The Silent Gift

by Michael Jr. Landon

  Jack’s skin had become browned by the summer sun; his hair had grown longer, and shaggy bangs fell across his eyes when he dipped his head. He was an ideal traveling companion—he didn’t talk, didn’t make demands, didn’t make trouble, never had an opinion on where they should go next. Felix found he actually enjoyed the boy’s company—and liked that he was never alone. He’d been with Jack long enough now to recognize when the boy slipped into his own world—he would stare into space for minutes or sometimes hours. There were times when Felix envied Jack that escape—envied the fact that he could actually disappear into his own head. Felix had found a freedom in a hobo’s life, but sometimes he thought Jack’s world was even freer.

  It was early one morning when Felix and Jack hopped off a freighter just before it pulled into the yards at Lincoln, Nebraska. They picked their way along the outskirts of town, paralleling the tracks at a distance and following signs Felix had learned to read, markings that were a code unique to the hobo community. The signs could turn up anywhere—fences, posts, sidewalks, trestles, railroadline side equipment. These coded signals could warn fellow knights of the road of possible trouble, law enforcement, helpful homes that would gladly provide a meal—and even if there was a mean dog in the yard.

  Felix’s stomach growled, and he heard Jack’s doing the same thing. It had been a long time since their last meal. “I s’pose we could break down and use some of our cash for lunch,” he said aloud, “but I’m hoping that money lasts us until fall, and we can hire ourselves on with a harvesting outfit.” He’d grown used to these one-sided conversations. In their first days together, Felix had felt somewhat foolish carrying on a dialogue with someone who couldn’t hear him, but gradually he’d learned to relax and say whatever was on his mind.

  Jack was watching a pair of crows performing showy maneuvers and racing each other down to the ground to fight over the carcass of a rabbit.

  “That’s one way to get lunch,” Felix observed. He spotted a large circle with a line drawn through the center painted on the corner of a road sign. He raised an eyebrow.

  “Sign says we’re on a good road,” he said with some satisfaction and a pat on Jack’s shoulder. “Maybe there’s something to eat up ahead.”

  It was only a short thirty minutes later that Felix saw another hobo message. Tacked to a tree on the edge of a yard enclosed with a half-painted white picket fence, a stick figure cat was drawn next to four long straight lines. A kindhearted lady who feeds for chores. Felix led Jack to the back door and didn’t hesitate to knock.

  The lady was seventy-five if she was a day, but spry of spirit and generous of heart. She paced off a portion of her picket fence. “If the two of you can find the energy to do ten slats each, I can find the energy to make up a couple of fried eggs sandwiches and some cherry pie,” she said in a voice that sounded years younger than her face looked.

  “Just ten apiece you say?” Felix asked as she handed him a wide brush and a bucket of white paint. “We could do more.”

  She shook her head with a knowing smile. “I get four or five of you every week at my door. Most leave feeling full in the belly and a little happier with themselves if they lend a hand for the food they get. I’m about out of things to keep folks busy until fall, when I can get help raking the leaves.”

  Felix studied the old woman—name of Luanne Purvis, she’d told them. “Don’t you ever worry about opening your door to strangers, ma’am?”

  “I never was much of a worrier.” She swatted at a mosquito looking to grow fatter on the nape of her neck. “I give it all to the Lord and let Him sort it out for me.” She looked at Jack. “Do you want cheese on your egg sandwich?” Jack looked at her while he brushed at his own mosquito.

  “He can’t hear a word you’re saying,” Felix explained. “So he never utters a word in reply.”

  Luanne nodded her acceptance of the facts about Jack. “All boys like cheese,” she concluded and turned back toward her house. Felix felt grateful there were people like Luanne Purvis in the world.

  “Headed someplace in particular—or just putting distance between this place and another?” The man’s face was etched with wrinkles, and Felix had to squint to make out the lines radiating from his eyes that said he was friendly.

  “Just looking for a place to stop for the night,” Felix said as he put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. The gesture had come to be second nature when he felt protective of the boy. The man had come out of nowhere and fallen into step beside them. The brown pack on his back left little doubt that he was a fellow traveler.

