Short Story: The Caboose

Most people seem to remember the low, mournful whistle. Not me. It's all about the smell for me. You see, the railroad works its way into your heart through your nose. It's the aroma of the coal smoke. It's the smell of grease warmed on hot cast-iron skillet. It's the aroma of wood ties baking in the hot sun. And all around, the fresh air bringing the smell of the woods or the factories, depending on where you were. Well, that's how it was back then, anyway.

At first, I thought the caboose smelled like my father. Turns out, my father smelled like that old caboose. I learned that on my first day working for the C&O.

It was the early 40's, and most kids a little older than me were off paying a certain Mr. Adolf Hitler a visit over in Europe. I'd join them in the South Pacific in a year's time, but I was home then, about to start my first real job. My father was a conductor, and he put in a good word for me down at the office. Probably, they would have passed on me until I was a little older, but "beggars can't be choosers," he explained.

So I rode my bike down to the freight yard in the freezing cold, about as nervous as I'd ever been. That day, I would become the newest--and youngest--brakeman on the C&O. Worse yet, my father would be my boss. And I couldn't let him down.

A freight yard is overwhelming to a newbie. Seemed like there were 100 parallel tracks were connected by a thousand switches, and the order of it all was just chaos to me.

Walking past the tower, I could see maybe a half dozen tank cars on one track, at least a dozen coal hoppers on the next track, and a bunch of freight cars that stretched as far as I could see on the track after that. Behind me, the bell on a creeping locomotive clanged, warning lost souls like me to keep out of its way. My ears burned in the cold.

"Tommy!" called the yardmaster. I looked up at him in the tower.

"Good morning, Mr, Johnston!" I called. It was good to see my father's old friend.

"Better get yourself into that cabin car, or your old man's gonna tan your hide!" he hollered with a smile. "Track 5, Track 5! Oh, and see me to sign your papers when you get back--no time now! Welcome aboard, son!"

I waved and trotted along the freight cars standing coupled on track five. The red caboose was in sight, maybe twenty cars down. My father waved from the front platform.

At the caboose, my father handed me a pair of large leather gloves and checked his pocket watch as we went inside. There was that wonderful smell inside--grease and solvent and coffee and then just coffee as the pot came to a boil on the stove.

"I don't need to tell you that we keep a tight schedule," my father chided with a wink. "It's your first day, so I'll let it slide."

He stepped out onto the platform again, leaning off the side and signaling the locomotive with his hand. "We got Joe and Sam up front, so this will be an easy run." Joe and Sam were the engineer and fireman, an experienced crew, and more of my father's buddies. Joe answered my father with two whoops from the whistle.

"Brace yourself now," my father warned me as he handed me a cup of coffee, "Joe means business." As the locomotive moved forward, gaining speed, the slack went out between the cars, jarring each one until the jolt caused me to spill half my cup. My father skillfully took a swig at the right moment, and he didn't spill a drop.

"Well, good thing this isn't your mother's parlor." He winked again. "But let's keep this place clean." He tossed me a dirty towel, and I wiped the floor.

Now that we were underway, my father got down to work. He organized his paperwork--freight waybills, crew time sheets, train orders, explaining each document to me. Sure, I was a brakeman, but he was training me to be a conductor one day. And as the train entered a  curve, he just about lifted me off the bench I was sitting on and dragged me over to the window for a spectacular view of the train. Sam waved at us from the locomotive's cab. We were now approaching our first stop.

"OK, here we go," my father said, buttoning his jacket and putting his work gloves back on. "Watch carefully. This is big equipment, and we need to make sure that we're safe. And this is a get-it-right-the-first-time kinda job."

He went to the platform and signaled to Joe to stop the train. We walked back a ways and dropped a signal to let approaching trains know that we were blocking the line, and then we walked up about 25 cars.

"We cut in here," my father explained, slamming the coupler open. He signaled to Joe, who answered back with two whistle blasts and pulled forward, breaking the consist in two. Once they passed a switch, they stopped the train.

My father demonstrated how to operate the lever and rotate the switch, preparing for the locomotive to back onto the siding to collect more cars. Then we walked down the siding where we were to collect three empty boxcars. My father stopped dead in his tracks when we were just about up to the first car. He flung one of his big arms out to block me, and I stopped in my tracks, looking over at him. I could tell he was concerned.

"We got company, I'd say," he whispered. I heard a loud cough echo from inside the boxcar. And then an unhealthy hacking cough, followed by a moan. "Hang back here, son. You never know with these guys..."

