by Anne Bustard
I open the front door real quiet. Mrs. Crowley’s voice rings out from the parlor. I stack my schoolbooks and lunch box on the table next to the lilies and tiptoe closer. I press my head next to the wall to listen.
“… are so very happy for you and your new relationship with Randall.”
I clamp my hands over my mouth.
“When it’s appropriate, Mr. Crowley and I would like to host a party in your honor. You will make a beautiful bride.”
“Mrs. Crowley! You are making a grand assumption.”
“Give it some thought, my dear.”
I back up and ease through the front door.
Wham.
I slam it shut and run.
Run past Ben coming up our walk. Run as fast as I can down my street.
Mama? Remarried?
No.
Never.
twenty-nine
BEEP! BEEEEEP!
A car jerks to a stop as I fly across the intersection at Azalea Avenue. “Watch where you’re going,” hollers Mr. Wallingham.
I signal my thanks for his not smushing me and speed ahead to I don’t know where. I just keep running.
Mr. Wallingham didn’t go to the war because he has bad eyesight. If my daddy had poor eyes, none of this silliness with Mama would be happening. Daddy would have been here all along. How can Mama marry someone else? How can she do this to me? How can she do this to Daddy?
I look both ways and dash across the street. Ruby Jane and Delilah walk out of the library just as I jump onto the sidewalk. They each hold books in their arms. Homer walks between them with a plastic sword attached to his belt and his ever-present railroad cap on his head.
“Everything okay?” Ruby Jane asks as I fly by. “Wanna get a float with us?”
I don’t have time to answer.
I have to go somewhere to think. Someplace where no one will bother me. Or find me for a while, if they come looking. In the distance, the flag on top of the Gladiola train station waves. An empty bench at the station is the perfect place to think. I run faster, gulping in the chilly air.
The sky turns darker and darker as black clouds swoop in. It’s just after four o’clock, but it looks like eight o’clock at night. Cars turn on their headlights. I reach the corner of State and Main in no time, dart down the steps, cross the intersection, and run back up onto the sidewalk on the other side. Folks peer out the window of the pharmacy and point upward.
Ping, ping, ping.
Tiny hailstones fall, like rice on a tin roof. I throw my arms over my head. The prickles don’t stop. Shoppers scramble inside buildings as I run through bouncing pellets.
Bam, bam, bam, bam. The hail comes big, hard, and fast.
“Get inside,” calls Mr. Wyatt from the Gladiola Gazette.
No, I can’t stop. I can’t stop running. Running to the tracks.
Four blasts of a train whistle sound. A train is approaching. Just ahead its engine noses into the station. The northbound 4:01 is late.
I stop cold.
It’s a sign.
By tomorrow morning a connection on the westbound Texas Eagle will roll into Fort Worth, the drop-off point for the Texas Merci boxcar. Why should I sit on a bench and stew, when I can catch a train and meet my daddy? I’ll bring him home. And that will stop Mama’s foolishness once and for all.
Bam, bam, bam.
Cars pull over, and their occupants cover their ears to block out the noise. It sounds like garbage can lids banging together.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
The hail beats down on my head. Beats my arms and shoulders, even through my coat. My heart booms as loud as the hail. The street and sidewalk turn white.
I take off again.
My destination is half a block and a hail-covered picnic area away. If I hurry, I can catch that train.
Running on hail is like running on marbles, and I have to slow. I tiptoe-hop my way across the slippery sidewalk.
Bam. Bam. Bam. CRACK.
My feet go out from under me, and I land hard on the cold, bumpy concrete. Pain shoots up my spine and into my head. A line zigzags across the front window of a car next to the curb, from one side to the other.
I take an extra-deep breath and wiggle my toes and fingers like Ruby Jane learned in first aid. I am still in one piece.
Ping, ping, ping.
The storm wanes.
I scramble up and keep going.
thirty
THE WORD “stowaway” was invented for people like me.
