Runaway Train

by S. W. Capps

  “Ya’ll own yer own business?” She was clearly impressed, Stacy shrugging. “We can give ya name, major, degrees, dates a’ attendance, and awards.” She rattled off the list as if she did so in her sleep, her eyes never straying from Stacy’s. “Just fill out the form and I’ll pull the information for ya.”

  “Thanks…uh…” He looked for a nametag.

  “Shari,” she gushed. “Shari Browning.”

  “Thanks, Shari.” He filled out the card and handed it over, the woman fanning herself as she walked away. Stacy wiped more sweat. He was nervous, but the hard part was over. He was sure she’d give him what he wanted. If he’d learned one thing in his twelve months on the job, it was how to identify a willing subject.

  He walked to the cooler and poured himself some water, downing it in a gulp. As the air-conditioner blew, burnt orange streamers danced like flames. He couldn’t help thinking he was just one clue away from nailing Toole. And though he had no idea what today’s search would yield, he was sure he’d find something.

  “Here ya go.” The woman returned with a fresh coat of lip gloss. Stacy reached for the Xerox, scanning its text. Major: Journalism. Degree: Bachelor of Arts. Awards: Dean’s List, Magna Cum Laude, Student of Valor. He flipped the page over, nothing on the back.

  “Shari?” She smiled. “I thought this might include a disciplinary record.”

  “Oh, we can’t give out that information.” She unwrapped a stick of gum, placing it on her tongue. “But I doubt he had one. I mean, in four years, I never made the Dean’s List. And this guy made it every semester. On top a’ that, he was a hero.”

  “A hero?”

  She worked her gum, moving closer. “UT doesn’t give out many Valor awards. Whenever I come across one, I look it up.” She spoke in a whisper, Stacy getting a hint of cinnamon. “Back in ’76, yer little job applicant discovered a fire in one a’ the dorms.”

  Fire? The word followed Toole like a shadow.

  “Seems he alerted the authorities and saved hundreds a’ lives.”

  Stacy nodded, eyes moving back to the printout. Dean’s List. Magna Cum Laude. It didn’t make sense. Toole was a full-fledged juvenile delinquent in Avalon. How could he turn his life around so quickly? Russell Longdale said he was smart. Maybe he was too smart for campus police. And maybe he hadn’t just discovered the fire. Maybe he’d set it, then lost his nerve.

  “Mind if I keep this?”

  “Don’t mind at all.” She smiled, tucking a loose hair behind her ear. “Hope ya’ll hire ’im. Can’t go wrong with a Texas grad.”

  Stacy smiled back. “Thanks, Shari. Oh, and one more question.” She leaned in, clearly expecting a date request. “Is there a payphone nearby?”

  Visibly disappointed, she stepped back and pointed. “Up the hall to yer right.”

  He thanked her again, then hurried off, attacking his pockets for change. As he reached the phone, he checked his watch—4:30.

  He hoped Roy Maghee hadn’t gone home early.

  Then again, when had that ever happened?

  ***

  He stared at the battered mailbox, the land flatter than a military sheet. On the horizon, the late-day sun hung like an ember, a hot breeze stirring the dead mesquite.

  Stacy turned up the drive, half-expecting a nest of rattlesnakes to greet him, but the only life he saw was an eastern phoebe perched on a boulder. As he pulled to a stop, a cloud of dust devoured him. When it settled, he killed the engine and climbed outside.

  The house was built on a low plateau, a stone cottage with a covered porch and steep-pitched roof. A barn loomed in the distance, the terrain treeless but for a clump of oaks on the faraway ridge.

  He walked to the porch, running a hand through his hair. After a deep breath, he knocked, the heavy screen banging against the frame. No one came. He peered through the net, seeing an old rocker and twin bed. He knocked again. Still no one.

  Making his way past the house, he surveyed the grounds, ears aching with the screech of insects. “Anyone home?” he hollered, scanning the distant fields. Corn. Alfalfa maybe. Too far away to tell. The farm was enormous, at least a thousand acres.

  A big black dog trotted up, joined by a white one a moment later, the pair only mildly interested in the intruder. Stacy patted them on the head. “Where’s your master, fellas?” They stared, then padded off to find shade, curling up against the cool round stones of the house.