Now, I always knew that folks hopped aboard freight trains to catch a free ride. The stock market crashed over ten years earlier, and men took to the rails in droves, riding around until they found work. Or maybe just riding around because they had no other life to get back to. Problem was, there was always lots of booze, and where there's booze, there's trouble. When I was little, my father was roughed up by a few guys when he kicked them off the train. I was old enough to remember.

My father walked ahead of me. "All right!" he bellowed. "Out of the car! This is the end of the line for you." Everything was absolutely silent for a few long seconds until another raspy cough rang out.

The boxcar door slid open another foot or so, and an old man hopped down from the car. He wore a dirty jacket and carried a filthy bag. His right pant leg was torn at the knee, and his stubbly beard was mostly white. He was hunched forward a bit; he rubbed his crooked back after jumping down. Now he looked at us with a blank, defeated stare. He coughed again, and I could see his breath in the cold.

"Well, we can't have this," my father said. The old man looked down. "Where you headed, old timer?"

"Back to the city," the old man said, his eyes still fixed on the roadbed. He was waiting for my father to tell him to get off the railroad's property. That was the rule; in fact, he could be arrested for trespassing. And some railroad bulls would be more than happy to remove him toss him over a fence, just to get the idea across.

"The city, huh?" My father sighed. "Well, not in a boxcar. We can't have that. I won't tolerate it." He turns to me and winks. "No, I won't tolerate it for a moment. So you'll ride in the cabin car with us."

When I heard this, I was furious. Now, I'm not sure why, but it was as if I snapped. Was he serious? Didn't he know this was against regulations? Why would my father risk getting himself into trouble--and me--for some old stowaway? I didn’t want the superintendet coming down on him for this lapse of judgement.

"Father, you can't let him on the train!" I blurted. "Don't be wreckless! Even I know that'll cost us our jobs!" My ears were stinging again, and my hands were starting to ache. But my cheeks were warm with anger.

"I've got a lot to teach you still, don't I?" my father gently scolded, shaking his head. "We will be just fine," he assured me. I stood staring at the old man, and he looked at me, desperate and cold. "Well, both of you, come on," barked my father. "We have a schedule to keep and we're losing time. I am the conductor here. This is my train. And I won't be late." 

We walked back to the mainline, where my father signaled Joe again with his hand. As Joe started to back down the siding, my father sent me to the back of the train to collect the signal. And to calm down. By the time I was back to the caboose, the locomotive had pulled the three empties off the siding, my father had thrown the switch, and Joe was slamming the train back together.

Without talking, I climbed the steps to the caboose with my father and his new passenger. The cabin was very warm. Again, my father signaled Joe, and off we went with a series of slams. Bang, bang, bang, as the slack was let out.

My father poured coffee into our tin mugs and got a third down from a shelf. He blew the dust out of it, then poured a cup for our passenger. Shortly, we made another stop to cut in two gondolas. The old man waited inside while we worked. Once we started out again, there was time to talk.

"We got another 12 cars to collect and 18 cars to drop off before we get back to the yard in the city," my father told us. "This is an easy trip with Joe and Sam up front." The old man nodded in polite agreement, but it didn't feel easy to me. "Say, what brings you to the city?"

"Going home," said the old man. "It's been over ten years since I been back." He coughed again.

"Ten years? That's a long time to be away."

"Well, I didn't plan on coming back."

"No?"

"No, I was looking to work in the South where the weather isn't so bad as this," the old man explained.

"I can imagine a little sunshine would do the body a world of good," agreed my father.

"Yes, that's right," the old man smiled. He rubbed his back for a moment. "It's harder to work outside at my age, but I was going to get by."

"So back to the city in the winter?"

The old man teared up a little. "I received word that my brother is taken ill, very ill," he choked out. "That was two weeks ago yesterday, and I hope he's still with us."

I felt burning ashamed. I was so selfish to try to throw this old man out into the cold. I fought back the tears that came from shame and from hearing this story.

Just then, Joe's whistle warned us of the next stop. And then the stop after that and after that. We got about two miles from the yard when my father reached for his wallet.

"Here's six dollars," he said, placing it in the old man's hands. "It's all I have, but it should be about enough for bus fare and dinner. When we stop the train the throw the switch at the yard, I'm going to ask you to get off and walk down the embankment. When you reach the street, make a right and keep going until you get to a diner. You can eat there and catch the bus around the corner."

I pulled two quarters from my pocket and gave them to the man, too. "I hope your brother is OK," I told him.

As Joe slowed the train, the old man thanked us and then hopped down from the last step on the platform. Despite the crooked back, the old man exited so gracefully that I could tell he had done it a thousand times before.

I stepped onto the back platform and waved as we continued forward through the switch into the yard. The old man waved back and then turned to press through the dry weeds.