There are advantages to being the granddaughter of a railroad man. I’ve heard stories of all the different places folks have hidden when they didn’t purchase a ticket. It’s time to put this knowledge to use. No purse. No cash. No problem.
“Last call for Texas Eagle Twenty-Two,” Mr. Samuels, the train master, calls as I peek from behind the bench at the station. “All aboard.”
He takes out his pocket watch, strides a ways down the platform, pivots, and heads in the other direction. Steam billows like clouds beneath the wheels and then disappears as it rises. Most of the windows in the gleaming blue-and-silver passenger cars are closed. A woman and young boy stand on the platform beside one lowered halfway. The woman holds the hand of a man on board.
All’s clear. I spring from my hiding place behind the bench and hope I won’t slip on the hail.
Someone calls my name.
I know that voice. I keep going. “What are you doing here?” Ben asks, sliding to meet me halfway across the wooden platform.
“Leaving,” I say, and move closer to the train. “It’s too crowded around here right now.”
“Where you headed?”
“Fort Worth,” I whisper before I can stop myself, and step backward toward the train car.
“Me too,” he whispers back.
I look at him hard. “Have you been planning this trip for a while? ’Cause I haven’t heard you talk about it.”
“It was a last-minute decision,” he says, and puts his hands in his coat pockets. “You?”
I don’t believe him for a second. He was on his way into my house when I last saw him. I scrunch my eyebrows together and try to read his mind. “You don’t need to come with me.”
I turn and dash up the steps between two passenger cars.
“Roger that,” says Ben, and follows. “It’s my choice.”
Two long blasts scream across the station, and the train jerks forward. As far as I can tell, we are in the middle of the train. We stand on the top step, clutch the hand railings, and hold on.
I am on my way! And apparently, so is Ben.
Daddy always said there is nothing better than a surprise. This will be the best one ever.
The train station disappears as we trundle around a bend and pick up speed. The ground, thick with ice crystals, sparkles in the now bright sun and makes the world seem less cold.
That cold, like downing a Dr Pepper float at the soda fountain too fast, has given me a brain freeze.
“You don’t happen to have any extra money on you, do you?” I ask him.
Ben turns his pockets inside out and shrugs. Last minute, indeed.
“Ben Truman, are you following me? Because I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Affirmative. I think you need a friend.”
“Oh. Well, friend, just don’t get caught.”
I crouch next to the door of the passenger car that faces north and, in slow motion, lift my head and peep in the window. No one looks back. Row after row, folks sit facing back and front. Ladies wear their Sunday best with matching hats, and the men in suits and hats too. Not a seat is empty. I rub the arms of my coat. Everyone inside looks toasty and warm.
One man reads a newspaper, and a lady wearing a peacock-blue hat plays cards with a child in a red cap. The man leaning his head against a window is probably asleep. Everyone else is staring out the windows at the blanket of hail that stretches farther than far.
The forward door of the train car flies open, and the con
ductor, in his black uniform and hat, strolls in, ready to collect from the folks who’ve just boarded. In moments, he’ll move on to the next car.
It is time for hide-and-seek. Only, I have no intention of being found.
I push open the door to the car behind us. Ben follows. Folks glance up from their food and conversations, and I nod. This is the lounge car—half–private dining, half-sleeping. Pretend you belong here, I tell myself. I march down the center aisle, sure-footed so as not to end up in someone’s lap. The train rocks ever so slightly as I pass men and women seated in comfy blue chairs, enjoying beverages and snacks. Later, they will retreat to their private compartments to rest. People pay big money to sleep lying down.
At the bar, the aisle takes a jog to the left. I make a beeline toward the shower at the end of the car—a perfect place to hide. The train picks up speed. I bump against compartment door C, right myself, and keep going. Just before I reach the end of the car and the shower in the bathroom, nature calls.
I scoot in and lock the door behind me.
When I am done, I lean my ear against the door. No footsteps. No voices. I swing open the door. Clunk.
