Pelican Road

by Howard Bahr

  Gideon smiles at his brother. Why not? he says.

  * * *

  “That’s stupid,” said Artemus. “That’s not an answer.” He had the Tulane student tightly by the arm, and the boy was looking at him in astonishment and fright. Artemus, suddenly aware, let go of the boy. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

  The boy relaxed then. “You’re being kind,” he said, and held out his hand. “I’m Jeff Brown.”

  Artemus told his name and shook the boy’s hand. He was conscious that the boy was studying his marred face, circumspectly, perhaps thinking the question that everybody wanted to ask but never did, save children sometimes, and Anna Rose in Gideon’s courtyard once. The train rattled noisily over a switch point, and the couplers banged. The machinery in the windmill was quieter, Artemus remembered. It was muted, a distant grinding. When they got there, the Marines swept the place, but the sniper was long gone, of course, only his ejected brass left behind. Afterward, they sat against the walls of the little rooms or peered carefully out the windows, watching for movement. Gideon sat in a cramped tower room by himself, cleaning his shotgun. When Artemus found him, Gideon said, I should have picked up a rifle. Artemus said, Why did you do that, fool? Gideon smiled again. Don’t fuck with me, he said. You have always known.

  So what? Artemus said. So fucking what?

  “I can’t give you an answer,” the boy from Tulane said.

  Artemus shook his head. “I haven’t earned one,” he said. “Just be careful, and promise to leave this window closed.”

  “Honor bright, Mister Kane,” said the boy, and pressed his hand over the embroidered football letter that, Artemus perceived, he’d been proud of once. Why not, after all?

  * * *

  The Silver Star, still fifty minutes late, slid to a squealing halt at Poplarville, Mississippi, its last stop before Hattiesburg. The train lingered only a moment to snatch up a family and two bags of mail, then it was off again, racing its pale shadow across the land.

  Mister Rufus Payne, the engineer, had fifteen minutes good running to Lumberton, Mississippi. That was as far as he could push it, however. Beyond Lumberton, he was to proceed slowly and watch for the 4512 on orders of Conductor Nussbaum. That would delay them another thirty minutes, and they still had to stop at Hattiesburg and Laurel.

  When Mister Payne got the highball, he jerked back on the throttle and let the engine run. It was a good machine, the finest, newest engine on the Crescent Division, and it was running hot, the drive rods and tall driving wheels a white blur of motion, heat shimmering off the boiler in little waves. Maybe he would let it run all the way, he thought. He was still the engineer. The message, putting the local in the hole at Purvis, and the green 19 order, giving them rights over all trains, had come down from the dispatcher. Nussbaum’s verbal slow order was given secondhand. In his pride, the conductor had not bothered to deliver it himself. How much weight could it carry, then?

  Mister Payne lowered his goggles and peered out the open cab window, feeling the bite of the wind. The long boiler of the engine rocked back and forth, snow dancing in the spear of the headlight. The rails were wet, but Mister Payne had plenty of sand. He spoke silently to the engine, after his custom. Come on, come on, darlin’, he said. Then he thought of A.P. Dunn, wherever he was way off in the morning. You better find a hole, old man, he said, and in that moment Rufus Payne decided that, no matter what, he would bring the Silver Star into Meridian on the money, on time. That’s what he was paid for, anyhow.

  * * *

  Back in the flying train, Artemus and his cousin were walking the coaches for the second time since Slidell. They began at the head end and started aft, touching the seat backs as they swayed from side to side. They studied the passengers’ faces, fixing them in memory so they could be matched to the green slips of paper in the brass clips over the seats. These were done in Mister Nussbaum’s hand, and bore the number of the station where each occupant would depart into the wide world. Passengers, however, were always changing seats and wandering around the train, and one of a brakeman’s duties was to see that an errant citizen did not miss his stop. When that occurred, it was a nuisance for everybody, and the wrath of Mister Nussbaum came down on them all.

  Artemus could not stop thinking about the Tulane student. He had left the boy with nothing, and this time, he could not even think of what he might have said. He scanned the coaches, but the boy was nowhere to be found. In the car for Atlanta, his seat, marked by the green slip, was empty, though a magazine, Architectural Digest, lay open in his place.