I was so proud of my father that cold night. I can't hear a horn or a whistle or the clanging bell at a grade crossing without thinking of my father's kindness. Or the smell of coffee in that caboose.

Short Story: The Brother (from 2008 at OU)

That snowy night, Mother screamed out. I think she had been expecting it; I remember how she winced and paced and worried the day before. It was twenty past one in the morning on February 21, 1887. The thin layers of plaster, lathe, paper, and paint couldn’t keep out the sounds and commotion. How I do remember that scream!

Father was still driving a wagon train back from St. Louis, and Mother was at home with Grandmother and me.

When Grandmother first arrived at our house for this visit, it was a week before Mother’s labor started. I heard Mother tell her that this time would be different. “The Lord doesn’t want to take this one,” she explained. “I feel it in my heart.” Mother looked at me with a crazy smile.

After all the deaths, I did not think that this new baby would live for very long. I smiled back nervously because the losses were clouding her mind. Looking back, I would call it hysteria of some sort.

Grandmother wasn’t smiling. “The Lord does not want any babies, Elizabeth,” she said. “Babies live full lives when they are born to a strong mother.” Mother sobbed at the insult and retreated to her room, where she stayed for several days. 

Now I listened to Mother groaning and panting and pleading. I began to worry that Grandmother didn’t hear these horrible cries. Grandmother always helped Mother when it was time for the babies to come, just like she helped Aunt Rebecca. My three sisters didn’t make it more than an hour after their births, but Aunt Rebecca never lost a baby.

I slid out of the warmth of my bed, and my feet touched the cold, bare floorboards. I was standing next to the low window in my bedroom. The cold flowed through the thin, slightly rippled panes of glass, and, to add to my discomfort, the window sash never seated properly on the twisted sill, leaving a sizable gap. I felt the freezing wind on my knees, and quickly tiptoed away from the window. I crept to the door, turned the round metal knob, and pushed the door open. The door creaked loudly.

I saw that Grandmother was climbing the narrow staircase at the end of the hall. The flickering light from Mother’s lamp poured out into the small landing area. Grandmother was already wearing her blue dress and an old, stained apron. In one hand, she carried a steaming kettle, and her other arm was wrapped around a stack of towels. I was relieved to see her stern, pale face. She was like an old priestess, preparing to conduct a familiar ritual. Mother still trusted her skills as a midwife, still unfamiliar with the impersonal, sterile treatment of a modern physician.

“Is the baby going to be alright?” I asked. I knew it was not my place to ask such a thing.

She stared at me coldly. “The baby needs your mother to work hard.”

Mother needed to work hard, I thought, Grandmother’s words echoing in my mind. Mother needs to work hard. Work hard? I considered the notion that my Mother had to work to make the baby become born. And for the first time, it occurred to me that I did not know how the babies came out. I wanted to ask, but it was difficult to get the words out.

“How does the baby—”

“Not appropriate, young man,” she said. “Let’s not be obscene with a brand new baby almost in earshot.” Mother screamed and panted rapidly. Grandmother pushed her way around me and slipped into my parent’s bedroom. She shut the door behind her, and the house was entirely dark. Standing alone in the small upstairs landing, I sensed something awkward, something dirty. I was embarrassed. Perhaps Grandmother saved me from something horrible, I thought.

Mother screamed again, and I heard Grandmother saying, “Hush now. Hush.” It felt wrong that Mother wasn’t allowed to scream if she needed to. If Mother was working hard, I wanted to help her.

I thought about Mother. I remembered how she would warm milk on the stove for me when I was younger. I remembered the time I had a raging fever, and she lie next to me in bed for the entire night. So many memories flooded my mind. Mother’s cries and screams began to tear my heart. I just wanted to help her, but Grandmother would never allow it. It was not my place.

All I could do was to try to escape the sounds of Mother’s hard work. I wandered downstairs, sliding my hand down the railing. The paint was worn off, and the wood was literally polished from contact with human hands over the decades. I sat on the bottom step, staring at the front door. The snow whipped against the windows. It was too cold to wait outside, like Father and I did last time. We sat on the porch, and Father was happy and proud. It was the best evening I ever had, until we went back inside. Father held the limp, bluish body so gently that I thought that the baby might be alive. Mother and Father were sad for months and months.

Grandmother yelled from upstairs.

I bolted to the top of the narrow staircase, stopping just outside of Mother’s bedroom. Grandmother was standing in the doorway, and I could see Mother lying in bed. The sheets were bloody, and blood was smeared up her bare legs, which I had never seen before. Blood-soaked towels were wadded in a bedpan. Grandmother’s hands were bloody past her wrists, and she was mopping them dry with another towel. “A foot. One foot. The baby can’t come like that,” Grandmother stammered. “I tried to turn the baby, but there is no room.” She threw the towel onto the small woven rug at the top of the stairs. “I was afraid of this,” she said.

