On Time

by Paul Kozerski

  Then, he was transported back. As quickly as it had begun, his illicit reunion was over and as always, Joe was left feeling strangely depleted and hollow in its wake. Again, he faced the same nagging questions about the memento. Why keep such a thing? What profit could possibly come of maintaining this grisly relic?

  The very nature of the implement should forever keep a sane man at arm’s length. But, in the four decades since unconsciously bringing the deadly souvenir home, Joe found himself periodically drawn to commune with something inexplicable within it.

  A quiet veteran, Joe Graczyk was as far removed from any guts-and-glory notions as a man could be. He’d always kept his combat experiences to himself and had little forbearance for what he called, front porch patriots, knowing well that the bigger their displayed flag, the less likely it was that the owner had ever been shot at, defending its colors.

  Neither was Joe a man of firearms. He wouldn’t allow his growing sons to even own a simple BB gun, when youngsters. Yet, every combat veteran throughout the ages clung to some personal reminder of his surrendered innocence and in that regard, Joe was no different.

  This bayonet was his touchstone and every so often, it and a distant part of himself were drawn to recall their shared blooding at the Marne. Be it a mental cathartic or emotional ground wire, all Joe knew for certain was that part of it and he were indelibly grafted - fused - and to deny one was to lie about both.

  Joe followed the same closing ritual that he’d developed over the years and now dribbled a few drops of fresh machine oil onto the dagger’s long, cold surface. He stroked the old black steel back to a deadly sheen with its wispy shroud. Then carefully replacing the blade in its brittle scabbard, rewrapped both for return to their cubbyhole vault.

  Joe’s eyes settled on one last shadow remaining untouched, still inside the cabinet. A newer box, it contained the notions of his fallen, warrior son. Today though, he left it alone. Joe returned everything else, reset the lock and replaced the key.

  A final piece of garage nostalgia confronted the man. It was an old hunk of advertising billboard, nailed upright and set straight overhead; part of a demolished Burma Shave highway sign Joe had once salvaged, dragging home for furnace kindling. But, his discriminating eye also saw far too good a store of construction lumber to be squandered with mere fire building. And so was born the Graczyk pigeon coop.

  A hint of his earlier smile returned as Joe retrieved a homemade ladder from some nearby pegs. He set the top of its hand-planed rails into their mating overhead notches and began a precise climb for the old bird roost.

  CHAPTER 41

  Sarah looked up from her mealtime preparations as Jim arrived home after work.

  “Sinyus”

  He set a quick peck to her cheek and glanced about.

  “Where’s Pa?”

  “In the garage.” She wheezed. “Finally got him out of the house for a while. Thank heavens. His sulking around was driving me nuts.”

  Jim leaned on the back porch windowsill and peered toward the man’s dim sanctuary.

  “How’s he holding up?”

  “Same as any day. Mopes around. Doesn’t say or do much.”

  Sarah nodded toward Joe’s summons and the other letter it arrived with.

  “At least that showed up to move things along - one way or another.”

  She contemplated her son.

  “And how about you? How are you holding up these days?”

  He sighed.

  “Like going to work in a cemetery. Any spirit’s all gone. The road might as well just bury Mayhew now. It’s dead anyway.”

  Jim regarded the folded summons.

  “Bad, huh?”

  “In your father’s words, ‘everything but the kitchen sink.’”

  Sarah frowned at the peculiar second envelope.

  “Any idea what that other thing might be about?”

  Jim considered the unfamiliar penmanship and shook his head.

  “None. Handwritten. No return address. Odd. Almost like someone was wanting to be anonymous.”

  Out jiggled the same hunk of stiff paper Joe had puzzled over. A fairly common document, Jim noted as well, that it was just a clearance card, the form authorizing an engine crew to operate a train outside their normal arena.

  He flexed the mundane form, also baffled.

  “Nothing else came with this?”

  “Nope.”

  Jim drifted back to the test questions of his recent road crew exam and the logbook irregularity for the dyno run. His eyes then flew wide in understanding, a reaction Sarah followed hopefully.

  “Good news for a change?”

  He considered the twin envelopes as if set to a balance, his tone brightening.

  “Just maybe. And if so, I’d say Pa’s still got good friends in high places.”

  “Well, everything’s ready here,” said Sarah. “Go get him for supper.”

  But, even newly inspired, Jim balked and she looked over.

  “Problem?”

  “You know how the basement or garage can be private places for him sometimes. After all he’s been through, I wouldn’t want to ruin any little peace of mind he might be finding out there right now.”

  Sarah didn’t spare her thoughts.

  “Hey, you. Don’t go thinking that any of this is your fault. No one blames you for anything. So, don’t blame yourself. Now, go on out and get your father for supper.”

  Same as her husband before, the woman’s son also obeyed.

  Accompanied only by random dust motes, Joe had taken up quiet station in the vacant garage loft. Its dusky light offered a properly venerate quality for the place and even left untended for these last years, only the tatters of a few disrespectful cobwebs were laced about.

  Its birds gone, the empty place had since taken on some practical general storage. Nearest him set cases of old canning jars and from among its retired brethren, Joe lifted one of the many now in residence. Like a mystic’s crystal ball, his eyes went deep into the turquoise glass and a wash of phantom images, locked within.

