by Jay, Karla M
That’s when I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble.
How can I let Briar know what’s happening? I have no way to reach him. I don’t even know where he’s doing his time. My only solution may be to slip away at one of the train stops. I’d be a fugitive on the run, and if the missus really wants to get rid of me, she might not report my getaway. I have to watch her closely. Make sure we don’t take any side stops that don’t follow the train schedule she showed me.
From Marietta, we’re set to take the Southern Railway Lines to Chattanooga, Tennessee. There, we’ll change trains and head west to Memphis to catch the Missouri Pacific. That’s the tour train with a special car for Miss Ardith, Karl, and me. Miss Jojo will ride in the Colored car because someone named Jim Crow put that rule in writing. We’re going to tour round St. Louis, and that’s when Miss Jojo can go “missing.” We’re supposed to head out to Colorado and back, a three-week journey, but Miss Ardith won’t want to care for Karl all her own.
Don’t know what she plans to do after that.
And if what she’s been talking to herself about comes true, my journey also ends in about a day’s time in St. Louis.
Yes. I sure do need to watch my back.
Briar Stewart
Ilya and me mosey along the red clay road. The wind blows the churned-up smell of field grass and flowers and warm earth all around. This feels like one of those days where a feller needs to keep his blinders off and mind wide open.
We caught an empty coal car outside Cartersville. The floor was covered with newspapers, and heavy wires was slung halfway up like a hammock. We sat on the mesh, and I told Ilya my plan to check on my sis and then head west. He talked about Cy, about growing up under a dictator, the hardships his parents went through to get to America. I let him cry between stories, hoping he’s getting his sadness poured out. ’Course it’ll circle back. It’s not possible to love a brother and expect to ever heal the parts he touched inside you.
A brakeman saved our bacon. He climbed down in the coal car and warned us to get off before the next stop. He was a boomer, a halftime hobo, halftime railroad worker. Said the next town was hostile and we should skirt it. Was still dark when we jumped off.
We followed a hardpacked road, ditching it every time automobile lights showed. Which wasn’t too often.
The fog’s still lifting from the crick, and the early morning sun sends weak blades of sunlight skyward over the distant mountains. We grabbed some clothes for Ilya off a line next to a farmhouse. The stripes he’s wearing signaled work gang clothes. Didn’t need nobody noticing that.
We’ve been sticking to back country, the wild areas, almost unpeopled. But round a bend in a crick, we come upon a sad homestead.
“Howdy.” I raise my hand in greeting to a man and woman sitting on metal chairs outside a shack built on stilts. Two skinny dogs and a bushel of young’uns watch us with their heads pitched forward like we’re the circus come to town. Not that I’ve ever seen a circus, but it’s on my list of future want-to-dos. I’m ’bout to call out and ask how they’re all faring, but I let the unspoken words fizzle in my head. It don’t take much noticing to see the family’s been living on the unlucky side of the road for more than a spell. They’re scuffed up, like the dogs kept the folks living under the porch instead of the other way round.
We hotfoot it out of there.
Ilya’s turning out to be good company. He’s bold, like a feller counting his chickens even before he’s got hisself a coop.
I can’t figure where he’s picked up his never-quit attitude. Seems misery has always run ahead to meet him. He’s abided suffering, loss, and days of hate-filled words, but didn’t shy away when I told him my plan for him. Seemed glad to have someone in charge. Told him a couple times I might need to hire someone fulltime just to answer all his questions though. Just joshing him. He’s nosey in a good way, and that’s not a bad quality.
We slip under barbed wire fencing, then jump over a narrow crick before heading into a field of tall grasses and wildflowers. I stop to pull a spiny burr off my britches.
A hawk circles overhead, one eye cocked toward us. At the tree line, crows caw back and forth. Their sharp barks send my mind chasing that image of the funeral, when Taggert and me went to Cartersville. Everything went bad after that, but I shake away the cockeyed notion ’bout crows and bad luck. Mama always said if superstitions died out, there wouldn’t be anything for hill folk to talk about.
