He pointed at the stark numbers, spouting some quick and dire math.
“There’s what - forty tons of water still inside there! Setting cocked like this, it might not budge, or even tip over wrong and fall on everybody. Maybe Sunday can work it. But not me.”
Ulees’ gaze welded to the prophetic digits, a heated growl filling his voice.
“NO! YOU! You got it this far. Now YOU go and bring it on home!”
Further debate was squelched, when still hidden somewhere below, a quick pulse of flame whumped to life, punctuating the matter and sending Jim scrambling uphill.
Metering out sand and brake pulses, he brought the little engine down. Arrived at the tender, Jim eased its lead coupler into the towering wall of cocked rivets. But applying power, the frail locomotive stalled.
Fresh throttle only made the tiny machine quiver. Its inadequate drivers fought to gain impossible traction on the slimy rails, where they skipped and skated. Jim powered back, tickling the sanders for help. Again though, the engine merely hopped and spun in place.
Further beyond, isolated pockets of solvent fumes began reaching their kindling point. Like midair wicks, they magically seemed to fire and fade, light and die. Any chain-ignition was yet being stymied by the wet, heavy air. But, it was only a matter of time before some wealthy sump might light off and ignite the entire hillside.
Nervous sweat trickled in Jim’s eyes. Three, four, five more times, he worked the throttle and reverse bar with no better result. Any true feel for operating the machine gave way to cold desperation and bursts of full power only added more punishment.
“Come on, you hog! Push!”
The tiny engine threw itself into another scrambling whine. Its undersized running gear flew in a pointless blur of lopsided rods and cranks. Maddened wheels raked pointlessly at the snot-slick rail. They spun and stalled. Spun and stalled.
The demands were beyond even its best day and it wasn’t long before the geriatric machine was spent and sagging. Jim slammed the engine controls shut. Its fire was dying, steam reserves, borderline. Tears of absolute failure joined the wash of filthy, burning sweat, trickling in his eyes. He wasn’t a trained engineer like his father and didn’t know what else to do - but abandon himself in petition to any and all gods of the high iron.
Jim set trembling hands to the dwarf machine a final time, begging in a frail whisper.
“Please. If there’s any way at all, someone help me do this.”
His prayer said, the young man capped off a shoring breath. He spared a quick swipe at his weepy vision and braced the swell of shivering muscles that was his body. With just a touch of sand and kiss of throttle, Jim dared to again, nudge the motion bar.
The puny steamer hovered. Poised atop some vast fulcrum, it brooded for what seemed an eternity. Then inertia slowly gave way to gravity. An anemic wheeze gathered from its right side. Ever so slowly, a true power cycle developed. Still riding a jagged edge of breaking loose, the bronchial little engine managed to stay on its feet, creating a ponderous, matching stroke on the left.
A dose of bantam spunk gathered in the old machine. A pulse of new resolve grew in its weary stack. Slowly, its front deck nudged beneath the much larger tender. Jim pulled his hands from the controls, urging it on only with voice commands.
“That’s it. Put your back in it. You go! You go!”
The switcher moved onto a section of rusted rail crown, where its minute drivers found some additional traction. They dug into the gritty surface and held. The derailed tender rose in fractional increments. A feeble few inches were bought and Ulees tugged Joe free.
“GOT HIM!”
The heavy tender thumped back down. Its stout water hatch warped on impact and a dribble of freed liquid started trickling away.
Already littering Joe out, Sunday spared a word of praise.
“Good work, kid.”
Jim waved off the tribute, wanting only to trade places.
“If she can still move, you’d better take her out. I don’t have it in me.”
Sunday guided the injured man onto the engine from above, Jim and Ulees working to raise and help position him. Joe grimaced at his expedient handling. But he made no sound as he was maneuvered onto the cab deck.
“Looks to have a couple nasty burns,” Ulees cautioned again. “A bum shoulder.”
“And not a whimper,” added Sunday. “That’s my compadre, tough as a rock.”
