joe draped an arm about the woman. He pulled her toward him and touched his face to the sweet smell of her hair.
“What on earth did you ever do so wrong to deserve a guy like me?”
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