  He heard something—the faint sound of metal on rock. It came from behind the barn, a good distance away. Shading his eyes, he moved toward it, his tongue tasting like lye. Through the dust, he saw a figure, a man in worn overalls crouched to the ground. He was building a rock wall, held together with sweat, gravity, and sheer determination.

  Stacy worked his way past a chicken coop, stopping a few feet from the wall. “Excuse me…” The man continued to hammer. “…are you Robert Zwardowski?”

  He stopped what he was doing and stood—six feet, five inches of sunbaked work-hardened Texas farmer. “I am.”

  At 6’ 3” himself, Stacy wasn’t used to looking up at people. But that’s what he was doing. The first thing he noticed was the eyes—identical to his father’s. As the man stared back, those eyes seemed to focus.

  “Mr. Zwardowski…” The reference felt awkward. “…I’m—”

  “Stacy.” His uncle spoke in a whisper, the Zwardowski eyes filling with tears. The resemblance was indeed remarkable, neither of them able to move. With the exception of old photos, Stacy had never seen anyone who looked like him before. He had no idea what to do…or say…or feel. He just stared. Finally, Robert Zwardowski extended a hand. “I’d have known you anywhere, young man.” His palm was rough, his smile, like Stacy’s, a bit crooked. “You look just like your father.”

  They broke eye-contact, both glancing at the wall of stone between them. “Quite a project you’ve got here.” His uncle nodded, gripping the hammer. “I tried calling…” Stacy looked back. “…but the operator said your line was disconnected.”

  “Got rid a’ my phone when I realized I had no one to call.” They stared at one another again. “I can’t get over it, Stacy. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was looking at my brother, twenty years ago.”

  For the first time, Stacy considered his uncle’s feelings in all this. Up to now, he’d only thought of himself. “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have just shown up at your place like—”

  “Nonsense. This place is as much yours as it is mine.”

  Stacy smiled. He hadn’t expected to like this man, hadn’t expected to feel anything. But the connection was unmistakable. “I guess this is strange for you, too… seeing me now, looking so much like he looked…you know, when he died.”

  The man’s expression changed, his eyes moving to the fractured earth. “Stacy…” He looked back up. “Your father’s as alive as we are.”

  ***

  “But…that’s impossible…” He sat on the edge of the fireplace, clutching a glass of tea. “My mother…she never would’ve lied to me.”

  Robert Zwardowski straddled a chair, legs longer than a spider’s. “She had her reasons. And if we’re going to talk about this, I need you to listen. And to believe me.”

  “Believe you?” He set the glass down and stood, a tormented child in search of a target. “Why should I believe a total stranger over the woman who raised me, the woman who sacrificed her own happiness for mine?” His eyes sought escape from every object in the room. A roll-top desk. An old painting. “My mother was there for me.” A worn fiddle. A set of wooden shoes. “She spent her whole…” He stopped, staring at a photo on the mantel. After a beat, he moved toward it. The man in the picture stood next to a boat, the name on the aft—Saint Helen. Stacy stared at the face. Same nose. Same crooked smile, a Zwardowski standard no doubt. His mind raced back to the photo his mother sent, the one of a father holding his one-year-old son.

  This was the same man. Older. Grayer. But the same man!

  �
��I think you better sit down.” Stacy turned to his uncle. “Your mother never meant to hurt you. None of us did. But I’m afraid that’s what we’ve done.” He pointed to a chair. “She wants you to know the truth now. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have sent you. So that’s what I’m gonna give you—the truth. But damned if it’s gonna be easy.”

  Stacy hesitated, then sat. “Look…Mr. Zwardowski—”

  “I wish you’d stop calling me that. I’m your uncle. Uncle Robert.” He paused. “I know I haven’t been much of an uncle to you, but I’m hoping it’s not too late to start.”

  Stacy stared, offering neither affirmation nor protest.

  His uncle took a breath, then began. “When your father and I were kids, we used to play make-believe. I was always a big fancy king looking out over his kingdom. But your father liked to play the rogue. Cowboys. Knights. Even the occasional pirate.”

