“Let me tell you something, Cliff. You ever own a dog?”
“When I was a kid, yeah. We had a Sheltie named Napoleon.”
“I mean living on your own. If you were in your parents' house, they were doing the lion's share of the dogcare.”
“Oh. No, I haven't.”
“Well having a kid is sort of like having a dog, only a thousand times harder. And you can't train a baby to shit outside. You have to feed it, worry about it, train it. You get the idea. But that dog is a baby for its entire life, while a kid—” he held his hands out, palms facing each other like he was measuring something's size. “A kid grows up,” he said, expanding the gap to illustrate the idea. “Best advice I was ever given: you're not raising a child, you're raising an adult. And you should keep that in mind always.”
I nodded, figuring it wasn't worth it to tell him I never planned on having children, for the exact reasons he'd described. I loved Elly, but who wanted their life to revolve around a being wholly dependent on you? I thought of how prepared Helen had been for this trip and knew I'd never be ready to accept such a monumental responsibility.
By the time I'd drunk my first glass Mr. Berger was almost done with a second. We said our good nights, and I cradled Elly in my arms and carried her to bed. I considered waking her up so she could brush her teeth, but her face was wrapped in utter content and too peaceful to disturb.
* * *
Mr. Berger dropped us off at the train station the next morning, after a hearty breakfast of sausage, eggs, toast, and orange juice. I thanked him for his hospitality and Elly told him how much she loved him, and promised to mail him a picture she was going to draw on the train.
He had a present for each of us. For Elly: a receipt for ten thousand dollars worth of Liberty Bell stock, which under no circumstances were we to mention to her parents. “You need to start accumulating capital at a young age,” he said. She gave him a deep-thought look and thanked him.
For me, a leather-bound journal held closed with a brass clasp. Inside was an expensive fountain pen with a scalpel blade tip. Helen had told him I was a writer.
“Did you learn cursive in school?” he asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Do you young people write on paper anymore?”
“I do, a little.”
“Good.”
I'd scribble a page or two on the way home, then set it on my bookshelf with the others. When people learn you have writerly aspirations, a nice journal becomes the default thoughtful gift. I already had four. Three were empty and one—the one with Mary's poem and Ruth's short note—was almost full. It had taken me ten years to fill a hundred and fifty pages, front and back. Still, the pen was nice, and this journal was more expensive than my other four combined. I offered my heartfelt thanks, which he seemed to appreciate.
And then we were off. We had the same conductor as on our trip here. She didn't remember us, but she did have bad news: the original train had been diverted for national security reasons and its replacement lacked private compartments. We were going to have to sit with the unwashed masses (she didn't say it quite like that).
Ruth texted me, asking when I'd be back in the city. I responded that I was on the train now and, barring any major delays we'd be back this evening, so I expected to be back tomorrow morning. Elly had been leaning against my arm and surreptitiously spying. Ruth texted back, “Callllll me,” and Elly revealed her treachery.
“Who's Ruth? Is she your girlfriend?” she asked.
“Huh? Has anyone ever told you to mind your own business?”
“But who's Ruth?”
“She's a friend of mine.”
“Is she pretty?”
“No, she's ugly and disgusting.”
“Really?” Elly scrunched her face up. “Gross.”
“I'm only joking. She's very pretty.”
Elly pestered me with questions: how did I know Ruth, did she have a boyfriend, what did she do, etc. Had we ever been on a date? At first I thought she found the whole thing romantic, but as her questions became sharper I had the impression she was jealous.
“Do you think you two'll get married ever?”
I laughed. “I doubt it.”
“Then why go on a date if you're not even gonna marry her?”
“That's what grown-ups do.”
“Well I'm only gonna date my husband.”
Eventually she grew bored of questioning me and pulled out her Zephyr to draw a picture for her grandfather. I'd had a rough week—the Berger's couch had been too short for me to sleep on comfortably—and took a nap.
