The Darkhouse

by Barbara Radecki

  “My mom kept dating assholes,” Mo says, disgusted, “and kept losing us kids to Child Services. The last time I was allowed to go back to her, she’d set herself up with this guy who had custody of three of his own kids. They were these adorable little babies and Mom was crazy for them. And I was the ugly, awkward bitch that no one gave a shit about. When people move on, they move on, man.”

  “That sucks, Mo, and I’m not saying it doesn’t.” Cal turns and focuses intently on me. “But sometimes the real thing turns out better than we expect. Sometimes it’s way better.”

  “Usually, though,” Mo says, sitting up, “it’s way worse.”

  Tank stops Cal from slapping Mo by calling out that dinner is ready.

  We sit cross-legged on the mattress and eat ramen from plastic bowls.

  Chisel smacks his lips. “I could use a shot of Johnny right about now.” He gets up and rifles through some plastic bags and pulls out a bottle full of brown liquid. He unscrews the top and takes a long gulp. I’m closest to him, and he hands me the bottle next. I remember the night with Scotty and Marlie and the wine. Nausea upends my stomach. But is it more dangerous to say no?

  I take the bottle and drink a bit and pass it on. It takes a long time to swallow, threads of liquid burning my tongue and throat.

  After dinner, we clean up “hobo-style,” which means seeing who can throw their empty bowl the furthest. The thwamp thwamp of the bowls hitting the walls or cupboards or other pieces of garbage makes us laugh until our stomachs hurt.

  Tank gets up and grabs a guitar from one of the dark corners. Pretty soon, everyone has some kind of instrument. Chisel has a bow that he twangs across a rusty saw. Justin arranges plastic tubs and beats on them with sticks. Cal beats on the ground with her hands. And Mo sings in the loveliest voice I’ve ever heard. They give me a jar of seeds and show me how to shake it to the beat.

  It’s only when the loneliness ebbs away that I realize how vast a space it has occupied.

  When I no longer have the energy to shake the seeds, I lie back on the mattress and slowly, very slowly, let their music set me adrift.

  Once I open my eyes and see Justin and Calcutta kissing in the dark. Candlelight flickers over their mouths, glints and glances, then licks my mouth. As if their coiling breath is on my lips.

  Once I open my eyes and see Tank trying to memorize or perform some words: “There was never any more inception than there is now … Nor any more youth or age than there is now … And will never be any more perfection than there is now … Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now …”

  Once I open my eyes and see Tank and Mo and Chisel squatting around the fuel stove in the kitchen. Rubber bands are tied around their arms, needles stick into their skin. Tank pulls the needle away and arches back. He crawls along the floor, arching and rolling, getting closer and closer to me. I keep watch through slitted eyes. Soon his body is against mine and my nerves light up with a million tiny flames. “More perfection, heaven or hell.” I pretend to roll away in my sleep, but Tank’s body presses in. His fingers are on my thigh. Antennae feeling their way. I don’t move — I can’t — but let his hand touch me. I close my eyes and will myself to go under again. Nothing I can do but stay a worm on a hook.

  Once I open my eyes and Calcutta is beside me. Until morning, she lies close, her arm thrown over and protecting me.

  It’s Chisel who wakes us. “We gotta get to Gordon Yard. Rise and shine, lazy asses. The train’s a-callin’.”

  Everyone is groggy as we get up. Tank is already warming up cubed pieces of old French fries and bread over the fuel stove. He cracks an egg over the whole thing and scrambles it.

  I find the bathroom. It’s a dirty, smelly place where you have to flush the toilet by spilling rainwater from a jug down the hole. The spilled water doesn’t clean the bowl at all. There’s no mirror to look into, but I wash my face and teeth and run my wet fingers through my hair. The shortness of it surprises me and almost plunges me back into shock. I clutch the edge of the sink and concentrate on the trip ahead. A train, a border, a coastline. Nothing but those.

  I change out of Mrs. O’Reardon’s clothes, fold them neatly, and leave them in a corner for another runaway to wear. I rummage in my knapsack for my own clothes, and carefully choose only mud-colored pieces so I won’t attract attention.