It was there, in the course of his actions, that Jim realized something he’d never before dreamt possible. At no time in his life had he ever been allowed to assist his father in any up-close, personal manner. Outside the coincidental touch of flesh when transferring tools, or some proper handshake, no proffered hand was ever accepted, because no one invaded Joe Graczyk’s proud, private space. But here and now, that long dictated barrier had simply flaked off and fallen away, leaving a totally different person behind; one lacking and needy.
Oddly, Jim felt no overdue comeuppance in the bargain. Rather, it were as though something priceless had been set in his care and with that totally blind fashion of respect which any son truly regards his father, Jim Graczyk knew that he would always love this man.
His transfer complete, Joe’s eyes flickered with a brief touch of reanimation; enough to gaze about his rescuers, single out, and linger on the face of his son. His brow warped in a silent bid, blistered lips fumbling to form thick, impossible words. But, this was the one time when none were required and Jim bobbed his head in understanding.
“I know, Pa. Let’s get you home.”
As he spoke, Jim felt a powerful and approving hand gently squeeze his shoulder. Behind, loomed Ulees.
At the engine controls, though, Sunday was tense.
“Hustle up guys! I’ve seen more steam on a bowl of soup. We’ve got one good shot, then we’ll be hoofin’ it.”
Emergency sirens were now arriving at the yard and Jim saw Ulees shoot a final consideration toward the abandoned tender. He looked then to Jim and for the second time in recent weeks, the two shared a curt nod of farewell. With that the big man was hiking upward, into the opposite fog bank.
Below, things finally went critical. The many probing tentacles of scattered flame at last found each other and a rich pocket of solvent fumes. They linked in a roiling blush of torrid orange that mushroomed skyward. A hot wind was soon drafting its rank breath uphill, opening a searing chimney in the fog. More paraffin began melting, further anchoring the blaze about the glutted and explosive tank cars.
Sunday called again to Jim, still not aboard the locomotive.
“Climb on, kid! We gotta GO!”
Jim partially obliged and stuck one foot in a cab stirrup. But he remained dangling half in space, while Sunday prodded the old switcher backward. The additional weight of three riders might have offered better traction or the simple act of running in reverse appealed to it. Either way, the runty tank engine began a compliant, uphill retreat.
Still not completely aboard, Jim stood transfixed by the working blaze. His eyes strayed into the tiny engine cab and touched on the firebox shaker bar. Moments later, Sunday blinked to a flash of him grabbing inside, then hopping back to the ground. In hand was the beefy lever.
“Kid, what’re you doing!”
Jim’s answer was resolute.
“That water tender is full and aimed downhill. If I can bust open its hatch it might douse those flames.”
“And maybe not,” Sunday challenged. “There’s also a couple tankers of real bad stuff spilling their guts all over down there. If one lights off, it’ll be goodbye Charlie!”
The young man lingered only long enough to nod toward his injured father.
“Just get him out of here.”
Sunday didn’t dare stop the fleeing engine, petitioning from its controls.
“Jimmy! Come on! Don’
t be crazy! Let it be! JIMMY!”
But for the second time that day, the youngest Graczyk ignored common sense. Without another word, he heaved the stout ash bar atop a shoulder and hiked back down, into the smoky fog.
Arrived at the prone tender, Jim found an encouraging trickle of icy water still escaping its buckled hatch. He knew that just inside there should be enough more to douse the hillside, dilute the fuel source, and hopefully starve the tide of ascending flames.
Above him, the unseen saddle tanker continued in retreat. Jim smiled when its labored breaths settled down, declaring that it’d safely cleared the grade. But the fading wheezes also shot a dose of reality through the young man. He was entirely on his own.
Jim hunted about for a hasty brace, something to lever against. Yet, nothing offered any kind of mechanical advantage. His chances of busting open the fill hatch boiled down to a matter of pure muscle. So, he drew a breath, tightened his grip of the haft, and focused on the bent lever.