  “We’re of like minds, then,” the man said. “I’m headed to the jungle on the far side of Lincoln.”

  Felix raised his brows. “A good stopover?”

  “It was last year when I was through here,” he said. “I’m Ray Dawson.”

  “I’m Felix and this here is Jack,” Felix told him. “I’ll tell you right off that Jack’s a deaf-mute, so there’s no point in asking him anything.”

  Felix could see he’d piqued Ray’s interest when the man’s eyes cut to Jack and stayed there. “No point in staring at him either.” Felix pulled the boy a little closer. “It’s not like he’s got two heads or anything.”

  “No,” Ray said without apology. “But I imagine he’s got a pretty unique perspective.”

  “I guess that’s probably true, but it doesn’t do any good to speculate. He can’t say what his perspective is.”

  “We can imagine, can’t we? Imagine what it’s like for him?” Ray took another look at Jack.

  “What for?”

  Ray grinned. “Because I’m a writer and that’s what writers do. They imagine. They look for perspective. They try and see the world through the eyes of someone else, then paint a picture with words. I’ve met lots and lots of people riding the rails—but I have to admit, Jack’s a first for me.”

  “What do you write?”

  “Mostly poetry,” Ray said. “Someday you go and visit the New York Public Library and look up the name Ray Dawson in their card catalog. I’ll have a book or two there—that’s a promise.”

  It was already dark when they arrived at a clearing close enough to hear the distant whistle of the train. Felix took in the scene as they approached and knew he’d found a Mecca for road-weary bums. Hoboes of every age filled the large camp that had grown up along the banks of a running creek. A campfire blazed in the center, and a large kettle was suspended from an iron rod. A wizened old woman stood over it stirring so hard the liquid was spilling over the sides. The sparks from the fire shot high into the night sky. Bedrolls littered the ground, and there were even some mattresses underneath the canopy of mature trees, now dark shadows against the sky. Tired, dirty, ragged, and whiskered, people sat on crates and boxes, close enough to the fire to keep the mosquitoes at bay but far enough away not to feel the heat.

  “I smell mulligan stew.” Ray Dawson lifted the pack from his back and dropped it near an unoccupied box. He fished around in his bundle and finally withdrew an ear of corn and a potato.

  Felix sniffed appreciatively and pushed down on Jack’s shoulder so the boy would take a seat on a crate. “I’ve got a few pieces of Swiss chard and a strip of jerky,” Felix said, opening his worn satchel. He took his offerings and followed Ray Dawson to the kettle. They both tossed in their contributions to the broth, whose ingredients were as varied as the people surrounding the flames.

  There was the inevitable talk about bad experiences with the bulls—hobo talk for railroad guards patrolling the train yards. Their assignment was to keep the boxcars clear of those looking for a free ride, people like them. Felix had listened to stories of bulls with guns, with bats and clubs and fingers just itching to find a hobo they could shake down. Any money they found never made it into the hands of the railroad owners. No matter what Felix heard about the big, bad, mean bulls, he always silently concluded, Don’t get caught.

  Later, eating the stew from their own tins, Felix and Jack sat in a circle
of people swapping stories of the road.

  A young woman in overalls, seated on the ground in front of a young man on a crate behind her, put her hand on his knee and smiled shyly. “Me and Billy got hitched last week on the Union Pacific some-wheres crossing Kansas. The preacher what tied the knot was ridin’ the blinds with nothin’ but his Bible and an extra pair a’ shoes.”

  A man and woman across the campfire were surrounded by five children. The youngest stretched across both their laps, sleeping as if she were on the best mattress in the finest hotel. “We been south croppin’ cotton off the Frisco line,” the man told the group. “Pay is fifty cents ever’ hundred pounds, but not one a’ us can pick another lick till we get the cotton burrs outta our fingers. I’m figuring we’ll head to the Pacific and give berries a try.”

  Felix took another bite of stew but stopped chewing when the man next to him said, “I made it all the way through the big war without a scratch, but a run-in with a bull took my arm.” Felix looked at the man’s empty sleeve pinned at the shoulder. “Meanest son of a gun ya ever saw.”

