“Breakfast and your lunch?”
“You gonna buy my lunch?”
“If you let me interview you. I’ll make you a bet. I’ll ask a few simple questions, and I’ll get to your secret before you can finish your lunch. If I can do that, you leave me alone. I won’t put anything in the piece about you either way. If I can get to your secret, you buy my lunch.”
He leaned back, and I could see his jaw slack. He rumpled his face in thought. “I take an early lunch. Ten-thirty. Meet me here.”
I thought of Nadine. I’d hoped to be done early, but this may lead somewhere. Nadine would be safe. God would see to that. “Ten-thirty.”
Tyler stood up, stretched and cracked his back, then his neck. The pops came fast and loud and Veronica groaned. “Gross.” She set my kielbasa and eggs on the table. I thanked her, and she winked at me.
Another man walked in with a crooked nose, broken like a boxer’s, and a scar across the bridge. He’d aged quite a bit, but the nose gave him away. Tyler made his way back to the counter and Nick, the man with the broken nose, the hero of the train-derailment, took the last open seat. No idea how to open a conversation with him, I decided to consider my options over my kielbasa.
In fifteen minutes, three of the five other men had paid their bills and left quietly. I’d finished my breakfast and was nursing the sludge Veronica insisted on calling coffee. It’d been quiet after my conversation with Tyler. Spotty flatware clinked on dirty plates. Coffee perked, though Veronica never changed the filter. The bar stools squeaked under the weight of the men of the cement plant.
Aida insisted Nick was some sort of hero, and the article confirmed it. Still, I had an uneasy feeling about him. I looked at him and saw Greg Becker all over again. Other reporters talk about their “instincts” or “nose for news,” but, for me, it was something deeper, something in the hollow of my stomach, something dark and tangible, like a bitter pill. Side effects may include paranoia and nausea. Then again, maybe the unease originated from the greasy kielbasa.
I took another sip of sludge and moved to sit next to him. He looked at me sideways, mumbled something about eating breakfast in peace. He was drinking, of all things, hot herbal tea. I pointed to it. “Not a coffee guy?”
“They don’t serve coffee here.”
“Good point.”
Veronica glared at us as she wiped down the counter with a dingy rag that smelled of bleach. I pulled the newspaper article from the inside pocket of Mason’s jacket, showed it to him, and said, “Twelve people. Pretty impressive.”
He looked at it for a minute, then at me, then back to his breakfast. Eggs sunny-side up, pancakes, bacon and sausage. “Long time ago.”
I agreed. “Connor Reedly, reporter for World News Weekly.” I extended my hand.
He ignored it. “Hooray for you.”
I’d expected it to go about this well. “I’m doing a piece for an upcoming issue, a kind of retrospective ‘Where Are They Now’ thing for the nostalgia towns along 29. I’d like to do a small bit on you. You are, after all, a pretty big part of this town’s history.”
He smiled.
Flattery may end up being the key to securing an interview. “What do you say?”
His smile evaporated. “I say no.”
I nodded. “Okay. May I ask why not?”
He looked to Veronica. “Can you get rid of this guy, Ronnie?”
“I’m not doing your dirty work. And don’t call me Ronnie.”
“It’s just a tiny thing, a little interview. People want to know. This was pretty big news back in the day.”
He set his fork down and bounced his leg, shaking the counter. The flatware jumped up and down. He stopped suddenly and spoke quietly. “Know what kills heroes?”
I shrugged. “Kryptonite?”
“Don’t be smart, Buddy. Apathy, that’s what kills ‘em.”
I tried not to look surprised that he knew what apathy was.
“Remember when Superman died all those years ago?”
“Not much of a comic book guy.”
“Too good for them, right? Anyway, DC killed him off a few years back. Know why they did it?” He didn’t wait for me to guess. “Apathy. No one cared about him anymore. No one was buying the comics. So they killed him off. They had no plans to really keep him dead, and everyone knew it, but for a while, even if it was just a few months, people were buying his comics again. People cared.”