Burning tears welled up in my eyes. “What are you going to do?” I pleaded.

“Fetch the doctor immediately,” She looked at me, and I sensed her urgency. “You know where Dr. Jackson lives. Run there right now and tell him that the baby and your mother are in trouble. And I pray your father returns home.” She turned quickly, closing the door as she entered the room.

I dashed down the hall and pulled on my pants and a sweater. Downstairs, I shoved my feet into my heavy boots, and pulled on Father’s huge wool coat. Upstairs, Mother was groaning.

I opened the door and rushed out into the beautiful, bright silence of a heavy snowfall. A wonderful numbness set in almost immediately; it was too cold to feel the sharp sting of the wind. The white slopes and hills reflected a soft light, and the never-ending frosty blanket deadened the sound.

My heart raced. I slammed the door and hurried down the porch steps. As I ran for the front gate, my legs sunk up to my knees with each step. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Despite my best effort, my pace slowed with each heavy step. It took a great deal of effort to reach the gate, where snow was piled in a high drift. I scrambled over a miniature mountain of snow, touching the crest with my bare hands.

I hurried down the street, walking in carriage tracks wherever possible. My legs felt heavy and cold, but I hurried as fast as I could, laboring through the snow with little progress. The cold air burned my throat, and my bare hands throbbed in the wind. Through all of this, Mother’s screams echoed through my head, and images of her bloody legs flashed in my mind. I sensed that both Mother and the baby were in peril.

At last, Dr. Jackson’s house was in sight. I climbed the steps to the porch, hoping that Dr. Jackson has already seen me approaching. I peered through the sidelights at the front door. The house was dark.

“Dr. Jackson?” I called quietly. No answer. No answer. Mother was bleeding at home, and no one answered. “Dr. Jackson!” I called. Still no answer. I pounded on the door with both fists. As if I were dreaming, I could see a light appear at the top of the stairs. Dr. Jackson was coming down, tying his robe around his waist.

He opened the door. “What is it? Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” I said, “John Montgomery.”

“What is it, son?”

“My mother,” I panted, “The baby. One foot.”

Dr. Jackson turned for the staircase. “Come in, John. I’m going to help her.”

            I stood near the door, and the doctor was dressed and back downstairs within moments. He grabbed his black leather bag from the parlor and beckoned me to follow him. He ran down from his porch and across his snow-covered lawn. His long legs carried him over the deep snow bank near the walkway. I chased him down the street, but he didn’t wait for me. I couldn’t keep up. The doctor ran ahead and out of sight. Mother needed him.  

I bent over and placed my hands on my knees to catch my breath. Again, it was quiet and cold. All at once, the painful cold burned my ears, my hands, my nose, and my feet. It felt like the wind blew through my coat. I hoped that the doctor was already at my house. Stiffened by the cold, I walked slowly toward home.

            When I opened the front door, I heard Dr. Jackson upstairs. Mother was still panting, and her screams were sounding tired.  

           

Grandmother paced to and fro in the parlor, just like Father did. Her apron was bloody. She came to me. “Thank you, John,” she said. “The baby just wouldn’t cooperate. You helped me do all we could. Now it’s the doctor’s turn.”

            I lowered my head, quietly praying that this time would be different. That they wouldn’t have to return to the darkness of grief and mourning. That Mother and Father would have a reason to celebrate. 

            And I knew God would hear me.

Short Story: The Enchantment (from 2008 at OU)

Tom and Katherine rode in a taxi, heading from the airport to their cruise ship. The young couple sat in the back seat, a little confused by the cab driver’s accent. It was a relief to see the cruise ships docked in the harbor, their beautiful white hulls gleaming in the sun. Tom leaned over Katherine to get a better look out her window. He looked up at the ships’ funnels, which towered above the cargo ships and stacks of containers. Katherine was irritated that Tom was crowding her, but she didn’t say anything.

            The taxi exited the expressway, and Mike finally sat back down in his seat. Katherine checked her watch. “We’re going to be late,” she said.

            “All the guide books say not to be the first ones on ship,” said Tom. “They won’t leave without us.”

            Katherine looked anxious. “We still have to check in,” she muttered.

            Tom looked out the window on his side. The taxi was heading away from the sea and the larger ships. It turned onto a side street and approached their ship, the Enchantment, an awkward looking ship with a squat hull and a rounded bow. It was painted white with a wide navy blue band and a navy blue stack.

