Screw this guy, he thought. He met his eyes in the dark.
“Alright, I’ll do it for us. Sit tight.”
The man started to walk off, then stopped.
“My name’s Winston, by the way. But most people call me the Baron.”
Isaac told him his name, then wondered if he should have made one up. No, he thought, this is what you’ve wanted. You can give this guy the slip if you need to. At the moment you need his help.
Shortly after that the Baron was back. “It’s the big one there with the four units. The one on the end is just going upriver a little ways, but the big one is going to a place near Detroit. All kinds of shit comes and goes from there—it’ll be easy for you to find something.”
“When’s it due to get rolling.”
“Any minute is what he said. Usually that means a couple hours.”
Just then the triangle of lights came on at the front of the train and there was the sound of diesel engines turning over and then running at high idle.
The man grinned. “Christ, you’re bringing luck to me. I’d been wanting to bash that boy in the head for three days. And now we got our taxi coming. You just watch what I do.”
“I know how to get on a train,” said Isaac.
“Suit yourself then, tough guy. I’ve been doing it thirty- seven years but I’m sure you can’t learn a damn thing from me.”
“I’ll pay attention.”
“Good man.”
The train began to move slowly and the headlights swept over them, blinding, and as soon as the engines passed they ran across the other tracks until they were alongside it, Isaac’s footing was loose in the gravel, the Baron was running ahead of him and threw his backpack up onto the platform and grabbed the ladder and disappeared between two cars. Isaac tossed his pack up onto the rear platform of a different hopper car and pulled himself up the ladder.
He sat on the small metal platform facing the car behind him. It was still dark but by the grit on his hands he could tell the small platform of the coke car was filthy. He didn’t care—you’re moving and not lifting a foot to do it. Feels like a miracle after all that walking. See why people make lives out of doing this.
He sat with his legs outstretched, feeling the train gradually pick up speed, the noise from the train doubled then doubled again.
He watched the scenery pass, lights on the other side of the river. They were going faster and faster and it was getting cold in the wind. Get even colder once we get out of the Valley, once the tracks aren’t bending around a river. He started to take his sleeping bag out, then he stopped himself—it would get sucked away. You’re pretty much just gonna freeze your ass off. No, crawl in that hole. He felt around with his hands, there was a tall slot, a sort of porthole in the back of the car but he couldn’t imagine the space inside was very large. At least it was more protected. He decided to wait.
After several minutes he could see Pittsburgh, the skyscrapers, the power plant on the island, and then the train slowed and began to turn left, west, he grabbed onto the railing and grabbed his pack with the other hand so it wouldn’t slide off under the wheels. Then the city was receding as well, the tall buildings, the bridges and the river, gone.
BOOK THREE
1. Grace
Harris had arrested Billy that morning and when Grace came home from work all the lights were off in the trailer, everything was just as she’d left it. Billy was not home, was not coming home. Maybe not ever again. She ought to get a fire going in case it got colder that night but she couldn’t bring herself. Couldn’t bring herself to get up from the chair. At first she’d been sure nothing would happen to him—blind mother hope all that was. An inability to face the truth. She would have to get used to this new feeling. Thought you were making big compromises but that was nothing compared to what’s coming.
She had always thought—she didn’t know why but her whole life she had thought that eventually, someone would come along and look after her the way she had looked after other people: her own mother, Virgil, Billy. So far that had not happened. It did not look to be happening anytime soon. Seemed that she had made this one bad decision out of love, she had been unwilling to give up Virgil, been unwilling to move away from him, to a place her son might have become a different person, and the consequence was that she had now lost Billy.
All for Virgil. Billy ending up this way, her bad choices all around. Your three semesters of college—how long was it before you stopped reminding people of that? That was dropped for him as well—Virgil—he couldn’t make the bills on his own. And resented you for going to school, always asking when it would pay off. Even that early sign you ignored. I was twenty- two, she thought. With a young child and the Valley in a depression. It was a miracle I was able to do any of that at all. Looking back she thought she had been a braver person then. Another thing that had been chipped away. All the things you needed to know in life—you didn’t learn them until you’d already made your decisions. For better and worse you were shaped by the people around you. Virgil had undercut her, a gradual erosion, the way the river undercut its banks. He had convinced her to stop educating herself, he’d convinced her to take a job she hated, because at some point he had realized that his wife might be manipulated into supporting his life of ease. A minor miracle given their surroundings, but he had pulled it off, at the cost of his wife and now his son. All it took was lying nearly daily about looking for work and, in the periods in which he did work, cashing his paycheck himself rather than bringing the entire thing home. She always remembered being stunned at tax time by how much money Virgil made on paper—very little of it ever seemed to come back to the family.
It made her sick now to think about it. The fault rested squarely on her shoulders, she couldn’t push it off on Virgil. She should have seen through him. It just hadn’t occurred to her that anyone could be so manipulative.
And there was Harris. He had offered himself numerous times and she had lost interest and, now that he wasn’t interested, she was sick over Harris again. She didn’t want to admit those things but they were true, it was some rule of human nature—you want most whatever you can’t have. Virgil had always kept her unsure about his feelings, always inserting some sliver of doubt, she had always been the one chasing. Bud Harris had simply made his feelings clear.
She felt sick to her stomach thinking about it. She had done this to herself, to Billy. Deep breath. Of course it wasn’t fair. Your entire life’s work, that child. But she was not that old. She could expect another thirty, thirty- five years. It was all your outlook. She needed to have her own goals again. She would have to stop living for others. Since Billy making his choice to stick around Buell she’d spent most of her free time worried sick about him and in those years she’d forgotten to look after herself. It really had been her downfall. Other mothers had sons as well, they managed. Maybe it was just the rollercoaster Billy had put her on. Up and down and up again. Now down. But he didn’t do it on purpose. It was just who he was.
She needed to collect herself. You could not live for other people. Christ, she thought, I shouldn’t be thinking these things right now. But there was no choice. Billy had done what he’d done, and nothing could change it. She would have to go on living.
There was orange juice and a bottle of vodka and she made a tall screwdriver. She could not afford a lawyer, not any of the good ones. If she stopped making payments on the house it was possible but it would take her several months to save the money. By then it would be too late. She would have to trust Harris. The public defender. She shook her head. She would stop making payments anyway. Bank the money. Lose the place if she had to but you couldn’t leave your son to the public defender. You might as well just skip the trial if you did that.
Don’t make decisions before you have to, she thought. She went out to the back porch, taking the bottle of vodka and the orange juice with her, watched the sky get darker and sipped her drink. How long had it been—three years—it seemed like yesterday, she’d been talking to Harriet, the director of the shelter, about what you had to do