* * *
Elly's pinching woke me up. “What's up Ells Bells,” I said groggily, rubbing my eyes. She pointed to the far end of the car. Two men—one white, one black—in army fatigues had boarded the train. They were wearing sunglasses and green caps with the words “U.S. Minutemen” stitched in yellow letters. The gold badges on their chests were shaped like the continental United States. One looked like an ex-con skinhead sans visible tattoos (I could imagine a swastika tucked away neatly beneath his cap). He raised his hand to quell the murmurs spreading through the car, and pulled a standard-issue national ID from a green pouch clipped around his waist.
“Folks.” Toneless, but polite. “This is a standard border checkpoint. Please have your identification ready for inspection.” He started down the side opposite me. The black Minuteman took the other.
Across the aisle from us, a middle-aged woman cursed beneath her breath. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the seat, and her unease rippled over to me. Our eyes met briefly before hers skittered across the car, setting on the men with panic.
“Elly,” I said, nudging her “Take out your ID.”
“Okies.” She rummaged through her bumblebee backpack and, unable to find it, started again.
“Elly,” I said, taking the bag from her. “Where was the last place you had it?”
“I dunno. It's gotta be in here.” She dumped its contents into my lap and we sifted through them. I placed her phone and Zephyr back into her bag.
There was a shout from the front of the car. Skinhead had grabbed a passenger and was yanking him out of his seat. The man held on tight to his chair, and the border agent put him in a headlock. The unlucky passenger wrapped his arms around his headrest while his face bloomed red, with a tinge of blue. Finally he let go in order to punch at the meaty arm hooked round his neck. The Minuteman was ready for this and it was over: the man's face hit the floor with a thwomp. Skinhead reached at his belt and pulled out a taser. Zap, and the man screamed, flailing like a fish on a boat-deck. An ozone odor filled the air and the two border agents dragged him toward the exit. He slid behind them and grunted as his head hit each of the stairs leading off the train.
Elly, who had been peeking over her chair, returned to her seat and covered her nose with her shirt. “It stinks in here.”
“Yeah. Unless you want to go through that, we'd better find your ID.” I shoved the garbage from my lap into the gap between us and we continued picking through it. Candy wrappers, bottle caps, and bits of food rained down on the floor. She returned her more precious possessions to the backpack: half-peeled stickers, scraps of paper with single, unintelligible words scrawled upon them, and empty make-up boxes that I knew she 'borrowed' from her mother. Elly liked to take Helen's make-up and wash it out in the sink, then keep the container to store any treasures she found. I'd bought her a cloth pouch once, but she insisted on the tiny boxes because each one could be assigned a single object.
The candy wrappers piled up. “I didn't realize I let you eat that much junk food. Don't tell your mother. And I'm not buying you any more from now on.”
“I'll tell Mommy if you do.”
“Quit being a brat,” I replied, glancing at the woman across from us. She was staring at me. I smiled faintly. Two big hoop earrings dangled from her ears, and the foundation caked on her face concealed both her age and all but the vaguest suggestions of her e
thnicity.
The agents reentered the car and continued their inspection. I checked my wallet to make sure I had my ID—I did—then redoubled my efforts find Elly's. We finished sorting through the mess on the seat, then I checked all the side pockets and hidden zippers, asking her if I'd missed any. She shook her head and emptied her pockets. More candy wrappers and a set of keys. No ID.
“I must have left it with Gramps and Grams.”
Panic rose in my throat, trying to claw its way out and flee. Outside, I saw a tactical infantry transport with a mounted machine gun parked next to an unmarked blue van. Four men in Minutemen uniforms and armed with assault rifles stood guard, their sunglasses masking any trace of humanity. What would I tell her mother? Or would they take me along with her for harboring a fugitive?
Elly squeezed my hand. “Earth to Cliff. Over.”
“Cliff here. What's up Earth? Did Earth find her ID? Over.”
She giggled. “No, but it'll be okay.”