  “You lookin’ for somebody?” asked Stanfield.

  “Nope,” said Artemus.

  At one point, the two brakemen paused instinctively and listened to the wheels under their feet. The usual interval between rail joints was reduced to a steady hammering.

  “Old Rufus is hauling ass,” said Stanfield. He spoke in a whisper, conscious of the passengers.

  “He can run to Lumberton however fast he pleases,” said Artemus.

  “Yes,” said Stanfield, “but this is between him and the captain. I will bet five dollars he don’t slow down until he gets to Hattiesburg, just for stubbornness.”

  “He is stubborn,” said Artemus, “but he will do what Ira told him.”

  “Ira himself never told him a damn thing,” replied Stanfield, “and Rufus will do as the train orders say. I guarantee you he is counting on the 4512 being at Purvis. Five dollars.”

  “All right,” said Artemus, “but if you win, you may not live to spend it.” He spoke lightly, but the fact was, he knew he had already lost the bet. Rufus Payne was going to ignore Mister Nussbaum. He was going to run for home, sure as the world, the stubborn old son of a bitch.

  The last coach, just ahead of the club car, was filled with college students and heavy with cigarette smoke and perfume. The girls were fresh and lively, excited to be going home. They chattered to one another and flirted with the boys, and now and then adjourned by squads to the ladies’ washroom.

  “What do you suppose they do in there?” asked Stanfield.

  “They talk about me, mostly,” said Artemus glumly, for the girls depressed him.

  They were almost to the door when it slid open and a girl unlike the others stumbled through, pulling the cold and the racket behind her. She caught herself and stopped, as if she had entered the wrong hotel room: a fat, shapeless child, dark of hair, with a wisp of mustache over her lip and beads of sweat on her forehead. Her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes uncertain as they touched on the laughing girls and handsome boys whose world was not her own. Watching her, Artemus knew she was in the kind of trouble that nothing could prepare her for, the kind a person was never ready to meet.

  “Is everything—” Artemus began, but no sooner did he speak than the girl flung herself at him and wrapped her nail-bitten fingers in his coat lapel. “I’m looking for Artemus Kane,” she said

  Artemus grasped her hand. “You found him. What is it?”

  “It’s Jeff,” she said. “You talked to him. You have to come.” She pushed Artemus away and turned, and ran headlong into the closed door. She slumped against it, her fingers pawing at the latch. “Please,” she said. “He has a gun.”

  THE LAST MEET

  Artemus and Stanfield followed the girl into the vestibule where Artemus caught her arm. “Tell me what’s the matter.”

  The girl said, “Jeff told you he got kicked out of Tulane. What he couldn’t tell you was that it was for…” The girl’s face flushed red, and she caught herself as if the words she might have spoken had choked her. She herself could not say it. She began again, “His daddy—”

  “Never mind,” said Artemus. He understood then, all at once, what the boy’s trouble was. He realized he had known all along, just as he had known with Gideon. There was nothing in the manner of either boy that betrayed him; rather, it was the air around them, as if God, knowing they would have trouble all their lives, had surrounded th
em with a particular grace. That is how Artemus chose to think of it, when he could stand to think of it at all. And this girl, ugly and alone, she would think of it that way, too. She would understand it better than Artemus ever could, maybe better than Gideon or Jeff Brown ever could, even if she couldn’t say it. Artemus took the girl by the shoulders. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s out on the porch thing at the end of the train.”

  “And he has a gun?” said Stanfield.

  “Yes,” she said, breaking down again. “What am I supposed to think?”

  Artemus cursed himself for a fool. Passengers were not allowed to ride on the rear platform when the train was running at such a speed. The door was supposed to be locked, and it was Artemus’s job to see that it was, and Artemus, caught up in his bad thoughts, had forgotten. On the other hand, the boy and his gun, if he really had a gun, were isolated from the passengers back there. “Listen, darlin’,” he said to the girl. “You go in the ladies’ room, clean your face, get back to your seat. I’ll take care of the boy.”

  “But—”

  “I promise,” said Artemus. “Just try to settle down, and don’t scare the citizens.” He took her face in his hands. “Can you do that?”

