The phrase, so often shouted at her mom while she hid behind her mother’s legs meant sleeping under a bridge or in an alley until her mother got clean, or found a new boyfriend, or Clem and Norah tracked them down.
He looked tired. His arms dangled by his side, pulling his shoulders forward. One could pack for a week in the bags under his eyes. The deep purple did nothing for his complexion, except make the rest of his face look wan in comparison. What had been crinkles near his eyes when he smiled drooped as if trying to slink away and crawl back to bed. She knew the signs all too well.
“You’re not sleeping.”
“Nope.”
“Neither am I.”
“We could not sleep to— “
“No. You want to know why? I’m scrambling about a hundred hours a week, running this shop, finishing custom orders, handling phone calls, drafting alternatives, and trying to find a new home for a beloved tradition. I have help, but it’s still thirty to forty unpaid hours a week above what I expected. I don’t have time to sleep or waste on someone working against me.”
“A hundred hours a week? That’s crazy.”
“Yup. So you seem my time is pretty limited. I certainly wouldn’t waste what I have egging houses or asking friends for dog poop.”
“I never thought you would—”
“Ask the police for help, not me. If I hear something...” She shrugged and raised her palms toward the ceiling. She wouldn’t commit vocally to help, but her heart knew better. She steeled herself against the squishy thing and straightened her spine. “James, this is a mess of your making. People here are pretty passionate about their trains and their community.”
“That, I’m learning the hard way.”
WHEN HE REACHED HIS car, a piece of paper flapped up from his windshield. On closer inspection, there were three pieces of paper. Frowning, he looked at them. The first invited him to what was bound to be a dreadful high-school production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The second was parking ticket. The third was a fine for failure to keep his vehicle in operable condition.
He walked around the car, expecting to find a broken light or a cracked window. He found neither. The tires looked the same all the way around. No pennies on the key locks, either. He checked the parking meter. The display indicated ten minutes remained. From the meter, his car appeared to be over the white line and resting in the next spot. He walked to the front of the car. The bumper encroached on the other parking spot which must have been the cause of one fine, but inoperable vehicle didn’t make sense, especially when the car started on the first try.
He drove to the local mechanic, who claimed he was too busy to get to his car today, but if he wanted to leave it overnight, he might be able to look at it Wednesday. He sat in the parking lot and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. The sooner he found a buyer and dismantled the company, the sooner he could move on with his life. Otherwise, he’d be as stuck as one of the cars in Claire’s train displays, endlessly waiting for the light to turn green.
Sensing he’d acquire a lot more tickets between now and then if he didn’t figure out the source of the problem, he decided to drive the marginally bigger town to the north. The mechanic took one look at his car and laughed.
“Someone done let the air out of your tires. Not all the way mind you. We’ll fill ’er up, but you might want to get yourself a pressure gage.”
Back in Belkin, he went to the diner for a late lunch. The parking lot stood empty except for three cars, but he parked far away from the door and as precisely between the white lines as humanly possible.
Jo, or someone, decorated the door with a construction paper turkey and a sign announcing new hours for the upcoming holiday season and a request to pre-order pies. He walked through the double doors toward the counter. The few customers in booths glanced up, scowled at him and looked away. As he approached the row of empty seats, Jo spun around, coffee cup and pot in hand. At least I can count on Jo. Anticipating a decent cup of coffee and an excellent slice of pie, he sensed his day was finally turning around.
“Sorry, no shoes, no shirt, no trains, no service. Didn’t you notice the new sign?”
He surveyed the nearly empty shop. “I. No. Are you kidding me? You’re going to turn away money?”
She shrugged, the coffee in the pot dangerously close to spilling. “Okay, I didn’t really put up a sign, but you get the idea. You’re not welcome here.”
“I’m a paying customer.”
“Yes, but I have the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason. That is on a sign – this one.” She pointed to a list taped to the cash register, but kept glancing at the other customers, as if she were putting on a show for them.
Taking in the desserts on display beside the cash register, he tried another tactic. “How about a slice of pie to go?”
“No can do.”
He noticed the green train beside the register first, then the jar behind it emblazoned with the words “Save our Train!” and a small photo. Usually, a plain plastic bottle collecting for some childhood disease sat in that spot.
She gave him a hard stare. He got the picture. He turned to leave, understanding how much of a pariah he’d become. Beside the door hung a slightly askew homemade train poster, this one featuring a photo. The older gentleman dressed as an engineer had been in some of the photos on Walter’s