            The cab pulled up in front of the cruise line’s terminal building, which looked something like an airport. Behind the building, the Enchantment was moored to the dock, and it was close enough to notice the chalky white streaks running down through the wide stripe.            

As soon as the cab stopped, Tom dashed around to the trunk to get the bags, and the cab driver followed him, afraid that his passengers would flee without paying. Tom paid the fare, and the driver half attempted to help Tom unload the trunk. One of the dockhands placed a bag on his cart.

            “I got it,” Tom snapped, pulling his suitcase back off the cart.

            “Sir, you gotta check your bags here,” explained the porter with a smile. “Your bags will be waiting for you in your cabin when you board the ship.”

            Tom reluctantly allowed the men to take their four suitcases. He slowly opened his wallet, pulled out several dollar bills, rubbed each one between his thumb and forefinger, and gave a couple dollars to each porter. The porters wheeled the bags into the terminal, and Tom and Katherine waited in line for check-in. Two elderly people were ahead of them.

            “This trip is getting expensive already,” Katherine whispered. “Between the airport shuttle, lunch, the cab ride, and the baggage guys, we probably spent $50.”

            “I didn’t want to have to pay them. I can carry our bags,” Tom apologized.

            “It’s okay,” sighed Katherine. “We’re on vacation.”

            Check-in went smoothly, except that the elderly passengers moved at a snail’s pace. The terminal was empty, and the dockhands were loading the last pallets of food and other freight. The dock area was otherwise empty, and the ship was preparing to depart.

            Tom and Katherine crossed the passenger walkway from the terminal to the ship. Onboard, the entrance area and concourse were decorated with gaudy neon lights, mirrors, and carpet with a loud red, orange, and blue pattern.

            Walking through the corridors, the young couple was passing through crowds of elderly people—elderly women, elderly couples, and an elderly man sleeping in a chair. There were several families with older children, and no more than three younger couples, probably newly weds.

            Three tones rang out over the ship’s speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed smoothly, “guests joining us at the first dinner seating will meet at the Starlight Dining Room at 6 p.m. Enjoy your evening on board the Enchantment.”

            “That’s why we should have got here early,” Katherine told Tom. “I have to get ready.”

            Tom was still looking around at all the areas he wanted to explore. “Fine, let’s go get ready.”

            They began their search for cabin M1013. They wandered down a corridor of guestrooms, heading for the front of the ship. They were clearly on the wrong floor and heading in the wrong direction, but the layout of the ship was disorienting. They descended down four flights of stairs to M deck, then walked toward the ship’s stern. At last, they found room M1013. Tom inserted the keycard and opened the door to reveal a room with two small beds with orange bedspreads and red carpet. A closet was near the door to the left, and the tiny bathroom was on the opposite wall. Their suitcases were set on luggage racks.

            “Romantic, isn’t it?” giggled Katherine.

            Tom winked. “It looked different on the Internet.”

            Katherine opened a suitcase and began rummaging around inside. She muttered something, then unzipped another suitcase. She began throwing clothes onto the bed. “Tom, I don’t see my dress!”

            “What? Isn’t it in the suitcase?” Tom helped her search. No dress.

            “We paid all that money for a dress, and I must have left I at home,” Katherine sobbed. “I’m sorry. I'm sorry. I planned on wearing that dress to dinner.”

            “Well,” said Tom, “would you like to look around at the shops?”

            Katherine reluctantly agreed, and the couple returned to the concourse. One boutique shop sold dresses and gowns. Katherine hurried inside, and flipped through the dresses that were hanging on the racks.

            “We can’t afford any of these dresses,” said Katherine. “We don’t have this kind of money.”

            Tom looked at a price tag. It was more than he made in two weeks.

            “I have some black pants and a blouse. That will have to do,” she said, stroking a scarf with a tropical print. She looked at the price tag. “Even this is too expensive.”

            “Just get it,” insisted Tom.

            “No, it’s okay. I’ll make do,” she said.

            “No, just get it. It looks tropical. We’re on vacation. If you like it, get it.”

            Katherine conceded, and they returned to their cabin to get dressed. Tom wore a wrinkled brown suit, and Katherine wore her black slacks, a blouse, and the tropical scarf. She was trying to feel good about her outfit, but most of the other women were wearing dresses.

Tom and Katherine walked down the hall, shuffling toward the garish dining room with all the other passengers. Standing side-by-side, they inched their way to the front of the queue.

“Good evening, sir,” said the maitre de. “Are you waiting for your wife?”

“Right here,” Katherine said, waving her hand in offense.

“Please forgive me, sir, madam. Right this way. Please follow Eduardo to your table.”