  Stacy stole another glance at the picture.

  “When I was fifteen and Billy was eighteen, our dad died. Died at the reins of an old plow. Mom was devastated. We all were. Billy and I…we did our best to keep things going ’round here. But farming’s a full-time job.”

  As Stacy listened, he felt every emotion imaginable. Anger. Hurt. Curiosity.

  “A year after dad passed, we ran outta money. Lost half our crop to drought, the other half to grasshoppers. Back then, we didn’t know our asses from two holes in the ground. Billy hated farming. And I was too young. Anyhow, he comes home all excited one day, says he knows how to save the farm. Shows us a newspaper article ’bout crab fishing in Alaska, kids our age making twenty grand a year working on crab boats.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Mom was dead set against it, of course. And so was I if you want to know the truth. But when Billy gets an idea in his head, there’s no prying it out. So two weeks later, we take off for Alaska, bumming rides, walking when we had to. Took us a month, but we rolled into Kodiak, tired, hungry, and freezing our butts off!”

  “What did you do?” It was the first question Stacy felt like asking.

  His uncle smiled. “We did what anyone would do—went to the local bar. Place was like something out of a movie. Loud. Raucous. Seemed like a fight broke out every few seconds.” He leaned back in his chair. “We met up with a local who was shipping out the next morning. Told us we could stay in his cabin till we found work. That’s how people are up there. Hard as nails but give you the shirts off their backs. Anyhow, we talked to every skipper on the island, but no one had an opening. When we were down to our last dime, we ran into a captain we’d met. He mistook us for someone else, told us to be at the docks at six a.m. to replace a couple hands he’d lost at sea. Said he had two half-share berths. We had no idea what that meant, but we showed up anyway.”

  He smiled again. “Your father took to it immediately. Me on the other hand…” He grabbed the pitcher, pouring himself a glass of tea. “…I was throwing up ’fore we left Chiniak Bay. Shaking like a leaf, too. Never could stand the cold or anything else in Alaska. And the work was brutal. We’d do fifty hours straight without sleep or a decent meal. But your dad thrived in those conditions. ’Fore long he was pitching crabs with the best of ’em!”

  Stacy listened to every word, his expression wooden.

  “Every week, we’d fill the boat, then empty the tank at Whale Pass. Cleared twenty-five grand apiece that winter. Sent most of it home to mom, then sailed to Newport, Oregon for repairs.”

  “Newport?” Stacy edged forward, his uncle nodding.

  “Billy sliced up his hand one day, and the skipper sent him to the infirmary. Your mom was working there. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

  Stacy felt the need to add something. “It wasn’t love at first sight.”

  “It was for Billy. Told me Helen O’Roarke was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. And that he was gonna marry her. ’Course, she didn’t make it easy. Made him work for everything, especially that first date.”

  “He got her pregnant.” It came out more accusation than fact.

  “They loved each other, Stacy. It’s important you know that.” They traded stares before his uncle went on. “We shipped out in April. Billy got the call a few months later. News hit him like a falling crab pot. But he did the right thing, went back to Newport and married your mom immediately. In fact…” He grinned. “…I was the best man! First and last time I ever wore a tux.” His grin disappeared. “After the wedding, I figured it was time to come clean. Your dad and I drained a bottle of whiskey, then I told him… ‘I’m no fisherman, Billy. I’m a farmer.’ He knew I hated the ocean, the ice, even the damn seagulls! I wanted to go home. The ‘king’ missed his ‘kingdom’.”

  “Was he angry?”

  “Disappointed’s more like it. Looking back, it probably seemed like the whole world was crashing down on him. He was losing his brother, his newfound career, and his beloved Alaska.”

  “But he was gaining a family.”

  “That he was, Stacy. But I’m not sure he saw it that way…at least not then.” He switched the glass to his other hand. “Your parents made a good go of it in Newport. Billy found work at one of the canneries. Provided for his family. And loved his boy.” He moved forward. “He did love you, Stacy. He does love you.”

  Stacy looked away.

  “Hard as he tried, the sea was too much for him. He had to look at it every day. Hear it. Smell it. When he couldn’t take anymore, he convinced your mom to go back with him. But it was a huge mistake.”