I knew where he was going, but wanted to play more to his self-interest. “So what’s this have to do with you?”
“No one’s buying my comic anymore.”
I leaned on the counter casually. “Don’t you want people to read about you again? I mean, you don’t have to die for people to care about you.”
“Ever see Spider-Man? The 2002 version, with Toby Maguire?”
Aida didn’t mention this guy was the king of comics. “No. I was in Darfur when it came out.”
“Darfur? Where’s that? Asia? Sounds Asian.”
“Never mind. What about Spider-Man?”
He took a bite of syrup-soaked pancake and wiped the corner of his mouth. “Green Goblin says something to Spider-Man. He says people will eventually turn against Spider-Man because the only thing people like more than a hero is to see a hero fall, to die trying.”
I sipped my sludge. “A little morbid, don’t you think?”
“Don’t mean it ain’t true.”
“You’re afraid people are more interested in your failings than in your success?”
“I’m saying people won’t read about my success. Not again. Town got a little sick of me for a while. Didn’t like all the media types rolling in and out of town. Blamed me for it, like there wasn’t an accident, or maybe like it was my fault or something.”
“Was it?”
“No.” His response was fast and flat, rehearsed. “I’m not doing an interview.” His frustration mounted. His face was flushed, his voice terse.
I was getting somewhere. If I could keep him talking, he might let something slip, or he might knock me out. I opted for a safer approach and handed him a card with my cell number on it.
“I’ll be around for a few days, taking in the sights, doing a few other interviews and the like. Call me if you change your mind?”
“Take your card.”
I waited for a minute to see if he’d look at me or my card. He didn’t. He’d finished most of his breakfast, and I figured he’d be leaving soon anyway. I thought about following him, but decided it wasn’t necessary. If I needed to find him, it wouldn’t be too difficult. In the meantime, I could get back to Aida’s and see what she knew about Tyler and maybe spend a few minutes with my wife before coming back to meet him for the interview.
* * *
Nadine was stretched out on the couch drinking some hot tea. Aida scrambled some eggs and buttered toast in the kitchen. I tossed Mason’s jacket on the back of a chair, moved quickly to my wife and kissed her forehead. She smiled, then arched her neck so I could kiss her lips. “How you feeling today?”
She pulled her feet up, indicating an invitation for me to sit and rub her feet. “Today’s a good day.”
I pressed my thumbs into the balls of her feet, and she closed her eyes. Aida called from the kitchen, “How was breakfast? Greasy?”
“Just how I like it.”
Nadine spoke quietly. “Did Nick come in?”
“Sure did. Doesn’t want to talk, though. Pretty set against it.”
Aida brought a plate of toast and an egg to Nadine. “Not surprised. Doesn’t talk to anyone at work or anywhere else.”
Nadine looked surprised. “Doesn’t sound like a hero, does it?”
“He started going on about Superman and Spider-Man. I couldn’t follow him. Something about
people wanting to see a hero fail. Mean anything to either of you?”
Aida shook her head, and Nadine shrugged.
I sighed. “Aida, you know a Tyler?”
“Older guy, sixty-something, really unfortunate haircut, about so tall?” She put a hand about a foot over her head.
“That’s the one.”
“He’s not the one you want to worry about. A couple of years ago, his wife mysteriously disappeared.”
“You think he did something to her?”
“He’s got a lot of property behind his house, a pretty expansive desert backyard with a lot of sand that bucks right up to the wash. If he wanted to hide a body, he could do it.”
I arched my eyebrows and moved my hands to Nadine’s ankles. She’d sunk lower in the couch and, for a minute, it was like being back home with her. “He killed his wife, and you don’t think he’s worth worrying about?”
“In Hailey, it’s the quiet ones you worry about. Like Bernard’s kids.”
“Or Nick.”
“Exactly.”
“But he won’t talk to me, so I guess I don’t have to worry about that.”