Eduardo made up for his poor English with a confused smile. Eduardo, Katherine, and then Tom proceeded through the dining room.

“You are to be sitting here, please,” he said, gesturing at the table, and then pulling out a chair for Katherine. Katherine sat down, and Eduardo gracefully shoved her toward the table. Tom sat down in the remaining seat. Eduardo snapped the napkins open and placed them in the newcomers' laps.

“Oh, hello, you two!” said a young lady said already seated at their table. “Kiss, kiss. I hope you don’t mind sitting with us.”

“My, this is nice,” Katherine remarked politely. She sat quickly to hide her outfit under the table.

“Well, I’m Rosanna, and this is my Mike.” Rosanna wore a glittery evening gown that reflected the dining room’s red neon lights. Mike wore a tuxedo. Her huge hair was stacked and sprayed above her head. Mike sat coolly in his chair, and Rosanna rested her elbows on the white tablecloth, rubbing her hands together like a preying mantis. They sat adjacent to each other, almost leaning away from their shared corner.

“Hey,” said Mike, nodding at Tom.

“Good to meet you,” said Tom.

“To drink?” the waiter asked.

“We’ll both just have water,” Tom answered. Katherine looked down.

“Big drinkers, huh?” teased Rosanna, sipping her wine slowly. “Mike and I love a great wine with dinner. We couldn’t even taste the food without it. Isn’t that right, love?”

Mike muttered something into his menu.

“So what do you do for a living?” Tom asked, eager to change the subject.
            “Well, I’m a graduate student at NYU, and my Mike is an attorney. He works for a huge firm in Manhattan. They work him like a dog. It's just a good thing their clients have deep wallets,” Rosanna explained. “What about you?”

“I do construction—home remodeling, stuff like that.”

“Oh, how fun,” Rosanna remarked. “And what about you? Katherine, is it?”

“I stay at home. We’re going to have kids —”
“Stay home? Seriously! Stay at home? I don’t know how you do it!” Rosanna roared. She turned to Mike. “I would be so bored! I have to be taking classes all the time just to be marginally sane.”
Katherine looked down.

After a short eternity, dinner was served, and the foursome ate almost entirely in silence. Tom reached over and touched Katherine’s hand, and she smiled back.

After dinner, Tom and Katherine walked through the atrium and outside onto the deck. They were the only people outside, and it was getting dark. The cool ocean breeze whipped around them.

“I’m sorry, Katherine,” said Tom. “I wanted everything to be really nice.”

Katherine was choked up. “That’s okay. We’re doing our best.”

They turned the corner to walk down the length of the ship toward the stern, and the wind blew Katherine’s thin scarf over her head. It billowed in the air for a moment, then fell into a wad on the deck and slid along the wall. Tom chased after it, trying to step on a loose corner of fabric. At the back of the ship, the scarf wrapped itself around the railing and flapped violently above the wake. Tom ran faster, bending to grab the fabric, and bashed his head on the railing. He grabbed his head, and the scarf flew off the railing, flapping down in to the churning ocean.

Katherine caught up to Tom and examined his head. She saw that he was going to have a nasty bruise near his left temple. They sat down on the deck.

“What do you want to do?” asked Tom. He winced in pain.

“What? What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, do you want to go back to school or something like that?” Tom thought for a moment. “You know, I’ve never been book smart. That’s no secret. But you are.” He sighed. "I know how much you regret not finishing your degree."

Katherine looked at Tom. “You are so sweet. And smart. I think you are smart for understanding me so well. But school costs money. I can make do. Maybe I can pick up a job.”

“Well, if you want a job, why not get an education and get the job you want. There's a pair of blue scrubs calling your name.”

Tears flowed down Katherines cheeks. “But don’t you want kids soon?”

“Sure, but it can wait. I want you to be happy.” Tom was quiet. He looked down at his hands. “I just don’t make much. It’s hard for us to survive on my income. What would we do if we had a baby to feed?”

“I know. We’d make do.”

“You know what? You can do better,” said Tom. Tom stood up and helped Katherine to her feet. “This is the start of something great for you, something great for both of us. Agreed?”

Katherine hugged Tom. So much was suddenly perfect to her. She looked forward to the rest of her journey.

Excerpts: I Dreamed a Train

Flash Fiction: The Will

Nino Salerno pulled his old black Cadillac into the last spot in the parking lot and pulled the keys out of the ignition. He picked a cigar stub out of the ashtray and lit it with his fat fingers cupped around his mouth. He sat for a moment before puffing on the cigar, the warm orange glow highlighting the perspiration on his fat checks and forehead. Then he sat some more. 

