by Karen Harter
The Lincoln had not been out of the garage for a while. He sat inside trembling, waiting for the heat to kick in, waiting for a plan. A plan didn’t come. He backed the car out slowly, looking cautiously both ways before backing across the road into Sidney’s driveway. The car still running, he trudged around to the back of the house. There was no sound other than a faint murmuring in the trees, no flashlight beam in sight. He rapped on the back door.
“Oh, Millard!” Sidney was still dressed, wearing a pair of logger boots and a heavy jacket, her dark blond hair piled up on her head like she was going to the prom. She looked pretty like that. Her cheeks were red, and when she hugged him he could feel that they were still cold from being outdoors.
“Thought I might be able to help somehow,” he said.
She sighed, letting her head drop back and her shoulders relax. “Thank you, Jesus.”
Millard thought he was the one she should be thanking, standing out there in the cold at half past midnight when he ought to be getting his beauty sleep.
“Please come in.”
“I saw you out there by the woods.”
She shook her head. “It was useless. I know he’s headed somewhere. I just can’t figure out where. I don’t know my own son anymore.” She led him through the laundry room to the kitchen. “I was thinking of driving along the highway—just in case. I know it’s a long shot, but he’s got to get out of town somehow. He’s too recognizable in Ham Bone. But I don’t want to leave the girls here alone.”
Millard pondered that while eyeing a plate of muffins covered with plastic wrap on the counter. She shoved it toward him.
“Have one if you like.”
“Oh, well, all right.” The muffin was quite moist, filled with raisins and shreds of carrot. She poured him a glass of milk before he had to ask for it. “You stay home,” he said after washing down a mouthful. “I’ll take the old Lincoln out for a spin and look around. He’d recognize the sound of your car a mile away.”
“I didn’t think of that. You’re absolutely right.” Her eyes followed the muffin from the plate to his mouth as if willing it to dissolve in his hand.
He reluctantly set the other half down, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I guess I’d better hit the road, then.”
She agreed enthusiastically, almost pushing him out the door.
The car was warm as he drove down Boulder Road toward town. He reached beneath the seat for his long-handled flashlight, clicking it on. Good. Still put out a strong white light. He turned it off and set it on the seat beside him, keeping his high beams on all the way down the hill. The only sign that he was not alone out there at that ridiculous hour was the set of red eyeballs, probably a possum or a coon, reflecting his lights from the grassy ditch at the edge of the road. The clock on his dash read 12:55 A.M. as he crossed the bridge over the creek, dropping into downtown.
Streetlights illuminated the doorways of the buildings he passed: Cascade Savings and Loan, Red’s Barber Shop, Clara’s Café, Art’s Hardware (God rest his soul). The whole town looked as if its occupants had passed on; it had a ghost-town feel to it with not a soul in sight. Where would he go if he were a kid on the run? Certainly not Center Street. He shone his light down alleys between the old brick buildings that lined the street, then turned onto Spruce and drove around behind the Ham Bone Market. On a windy night like this, the kid would be looking for a way to stay warm. Millard himself had scrounged cardboard and crates from behind the grocery in his younger days. When he and the Umquist brothers hopped the freight train up to Stevens Ridge to fish the alpine lakes, flattened cardboard boxes had made good insulation beneath their sleeping bags. Of course, logs were brought down the mountain by truck now. That spur of railroad had been shut down for years.
Millard cruised by the Dumpsters, panning the area with the beam of his flashlight. A skinny cat crouched and froze. Bundles of broken-down cartons protruded from a Dumpster labeled Cardboard Only. He stepped out of the car, leaving the door open as he looked behind and inside the metal containers. The cat, probably a feral, streaked into the darkness. But there was no sign of the boy.