  Talk gradually turned to the next stop on the adventure highway, and Felix decided he and Jack would throw in with the group planning to hop a freighter headed out of state before dawn. His fellow road knights assured him there were no bulls in the yards only a stone’s throw away, that it was one of the easiest places in the country to climb into an empty boxcar. They’d stay up all night and then sleep to the click of the rails all the way to Chicago.

  Ray Dawson suddenly pulled a harmonica from his pocket and pointed it at the newlyweds seated across from him. “This one’s for you,” he said. “May you have many years of happiness together.”

  He started to play a melody that soon had everyone tapping their toes.

  Music’s universal, Felix thought. Everyone enjoys a good tune. He looked at Jack, whose eyes were heavy lidded. Almost everyone, that is. He put his arm around the boy as he brought a mason jar to his own lips for a swig of white lightning someone was passing around the circle. He felt the slow burn in his throat as the liquid traveled down and settled with a wallop in the pit of his belly. He tapped his foot to the music and felt Jack’s head settle against his arm. He passed the jar on, and before he knew it, a cup of bay rum had found its way into his hand. Between the liquor, the music, and the company, Felix couldn’t think of a better way to pass a summer night.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Barrington, Illinois

  HE WAS HAVING A TERRIBLY NOISY DREAM that made the pounding in his head more excruciating by the second. Felix worked to open his eyes, but he wished he could drop back into the slumber that had claimed him only minutes after he and Jack had staked out their spot in the spacious Burlington Railroad boxcar. He vaguely remembered the admonition from Ray Dawson that they needed to jump off the car before they hit the Western Avenue yard—but that was all. He couldn’t even dredge up the memory of the train leaving Lincoln behind. I’m done with moonshine and bay rum—

  “On your feet, freeloaders!” Not a dream—a nightmare . . .

  Felix struggled to his feet and felt Jack pressing against him. The huge man stood just in front of him and slapped a sawed-off bat across his palm with a strength that made Felix’s knees weak. The bull wore a blue shirt with CB&Q Railroad stitched across the pocket. Felix took a quick inventory of his fellow passengers and recognized only two faces from the night before. Ray Dawson was nowhere to be found. He’s missing another perspective, Felix thought illogically. One of the men in the car with Felix made a break for the open door, but a gunshot stopped him from jumping. Another bull appeared in the doorway with a grin. “What’cha got to pay your fare?”

  “Everything I got is in this here knapsack. Take it all,” the man pleaded as he held up his worn-out sack. The bull in the boxcar with him grabbed his small knapsack and dumped out the contents. He scooped up a pack of cigarettes and a pocket watch.

  “This all you got, you sorry—?” The bull spit as he took a swing, hitting the man on his left kneecap. The man cried out in pain and stumbled to the back of the car.

  “Please, no . . . don’t hit me!”

  The bull grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and Felix winced with the sound of the man’s leather shoes squeaking across the metal floor. The bull tossed the man out of the car like a rag doll. Felix looked around for his own satchel and spotted it at Jack’s feet.

  The bull smiled. “Next.”

  “I don’t have anything worth anything,” Felix said.

  “You better hope you do.” The bull jerked open the satchel and turned out the meager belongings that Felix carted from one place to another.

  “Don’t hurt the boy. He just goes where I tell him to,” Felix said as the clothes hit the ground along with a brown leather softball that rolled across the car toward the door. The guard outside the car caught it and tossed it back to the bull near Felix. “Game of catch?”

  “The ball’s worth nothing, but I can clean and scrub boxcars if you want,” Felix suggested.

  The bull held the worn ball in the palm of his hand and studied it. “Worth nothing, huh? You sure about that?”

  Felix took a tentative step toward the bull and held out his hand. “You don’t want that.”

  The bull tugged at the stitching, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Oh, I think I do.” He pulled hard at the opening he’d made, and Felix felt his heart sink.

  “You get a prize for the best stash hiding I’ve seen so far.” The bull shook the ball, and coins clattered and paper bills spilled out onto the hard deck of the boxcar. The other guard clambered up and inside.