The sun’s warm on my face, and shadows chase each other ’cross the meadows as clouds pass. I step round a slew of gopher holes. Butterflies rise from the flowers in the high grasses.
We’re following a stream when I spot a tatty old shanty. The boards on the house are grayed, cracked. The owners must be too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash. A pen with two huge pigs is hooked to the backside of the house with a lean-to roof. Chickens peck the bald ground for bugs and seeds we can’t see. The whole place is droopy and sunken, like it was doomed since God created the world.
“We need to hurry round this joint.” I point to a scratching in a fence post. It’s a triangle with raised stick arms, as if showing being held up in a robbery. I lower my voice. “It means a man with a gun lives here, and he ain’t shy about using it.”
We duck down and run fast along the back of his land. My heart’s pounding to match my quick steps. Can’t get shot before our journey’s begun.
Once we’ve laid a safe distance between us and the property, we stop to catch our breath.
“How you know what zat sign means?” Ilya has his hands on his hips, drawing in the air.
“Learned what to look for when I rode the rails.” I scratch my head. “There’s over a hundred signs hobos use.”
“Zanks for coming back for me.” His chin’s quivering. “Vat would I do on my own?”
“It is hard to know who to trust,” I say with a smile. “Just ’cause a chicken has wings, don’t mean it can make it over the barn. My pa always says, ‘Live and learn or die and know it all.’ We’re still here learning, ain’t we?”
“That’s ze truth.”
Seems we’ve discovered a dead-end road. Nary a car or truck have come by. I’m as jumpy as ants on a fired-up griddle because we’re in a dangerous place as long as we stay in Georgia.
Yonder, a train clacks over a metal bridge.
“Bet that was ours,” I say.
“Da. And I don’t miss her.”
The birds are gossiping from bushes nearby, as we walk along all quietlike.
Then Ilya turns and squints into the distance behind us.
“Is zat motor vehicle?”
A speck boils up red dirt and seems to be heading our way. Man, the boy has the eyes of an eagle. “Sure enough.”
To hide or catch a ride? A shiver of worry runs through me. We could be poking at an ant hill with a short stick.
A feller driving an old blue farm truck pulls to a stop. He spits a stream of brown out the window and pushes a straw hat lower on his head.
“You fellers need a ride?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. A man with his truck full of produce don’t seem like a lawman. “We’d be right happy to get within walking distance of the Marietta Train Station, if’n you’re going thataway.”
The man’s face is red as a crawdad, with deep lines that look a lot like a fresh plowed field.
“You all traveling men?”
“Ve are,” Ilya says before I can hush him.
The driver squints at Ilya.
“Where are you from, boy?” His voice has changed from a sunny morning to a cloudy afternoon.
“Boston, sir,” Ilya says, full of confidence.
“He’s from South Boston.” I offer up a fishy eye roll. “Got him a weird accent, I know. Can’t hardly understand him myself.”
“Hop in the back.” He spits out the
window again and switches the chaw from one cheek to the other. “Sorry, but Alice don’t take too kindly to sharing the front.”
I move to get a closer look. His old coon dog is sprawled ’cross the seat. She barely raises her head to look my way, the loose flesh round her eyes sagging to Sunday.
“Back of the truck works fine, sir.” I nod.
“Settle in round the cabbage, and I’ll try to miss the bumps in the road. Not more than twelve miles from here to Marietta. I’m bound for a warehouse close to there.”
“Much obliged.”
We climb into the truck bed and move the cabbage heads around to create spots for our behinds. My mouth waters when I think of Mama’s cabbage and pork soup. Actually, any of her soups would do.
Red dust boils up behind the pickup truck and rolls over itself, soon dying out on the road. Ilya peeks through the glass to the feller in the cab and then leans closer to me.
“Should ve be vorried ’bout this guy?”
“Don’t think so.” I have the same distrustful cloud hanging over me and don’t like it. “Looks like a farmer toting his produce to market to me.”