Jim’s first swipe impacted the crossbar like a forlorn gong; the peel of a weary church bell that nearly pitched the lean young man off his feet. He regrouped and cocked his arms again, swinging with the same, ineffective result.
A dozen more awkward tries proved no better. They either caromed pointlessly off target or missed their mark entirely. The unwieldy descending angle of the locking bar and many tons of pressing water were all set against him. In short order, he was basted with sweat and giving way to quickly ebbing strength. All the while, the downhill fire gained ground, lapping up new fuel puddles as it edged toward the glutted and defenseless tankers.
Jim levered in more grip and tried pacing his blows. Still, he continued with no success. His forearms and biceps were soon spent and trembling, gone aflame with their own kind of fire. The shaker bar grew impossibly heavy. Each new swing inched more of the stout shank though his failing grip. Finally sinking in the mud at his feet, Jim sagged with it, his breath gone to an aching roar of failure.
A sudden crackle of nearby brush barely raised the young man’s slumped head. Expecting to find himself amid a wall of closing flame, he instead, gasped at a large splotch ambling his way.
“Ulees?”
“Back again.”
The big man’s powerful arms clenched a shaker bar of his own, torn from the nearby cab of 2105. Even amid the impending danger, he spared time for an endorsing smile.
“When I heard all that bangin’ ‘round back here, I just knowed it had to be you, young Jim. Gettin’ to be one onery thing, ain’t cha?”
Ulees took up station opposite the stubborn latch. With only a cursory look beyond, he set his feet.
“This here little thing the problem? Well, shoot; come on, then. Let’s us give it a good lick, together.”
A warm flush of kinship re-inflated both Jim’s spent muscles and spirit. He dragged his own bar back in. With a shared nod of purpose, the friends began hacking in tandem. Their new and combined fury had the jammed lever ringing in brittle protest. Yet, even a collective effort seemed fruitless, working more to beat the stubborn hatch tighter, than break it free.
The thick strap now bent and thinned. Mounting strikes threatened to shear it off completely, wedging the lid shut for good, as a first gush of broiling heat raked over the two men.
Jim shrank away and drew inward. But Ulees didn’t twitch, ordering himself to stay on task, as much as his partner.
“Don’t you mind it! Just keep on swingin’! We gots to be close!”
Screwing down his last bits of self-control, the young Graczyk complied. Jim gulped his wind, resumed his place, and added an even more frenetic tempo to the barrage of hammer strikes as Ulees cried a defiant cadence.
“Pour it on! Beat that steel! Make it hurt! Make it pay!”
Ten, fifteen, twenty more hits landed. A yawn of surrendering metal issued. More icy water began washing their feet in reward.
With it, Ulees mustered a final battle cry.
“THERE! SEE! She’s ah-comin’! Keep on hammerin’! All’s you got! We gonna bust her loose!”
The heat growing at their backs was almost unbearable. But the now-pulsing jet offered a promise of quick ransom and kept the exhausted friends in motion.
“Just a few more hits!” Called Ulees. “Just a few more!”
CRACK!
The tank lid blew wide with an angry blast. Jim’s feet were knocked out from under by a raging tidal wave that tore the ash bar from his hands. The young man crashed unceremoniously to his back and frantically hooked an arm through a grab iron. From it he swung side to side, riding atop the raging sluice like a hooked trout, straining to keep from being swept downhill in the heavy gush of absolving waters.
Then it was over. Their effort had paid off. The withering heat abated and a steamy chorus of angry hisses boiled uphill. Poisonous smoke was traded for a roiling new cloud bank that clogged the air. But these clouds were benign and sweet tasting, and flat on his muddy back, Jim sucked a delicious breath of their cool flavor. He relaxed spent muscles and locked triumphant eyes with his brawny friend.
An abrupt shudder interrupted. It rattled through Jim, changing his easy smile to a baffled frown, then a bolt of cold, dawning horror. Loosed by its cutting waters, the saturated earth beside him was sloughing away. And cocked off balance, the now empty water car was tipping with it.