“I hope so. Otherwise your mom's going to kick my ass.”
The black agent came up to us and asked for our identification. I handed him mine, then explained the situation. “Sir, Elly here, she lost her ID. We were visiting her grandparents in Chicago and she must've left it with them.” My forehead burned. I helped pay this man's salary, and the fact that I had to prove my citizenship was absurd. Obviously we were American, and honestly, if we weren't what was the big fucking deal?
He scanned my ID with a tablet. “Where you folks headed?”
“New York.”
“You're not related to this young lady?”
“I am, sort of. She's my step-sister, so they were her grandparents, not mine...” I trailed off.
“Young miss, is this man telling the truth?”
“Yes sir,” she replied, beaming.
“And you're both American citizens?”
“We are,” I said, gulping.
“Have a nice trip home. Sorry to inconvenience you.” He moved on to the seats behind us. “Could I see you folks's IDs, please?”
And that was that. No harm, and if the authorities would leave a little girl alone for not having her ID maybe they weren't batshit insane. In fact, they'd shown the utmost courtesy to the train's passengers except for the guy they'd knocked unconscious, but he'd fought back, after all. Skinhead approached the woman sitting next to us. Perhaps he was all right, a normal man with a wife and two kids; a man with bills that must be paid. His mother could be in a nursing home, and when the Panic wiped out all of her savings she'd turned to him for help.
“Identification, please.” She handed them over. “Are you a citizen of the United States of America?”
“Yes,” she answered, though it sounded more like “yay-ees.” The man scanned her ID and there was a flurry of Spanish between them. He punched something into the tablet and stood there for a moment, waiting. The woman's face remained calm, but she moved one hand slowly towards her side.
The gadget beeped. “Ma'am,” he said, and she snatched what looked like an orange and black gun from her purse. A brown cloud of aerosol shot into the agent's face. The woman dropped it and raced towards the car door. The border agent clawed at his face and stomped around. His foot landed on the gun and the cartridge atop the barrel exploded with a soft bang. A fine mist filled the air and my eyes began to sting.
I put the train's flimsy complimentary blanket around Elly, trying to cover her eyes and nose. The other passengers hacked and coughed and the second Minuteman chased after the fleeing woman. An elderly man fell into the aisle, on his knees, gagging, and the woman tripped over him and tumbled to the ground. Someone screamed “terrorist” and the entire car was in a panic, with people bowling over one another to reach the exit.
My nostrils burned, and I could feel the acrid droplets coating my throat. However, neither Elly nor I were going to die from this, accusations of terrorism notwithstanding. Good luck inside of bad. I grabbed her hand and led her toward the exit, doing my best to keep clear of the first border agent, who was leaning against our seat and rubbing his face with his sleeves.
People crammed into the aisle, and pedestrian traffic jams formed at either end of the car. Through blurred, teary eyes I could see five squirming bodies pushing through the narrow doors ahead. My plan had been to duck into the bathroom, but these lemmings were blocking the way. I pushed Elly into an empty seat, not wanting her to be trampled.
After thirty seconds that felt like thirty minutes, enough people had escaped for the herd to have thinned to a mix of the meek and the weak-willed. I held Elly's head to my chest, still covered in the blanket. I kept my eyes closed, but it didn't help; my entire face was on fire. I stumbled zombie-like out of the car, Elly in tow, stepping on a person or two in the process.
Outside, a third border agent was rushing from person to person, handing out bottles of water. When I received mine I ripped off my t-shirt, turned it inside out, and soaked it. I washed off Elly's face and when she said she was fine I began wiping mine. Elly took the shirt from me and poured more water onto it. “Sit down,” she said. She dabbed my face with a motherly gentleness and poured the water remaining in the bottle over my eyes.
“Open your eyes,” she said, and I did. The water had washed away some of the pain, and I could keep them open, even if that meant blinking through tears. I motioned for the second bottle.