We stop talking ’cause it’s too hard to hear with the air blowing over the roof. I settle in to watch the scenery whip by. How will Willow take the news that this is our goodbye, that I’m heading far away? It pains me that I won’t get a chance to stop by the homestead. I softened the hard protective seal I created so’s I wouldn’t feel hurt again, and I looked forward to a homecoming.
But I can’t change the direction of water once it’s headed over a cliff.
About fifteen minutes pass, and we see more motor vehicles on the road.
The truck slows going through a town.
Somewhere fresh bread is baking. The yeast scent mingles with fried meat. Once I find Willow and tell her my plan, we’ll get something to eat with my five dollars.
We’re on a main street, looks like. Striped awnings hang over the sidewalks, and folks are sitting round tiny tables or sweeping the cement path. Two boys race past us on bicycles, calling out to each other.
“It looks like a nice enough place.”
Just past the end of the business section, a large dirt patch opens up. Dozens of young’uns are running round, swinging like monkeys from bar to bar on ladders held up sideways high above their heads. All kinds of grab things are hanging from metal frames, like rings or other bars. A city version of what us kids spent hours doing in trees with branches or vines.
For what feels like another five minutes, the red-faced feller slowly drives down side streets before parking in front of a long red brick building with a few windows. 1902 is written above the words Cobb County Produce Warehouse.
The farmer reaches his hand out the window and taps on the roof. “This is my stop, boys.”
We hop down. The crazy dog barks as if we just showed up.
“Train station is four blocks west of here.” The man points beyond some nearby buildings.
“Thank you, sir.”
We pick up our bags and turn to go.
“Hold up.” He opens his door and hops down, bearing himself on one foot. He’s missing his left leg below the knee, his pant-leg swinging empty. After digging in his back pocket, he pulls out a beat-looking fold of leather that may have been a new billfold at the turn of the century. “You boys came off a train, which is about the only way onto that road you was walking. I ain’t judging. Was once a hobo myself. Had me twelve good years until I fell asleep one night and dropped under the wheels.” He hands two dollars to Ilya.
“You look near empty,” he goes on to say, rubbing his neck. “Grab you some food before you catch out again.”
The farmer hops away, heading for the warehouse.
A block on, we spy a corner café called The Grill House. I go in since I imagine Ilya’s accent will draw bad attention. He stays hidden behind a chimney on a brick building.
I come out carrying a small burlap poke. We head off near a stack of lumber to eat our vittles. In haste, we finish the roast beef and fried onion sandwiches and wash them down with Coca-Cola. My eyes water after the first swallow. The explosion of bubbles is a surprise, but it tastes mighty good.
If anyone knows where Willow’s staying, it would be the postmaster. Barely nine o’clock by a church chiming the time, so I know one’ll be open. I look around and spot a post office not far away.
“Ilya. Wait outside and don’t talk to nobody.”
I step inside the quaint building. The postmaster’s a balding, middle-sized man with sun-cooked face and arms.
“I’m a relative just in town,” I say. “Might you direct me to the Dobbses’ home?” Sure hope there ain’t more than one Dobbs in the city.
A map of Marietta’s on the wall, and the man uses the unimportant end of a pencil to trace a short route to their house.
Not that far. A few twists and turns from here.
“You kin to William or Ardith?” He chews a toothpick, moving it like a magic show from one side of his mouth to the other.
I’m taking a gamble this man knows Mr. Dobbs more than the missus. “Mrs. Dobbs is my mama’s cousin. Been a while,” I shrug. “Hope she ain’t forgot this scruffy face.”
I tap the counter to signal I’m done jawing. Got places to be.
We follow the route in my head, through streets full of swanky homes, a new automobile in each driveway. Willow got a nice placement, and that eases my mind.
“What ve gonna do here?”