  “My mother never told me we moved to Alaska.”

  “Doubt she would’ve. Those weren’t the best of days. Your dad was gone all the time. And your mom couldn’t stomach the weather. Six months in, they decided to move back to Oregon, but when push came to shove, Billy couldn’t do it. He couldn’t leave the place—the life—he loved so much.” He sighed. “This is hard for me to say. And it’s gonna be damn hard for you to hear. But I promised you the truth.” He looked his nephew in the eye. “Your father loved you and your mom very much. But he loved the sea more.”

  Stacy stared at the man. It was hard to hear, but he needed to hear more. “Why did they tell me he died?”

  “During those six months in Alaska, your mom got a good taste of what it’s like to love a fisherman. The sea claims thousands of men, and makes thousands of widows in the process, the worry constant. She didn’t want that for you. When your parents split, you were young enough to forget the few memories you had of your father. Your mom thought it was the best way— ‘William Zwardowski died at sea.’ She made Billy promise he’d never contact you. Made me promise the same thing. And after all that had happened, we didn’t have the will to argue with her.”

  As the moon rose in the window, Stacy lowered his head. He’d come here to appease his mother, not learn his entire life was a lie. How could she have done this to him? How could any of them?

  “I’m sorry, Stacy. You’ll never know how sorry.”

  “Yeah, well…” Stacy stood, rubbing his eyes. “…I have to go.”

  His uncle rose from the chair, bones creaking. “I’d like you to stay. You can sleep on the porch tonight. More needs to be said. A lot more.”

  Stacy tried to argue, but his uncle wouldn’t have it. An hour later, he found himself in the little bed, staring up at the stars.

  They were so bright he wondered if they were real.

  After today, he wasn’t sure about anything.

  ***

  Stones of all sizes. Big ones for support. Flat ones for shims. Robert Zwardowski dumped the wheelbarrow, face glistening.

  “What are you building this for?” Stacy probed, walking up with the dogs.

  “Thought you were gonna sleep all day.”

  “Not in that sauna.”

  The man chuckled. “Your dad loved sleeping on that porch—but nothing else ’round here.” He looked to the fields. “Billy hated this place as much as I loved it. Used to say he was gonna leave someday and never come back. I
didn’t believe him.”

  “He’s never been back here?”

  “Guess he’s waiting for an invitation.”

  Stacy grabbed a rock. “Any method to this?”

  “Trial and error is all.” He pointed to a crevice, Stacy shoving it in place. “Half the time you gotta force ’em. Other half baby ’em.”

  “Seems simple enough.”

  They worked in silence for a time, Stacy making mistakes, his uncle correcting them. “Always wanted me a rock wall. Finally came up with a reason to build one. Got me a wily old fox getting into my chicken coop. Hoping this’ll give the dogs a fighting chance to corner him.”

  Stacy stared at the hounds. One was asleep. The other scratched itself. It didn’t look like either could corner anything. “Have you always lived here?”

  “’Cept for my time in Alaska.” He wiped sweat. “This is my home, Stacy. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.”

  “And you own it?”

  “We own it. Your father and I…and you.”

  “Me?”

  He grabbed a rock. “Your mom ever tell you ’bout your heritage?”

  “Well…I know I’m half-Polish.”

  “Silesian, actually. Ancestors came over from a place called Strzelce. Poverty’s what drove ’em, along with taxes and cholera. Sometimes you just gotta pick up stakes and move on.”

  He shoved the rock in a gap. “First ones left in 1854. Sold everything they had and sailed to America. Spent two months on a cargo ship, eating what they could scrounge and throwing it back up.” He shook his head. “I never woulda made it.”

  Stacy smiled, placing an L-shaped stone in an L-shaped crack.

  “Things didn’t get easier from there. When they landed, it took ’em weeks to get to Panna Maria. Some traveled by oxcart. Others walked—in wooden shoes, no less. They worked for the locals at first, sharecropping, sawing lumber, till they had enough money to buy land. Your great-great-grandfather bought this place for six hundred dollars. Built a house. Made it a profitable farm on guts and willpower alone.”