  Nobody speaks as we eat the fried scramble. The kids drink coffee, and I try some too. It’s bitter and sandy, but it wakes me up fast.

  Justin waves his phone at us. “I called Alana. She’s bringing her truck around. She doesn’t mind driving us to the yards and back.”

  No one says much as we collect our stuff and head out.

  Outside, I notice it’s about 10:00 a.m. Clouds still blanket the sky but don’t look to be filled with rain.

  We don’t wait long before a shiny red pickup arrives. Justin steps to the curb and waves his hand. Cal nudges him and says, “Thank God she’s hot for you, J, or we’d never get anywhere.” Justin ignores her and waves at the truck again. The truck stops, and a very pretty girl smiles at us. The window rolls down by itself. “Hey, Justin.” The girl looks at him meaningfully, then turns to the rest of us. “You guys train hopping again?”

  “Nah,” says Cal, opening the cab door and climbing in. “Only Twelve here.” I smile at her. “The rest of us need to make some dough first.” Mo and Cal climb onto the truck bench beside the girl, and I can tell she’s disappointed that Justin isn’t sitting beside her.

  Justin, Tank, and Chisel escort me to the bed of the truck and we climb in. Chisel shivers and bundles himself against Tank and closes his eyes to sleep. Tank curls into a ball and also closes his eyes. I remember his hand on my leg in the middle of the night and wonder if it was all a dream.

  After we drive a bit, I ask Justin, “Are you and Cal in love?”

  “Nah.” Justin stretches himself out. “Cal’s into girls. We get horny sometimes, you know?”

  “Right.” Except I don’t know. Unless I do.

  “I guess you’ve never been in love?” he asks me.

  “I was.”

  “Yeah? Cool.” He raises an eyebrow. “You break their heart? Or they break yours?”

  “He broke mine.”

  And then I realize — broken hearts are just part of the whole thing. A thing I am part of. And hearts change. Like everything else.

  A few minutes later, we’re at the train yard.

  The train yard is busy with rail lines and cabooses and engines. Tank names off the different freight shapes: tank car, flatcar, hopper car, gondola, boxcar — which, he says, is the best ride for me.

  We sneak along the edges of the yard, hiding among trees. Workers busy themselves about the tracks, but they’re focused only on the business of trains.

  Tank points to the southwest corner. “The 406 is making up its train.” I notice the spine of connected cars chugging slowly forward and backward. He explains that the crew is adding cars to the end. It already looks impossibly long.

  Chisel scopes out which car I should take. “When the train stops moving, that means they’re getting clearance from the dispatcher to head to Saint John, and we’ve got about five easy minutes to hop on.”

  Cal smacks his arm. “We?”

  Chisel shrugs. “I gotta head out, Cal. The rush of the rails is calling me.”

  “You can’t leave us, Chisel. It’s too sad.”

  They make faces at each other until Calcutta gives up and agrees. Chisel turns to me. “Don’t expect private security detail, Twelve. I’m only seeing you as far as Island Yard, then I’m gonna head over to Ponderosa Yard and catch out to Montreal. Or maybe go out west. I’ll see how far I can make it this time.”

  I’m happy for his company, but also glad he’s not coming all the way. There’s something solemn about going to Beachport that makes me want to concentrate on the journey.

  We wait another twenty minutes, then the train stops shuffling back and forth. Calcutta makes me pee in th
e woods so I won’t have to go during the ride. “Once you’re on the train, there’s only two options,” she says. “In a bottle, and good luck with that, or over the edge, and good luck with that.” I laugh and head to a private spot.

  When I get back, Chisel takes a big breath and says very loudly, “Okay, this is it.” Everyone but Alana throws arms around each other. Mo and Calcutta wipe tears from their eyes. “Don’t wail, girls,” Chisel laughs. “You know I’m gonna land on your grimy doorstep again.”

  “Counting on it,” says Cal.

  Each of them hugs me hard too and ruffles my hair. Then Chisel grabs my hand and we’re bounding past stilled cars and over steel rails, past the line of train that snakes further than my eyes can see, until we get to the boxcar Chisel has picked out for us.