  The girl nodded. “Good,” said Artemus, and touched her brittle hair and turned her. Stanfield opened the coach door, and in a moment, she was gone.

  In the club car, the citizens were drinking and talking as if nothing at all had happened.

  The black bartender was polishing a glass. “What about it, Pete?” said Artemus.

  “People havin’ a good time,” said the bartender. He waved his towel at the crowd. “They don’t care how late we are.”

  “Did a boy come through here?” asked Artemus. “College boy in a Tulane sweater?”

  The bartender tilted his head toward the back of the car. “He’s out on the platform,” he said. “I thought the door was locked, but it ain’t. I figured—”

  “Give me a shot,” said Artemus. “Some of that Jack Daniel’s.”

  Stanfield leaned his arm on the bar beside Artemus. “Me, too,” he said.

  “Now, gentlemen,” said the bartender, “you know I can’t—”

  “Just this once,” said Artemus. “Be quick.”

  The bartender poured the drinks and set them on the bar, and the trainmen downed them in a single draught. “What’ll we do now?” asked Stanfield.

  Artemus turned to the door. Through the porthole, he could see the rails pointing back toward Basin Street. “Best we not gang up on him,” he said. “I’ll go out and talk to him. You fetch the captain.”

  “I need to go with you,” said Stanfield.

  “It’s nothing,” said Artemus. “Just a kid. Now, go on.”

  Artemus did not wait for a reply, but walked aft and pushed the door open and stepped out onto the platform.

  It was scary out there at such a speed. The snow swirled up behind in a wild demon mist, and the noise, the passage of the wind and the hammering of the wheels, was deafening. The platform itself shivered and bounced as if it were attached with baling wire. Artemus slammed the door behind him and went out to the rail with only a glance at Brown, who was pressed against the bulkhead. He took in the boy’s frightened face and the pistol held down along his leg. Artemus gripped the back rail, though it was freezing, and he wore no gloves. The wind snatched his cap away at once and sent it spinning and tumbling along the track behind, lost forever. The snow stung him, half-blinded him as he bent over the rail, over the blur of the cross-ties. He could feel the boy watching him.

  In a moment, the boy spoke. “You won’t stop me!” he yelled over the racket. It was like something from the movies, and Artemus, expecting better, was disappointed. He turned, leaning against the cold blade of the rail. “Brown, what the fuck you doin’!” he shouted.

  The boy, from his face, was shocked, thrown off balance by the remark; perhaps he was expecting something different as well. Artemus could easily believe that the boy had never been cussed in his life, so language might be a virtue here in an unexpected way. “The fuck you doin’, you little prick!” he said with all the meanness he could muster. He pushed off from the rail and took a step.

  The boy raised the pistol. “Don’t come any closer! I mean it!”

  Jesus Christ, thought Artemus. He saw now that the gun was an old Colt Peacemaker, all the bluing worn away, and he wondered what in God’s name a kid like this one was doing with such a piece. Artemus said, “It’s a single-action, dipshit. You have to cock it first.”

  Artemus was sorry at once for his cleverness. He was certain he would not be shot on purpose, but the boy was using both thumbs to cock the pistol. The barrel was wavering, and the bore seemed big enough for a man to crawl into. Artemus prayed, Don’t let him slip, don’t let him slip. Then the boy had the hammer back, locked in place, and Artemus relaxed a little, for the safest place would be wherever the kid was aiming. He took another step. The boy waved the gun. “I mean it,” he said, but quieter now.

  Artemus saw that the football letter was half-torn from the boy’s sweater. Artemus pointed. “What’s that about?”

  The boy looked down as if seeing his work for the first time. “I don’t deserve it.”

  “Why not?” said Artemus. “Didn’t you earn it? Is that somebody else’s sweater?”

  “No, god dammit,” said the boy. “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

  Around them, the landscape shifted momentarily, opened out into yards and houses, the main street of a town, storefronts, a water tower. Artemus heard the urgent clang-clang of a crossing signal. Some part of his mind ticked off Lumberton.

  “So why?” said Artemus.

  Now the boy’s face twisted in anger. “Why, why, why?”