Gotta be careful with my excitement to see Willow again. After all, Ilya just lost his last kin and is raw as a just-scraped hide. And I need to see her secret-like. I’m pretty sure the sheriff let the Dobbses know her brother is on the run.
“I want to say goodbye to my sister.” We turn down the street the postman said is the one. “Let’s stop here for a minute.”
We huddle up next to a large tree trunk, and I study the house across the street. It’s got a deep front porch with fancy white posts. Trees edge both sides of the tall house. A small building is attached to the right. Looks less fancy and like someone had an afterthought putting it there. But these folks sure living high on a prize hog.
Nary a soul is outside, so we cross the street and head to the tiny add-on. If’n this ain’t the nanny’s quarters, I’ll figure something else out.
From inside the little room, I hear a child crying. I move closer and peek in one of the windows. Willow’s there giving comfort to a boy on her lap, rocking him back and forth. Another gal is breastfeeding a tiny baby.
I tap on the window. Willow lifts her eyes from the boy. Her eyes widen, then her lips stretch into a big ol’ smile.
I motion her outside and tuck myself behind the tree toward the back.
Willow arrives in a flurry of hand motions, asking me what I’m doing here.
“It’s a long tale, and ain’t got much time,” I say. “I got away from that work gang with this other feller, but we’re wanted men now. Come to see if you’re doing all right before I head to Colorado or Utah or somewhere out west.”
She looks good, wearing a colorful dress and new shoes. But in two months, she’ll leave fancy behind and travel back to Stewart Mountain. Maybe one day, I can safely come home too…at least for a visit.
Her eyes go wide, and she shakes her head no. She’s up close signing and spelling words in the air. Downright flustered.
“Whoa! Slow down, sis. I’m out of practice.”
She looks back over her shoulder like she’s expecting a haint, then she starts over. Willow signs, “Milk the herd without me.” Our family warning there’s grave danger about.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “And tell me a mite slower this time.”
She signs that Miss Ardith is evil and has killed in her past. Willow found out. The woman is taking her on a train tour to St. Louis a
nd then west, but she heard her say Willow isn’t coming back.
This adds so many problems I can’t stir them with a stick. If’n I can grab her now and run, she’s likely to get killed jumping a train. And she can’t be traveling with hobos and good-for-nothing thieves.
“When are you leaving?” My eyes are cutting from side to side, hoping no one comes out of the house. Never corner something you suspect is meaner than you. I don’t know the man of this here dwelling, but I want to be ready.
She tells me they’re leaving in one hour from the Marietta station.
“Who’s going?” Mr. Dobbs might be a problem if he’s a bigger feller than me.
I learn it’s the three womenfolk and the babe.
She’s truly afraid. Her chin quivers, something I ain’t never seen in my sister. We once stared down a mama bear, and Willow didn’t even flinch, but my legs went to wiggling worms while I waved a bush round.
A whole mess of notions shoot through my mind like stars across the sky.
She’s heading the same way we’re intending. Colorado, west. If’n Ilya and I catch the same trains, I can check on her all the way. And somewhere out there, maybe she can disappear along with us.
“Do you know your train stops?”
She holds up a finger and takes off round the corner to her room.
“How old your sister?”
Almost forgot Ilya’s standing behind me.
“Fifteen, I reckon.” I notice the look on his face. “Naw! You best not be thinking what I reckon you may be.”
“Ve are same age.” He smiles for the first time since I pulled him from the pines.
We have no time for this.
Willow’s back and hands me a travel handout. Inside are train timetables and towns with pictures of what they’ll see.
“Willow. Trust me on this.” I pull her into a hug. “I’ll be on these trains and won’t let anything happen to you.”
She wipes away a tear and tries to stretch her lips into a smile again.
I can’t let her get hurt. Or worse. I carry heaps of guilt for Luther Junior’s death. I remember how Willow fell to pieces when the mine owners and I came back to the mountain with Luther Junior’s coffin. Her face wet with tears, her mouth open in a twisty mask of sorrow. There’s no spinning the Earth backwards. No turning back time.