  The ghosts of proud, long gone harvests paraded by; those many pints of turnips and carrots, onions and tomatoes, beets, and cabbage, all homegrown and home-canned during hard times and war shortages that kept hunger away. For Joe Graczyk, a glassmaker’s best artistry paled in value to this lowly hunk of factory-cast sand.

  Joe replaced the jar among its mates, to gaze beyond. Ahead, were the many vacant brooding compartments, which’d once been home to so many pair of gentle, nesting pigeons. His ears strained at the silence, seeking out any lingering notion of all those wonderful birds. But, like the growing list in Joe’s life, their time, too, was passed.

  The coop had been the one spot where Joe and his boys existed in complete equality. Here, all normal father-son status was put aside in the name of a truly shared effort. Normal discussion topics of public behavior, personal codes, academia, athletics, and the numbing drone of current events, were checked at the door. From the start, this was a place ruled only by small talk relating to a common denominator of labor; labor found in the lugging, toting, and tending needed to support their flock.

  That included the hefting of grain sacks, from car trunk into garage warehousing. Making sure that they were stored high enough to stay fresh, dry, and above the reach of any errant field mice. Bales of straw and burlap sacks of wood shavings, likewise, had to be raised and distributed regularly for fresh nesting material.

  The seasonal mucking-out of the entire loft was the most demanding chore, where father and sons again worked in tandem, thick cotton kerchiefs tied over their faces against roiling clouds of dry fecal dust - which, in the true Graczyk manner of squandering nothing - was also destined for purposeful garden compost. And when the annual molting time came around, all hands, once more, joined in the capture of nest
ing pairs, segregating them against liberal use of Sarah’s eye watering ammonia disinfectant.

  The family concocted scientifically precise feed blends of wheat, corn, and alfalfa, Sarah again contributing, by way of a homemade calcium supplement, as insurance for tough eggshells in the Graczyk flock. Pails of all components were then passed in a bucket brigade, transferring the provisions up Joe’s same homemade ladder, man to man, enough times to polish its unfinished rungs smooth from their foot traffic.

  The enterprise amounted to many early, cold mornings, before school and work; feeding and tending, along with a certain amount of tedious bookkeeping that Joe oversaw, though made the boys manage. But every single bit of effort was worth those precious, rare moments, when Joe was between runs and able to load a gunny sack of prime homers into the car trunk.

  Hauling them and the entire family for an afternoon away, all shared in an infrequent Sunday outing. Father, mother, and sons would ride the 20 miles of single lane blacktop leading to Fox Lake. There, after a rare picnic and some softball tossing, Joe would ceremoniously hand over the car keys. He’d stand back with Sarah, watching as their boys unlocked the old sedan’s darkened trunk, withdrew the gunnysack, and shook free their birds.

  The chosen cocks would never disappoint. Rocketing skyward in a burst of brilliant white wings, they’d circle overhead a couple of times to acquire their bearings. Then, with that magical sense of direction all fowl seem to possess, they’d make a beeline for their distant home.

  Joe remembered the boys giggling from the car’s backseat, in wonder at his rare and shared touch of juvenile giddiness, as he ran the lumbering old Dodge through its paces. But try as he might, those homers would always be atop the louvered garage roof first. Long returned and rested, patiently awaiting admittance back into their roost.

  Adrift in his raised spirits, Joe was startled by a creak of the ladder and abrupt appearance of his son, suddenly beside him. His tone in being caught off guard was less than receptive.

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “Just got home.” Jim apologized. “Mom sent me to tell you that supper was ready whenever you were. I called, but you must’ve not heard me. Sorry.”

  His petulance drained away and Joe spared an assenting nod.

  “Anything new at the yard?”

  “Some. There’s a growing rumor that DeLynne might be headed out before too long.”

  Joe sneered.

  “Probably did all the damage he can here. Maybe me and him can help each other pack. Anything more?”

  “Sounds like Boots’ll be covering the yard office, until the freight work finally stops.”

  That logic, Joe praised.

  “At least they got something right. Should’ve done it long ago. Any word on Ulees?”

  “Looks like he made a clean getaway. Town cops were good enough to take their time showing up. Asked a few questions and left.”

  “You can bet Eddie-boy had a big hand in making that happen,” Joe declared. “Sure hope the big guy does okay wherever he winds up.”

  “Me too.”

  Joe glanced over.

  “Old Liplock say anything of Ulees’ getaway?”

  Jim grinned.

  “Didn’t look real happy. But, kept it to himself.”

  “Good. Heard big truck sounds coming from the yard earlier.”

  “Scrap guys,” said Jim. “They started in, on some of the dismantling work today. Got the wheel lathe and tire press disconnected. They’ll probably be gone in the next day or so. The division’s decommissioned steamers have also started showing up.”

  Joe dropped his gaze.

  “Figured it might start soon. But this quick?”

  The pair considered each other and for a time, shared a common silence. Glancing about the old coop, Jim changed subjects.