Nadine took a bite of toast and sighed.
“What?”
“You’re not going to find five righteous people by meeting them in Sue’s. Nick’s one of your best bets. Don’t give up on him yet.”
“All right. Any ideas to get him to open up? You guys know him better than I do.”
Aida nodded “I know a way. I didn’t want to do it, but it looks like I might have to.”
I rubbed Nadine’s toes and asked, “And that is?”
“Take me with you.”
I ran my hands over Nadine’s ankles, rubbing near the bone. “No dice. Who’s going to watch out for Nadine?”
“She’s a big girl.”
Nadine closed her eyes. “It’s the best way.”
“What makes you think he’ll talk to me if you’re there?”
“Our parents died in that derailment.” Nadine paused. “He knows us, saw us while he was pulling people out of the train. He came to our parents’ funeral and apologized for not saving them. I told him it wasn’t his fault. They were in their house, not on the train, he did all he could, blah blah blah. For whatever reason, he kept saying he was sorry. I’m guessing he felt pretty bad about how we’d be on our own after the accident. I think he felt responsible for it. If I go, he’ll talk.”
I rubbed my knuckles into Nadine’s heels. “All right. How do we find him?”
“He’ll be back at Sue’s for lunch, I’m sure. He’s predictable.”
“That’ll work out well. I’m interviewing Tyler at ten-thirty.”
“We’ll make a day of it.”
* * *
Sue’s was empty, except for Veronica, who sat on the counter again, chewing gum and chattering with the short order cook, a small doughy young man, a little older than the waitress. She was smiling, something I didn’t see much of this morning. Their conversation cut short when she saw me walk in with Aida.
She rolled her eyes and went back to talking to the cook.
Aida pointed to a back table. I sat down, and Aida went behind the counter, searched a tray of glasses, found two clean ones, and filled them with Diet Coke from a fountain. She came back and sat with me. “Easier if you do it yourself. Veronica doesn’t get around so good. She’s fine for counter work, but she hates the tables.”
“Could have let me know that this morning.”
“You sat at a table?”
I pointed to the one nearest the door.
She grinned. “Didn’t make many friends, did you?”
“I didn’t know.” I leaned closer and hoped Veronica still ignored us. “Her leg?”
“Train.” Aida spoke a little louder than I expected.
Embarrassed, I chastised her. “Not so loud.”
“Veronica doesn’t care. She’ll tell you herself. Matter of fact, that’s not too bad of an idea. Thought of interviewing her?”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. The sun poured through the window. “I can’t interview everyone, Aida. I’m hardly hanging on here. I need to rest.”
“No rest for the weary. Drink your soda. The caffeine will help.”
“Trying to make me an addict? It’ll take years to decaf myself after this.”
“If there is an after. That’s step one.” She crossed her arms. “After I help you get these interviews, I’ll drop you off at the house to let you write up the stories. I’ll go to the hospital and spend the rest of the day there. Someone needs to be with Mason.”
Ten-thirty came and went. No Tyler, no Nick. When it got to eleven, Aida checked her watch like a student watching the clock. I wished we’d taken two cars so she could take off. She longed to be with Mason.
At eleven-thirty, Veronica asked if we’d be there all day.
Aida didn’t flinch. “If it comes to it.”
“They’re not coming.” Aida grabbed her keys. “Have another Diet. I’ll be back before you’re done.”
“Fantastic, more caffeine.”
She pulled her keys from her purse. “In the meantime, why not make chit chat with Veronica?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine waiting.”
She rolled her eyes. “Veronica, Connor has some questions about your leg.”
“Aida.”
“What kind of questions?”
Veronica hopped down from the counter. She almost looked happy to talk about it. Aida slipped out the door, and Veronica sat across from me. She took a long sip of Aida’s soda and folded her arms. “You want to know why I limp?”
My throat clamped.