He decided to head for the open highway, though uncomfortable with the thought of traveling so far from home on that desolate night. The kid was long gone by now whichever direction he had headed, whether he was bold enough to hitchhike or had taken the slow, safe mode of hiking through evergreen forests. But at least Millard could honestly report to Sidney that he had tried. It was not until he turned on his right-turn signal and began to crawl onto the main highway that another thought occurred to him. The railroad spur that led up the mountain pass had been shut down, but both the sawmill and Lipman’s Fertilizer Plant still shipped their wares by rail. He recalled hearing the warning whistles of the freight trains in the wee hours of many mornings, usually around the time he needed to make a trip to the bathroom. He wondered for the first time if it was the biological urge that woke him regularly somewhere between 1 and 2 A.M. or the haunting peals of the train as it screeched into the yard at the bottom of Sparrow Hill. He glanced at the clock on the dash: 1:20. Did the kid know the railroad dispatch schedule? He had been on the run, sleeping outdoors all those nights before his arrest. He had surely heard the train whistles loud and clear. Yes, he knew. And being as smart as he was, he had probably assessed that riding the rails was the stealthiest option for getting out of town unseen.
Millard looped around to the northeast side of town, the back side, through a neighborhood of houses that were at least a hundred years old. Some showed their age with shabby siding and broken fences; others wore neatly painted shutters and window boxes with enviable gardens that he had observed when occasion drew him through that part of town. Most of the homes along the railroad tracks were smaller cottages, many occupied by Ham Bone’s Mexican population, who had originally come to the area to work in the nearby fields but had since put down roots. He imagined how their houses must shake when the trains ambled through at night and wondered if they had somehow learned to sleep through the clanking clamor.
At the end of Digby Street, he turned onto an unnamed gravel drive. The Lincoln bounced through potholes as deep as apple baskets, the beams of his headlights dipping and rising violently as he approached the freight yard. If the train had already come through that night, he would have heard it, wouldn’t he? He crossed several sets of tracks to an area of patchy grass and shrubs bordering the foot of Sparrow Hill. The road ended there, if one could call it a road. A string of railroad cars sat idle on a side track about a hundred yards off. Millard turned the car, sweeping its headlights over the lumpy terrain. No sign of life. Everyone in his right mind was tucked in his bed. Exactly what he was doing in this godforsaken place in the middle of the night was still a mystery to him. It was like he was in a dream, a bad one, and knowing it but waiting patiently for dawn and reality to come back to him. He coaxed the car toward a clump of small trees, riding the shocks like a rodeo cowboy until the nose dipped into a rut so deep that it scraped its chrome bumper on hard-packed clay that might as well have been concrete. Confound it! This was no way to treat a classic automobile! He’d never had a scratch on it until now.
The train whistle surprised him. He rolled his window down, listening. It must be coming up on Bodle’s tree farm just south of town. There wasn’t much time. He shut off the ignition, pocketed the keys, and stepped out with flashlight in hand. A breeze brought a damp, penetrating chill, part of the price one paid for living so close to the mountains. He stretched out his stiff knees and zipped his wool plaid jacket up to the throat. “Tyson!” he shouted. “Tyson Walker, I want to talk to you!”
The only response was another set of mournful whistles from the train.
Millard scanned the area as he swept the flashlight beam slowly across the landscape. He kept shining it back to the grove of trees. That’s where the boy would be. The perfect place to lay out a sleeping bag in seclusion and still be close enough to the main track to catch a passing t
rain.
He stumbled. The beam of light bounced wildly as he caught his balance. After that he kept the light aimed at the ground in front of his feet.
The trees were young alders mostly, and beneath them was a carpet of curled yellow and brown leaves. He directed his beam to likely hiding places among the undergrowth of huckleberries and bracken fern. The clamor of the approaching train vibrated the soles of his shoes. “Tyson!” He heard the bells clanging at the crossing over on Digby and knew that the bars were lowering to block traffic—not that there was any at this time of night. “Come on, boy. Let’s talk about this man to man!”
He realized then that he was shouting to the night and nothing more. The kid had probably made it to Dunbar by now, thumbing his way down the highway. Maybe he got lucky and hooked up with a long-haul trucker headed for California, nothing but sunshine and palm trees on his horizon. Millard clicked off the flashlight and leaned against a tree as the freight train ambled into the yard, the powerful beam from its engine illuminating the tracks. California sounded pretty good to him right now, come to think of it. He hadn’t been there since he and Molly went down to her best friend Wanda’s twenty-fifth anniversary. He hadn’t been anywhere in years. Standing here watching this old freight train lumber in and out of Ham Bone, Washington, was the closest thing he’d had to an adventure in a long time.
