by Frank Nunez
“Very distinguished.” I said.
“How are you doing?” Charles asked me.
“Tired. Real tired.”
“We all are,” Felix said.
We didn’t mention Crowam, Mr. Hugo, or any of its actors. We just lived in the moment, where time stood still.
I approached an officer who exited Crowam with a shocked look on his office.
“Excuse me,” I said. “There are more boys in another part of the Crowam. The infirmary. Did you find them?”
The officer seemed dazed. “Yes.”
“Are any of them alive?”
He shook his head. “Those poor children.” He said.
“There’s a boy named. Is he still alive?”
“Most of the boys were killed by the guards or died from their wounds before we arrived. I’m sorry son.”
The officer walked off dazed as paramedics and policeman marched inside with stretchers and other equipment. “All those boys.” I said to myself.
“There was nothing else we could do, Jake, you know that,” Felix said.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Petey kicking some dirt by himself. He was holding what appeared to be a cup of hot chocolate. He saw me as I walked to him. He ran and hugged my leg like his life depended on it. “Jake!”
“How you doing, kid?”
He was distracted by the hot chocolate and playing games. It was amazing how he could seem so cheerful after all this. I admired that about him. “What school will they put us in?”
“I don’t think they’re going to put me in another school. I’m too old. I’ll be on my own.”
“I understand.” Petey frowned and looked at the ground, ashamed as if he did something wrong. I kneeled down, playfully flicking his chin with my finger so he would look at me.
“You’re a great kid. I’m not really good at saying these things. But I love you, kid. Hell, you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
“Where are you going? I can go with you. I won’t be any trouble.”
“I know you won’t be, but you don’t deserve that kind of life. You deserve to be with a family. People who will love you and raise you right.”
“I don’t need a family.”
“Don’t say that, don’t you say that. You need one, more than you know.”
“No I don’t. I’m big enough. I’m tough just like all you.”
Felix walked over. “Listen to Jake, little one. He’s right. This is no life for a young boy like you. Wouldn’t you want a family to love you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Come now, Petey,” I said.
Petey looked lost and tearful once again.
Behind Petey, an elderly couple approached us. They were in good health, but you could see they endured much from the bags under their eyes and the slow pace of their steps. “Hello, I’m so sorry to bother you.”
“No, you’re no bothering us,” I said.
Their clothes were too big for their frame. The wife had gray hair with a strand of black left over from her youth. The husband wore thick-rimmed glasses. He stood slightly hunched, with some cuts and bruises on his face.
They appeared worn and weary, yet their presence served a purpose. Clutched in the man’s hand was a wooden toy horse. “I was hoping you could help us. We’re looking for our son. We were hoping you might know him.” There was a flair of resemblance that should have given it away. My throat clogged up.
I was going to ask who they were looking for, but I already knew. My face expressed only remorse and grief.
“Thomas, how did he…?” the man asked. “I’m sorry, perhaps it is best that my question be left unanswered.”
“I think that’s best.”
“Were all of you good friends with him?”
“Yes, all of us,” Charles said.
Thomas’s father couldn’t help himself. “Did he die alone?”
“No. I was with him,” I said
The father approached me, with desolation in his eyes. “Did he suffer? That is all I want to know.”
“He died peacefully.”
“Were you good friends with him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“There is nothing to be sorry for. You were there with him when he died. He was with someone who cared for him. I could tell you two cared for one another. That is true friendship. All of you share that same bond. It is so tragic that bond was made in such an awful place.”
Petey tugged at the man’s pants and pointed at the wooden horse. “Is that a toy?” Petey asked.
The man knelt down. “Why yes, it is. It was our son’s when he was a baby. We couldn’t afford much, but this toy meant the world to him. Say, would you like to have it?”
Petey looked at me, as if asking for permission. “Go ahead. Petey. It’s a gift,” I said.
Petey bashfully took the toy, still unsure if he was doing anything wrong. “Thank you.” Petey said.
“You’re welcome.”
“I…” Petey stuttered.
“What is it?”
“I never got a gift before,” Petey admitted.
It was difficult to describe the face Thomas’s father made. “Petey?”
Petey looked up, intrigued.
“Would you like to come with us?”
Petey provided a brilliant smile that could light up a room. The man picked him up by the arms, holding him tight. His wife kissed Petey on the forehead, as if he were a son she raised herself.
“Are you boys alright?” he asked.