“Ouch!”
“I’m sor—” I say as I poke my head around the door.
Ben stands in the aisle as an older woman speeds toward us down the narrow space behind him, signaling her need for the facility. I step out and stand next to the windows.
Ben stretches his arms across the aisle to hold steady.
Over his shoulder, the conductor is only footsteps away.
There’s nowhere else to hide.
I fling open the door of the sleeper compartment beside me and scramble in. I put my finger to my lips and pray the lady with curlers poking out of her nightcap won’t say a word. She must be napping before supper. The woman scrunches herself against the corner of her bed, grabs her blanket to her chin, and screams. The man on the top bunk stirs. “Get out. Out!” he hollers.
The door whips open and the conductor grabs me by the arm. “Come with me, young lady. Now.”
Ben and I are thrown off the train at the next station.
If only I hadn’t run into him. Now I’ll never make it to Fort Worth. Daddy will have to travel down here by himself.
The train was a sign. A sign of failure.
thirty-one
MR. HUCKLEBERRY, the stationmaster, puts down the phone in his office. “The granddaughter of William Bennett? Of all people, you should know better than to pull a shenanigan like this.”
Ben and I sit in comfy chairs beside a potbellied stove, with blankets around our shoulders and cups of hot cocoa in our hands. The room is toasty except for the occasional sharp blast of cold air when someone opens the door. Which so far has happened three times.
I told Mr. Huckleberry right off that I was sorry, though I didn’t mean it, and that I’d pay the railroad back for the ticket.
“They’re sending someone to pick up the two of you,” he says, rising from his chair. He opens the door. “Your grandpa said to stay put,” he adds, and walks out.
“What’ll happen when you get home?” asks Ben.
“I’ll be grounded for the rest of my life. You?”
“Probably sore for a week.”
“You shouldn’t have followed me.”
“I wasn’t about to bail out on you.” Ben’s voice is serious yet his eyes twinkle. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” No. People think my mama may be getting married again. And not to my daddy. My Wall of Fame is still empty. Other than that, I’m hunky-dory.
“Good. I mean, I’m sure everyone that saw you running to the train was worried.” He takes a sip of cocoa. “What’s in Fort Worth?”
“The drop-off point of the Merci boxcar. I thought it would be swell to meet it.”
“You know it’s not coming until next week, right?”
“I believe in being early. Besides, I was planning to stay with my aunt in Dallas.” Which actually would have been a great idea. It’s close to Fort Worth.
It’s time to stop his inquisition. “Ever been to the budding metropolis of Tula before?” I elbow Ben. Tula is smaller than Gladiola.
“Negative,” he says, putting down his cup.
“Let’s have a look around,” I say, and grab a piece of paper and a pencil:
Dear Mr. Huckleberry,
We want to explore the station. Be back soon.
Your new pals,
Glory Bea and Ben
Ben opens the door and walks out into the sunshine. The ground is still white with ice crystals. It is beautiful.
“Quick,” he says, picking up a handful of hail at the end of the platform.
I back against the building. “Don’t you dare.”
Ben laughs. “No, I was going to say that we should build a hailman before it all melts.”
The streets have started to thaw, so if we put together Mr. Hail in the shade, he just might last a few hours or more.
“Let’s,” I say.
So next to the building, Ben and I make the first bona fide hailman the Tula train station has probably ever seen. Ben gives the hailman his hat.
I squat, put my arm around our icy figure, and smile as Ben snaps his imaginary camera. I’m not cold anymore. “Wait, this is Tula, Texas!” I shout.
“Affirmative. Doubt it’s changed since you said that minutes ago.”
“There’s someone here I need to see.” And I take off toward the stationmaster’s office. Surely he knows everyone in town.
“Who?” calls Ben, catching up.
“Mr. Lloyd Huffman.”
“Because…”
“Because,” I say as my hand clamps around the office door handle, “I read about him in the newspaper.”