The freight cars ambled by slowly as the engine pulled onto a side track for loading or unloading. Millard watched for an open boxcar in the faint illumination from yard lights up ahead. All the cars so far appeared to be buttoned up tight.
At that moment it did not occur to him to head back home. All good sense left him, and in its place a case of nostalgia caused him to listen to the train’s rumbles and squeals, to inhale scents of smoke and creosote as if through the ears and nostrils of his teenage self. Armed with a collapsible fishing rod and enough gear to survive in the wilderness for a few days, he and Art and the boys rode the freights up to the ridge several times each summer, hiking in to lakes and streams that they imagined had never been fished by another soul. Oh, those native trout could put up a fight! Millard’s mouth began to water just from his remembering the delicacy of fresh trout dusted in pancake flour and fried over an open fire.
He heard a rustling in the leaves about twenty yards away. Maybe an animal, maybe not. He held still. The steps seemed tentative, stealthy, as if someone or something might be wondering if he was still there. Then he saw a shadow move into the dim light. Definitely human—the slouched figure of the boy with a large bundle on his back.
Tyson looked both ways, held still, and waited. He couldn’t see Millard’s car even if it were daylight; the train had blocked it from view. The end of the train was approaching yet there was still no open boxcar in sight. The boy had to do something now, Millard knew, like climb up into a gondola and out of sight before the train became bathed in the light of the electric yard lamps up ahead. A yard man would do more than just kick the kid off the train. Riding the freights was a federal offense.
Tyson made his move, scurrying across the uneven terrain toward the tracks. Millard followed, ignoring the complaints of his stiff knees, staggering as he tried to avoid clumps of hard earth and holes in his path. “Wait up!” he called.
Tyson’s head jerked over his shoulder at the sound of Millard’s voice, then spun back toward the train. He hesitated as a loaded gondola approached. As it crawled past, he turned resolutely, walking in a swift gait alongside until he found something to grip on its tail end. A few more strides and he lunged upward, his feet flailing until finding a metal bar on which to rest them.
Millard caught up, grateful that the train was in slow motion, fighting to catch his breath. “You’re going to freeze your tail off on that thing,” he huffed. “Windchill! Come morning some yard bull’s going to be prying you off with a crowbar!”
“I’ll be okay!” They had to almost shout to be heard over the clatter.
“Have you thought this thing through?”
“Leave me alone, you useless old man!”
That did it. Millard stretched out his long arm, grabbing hold of the kid’s pant leg. Tyson tried to shake him off, but Millard held tight, striding so close to the train that he was painfully aware of the steel wheels running along the tracks like can-opener blades. If he was going to pull the boy off, he would have to calculate well. Tyson kicked out violently, wrenching his pant leg from Millard’s hand. The boy reached up to a ladder bolted to the side of the car, struggling with balancing the loaded pack and sleeping bag strapped to his back. Suddenly he lost his grip, his body lurching downward.
Instinctively, Millard grabbed a metal bar, yanking himself onto the train with strength that astonished him. His feet found a foothold and he threw himself against the boy’s legs, his shoulder supporting the heavy load on Tyson’s back until he felt the boy regain his grip. Millard stretched a gangly arm around him, gripping the ladder and maneuvering his feet until he could pull himself up to the boy’s level.
“You can get out of town,” he said into the boy’s ear, “but you can’t get away from your troubles. In fact, there’ll be bigger ones waiting when you get back.” Tyson struggled, but Millard had him pinned. “You think that sheriff is going to forget you? And what do you think the judge is going to do next time you get dragged into his courtroom? You’re too old for a spanking; besides, that’s all you got last time and that definitely didn’t work. No, if you ride out this train, you’d better plan on never coming back.”
One side of Tyson’s face was plastered against the side of the metal gondola. “What do you care what I do?” he shouted.
“I care about your mother, you selfish little punk! Remember her? The one who wiped your snotty nose and held your head when you puked? The woman I saw tromping around the woods tonight calling your name?”