She smiled, clearly proud to have made me uncomfortable. My surprise elevated her to a place of power, and she liked being in the driver’s seat. She turned in the chair slightly, stuck her leg into the walkway between the table and the counter, and pulled up the left pant leg of her jeans. As I’d guessed this morning, she wore a prosthetic leg, a dark brown, almost leathery plastic shaped, roughly, like a woman’s leg. It didn’t quite fit her right, and the straps irritated the skin above her knee. As prosthetics go, this one was far from state-of-the-art.
She knocked on it and spoke between hollow echoes. “Train don’t care much if you’re on the track or not. Keeps going and doesn’t ask questions.”
I swallowed hard, still too embarrassed and shocked at her candor to say much.
“It doesn’t embarrass me.” She said this as if I hadn’t noticed her unwavering confidence. “I’m going to tell my grandkids someday. I’ll tell them all about the day their grandma got her leg chopped off by a train.”
I spoke when surprise stepped out of the way of my voice. “I’m sure they’ll love it. Is there a moral to the story?” If I played my cards right, I might be able to spin her story. And if Aida delivered Tyler and Nick as I guessed she would, that’d give me three interviews today. If I could crank out each article and put them in a positive light, that might give me time to take a day off. I could use a day to sit with Nadine, put my feet up, and maybe sleep for something more than a couple of hours.
My practical side, however, reminded me these people might not qualify as “righteous,” a vague term I still had trouble grasping fully. What made one righteous? Who was the judge? Mason? God? If so, how did they define righteousness? It’s a question I’d asked since I heard Greg’s story, and one I feared I wouldn’t know, not until the end, not until it was too late.
Could I interview more than ten? Take out a sort of righteousness insurance policy. Was this a scavenger hunt? Just pick ten and hope? Or was this a race to collect as many examples as possible and then hope?
Veronica slurped the last of Aida’s Diet Coke and shouted to the kitchen
. “Carl! Get me another Diet.”
The cook laughed. “Last thing you need is another Diet, Veronica. What are you, six pounds?”
“Just shut up and do it.” She turned back to me, “You want to hear the story or not?”
I did.
Chapter 22
WHAT WE’RE LEFT WITH
It couldn’t be true, of course, but truth was never sufficient to prevent the spread of a rumor of such magnitude. At some point, it grew beyond rumor into the vast ambiguity between legend and myth. The runners kept the story alive, preached it like religion. Like all living, breathing things, the story grew, mutated, like a frog to a prince, a caterpillar to a butterfly, until the metamorphosis scarcely resembled the original.
A boy who could outrun trains.
He’d climb up on the tracks and run. No fear. Veronica liked to say that when he ran, his feet would lift off the ties and the rails, and he’d run in space like a cartoon character; legs spinning in shadowy circles, never touching the ground, but still running, leaning forward into the pressing wind, his face stretching like melted plastic. She saw it when she first heard the story, from her friend Tiffany when she was seven. Tiffany heard it from her father right before he drove off of Bojangles Bridge and left her paraplegic mother to support her alone.
Veronica knew the story was impossible, but she wanted to believe it, from the ripples of her red hair to the tips of her toes, snug in her track cleats. The summer she was seven, she made regular trips to the tracks outside her home in The Cluster. She’d stand fifteen feet away as the train punched past, invisible hands pushing her back, the overpowering rattling pressing her shoulders down. As she grew older, eight, nine, ten, she’d stand closer, twelve feet, ten feet, nine feet, four feet, then two.
In high school she worked up the nerve to step on the tracks. She wore the cleats Coach Sherman gave her on her first day of track. The sides cut into the top of her feet, just below the bones on her ankles. She’d have to work them in.
Something magical happened when she stepped over the rail and touched the tracks.
In her mind, something lifted her up. Her legs circled at her hips fast, then faster. The wind pressed her face back with firm hands. None of this actually happened, it couldn’t, but she felt it nonetheless, an otherworldly connection to the Train Racer.
The Bargain - One man stands between a destitute town and total destruction. Page 17