He is the miracle man.
thirty-two
OF COURSE Mr. Huckleberry knows everyone in Tula. And demands we return in thirty minutes. So here we are, standing in front of Mr. Lloyd Huffman’s property. The blinds on every window of the tiny wood frame house are drawn, although light shines around their edges. Smoke curls up from the chimney. A cedar fire, no doubt, from the sweet, woody smell. Someone is home.
“You going to stand out here in the cold or knock on their door?” asks Ben.
What am I waiting for?
A girl about my age wearing braids down to her waist answers the door and lets us in. A family of three sits around a square card table eating supper. The house smells like chicken and dumplings.
“Well, hello, strangers,” says the mother, waving her napkin. “Mr. Huckleberry called to say we could expect you.”
The mother, in cat-eye glasses, sits across from a teenage boy in a long-sleeved plaid shirt. Steam drifts up from three bowls on the table.
Ben and I move closer. “Hello to you too. I’m Glory Bea Bennett from Gladiola, and this is my friend Ben Truman.
“I was hoping to talk to Mr. Lloyd Huffman, ma’am,” I say as I stand beside the table. My voice has raised an octave and I clear my throat. “I read about his amnesia in the Gladiola Gazette and wanted to ask him some questions.”
“You just missed him,” says the girl. She plops back into her chair. “He took the train to New York yesterday. You’re not going to believe it. They want him to be on a TV show, and a bunch of important doctors want to study his brain.”
I examine the multicolored braided rug under my feet.
“A day late and a dollar short,” says Ben.
That is no joke.
“Don’t worry,” says the girl. She smiles. “This time Daddy will be back in just a few weeks. Pleeeeease come for another visit. Daddy likes to tell his story.”
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s a very kind offer.” I don’t know if I can take her up on it. No telling how long I’ll be grounded for today’s escapades, and by then the boxcar will have come and gone.
My stomach gurgles and I put my hand over my tummy. I mumble, “Sorry.” Except for the hot cocoa at the station, I haven’t eaten any
thing since a skimpy PB&J at lunch.
“Dear me, I’ve forgotten my manners,” says Mrs. Huffman, getting up. “Why, as you’re from Gladiola, we’re practically neighbors. Please join us for dinner, won’t you?”
“Thank you,” I say, “but we can’t.”
“Why not?” asks Ben, eyeing the tasty meal.
I motion toward the wall clock. We used up half our time traipsing over here.
“I’m sure you know Miss Connie Partridge,” said Mrs. Huffman, moving toward the kitchen.
“Everyone in Gladiola talks to her,” I say. “She’s the switchboard operator.”
“I knew we had a connection,” says Mrs. Huffman. “Connie and I go back to our high school days in Wichita Falls. Mercy, I haven’t seen her in a month of Sundays.”
Mrs. Huffman looks to her children. “Clayton and Meredith, make room at the table.”
“Thank you kindly,” I say. “Really”—I pull on the sleeve of Ben’s jacket—“we’ve got to go.” Even though I have oodles of questions like: What took him so long? Did he look the same? Did he remember everything about his life from before he left? I say, “Our ride is probably waiting for us right now.”
“I understand,” says Mrs. Huffman.
“Before we run off,” I say, folding my hands together, “I’d like to know… when Mr. Huffman came back, did he… did he remember all of you?”
The family exchanges glances.
“Everyone except me,” says Meredith.
I take in a sharp breath.
“I was a surprise,” she says, and lifts her arms into the air. “Mama didn’t know she was pregnant when he left.”
I blow out a long breath. “Thank you, thank you so much for your hospitality.”
“I’m sorry we can’t stay,” says Ben. He glares at me. “Real sorry.”
“We hope to see you again,” I say.
“We’d like nothing better,” says Mrs. Huffman. “Give our best to Connie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
We turn to the door, and most of all I wonder, did the Huffmans ever give up hope?