  “Sure is quiet up here. Nothing like when our fantails and homers would put the whole neighborhood to sleep with their cooing.”

  “Yeah. When you came along I was thinking of old man Hamer’s tomcat. Remember him?”

  Jim’s eyes widened.

  “I’d forgotten all about that one-eared sneak! How many times did he try getting at our birds? I lost count. Saw him climb straight up the back wall once. He was one determined tom.”

  “Yeah. But he sure stopped after Mike peppered his backside good with that old inner tube slingshot.”

  Father and son shared a quick gush of rare, mutual laughter. Yet, like always, Mike’s mention also dampened things.

  This time, though, instead of deferring to their loss, Jim dared offer a bold alternative.

  “Pa?”

  “Huh?”

  “How about doing it again?”

  Joe gauged his son.

  “What? You mean raise new birds?”

  Still perched atop the ladder, Jim nodded boldly.

  “Yeah! Why not? How about you and me getting a few new mating pair and starting the tradition all over?”

  Joe looked about in bitter speculation.

  “Before too long I sure might have more than enough time to tend a coop.”

  “I don’t mean it that way,” said Jim. “But as something that we could do together, again. Like the old days. We could drive out to old Moe’s place by Pistaki Lake. He always had such good breeders.”

  Joe huffed.

  “Moe? That old coot can’t still be alive. He was pushing 80 when we first got going. He’s gotta be long gone by now.”

  Jim shook his head.

  “Nope. I know for a fact that he’s still around and still has birds.”

  He swept an encouraging hand down the ladder.

  “Come on. I’ll tell Mom to put supper on hold. Heck, maybe she’ll want to ride along. Just getting us all out of the house together would be a good thing right now. Yeah. Let’s do it. Let’s at least go look.”

  Joe gave a dubious shrug.

  “These days, we’d probably need special permits and things.”

  He felt the moment’s optimism falter. But Jim pressed on.

  “And you don’t think that Eddie Macalek couldn’t help us out, if we did? Come on. We both know better than that.”

  A final head shake from his dad closed the matter.

  “Nah. That stuff’s all best left in the past.”

  Jim’s hopeful bid plopped stillborn between them. When Joe Graczyk said a topic was closed, there was no going back. So Jim tied off the loose ends with a quick surrender.

  “Oh. I forgot that I had an invitation from Marty for some television watching tonight. His folks just got a new set and invited me over. Said they were going to get a pizza from the Home Run Inn, over on 31st Street. I’ll tell Mom that you’ll be coming in alone and to not set a place for me.”

  Jim prepared to descend the ladder, though dwelled a moment longer.

  “You know, Pa - that review board thing. I’ve got a good feeling about it. I think there’s a real chance of it all working out.”

  Joe twisted in quick speculation. But Jim offered only a punctuating wink, disappearing downstairs.

  CHAPTER 42

  Joe and Vint met up at the freight yard. Walking in together, they exchanged silent, arms-length courtesies with on duty coworkers. After last week’s near riot, everyone today seemed to be keeping an intelligent distance and for the first time ever, the long familiar tower office loomed as an adversary.

  Just a step inside, the accused were confronted by a row of subpoenaed witnesses. Among them sat Spike Jackowniak, Murph Murphy, and Bernard Dooley. Mister Dooley, now recovered from his prior bout of gastric distress, glowed behind a vengeful simper. But what struck a truly dour note with Joe, was seeing Spike all groomed and official looking, hair plastered down and without the usual clump of cheap cigars bulging from a dirty shirt pocket. Thankfully, at least
son Jim was absent, somewhere else about the yard, handling real work chores.

  Representing the accused, were Sunday Guzmán and to a degree, Stosh Dombeck. Present for the company were DeLynne Leplak, a suited stranger from the downtown personnel office, who mumbled his name, and a spinster stenographer brought along to record the proceedings.

  A trial of this degree might well have taken place in some formal administrative conference room, rather than DeLynne’s personal office. But, with damning evidence stacked high in accordion folders and corroborating company rulebooks marked by chapter and verse, the venue didn’t much seem to matter.

  Joe and Vint were directed to chairs set at mid-floor. As it had been outside, no talk was exchanged. All present soberly tracked the wall clock for its official 3 p.m. start. Then, once again serving as a self-appointed moderator, DeLynne initiated the proceedings.

  “All right. We can begin.”

  The stenographer’s fingers started pecking at her keyboard and a somber logging of official transcript minutes commenced.

  “We are here,” continued DeLynne, “to review the charges against company employees, seniority number 5728 and 9117, in regard to their unauthorized speeding and disregard for company property and employee safety, during the steam versus diesel dynamometer run of seven days ago.

  “In accord with the defined charges, the company is seeking termination of these men as the crew in charge of CC&S Train 2982, on that day. The actions leading to this decision will be defined by mechanical data acquired on that dyno run, including testimony from those witnesses present.

  “I’d like to first, bring auditor Bernard Dooley in, for a review of what behavior he personally experienced in the engine cab, during its return trip.”

  DeLynne motioned through the office window and the auditor got to his feet.

  But, in total disregard of defined procedure, Domingo Guzmán also sprang up.

  “Please hold on a minute.”