  “Whoa, now—ain’t this just your lucky day!” The two bulls gathered up the money, forgetting all about Felix and Jack. Felix looked down at the boy and could see him furiously tapping the fingers of his right hand against the palm of his left. I’m scared too, kid. . . . Felix didn’t even bother to collect his satchel. He grabbed Jack’s arm and they leapt out of the boxcar.

  The Western Avenue railroad yard was bustling with activity as Felix and Jack started away from the tracks.

  “Hey, ’bo! Catch!”

  Felix looked back over his shoulder at the bull standing in the open doorway of the boxcar. He threw the softball, but instead of arcing into the air toward Felix, the empty shell dropped lifelessly to the ground. Felix stared at the torn-up ball. Guess no place is safe.

  As they walked away from the train yards, Felix remembered the dollar bill he had stashed in his sock. At least they could pay for a meal if they couldn’t work for one.

  “No more white lightning for me, Jack,” Felix said as he massaged his left temple. “And I think we’ll walk for a while,” he mused aloud. “I’m in no hurry to hop another freighter—are you?”

  He looked down at the boy, but Jack had stopped walking and was standing near a telephone pole looking at a colorful flyer nailed to the wood. Curious, Felix backtracked, more taken with the look on the boy’s face than the advertisement. Jack was grinning from ear to ear at a clown with his own exaggerated smile plastered in the middle of the page. It was the Bixby Brothers’ circus—“Come one! Come all! Fifteen cents to get in the big top!”

  Felix cut his glance between Jack and the picture of the clown— and then smiled to himself. “C’mon, Lucky Jack—we’re going to a circus.”

  Felix sensed that the Bixby Brothers’ Spectacular Show under the ninety-foot big top was about to end. He saw performers slipping through a back flap in the tent, horses being led right out the main door, clowns gathering up their props even as the aerialists—the Flying DeBeniditos—performed high above the ground in their red sequined outfits. The crowd gathered below them gasped and clapped with each flip of their flawless routine. Seated in the nosebleed section of the bleachers beside Jack, Felix glanced over a sea of straw boater hats, white hankies moving air around flushed faces, bobbing balloons and stiff pennants on sticks popping up and down enthusiastically. He could smell cotton candy
and roasted peanuts, hot dogs and fried onions, animal sweat and sawdust.

  Having never been to a circus before, Felix was watching the show with unabashed pleasure. They’d seen Boris the Lion Tamer put his lions through their paces, monkeys and zebras, an elephant and jugglers. Tatiana, a beautiful woman in a flowing blue gown, rode bareback on a snow-white horse, and the ringmaster had introduced the crowd to Three-Pete, a man with three arms who could wave in all directions at the same time—and the audience had applauded like crazy. They love that he’s different. Celebrating that he’s odd! Felix had a fine time, and he could tell Jack had enjoyed it too by his reaction to the clowns—his widemouthed smile and bright eyes.

  He gave a tug on Jack’s arm and gestured for the boy to follow him as he slipped off the back of the bleachers and began to climb down. Jack had no trouble following his lead, and they landed on their feet just as the calliope heaved one last sweet high-pitched note signaling the end of the Flying DeBeniditos act. He grabbed Jack’s hand and pulled the boy with him toward the back flap of the tent he’d noticed from his high vantage point.

  They stepped through the flap of the tent into the choreographed chaos behind the scenes, past a sign that warned: Off Limits to the Public. Though the music had just ended inside the big top, Felix could see preparations were already being made to move on. Animals were being fed and watered, clowns were in a state of half dress, with suspenders hanging off their shoulders, hats askew, as they collected whatever props they’d used in the big show.

  A couple of men in dungarees and white T-shirts hurried past Felix and Jack, shooting them a curious look but heading toward a roll of canvas on the ground. Six other men were doubled over at the waist, trying to roll the material like a long, fat sausage.

  “I got no time for this!” a raspy voice bellowed twenty feet to Felix’s right. He turned and watched a portly middle-aged man wearing an old derby hat and a moth-eaten blue sweater poke his finger repeatedly into the chest of a much younger and obviously inebriated man. With every poke in his chest, the man leaned back, then came forward again like a dummy with sandbag feet.