When he couldn’t stand the cold any longer, he waddled through the snow toward the portico with the collar of his navy blue suit jacket flipped up. He flicked his smoldering cigar stub into the bushes before going inside.

“Salerno,” he told the man at the door, who gestured down the crowded hallway.

Nino pressed his way into the sea of black suits, black dresses, and black overcoats. Talking, laughing, hugging, and crying, relatives mingled all around him. A few people noticed him in the commotion but quickly turned away as he shuffled by.

Half way through the mob, an old woman hurried to block his forward progress. “Nicky!” she slowly warbled, clasping his face about his graying sideburns. She pinched one of his fat cheeks, taking a good look at him. “Oh, Nicky,” she continued. “All the way from Chicago tonight? I’m so sorry, honey. So sorry. You look good, honey.” He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, then slipped past her.

Nino approached a short man standing at the back of a side room. He recognized that it was his brother Marco by his soft baritone voice. Marco was speaking to three old men who eventually embraced him in turn before heading for a row of folding chairs. Nino stepped up greet to him.

“Hey,” said Marco, almost startled. “You made it. You OK?”

“Yeah, fine,” replied Nino. “How ‘bout you?”

“Hanging in there, you know.” Marco shook his head. “Pop would be so happy you came. You know, I thought you—no. You know what? It’s great to see you.” He hugged Nino, pounding him on the back four times before pushing away.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Nino assured. He paused. “I don’t wanna get into it now, but I was hoping. Did you’se get a chance to read pop’s—”

“Uncle Nick!” interrupted a young man who wrapped an arm around Nino’s waist.

“You remember my Anthony, don’t you?” asked Marco. “All grown up now, huh?”

“You bet,” said Nino, messing up the teen’s hair.

“Dad, can I take my new wheels for a spin with Tommy and Joe?” Anthony begged his father. “We’ll be back in a half hour—I swear.” Marco nodded and pointed at his watch.

“Already got your license, huh?” asked Nino. “That’s really something.”

“Yeah,” Anthony replied. “Dad let me get it after I worked with him at the terminal for a few months. And now I got a white Buick, too, thanks to Grandpa Salerno.”

Nino’s smile slowly vanished. He turned to face Marco. “So you did read it. Or what did you do—you just pass out his stuff?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Anthony stepped away from his uncle.

Marco looked around uncomfortably. “Well, you never really came around, you know?” he tried to explain. “Dad just didn’t see you all that much these days. You know what, let’s not do this now.”

Nino’s face went completely red. “What about the stuff he left for me?”

“Nick, please,” Marco pleaded in a hushed tone. “Please. Enough.”

“No, you tell me!” Nino bellowed. “I want to hear all about the house, the money, the cars—everything. You tell me now!”

All eyes were on the brothers. No one said a word.

Marco’s shoulders sank. “There was nothing left to you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Nino looked into his sad eyes and then scoffed. “OK. OK. I see the way it is,” he snarled, turning back into the hallway. “You lying piece of—”

Marco grabbed for his arm, but Nino swatted him away. Nino shoved past a few men in the hallway, threw the doors open, and stomped through the snow to his old Cadillac.

Cussing to himself, he had to turn the key in the ignition twice to get the engine to turn over. He pulled into the street with his headlights still off and started back for Chicago.

Work in progress: Chapter 1 from "Elliot"

1

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

Alone on the street, Elliot carefully stepped from sidewalk square to sidewalk square, slowly, carefully placing each foot on the ground in an awkward dance. Struggling with a heavy backpack, he lost his balance, leaning to the left with arms outstretched as one foot was still in the air. He jerked the other way, hopping sideways, looking behind himself. The cold wind howled around him, and he knew he wouldn’t make it home before dark. There was no rushing this careful journey.

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

Step on a—

A dog’s collar jingled from up a driveway, and Elliot slipped out of his trance. He swung his backpack around, clutching it in front of him. A black Labrador raced from behind a row off shrubs, barking and growling as it charged. Elliot raised his backpack, turning away from the jumping dog.

“Get down!” he screamed. “Get down! Get off me!” The dog growled and lunged.

“Samson!” a man bellowed. The dog jumped up one more time, then retreated up the driveway, where the man gave the dog a swat. “Sorry about that, kid. He doesn’t bite.”

Elliot’s right foot was partially stepping on a crack. He closed his eyes.

“Hey, kid,” the man called. “Samson didn’t getcha, did he?”

Elliot slid his offending foot forward, following it with his left foot. Then once again, he carefully placed his right foot on the next square.

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back.

Step on a crack…

* * *

            “We’re a bit late today, aren’t we,” asked Elliot’s father. He sipped his coffee and then set the mug next to his plate. “I worry about you, you know.”