Jim froze in blind terror. Eclipsed by the descending wall of black steel, he imagined a curdling war whoop erupt and fill the air somewhere beyond.
“NOOOOO!”
Through the shout came a human battering ram; one that crashed low, into the young man, bowling him safely aside and in a quick trade of places beneath the toppling shadow.
CHAPTER 53
DeLynne Leplak wheeled through a cool drizzle on the open road, across upper Indiana, towards a fresh appointment in Fort Wayne. A new place of possibilities and personal conquest awaited him there, with Mayhew already becoming just another forgotten notch on his coup stick.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he checked a mild shiner ringing his left eye, deciding that he fancied the look. It gave a tough and appealing mystique for his arrival at a new duty station - something to let them know right off, who was boss. Dee smiled and began humming a tune.
Miles behind, beneath the same cheerless sky, a mix of Mayhew yard workers and blue-collar residents gathered in tribute to a fallen comrade.
All present wore their meager holiday best in homage and although intermittent drizzle dampened clothes and chilled the flesh of those present, no collars were hiked up or umbrellas set against it. Dress hats remained off, heads staying respectfully bare. Ulees McCall was going back to his town and half-sister, as a hero and in gratitude of the hands-on neighborhood which had been his adoptive home.
A last car arrived and parked among the many others already filling nearby streets. From it a young, blond-haired woman emerged. Also dressed in modest formal attire, she didn’t proceed further, but remained at her vehicle, a remote witness to the event.
Ahead, rested a paused express train and team of trackside pallbearers. They included Roman Jackowniak, Maynard Conroy, Domingo Guzmán, Vinton Cougler, and James Graczyk.
Józef Graczyk stood by, serving as an honorary member. His stitched scalp still bore amber traces of surgical cleanser and beneath a loosely draped suit coat, the man’s arm and shoulder were girdled in a heavy sling. Near Joe was his wife.
Done supervising a venerate handling of the town-purchased casket, Joe acknowledged the train’s engineer.
“Thanks Paul.”
The man offered a cordial dip of his chin. He then aimed a sly wink at Sarah and keenly appraised Joe’s shoulder and scalp.
“So, how’s the wing?”
“I’ll live.” Answered Joe.
“Good. I won’t ask about the head. We all know that’s way too hard to hu
rt.”
Sarah swept her eyes aside, muffling a snort. The motion made her aware of the distant young woman and she briskly rubbed her hands together, walking off.
“Say, I’m getting a little chilly. I’ll go wait in the car, while you guys finish up here.”
Behind, Joe surveyed the train’s new pair of idling diesels and their shiny livery of copper, blue, and green.
“How do you like those growlies?”
The engineer gave an amiable shrug.
“They’re okay. Good, in fact.”
“So, those’re the colors we’ll be using, huh?”
“That’s what they say.”
Joe nodded provisionally.
“Not too bad a mix, I guess.”
He considered the closing baggage car door.
“That guy was a special friend of ours. So, you take good care of him.”
The man pledged.
“I’ll see he gets a real smooth ride.”
They shook hands, Joe offering a standard bit of parting advice.
“Stay safe. And you watch yourself crossing that Fox River Bridge. On a day like this those rails are bound to be chilled and greasy.”
“I will.”
The train powered up and the crowd silently dispersed. Returning to his car, Joe too, spied the late arrived young woman. Jim though, didn’t, as he caught up from behind. Joe touched glances with Sarah when their son spoke, still unaware.
“Headed home, Pa?”
“Not right away. Thought Mom and I’d drop by Art’s appliance shop and look over some of those TV sets he’s been begging me to buy for so long.”
Jim came up short.
“Really?”
“Sure. I figure, maybe I should finally get with the times. That old Motorola radio’s been pretty good to us over the years. So, I might check into something made by them.”
The son eagerly paced his father.
“That’s great. Okay if I ride along? I’ll play chauffeur, if you want.”
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