The first swallow made me cough, as did the second, and I spit up water on the station's concrete platform. The third mouthful went down, and I gave the bottle back to Elly. She was in much better condition than I was—well enough to tell me my faced looked all blotchy.
An ambulance pulled up to the train platform, sirens blaring. Two EMTs hopped out, wearing gas masks and carrying a stretcher. They went into the car and removed those still within. Skinhead exited the train first, walking with the support of one of the EMTs. His colleagues rushed over to him with wet cloths. The extracted passengers were all too injured to walk, and the technicians laid them in a row on the platform as they carried them out one by one. They brought out the pepper spraying terrorist last, and plunked her on the ground, hard. She lay still. A sour, metallic taste flooded my mouth, the taste of anxiety replacing the capsaicin, and if I hadn't been sitting down I probably would have fainted.
The EMTs checked each person they'd dragged from the train. They ripped the shirt off of elderly man who'd fallen out of his seat. One of the EMTs drew an “X” his chest with a black marker. The other rushed to the ambulance and came back lugging a defibrillator. They worked on him for a moment, without success, then moved on to the other passengers.
I heard more sirens in the distance.
When Skinhead had recovered well enough to stand unsupported he marched towards the woman, who sprang up and took off down the platform. He reached for his belt, unclipped his gun, and pulled it out. “Close your eyes, Ells Bells” I said, and covered them. He wiped his face and aimed, legs planted far apart and holding the gun with both hands. He looked like he was at a shooting range. I closed my eyes. There were five shots. People screamed. When I opened my eyes he was walking over to the body. She lay sprawled out in front of him, a spray of red and grey fanning out in the direction she'd been running. He prodded her with one foot, flipping her face up. Then he spat on her, and I could see the thick phlegm ooze down her cheek. No one lifted a finger to stop him.
* * *
The EMTs covered the bodies of the woman and the elderly man. The Minutemen emptied the train car. They handed out black garbage bags and everyone emptied the contents of their luggage into them, leaving behind purses, bags, and suitcases coated in pepper spray. I threw away my backpack, but we kept Elly's—she wouldn't give up her bumblebee backpack for anything. We waited on the platform for several hours, then loaded into a new train. Elly slept for the rest of the ride home.
* * *
The train pulled into Penn Station at two pm. Mr. Felkins was waiting for us outside. I'd called Helen when Elly and I h
it New York City, deciding to wait until I met her in person to tell her about our run-in with the law. I hadn't expected Robert to be the one to meet us, and his appearance threw me for a loop; would it be better to stay quiet until I saw Helen, to delay the story until I had a more favorable audience? No, what had happened was too major and to not mention it to Robert would be irresponsible. Besides, Elly might tell him after I left, which would make the situation far worse.
Elly gave him a hug around the waist when she saw him, and he got down on his knees to give her a kiss. For me there was a grunt of recognition and a quick question if everything had gone well.
“Actually, there's something I need to tell you. It's going to take a minute.”
He scowled, and suggested we first get a cup of coffee, a donut, a bagel, whatever. We stood in line at one of the street vendors and he ordered a coffee and bagel with cream cheese for himself and a chocolate chip croissant for Elly. He didn't ask if I wanted anything.
Just a small coffee for me, thank you, and we found a wide set of stairs at the end of the plaza. I explained what had happened, and asked Elly if she'd like to add anything. She was cleverer than I, and remembered to mention how I'd covered her face first, and also that I'd made her look away when the agent pulled out his gun. I couldn't believe I'd forgotten to tell him about that—he must've thought I'd stood by passively while she was traumatized.
He said nothing for a moment, then: “Cliff, you seem to have a problem with authority. I've never, in my life, had a problem with the police, but it seems every other week you're drawing Elly into some revolutionary set-piece. I love my daughter more than anything in the world, and I don't know what I would do if she came to harm because of your incompetence.”
“What are you talking about? The same thing would've happened if you were there instead of me.”
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