“Shut up!”
The car was approaching the well-lit area in the center of the yard. “Come on, boy. Let’s get off this train to nowhere.” Millard pulled his body off Tyson and began to feel with his foot for a lower rung.
The boy glanced around as if uncertain, clinging to the side of the train. “Go to hell,” he finally said, his hand reaching upward.
He was going to do it. Out of stupid pride, the kid had just made a decision that might derail the rest of his life. Millard quickly scanned the ground below. Before Tyson’s hand could grip another rung, Millard yanked him backward. “Throw your body or we’re going to die!”
The boy tottered. Millard pushed with his feet, gripping the boy and hurling their bodies away from the train. His shoulder hit a clump of grass and he rolled like he had learned to do in the military. He heard the boy cry out. Terror shot through him. If Tyson was maimed, it was all Millard’s fault. What had gotten into him to do such a thing? He scrambled to his feet, adrenaline pulsing through him. Boy and backpack were a lump on the ground next to the track. “Oh, God,” he cried as he stumbled to where Tyson lay. His legs appeared to be intact, but he was curled up like a woolly caterpillar. “Tyson.” He knelt beside him. “Are you okay, boy?”
“You crazy old fool! Are you trying to kill me? Just leave me alone!” Tyson jerked to his feet, pushing Millard away.
Millard reached out, grabbing a strap on Tyson’s backpack for support as he pulled himself erect. The backpack gave way, sliding from the boy’s shoulders, and Millard tossed it aside. Tyson wheeled back for it and Millard grabbed the front of his jacket. “I’m not going to leave you alone. I’m sticking to you like a porcupine quill; what do you think about that?”
Tyson tried to wrench himself free, swearing, pushing, and punching, but Millard’s height and large hands helped him prevail. He wrestled the slight boy to the ground and though he twisted and turned, Millard had him pinned in five seconds flat. Millard was as shocked by this as the boy must have been. It was amazing what an old wrestling coach could do once he pried himself out of his easy chair.
What surprised Millard even mor
e was that Tyson was crying. The boy turned his face away as angry sobs tore from his throat. Millard slowly released the pressure and this time the boy didn’t try to escape. There he was, his face pressed to the dirt, crying like he didn’t have a hope in the world.
The old man thought to touch the boy’s hair, to smooth a bit of grass from his wet cheek, but something held him back. Maybe the same thing that had paralyzed him so often when Jefferson cried. His wrestlers he had understood—mostly sharp, tough young men with goals that they were willing to fight for. The ones who couldn’t cut it were cut from the team. Millard had never been one to coddle the mama’s boys. Silver Falls High didn’t take the state championship six years out of ten by being sensitive, that was for sure. He waited for Tyson’s back and shoulders to stop convulsing, wondering about his next move. Finally, the sobs subsided and the boy lay motionless, though Millard was no longer restraining him in any way.
“Come on, boy,” he finally said. He reached out, meaning to give the boy’s shoulder a brisk pat, but his hand did not pull away. Instead it rested there for a moment. “Let’s go on home. Your mom still had a plate of muffins and cold milk last time I checked.”
Tyson rolled onto his back without speaking. Millard stood slowly, every muscle and joint complaining about the things they had been through that night, and reached his hand down. Tyson paused, pulled himself up on one elbow, and placed his smooth, fragile hand into the old man’s. Millard pulled the runaway to his feet, slung the backpack over his own shoulder, and placed a guiding arm on Tyson’s back as they trudged through the moonless night back to the old Lincoln.
17
ON SATURDAY MORNING a ceiling of mottled gray spread above the foothills. Sidney stared out her bedroom window, cup of raspberry tea in hand, wondering if Jack’s peewee football game would be canceled in the case of a heavy rain. If so, would their date be called off, too? But then it was not really a date, she reminded herself. Jack just happened to be coming to Ham Bone and had invited her and the girls to watch the game. In the past she would have called him. But things were different now. Jack was different. A little distant, sometimes aloof, and yet other times surprising her with his candid admiration. Perhaps he had other options and was being careful to keep them open.