He didn’t stop until the casing was shattered and the carpet was littered with plastic shards. Then he dropped it to the floor, breathing hard, and kicked it, sent the camera rolling across the floor, leaving a trail of broken pieces in its wake.
“There you go,” he said softly, and then he fell back onto the bed, dropping his head to his hands as his chest rose and fell in deep, fear-fueled breaths.
NIGHT TRAINS
15
THERE’D BEEN ELEVEN CANS of Keystone Ice in the fridge when Josiah got home Friday night, and he drank nine of them before falling asleep sometime in those silent hours before dawn. He fell asleep out on the porch, could remember that the wind had been starting to stir right toward the end and he’d had a notion that it was time to go inside, but alcohol-induced sleep crept on and held him down with heavy hands.
Dreams came for him then.
In the first one he was in a city, on some street of towering buildings unfamiliar to him. Everything was a dusty gray, like an old photograph, and the wind howled around the concrete corners and swirled dust into his eyes. The dust was painful, made him wince and turn away, and when he did, he saw that the cars lining the street were old-fashioned, every last one of them, roadsters with headlights the size of dinner plates and long, wide running boards.
There was no one on the sidewalks, no one in sight, but despite that, he had the sense that the place was bustling, busy. A powerful, impatient humming noise contributed to that impression, and then he heard a steam whistle ring out loud above it and he knew that a train was near. He turned back again, into the wind and the dust, and now he could see the train coming right down the sidewalk toward him. He stepped back as the locomotive roared up and went by in a blur that lifted more dust into his eyes and flapped his clothes against his body. The huge metal wheels were going right over the sidewalk, no rails beneath them, grinding off a fine layer of concrete, and Josiah knew then where all the dust was coming from.
He had his hands up, shielding his face, when he heard the locomotive slow, and the cars that had been flying by began to take shape, corrugated doors and iron ladders and couplers like clasped fists of steel. All a dirty gray; nothing in this world had color. Then he turned to his left, looked down at the long snake of train cars yet to come, and saw a splash of red on white. The red was in the shape of a devil, with pointed tail and pitchfork in hand, the word
The train was at a crawl now, and Josiah stepped closer to it as the Pluto boxcar approached. The man hanging from it wore a rumpled brown suit with frayed cuffs above scuffed shoes, a bowler hat tilted up on his head, thick dark hair showing underneath. He smiled at Josiah as the steam whistle cut loose with another shriek and the train shuddered to a halt.
“Time to be getting on,” the man said. He was hanging out of the boxcar right above Josiah now, almost close enough to touch.
Josiah asked what he was talking about.
“Time to be getting on,” the man said again, and then he removed his hat and waved it at the locomotive. “Won’t be stopped here forever. You best hurry.”
Josiah inquired where they were bound.
“South,” the man told him. “Home.”
Josiah admitted that he wouldn’t mind heading home, didn’t know this place, didn’t like much about it. How was he to be sure the train was heading home, though? Home was a place called French Lick, he said, home was Indiana.
“This is the Monon line,” the man said. “The
Josiah said, As he recollected the Monon hadn’t carried a car in upwards of forty years. That got the man smiling as he set his hat back on his head and the whistle blew.
“Could be so,” he said. “But if there’s another way of getting home, I don’t know it.”
He shifted then, stepped back into the boxcar. Something splashed and Josiah looked down and saw the man was standing in water now, had soaked his shoes and those frayed pant cuffs.
“Best be getting on,” the man said again, and the train began to move, water sloshing out of the boxcar and splattering the sidewalk. “I told you, we don’t stop here forever.”
Josiah asked whether the man was certain they’d be headed in his direction.
“Of course,” the man said. “We’re going home to take what’s yours, Josiah.”
The train was pulling away, and Josiah started walking after it and then broke into a jog and still wasn’t fast enough, and then he was running all out, his breath coming in jerking gasps. He got too close to the train, though, and the force of the cars thundering by spun him and he stumbled, and then that dream was gone and he was into another.
Out in a field this time, a field of golden wheat turned blood red by sunset and bent double from a stiff wind. Shadows lay at the opposite end of the field, a row of trees there, and above them the dome of the West Baden Springs Hotel rose mighty and shining into the sky. It was time to head over there and get to work; Josiah knew that and knew he’d have to hustle because this was a mighty long field and that wind was pushing hard against him, making the walk difficult.
He leaned into it, walking hard, but the sun was sliding away fast and the moon was rising beside it at the exact same tempo, like someone pulling a clock chain that was attached to both. The dark fell fast and heavy and the hotel dome gleamed under the moon and the wind was colder now, so cold, and yet Josiah didn’t appear to have gotten anywhere at all, had just as much of the wheat field ahead as he’d always had. As the dark gathered, he could make out a man at the tree line, the same man from the train, wearing his bowler hat and with hands jammed into his pants pockets. He was shaking his head at Josiah. Looked disgusted with him. Disgusted and angry.
The second dream faded and heat replaced it, an uncomfortable black warmth that eventually roused Josiah from sleep. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the sun was up and shining off the windshield of his pickup truck and right in his face.
He rose with a grunt, stumbled forward and leaned on the porch rail, felt the old paint flake under his palm. A dull throb came from his face, and only then did he remember the previous night, the white guy with the scruffy beard and the black kid with the blisteringly quick left hand. He felt around his eye with his fingertips, knew from touch alone how it must look, and felt the anger that had chased him into sleep return.
The beer had left his mouth dry, but his stomach was settled and his head was clear. Hell, he felt good. He’d taken a punch to the eye and then tied on a good drunk and slept sitting upright in a plastic chair, but somehow he felt good. Felt strong.
The phone started ringing, and he went inside, picked it up off the table, answered and heard Danny’s voice.
“Josiah, what’n hell you’d take off for last night?”
“Wasn’t feeling so hot. Needed some sleep.”
“Bullshit. I heard you went to Rooster’s and got knocked in the face by some—”
“Never mind that,” Josiah said. “Look, you done crowing over your twenty-five hundred yet?”
“That what got you upset, that I had some luck? Downright shitty, Josiah.”
“That wasn’t it. I’m asking, though, you still feeling big about it?”
“Feeling happy is all. Took a little beating later on, lost about eight hundred, but I still got more than fifteen of it left. That ain’t a bad night.”
“No, it ain’t. But is it a good enough night? It all you need?”