  We hop on, and I shrink into the darkest corner, praying no one will come and bust us. But Chisel looks calm now. Like he’s found his oasis and is drinking up the most delicious water imaginable.

  After five minutes, the train starts to pull out of the yard. Never before have I seen a train in real life, never have I been close enough to smell one, never felt it under my feet, never hopped into one I wasn’t supposed to be in. It feels better than any adventure I ever conjured in my mind.

  The motion lurches me this way and that, then settles into a soothing rhythm. The wheels and cars clang together and the sound of it rings in my ears. It makes me want to sing. It makes me believe that if I do sing, my notes will come out like Mo’s, sweet and clear and true.

  The wind comes through the open door and brings with it dust and grit that scratches my eyes and makes me cough. Chisel sits cross-legged right at the opening and stares out, mesmerized. Many times I fight an unfamiliar urge to fling myself through the doorway. I plant myself far from it so my body can’t conduct its own experiment.

  The landscape slips by steadily, and it is so beautiful. So beautiful and perfect I can’t imagine anyone designing it.

  I think we might go on like this all the way — miles and miles of perfect silence — but after an hour of riding, when we’re passing through a stand of thick woods, Chisel stands up. Very slowly, he turns and faces me.

  His eyes narrow like a wary dog. His top lip flexes up to show a sharp line of teeth. I remember Biscuit defending his hole, how he raged at Marlie.

  At first I think Chisel is trying to be funny and I laugh. When he doesn’t laugh back, my heart starts pounding. Last night Tank lay himself next to me and put his hand on my body. What can I do to stop a person from doing what they want with me? Sweat pops out all over my head and back.

  Chisel’s small bony shape gets bigger. His skin shines black. His eyes are weapons. He looks dangerous.

  “What’s up, Chisel?” I say in a small voice, trying to remind him that I’m just a kid and no match for him.

  “What’s up, Chisel?” he says in a menacing, disbelieving voice. “What’s up, Chisel?!” He yells it so loudly I have to clap my hands over my ears.

  He yells again, “That all you got, Twelve?!” Then he makes fun of my voice, makes it squeaky and stupid. “What’s up, Chisel?”

  Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but still I keep looking up at him. I try to calculate my options.

  There is only the empty train car around us and the open door to certain death.

  “I could kill you! That’s what’s up!” Chisel yells, glowering.

  No options available, I cower into a ball.

  Chisel struts and taunts me with his hands. “I could take your pathetic little neck and snap it with my fingers. Without even breaking a sweat. That’s what’s up!”

  Too scared to even cry, I huddle my neck into my chest. “Please, no,” I say, my voice nothing more than a whimper.

  Chisel yells, “I could —” But he stops mid-sentence and buckles his knees into a slump in front of me. “I’m sorry, Twelve. Don’t be scared.” His change is so abrupt, I wonder if I willed it with my mind.

  He takes my hands in his, and I realize mine are shaking. “I’m trying to make a point. See?” He extends a hand toward the car door, his voice gentle again. “In two hours, you’re going out there. No Chisel to watch your back, no train cars or hobo-dumps to hide in. You’re putting your fate in the hands of whoever is out there. See what I mean?” I try to nod, but tears are on the edge of falling. “I coulda been a psycho, I coulda had it in for you, and you were all ‘What’s up, Chisel.’ Not good, Twelve. Don’t trust anybody. You see someone coming at you, you gotta stand up, stand firm, be ready to fight. Understand?” He lets go of my hands, and I wipe an arm across my face. “C’mon, show me. Get up, stand firm.” He stands up and beckons me. I stand myself up.

  He steps toward me and says, “Okay, give me permission to show you this move and you’ll have one weapon at your disposal. But I need to come close. Do I have your permission?”

  “Is this a trick?”

  Chisel laughs, and I relax. “Like if you give me permission, I shout at you that you let your guard down?” I nod, but also laugh. “No, Twelve. I just want you to know I’m gonna come close and you don’t have anything to fear. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  And he steps close enough for me to feel the warmth of his skin. “If I’m a bad guy who’s gonna grab you,” and he circles his arms around my upper body but doesn’t make contact with me, “all you have to do is crouch down — Are you standing firm, Twelve?”