“I think we’ll be ok.”
“I think so too.” They walked off into the distance.
“Merry Christmas, kid,” I said.
Chapter 30
Most of us went our own way. Some of us were put into orphanages, while others were released off into the wild. The police asked many questions I wasn’t interested in answering. I left that to the others. I snuck past the gate, running into the woods just like my first escape attempt. It was freezing, but I didn’t care. I was free. Free to do what I wanted, even though I still felt empty. The battle was over.
“You’re running off again, huh?” Felix asked as he stood behind me. “I’m not going to stop you this time, of course. We’re all free now.”
“Thank God for that,” I said.
“Where are you going?” Felix asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe back to the States, maybe France. I guess wherever the road takes me. What about you?”
“To be honest. I don’t know. I thought about going to Africa.”
“Why Africa?”
“I never shied away from adventure.”
“Well, I’ve had my fill of adventure,” I said.
“Yes, I can understand that. I suppose all of us are going our own way.”
“Looks that way,” I said.
“Bloody shame, we make a very good team. It’s a damn shame.”
I nodded, humbly agreeing. “I’m not very good with goodbyes,” I said.
“Neither am I,” Felix said. He extended his hand. “Good luck to you, Jake.” A firm handshake it was. “Goodbye, friend.”
We walked our separate ways. I entered the forest, which was damp and wet. Still too cold. I brushed aside the branches and wet twigs. The ground beneath me was a bit muddy. I felt the moisture seep into my socks. The forest cleared. I came across train tracks. The train tracks were rusty and worn. They seemed to lead infinitely in either direction. I looked both ways. No train was in sight. I had to make a choice, but after Mr. Hugo’s exposé on choice, I was tired of making them.
I headed North, walking on the wooden planks wedged between the steel tracks. The forests on either side created a narrow corridor. The walking became insipid, where the farther I walked, the closer I got to nowhere. I thought about going South, but then I would be going right back where I started.
Gradually, I heard the ground beneath me tremble. I knelt down an
d placed my hand on the tracks, the cold steel of the tracks vibrated. I looked behind me and in the distance; a train lumbered its way toward me.
The sound of the train horn chorused through the forest like a battle cry. The smoke from the engine plumed into the sky like smoke coming from a factory chimney. I got off the tracks and awaited its arrival. I figured I’d hitch a ride. I didn’t want the conductor to see me, afraid that he’ll throw me off before I even got a chance to get on. I hid behind some shrubs until the train arrived. The train slowly rolled past me. The engine chugged forward with methodical brute strength.
The train cars were just as rusty as the tracks they rolled on. What the cargo contained inside was a mystery to me. They could have been carrying manure for all I knew. I aimed for one of the cars with an opened side door. I ran toward the open gate, tossing myself inside. I became startled when a pair of stony eyes stared at me. I lurched back as a defensive reaction. “Jesus, you scared me,” I said.
The man looked like a hobo. His clothes were threadbare and dirty. He looked like he hasn’t taken a shower in weeks. “Sorry if I startled you. I saw you running from them bushes. Pretty fast. I was young like you once. You should have seen me run then. I was faster than a race horse.”
“What’s your name?”
The hobo seemed to get excited, as if nobody had asked him his name before. This might have been because he didn’t get to talk to too many strangers. The consequence of living the life of a lonely traveler. “Herald. What’s yours?”
“Jake Hudson.”
Herald dived into his can of beans, the spoon scraping the bottom can as he scavenged for whatever beans were left. He tossed the can away, putting the spoon in his pocket for his next feast. He leaned back against the metal wall of the car, licking his lip, savoring the leftover flavor of the beans.
“Do you know where this train is headed?” I asked Herald.
“Not sure. Anyplace is better than where we are now.” He stared at me.
“Looks like you’ve been through a great ordeal.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s that look. I’ve seen it before. I was in the war, you know? Damn tragedy. I’ve seen enough death to last me a lifetime. I was a paratrooper with the 6th Airborne Division. We were part of the first wave of the Normandy invasion. Bloody mess, I tell you. We were supposed to land near the eastern flank near the City of Caen to capture a bridge, but they bloody scattered us all over the place. It was a sight to see. Young boys getting shot and blown up before they even hit the ground. Death plays no favorites when the bullets start zipping past your head. We eventually captured the bridge, but what a funny thing, to die for a bloody bridge. The ones who made it, they got that look just like you. I have it, too. It just stays with you, gives you a different look of the world.”