            Elliot took off his coat and hung it on the peg next to the door, sliding the loop beneath the label and inch over the hook. He hung his backpack on the peg next to the door and then slipped out of his shoes, slid them against the wall with his feet. He ducked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and lathered his hands.

            “Elliot,” his dad called. “Can we talk for a minute. Please.”

            Clean and safe.

            Clean and safe.           

            Elliot rinsed the soap off and lathered up again. The soap stung his cracked hands as he worked the soap between each finger, both sides of his hands, his wrists, and almost up to his elbows. His rinsed his hands like a surgeon, the water rolled down his arms to the elbows. The hot water stung his cold hands, and then the warmth somehow felt good. It was as if he was washing the coldness off his red flesh.

            “Elliott,” his dad called again, “come on.”

            One more time, Elliott lathered his hands, finger by finger, left hand then right hand, quickly, but methodically. After a few moments, he was interrupted by his dad’s hand resting on his shoulder.

            “You’re hands are clean now,” his dad whispered. “Now stop, buddy. Stop.” Elliott let the hot water wash away the last of the suds, watching the water swirl down the drain.

“I have something that we need to talk about.”

            Elliott turned away. “Not now.”

            “OK, fine,” his dad relented. “Then tomorrow morning? Tomorrow at dinner? Just tell me when.”

            “Tomorrow. After school.”

            “Good,” said his dad. “Then our appointment is set.” He messed up Elliott’s hair, forcing him into a headlock. “I love you, you know. I want the best for you.”

            “I love you, too, dad,” Elliot replied. “Now let me go.”

* * *

            “Hey, El.” She smiled.

            “Hey,” he replied.

            She plopped down next to him and slid her lunch bag across the table. “Sticky today,” she observed. She studied his face for a moment. “Is that what’s on your mind.”

            “No, not really,” he said as he wiped his hands up and down his shirt. “This whole school is disgusting. I wish they’d keep it clean.”

            “It would never be clean enough for you,” she said. “Not if they scrubbed it for a thousand years!”

            “Shut up, Ann.”

            “Oh, come on,” she retorted with a playful smile. “You know it’s true. I’m not trying to give you a hard time.”

            “Well, it’s not that, anyway.”

            “OK, then what’s the problem today?”

            Elliot frowned and stared down at his sandwich. “My dad wants to talk to me.”

            “So talk to him.”

            “You don’t get how serious this is.”

            “El,” she reasoned. “Your mom died. It’s hard on him. And it’s hard on you. You have each other. Talk to him.” She started to eat her sandwich.

            He looked down, then away. Tears welled up in his eyes. “He wants us to move.”

            “Oh.” She put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t move. “Why? Why does he want you guys to go? For work? Because the house reminds him too much of your mom?”

            “I don’t know! I guess for all of that--I don’t know.” His jaw clenched. “I just don’t want to leave.”

            “Is he sure? I mean, is he just checking with you to see if you even want to go?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know.”

“Well, I don’t want you to go either. Who else is going to drive me crazy?” she smiled. “So do you want to—“ The bell rang, and the crowd swelled around them. “Oh, I gotta finish some stuff before next class! I work so well under pressure.” She grabbed her bag and turned to leave.

“I hope you have a very productive five minutes,” he said. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Me, too! Always do, you know.”

            Elliot slung his own backpack over his shoulder. Keeping as much distance from the people walking beside him as possible, he tossed the rest of his lunch into a garbage can and funneled with the crowd out of the cafeteria.

            All around him, kids were joking, pushing, laughing, talking, and even kissing. They looked happy, angry, upset, and in love. Gum on the floor, step around a Bandaid, wrappers. Paper and more paper. Wadded Kleenex near his right shoe. He couldn’t see the perfect rows of closed locker doors behind the commotion.

            Finally, down the math hallway, he came to locker 524. It looked like all the other lockers, except for the remains of some now-blackened gum just to the right of the latch. His hands began to work the combination lock almost automatically.

            10-26-17.

Nothing. The hallway was beginning to clear.

Oh, come on. 10-26-17.

With the click of a mechanism, the locker door opened. Math, history, science, tech—the books in a row on the floor of the locker. No English book. He looked on the top shelf. Kevin’s books. No English book at all. Come, on. Come, on.

His mind swirled with worry. Where was the book? Did Kevin lose the book? The he put the book in the locker this morning? Is the book at home? A thousand questions at once.

He had to get to class. No more tardies, or his grade would suffer. Have to check the books.

Math, history, science, English, tech.

Math, history, science, English, tech.

Math, history, science, English, tech.

Math, history, science—

* * *