  I look down at my feet. They’re splayed all wonky and don’t look at all serious. I straighten them and lock my knees. Firm as can be.

  But Chisel shakes his head. “No, no. Firm.” And he steps back to show me. He stands his legs apart, but he shows how his knees can still flex. He squats and straightens them to show me. I copy him and, satisfied, he steps close again and floats his arms in the air around me again. “Now, bend your knees.” I do. “And when you press your legs up, you push the palm of your hand to my chin with all your force.” I pretend to do it. “Exactly.” I do it again a few times, bending my legs and powering up, feeling the force in my arm and hand as they push up and pretend to hit Chisel in the chin. “Two reasons that’s gonna work. One: element of surprise. They’re not gonna expect the little girl to fight back. Two: the leverage in your legs will generate enough force to make a serious blow. Got that?”

  I smile.

  “Good. Second trick is in your legs again. You kick whenever you can. Whatever you can. If he’s got you on the ground, you kick. Eyes, balls, eyes, balls. Balls, balls, balls.” I start to laugh. “I’m serious, Twelve. No more vulnerable spot on a guy. Turns us weak. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Third trick: you scream. Scream something people will alert to. Like ‘Fire.’ But scream your fucking lungs out. No cute little warbles. Loud, fucking, crazy-ass screams. Capisce?”

  “Whatever you say, Chisel.”

  He grins and throws his arms around me properly and hugs me close. “You do,” he says in my ear, “whatever you gotta do.”

  “To survive. I get it.” I hug him back, relief inside me, but not certainty.

  As the train slows to a stop, Chisel gets up and hangs off the boxcar door, looking out. I follow him. “This is literally gonna be door-to-door service,” he says. Even though no one is around and the train is still clanging and chugging, he lowers his voice to a whisper. “You’re gonna want to scope out those diners and gas stations.” He points, and I see we’re heading into a small train yard, much smaller than the one in Moncton, and that it’s only a few meters away from a wide, busy road with a row of buildings that back onto the tracks. I know those must be the gas stations and shops Chisel mentioned, where he thought I might find another car or truck to hide in and travel.

  “Find a donut shop,” Chisel says. “Order something to eat and drink, sit yourself at the window — they’re not gonna care if you sit there all day — and watch for your truck. Remember to wait for one that’s heading west with American plates, preferably Maine plates — because t
hat’s where you wanna go. When they order their double-double coffee and chocolate donut, you listen to their voice, okay? Because a voice tells a lot about a person. You want a friendly voice. When they go to the back to take a leak — because they always do — you very casually wander over to their truck, make sure no one is watching, and hop into the bed. Just like you did before, okay?” He shows me with his own body how I should hide. “You curl yourself into the farthest corner and you pray to fucking God no one stops you at the border. Got that?”

  I nod, but don’t tell him I’ve never prayed to fucking God.

  Chisel and I hop out of the boxcar and run like hell down the tracks. When we get to some bushes behind a gas station, Chisel pushes me down.

  “Okay, Twelve, this is where we part ways. It’s been a blast. You are a scrappy beast. You’ll be fine. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We hug one last time, and just like that Chisel is on his way and I’m in a bush by myself.

  I get up, brush myself off, and rub my hands through my hair. I know it’s important that no one notices me, and for that to happen, I need to be neither too one thing nor too another. I head around the building to the roadside and suss out the coffee shops. It’s just after 2:00 p.m.

  I pick a large, clean-looking donut shop. It has a lot of vehicles parked in the lot, but no trucks yet with covered beds and American plates. I head over to it and open the shop door. It smells heavenly inside, like warm sugar on sugar. It makes me remember Marlie and her story about the donuts. It’s too hard to think of her still being on the island, so I shake it off.

  A large, bored girl asks me what I want.

  “Double-double coffee,” I say, so calm, so regular. “And a chocolate donut.”

  She asks for money, which I pull from my knapsack and give her. Then she hands me a tray with a giant donut on a napkin and a paper cup full of steaming coffee. I thank her and bring my treasures to a seat by the front window. Staring out, it almost feels like I’m in Peg’s Diner all over again. Except without the beloved colors and beautiful view.