  Artemus backed off, hands held open before him. They were in the woods again, still rolling fast like Stanfield predicted, like Artemus himself had known they would. He thought, I have got to finish this. “Just tell me,” he said. “Then we can go inside. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

  “You know what I am,” said the boy. “I can see it in your face.”

  “I know you’re a god damned lunatic,” said Artemus. “What else? You think I can’t stand it? You think I never saw a swish before?”

  “Swish, queen, queer, twist!” shouted the boy.

  “Don’t point the gun at me,” said Artemus. “Put it in your ear. That’s the best way. It’s a .44-40. It will blow the side of your head off.”

  Obediently, the boy stuck the muzzle in his ear.

  Shit, thought Artemus. He said, “Only one thing left now. Pull the fuckin’ trigger. Go ahead. It’s easy.”

  “You want me to, I will!”

  “Oh, don’t lay it off on me,” said Artemus. He was moving closer now, though they were on an ascending grade, and he had to pull against a little gravity, balancing himself. He saw Mister Nussbaum’s face in the door’s porthole and motioned him away. “It’s what you want, ain’t it?” he shouted at the boy. “Pull the trigger—that’ll fix everything! Then your daddy will be proud of you!”

  The boy leaned away from the bulkhead and shut his eyes. Good, thought Artemus, and took two quick steps and put out his hand. The boy’s eyes were shut tight. “Go ahead, Jeff,” said Artemus, and slipped the web of his thumb delicately between the hammer and the frame. The boy pulled the trigger.

  When nothing happened, Jeff Brown opened his eyes again. “Damn you,” he said.

  “Well, I misjudged you,” said Artemus, breathing hard, for it hurt like hell when the hammer came down. He closed his hand around the pistol and took it away, thinking to fling it over the platform railing, but it was a good old piece, and he hadn’t the heart. Instead, he thrust the pistol in the waistband of his trousers. He said, “I really didn’t think you were that fucking stupid.”

  * * *

  The Silver Star passed Lumberton in a blur of stores and houses and motorcars. Rufus Payne opened out the throttle
for the grade beyond, making for the crest a half mile distant. Just beyond the crest was the Talowah siding, and then Purvis in six minutes, maybe five, where he would give old A.P. Dunn a good dusting. He leaned out the window, feeling the speed, feeling the engine under his hand. The rails were in a long perspective that ended at the top of the grade. The roadbed made a tunnel through the pines, through the white swirl of snow: the edge of the world up there, then a downward grade running fast, keeping the power on and the slack run out. Mister Payne turned to his fireman, thinking to say how all was well, but Jean Chauvin was standing, pointing out the narrow window of the cab. Mister Payne looked and saw the headlight glimmering at the crest of the grade.

  “Aw, god,” said Mister Payne, barely an exhalation. He slammed off the throttle and set the brakes and pulled back on the Johnson bar and grabbed the whistle cord, all he could do. “Chauvin!” he cried while the whistle screamed in a single note across the afternoon. “Jump, man!” But Jean Chauvin would not jump. He crossed himself and began, “Hail Mary, full of grace—”

  * * *

  The 4512 hammered over the switch at the north end of Talowah siding, and Mister Dunn opened out the throttle for the little grade ahead. He would have to be careful on the other side lest the slack bunch up. He planned to come off the hill under power so as not to shake up the boys in the back too bad; they had had a rough ride already.

  Since Hattiesburg, Mister Dunn had allowed himself to do some thinking. Time, it seemed, had run off and left him, just as it had Eddie Cox. Blood kept running down his nose, and he had to keep taking off his glove to wipe it away. Necaise had offered to bandage the wound, but Mister Dunn wouldn’t let him. He wanted to see the blood. It was red as ever, but Mister Dunn knew it was old now, too old to trust anymore, maybe too old to climb to his head where he needed it. He had decided that tomorrow would be his last trip, like it would for Eddie. They would go together, stepping out of life into the dusk that time left behind in its passage. He thought about his warm kitchen and how, maybe not tomorrow, but soon enough, he would think about what his life had meant. That it meant something, he had no doubt; it was only a matter of touching it, looking at it with clarity in a way he had not had time for. He turned to look across the cab, thinking to tell Eddie, but caught himself and turned to the window again. There was plenty of time to talk, away from the racket, away from the things they had to pay attention to right now.