Herald could only smile, exposing his rotten teeth, whatever was left of them, anyway. I pitied Herald. He looked alone, a weary traveler, searching for something, maybe something as simple as somebody to talk to.
Yet I feared him, wondering if I too would end up just like him. I began to hate him a bit, only because I feared being like him. I wanted to jump off that train. Or maybe get on another car. But I was too tired to do anything. I felt a bulge in my back pocket. I forgot it was there. I pulled out the copy of A Tale of Two Cities that Thomas gave me. He was bugging me, even from the grave.
I flipped through the pages, looking for the creased page marking where I left off. Instead, I noticed a handwritten message on the back of the book I never noticed before. I’m not sure when Thomas wrote it. His handwriting was elegant and effortless, each word standing on its own with such ease, allowing you to absorb the message. Thomas had a way with words, a way of moving you. I guess you could say he was a true romantic.
Dear Jake,
We aren’t just born with a soul. A soul is made through each experience that enriches our lives. Love, adventure, culture, enlightenment, the search for God. These, my friend, are what makes a soul rich and alive, surviving even after we depart this earth. May your soul be enriched with all the treasures life has to offer, my dear friend. I know when this is all over, you will find a new world more wonderful and magnificent than this one. Alas, search for what all men seek, fortune and glory, for it is what men are destined on this earth to do, to find their own piece of greatness.
Thomas
I wished Thomas was with me. I missed him dearly. But somehow I knew he was somewhere greater than this world, where glory was commonplace and love was as real as flesh and bone. I smiled, caressing the page.
“Dickens, huh? You like to read?” Herald asked.
“Yea, I guess you can say I do.”
“Looks like we got company,” Herald said, nodding his chin to what was outside.
I peeked through the car door. They were running as fast as they could, nearly tripping over themselves on the gravel beneath them. “Come on, run faster. Hurry!” I yelled.
The train seemed to accelerate the faster they ran. “You can do it, come on!” They inched closer and closer. I reached out my hand. “Take my hand, come on.”
I gripped his hand, pulling him inside. I reached out my hand again, pulling the second would-be passenger inside. “Run faster, Charles!” I never saw Charles run as fast as he did that day. You would think he got a new pair of legs. Charles made his way closer. I leaned outside the car, with Owen and Felix holding onto me so I wouldn’t fall out. Once again, I reached out my hand. “I know you can do it, Charles. You’re almost there.” Charles extended his hand. Our fingers grazed at the tips.
“Damn it, man, move!” Felix yelled. Our fingers touched again. Charles was running out of breath. His face was flushed and red with sweat beaming down his face. I reached out once more. Our palms finally met, my fingers clutching every bone in his hand. Charles grabbed on to the handle on the side of the car. With all our weight, we pulled him inside, rolling over each other and the can of beans Herald finished off.
We nearly lost our breath from all the laughter. They were the last ones I expected to see. “What are you guys doing here?” I asked.
“We didn’t want to let you have all the fun,” Owen said.
“Is that right?” I said.
“We’ve gone through too much to just end so abruptly. There is a whole world to see out there. Why not see it together?” Charles said.
“Was this your idea?” I asked Felix.
“Not just mine. What we have here is a brotherhood. A bond, something that can never be broken. We owe each other our lives, and with that, a friendship that will last until our final breath. In fact, I will call our brotherhood the brotherhood of adventure.”
“You’re a damn poet.”
“So, what shall we search for?” Owen asked.
I looked down at the note, then looked up at the sky from the rustic car and smiled. “Fortune and glory, gentlemen. Fortune and glory.”
The End
Author’s Notes
Many believe that the life of a writer is a solitary one where the author locks his or herself behind closed doors and works on their manuscript without contact or support from the outside world. This couldn’t be farther from the truth. I have had the privilege of surrounding myself with friends and family that have provided me with an infinite supply of feedback, encouragement, and love that has helped make my writing career a reality. The creative process requires the inspiration of others who share in your vision of creating a book that is both meaningful and entertaining. The writing profession is not an easy one, and without the support of loved ones, this book would not have been possible. If you would like to learn more about my other books, news, blogs, and events, please visit my website at www.franknunez.me. You can also follow me on Facebook and Twitter at www.facebook.com/franknunezbooks and www.twitter.com/franknunezbooks.