The Feeling of Running by Mitchell Toews
Matthew visits a friend in Saskatchewan to get away from his troubled mother, and on the way back he encounters some trouble on the train from conductor Murphy and passenger Eddie.
"Now, Matthew, here's a special surprise... There's a teen dance party at a cabin by the lake near town," Mrs. Dannard says.
I say I'm shy about going. She says we'll talk about it tomorrow. So I have to go. Crap.
It's the first day of my visit to my friend Craig in Saskatchewan and I'm nervous and feel out of place. The Dannards moved here from Manitoba this spring when Craig's dad was transferred by the bank.
I got here by train, by myself. I made it without any trouble. That night, I lie in the top bunk in Craig's room watching moths butt against the streetlight. Some are as big as a small bird. The farmers' fields come right to the edge of town, a waist-high border of green and gold. With his voice coming out of the dark below me, Craig recites the whole Regina defence. I reply with the Winnipeg Blue Bombers' starting offence.
I tell him about my mom and what happened a few weeks ago.
"She was having some drinks in the backyard, you know. Gin..."
"Smells like Christmas trees," he says.
"Yeah, yeah. And I forgot or whatever - put off - mowing the lawn, and she was pissed. She quit suntanning after a while and put on a, like a beach cover-up thing and runners, and she told me if I wasn't responsible there were consequences. She told me to make better choices."
"Oh, boy."
"I know, eh? Then she walked my bike to the cop shop and turned it in."
"No way!"
"She did so! She told them it was an abandoned bike."
"Why'd she do that? Because of the lawnmowing?"
"I don't know, other stuff too, probably, but mostly the mowing. The gin didn't help either."
Craig's quiet for a while. Then he clucks his tongue and says, "Well, that's weird, but I sure like your mom. Your dad too. They're so funny, and your mom is like this tiny person who can act so tough and she doesn't back down at all. My mom really likes her. She always says, 'Justy Zehen has those eyes, those wrath-of-God eyes, I swear!'"
"Yeah, I know. Tell me about it. Dad got my bike back. He says Mom sometimes gets something like a hormone attack or whatever. People in town know about her 'spells.' I'm sure the cops knew the bike wasn't abandoned. A few days after that whole mess her and Dad said I could come here for a visit."
I can't sleep, too restless. I'm worried about the dance party and I'm tired from the train and I have ideas spinning in my head, over and over. My mom and her spells. Dad has the same thing but he calls it "the blues" or mostly doesn't talk about it. I can still see his face when we were coming home with my bike in the back of the station wagon. In a trance; didn't even put on his blinkers when he turned onto our street - swerving, squealing the tires, staring dead ahead.
Gravel crunches. Brakes creak. Patio lanterns swing in the wind. Mrs. Dannard swivels around in her seat and smiles her friendly smile. "Now, young man! The dance party'll be such fun for you. Come on! Craig will introduce you."
A small group of teenagers gathers around the car. I am surrounded.
No guts, no glory, I tell myself, but it doesn't help. It feels like everything is rushing at me. Before I can slow things down in my head I sling the door open and dive out and run as fast as I can down the sandy lane. Mrs. Dannard shouts my name as I bolt from the car.
I don't know where I'll run, but it doesn't matter. It's only the feeling of running that I want - the sense that at least I'm doing something besides waiting for things to turn awful. So I run.
There's a row of boxelders ahead and a distant hill beyond. I reach a barbed wire fence and rip my shirt when I shimmy under. There's no going back now. I know I'm acting like a little kid. I get to the hill and pant up the incline, whelmed in tall switchgrass. Killdeers announce my arrival.
On the hilltop, I watch the spreading dusk draw long curving shadows on the prairie and the little puddle of a lake. It feels like I have outrun everything, even the bedlam in my head. From my perch, I can see the lanterns jigging in the breeze and Mrs. Dannard on the road, tapping her brakes every few seconds. There's Craig too, at the head of a kid's search party that snakes the shoreline, single file like soldiers on patrol.
Craig punches me on the shoulder and I do the same to him and put my foot up on the step. I'm standing next to him on the platform. The air is fragrant with the pungent tang of machine oil and a dull ticking sound comes from under the train car. My visit in Saskatchewan is over.
"Bombers suck," Craig says with a smirk.
"Roughriders are pussies," I whisper back.
Inside, it's like an old Western once we get rolling, except it's 1970 and the engine doesn't chuff-chuff-chuff but the cars still rock and sway. The prairie seen through the window glass is tinted beige, bright yellow where the sun glints off the side of a hill.
The conductor - Murphy, his name badge reads - explains: "See there, how people hang their seat tag on the string that comes with it? From that button on the side of their seat? It's so I can wake you up when the train gets to your stop." I nod and keep quiet even though I already know about this.
"Don't worry, sonny, you're a young one to be travelling alone. I'll keep an eye on you like I always do."
Some young people with long hair and bright-coloured clothes board the train in Swift Current. A tall man in a train uniform helps them, slinging their bags into the overhead bin with ease. There are three boys and four girls. Hippies? One of the girls makes a fuss over me, saying how I am "adorable" and stuff like that. I don't mind much but I'm not that much younger than them, despite how I look.
I have a seat that reclines and my window opens. Plus there is extra leg space.
When the group comes back from the diner car the two biggest guys come over and tell me they want to trade seats.
"I don't think we're supposed to."
"We ain't asking. Move it, kid," one of them says. He looks older than the rest and has the name "Donna" tattooed on his forearm. A girlfriend?
I move my suitcase to their seats and one of the girls tries to give me a hug but I step aside and go further down the aisle. The car is nearly empty and I move to the back.
After a while I fall asleep and when I wake up one of them is playing a guitar and the girls are singing and braiding each others' hair with flowers. I remember about my seat tag which I'd forgotten to bring along. I sit for a while and then go up to get it, but it's gone. One of their tags hangs in its place.
"My tag was here," I say, touching the button.
"Screw off," the tattoo guy says and gives me a kick - he slides his boot against my runner and I stumble a bit.
As I sit back down, Mr. Murphy goes by me and stops to speak to the hippies. The girls are quiet but the guys give him some lip. He comes back down the aisle and bends forward to whisper to me.
"Don't worry, sonny, I'll wake you. Winnie-peg, right? I never forget. I guarantee it. You give me a dollar and I'll make sure you're awake and I'll help with your bags too."
I wait a few seconds. I can feel my face and neck getting warm. Like when I walked down off the hill after Craig and his dad finally found me that night. I look at the hippies.
"It's not my fault. That "Donna" guy - there's a tattoo on his arm - he took my ticket off my chair. I bet he threw it out the window."
"Eh?" Murphy looks annoyed and glances at the hippies. The tattoo guy lights a cigarette and watches us through slitted eyes.
"He should pay you that dollar, Mr. Murphy. Not me. Can't you get the dollar from him?"
"No dollar, no wake-up call, kid."
"No. I... I had a long nap." I stop, a bit flustered. "I mean, I'll stay awake. You don't have to do nothing." I say it wrong on purpose. Makes me sound older. "Besides, I like to look outside and see the cars waiting at the crossings."
"Kid, you're starting to get me a little annoyed here." He reaches down and snakes his long fingers around my arm. "Now, give me the dollar and everything goes back to where it was. I can even get you your old seat back if you want. Two dollars for that, mind you."
Just then the Donna-tattoo hippie comes up with a face like stone and says something in the conductor's ear. Murphy whips his head around, lets go of my arm and says, "We're gonna see about that!" and takes off.
"My name's Eddie," the guy says, blowing blue smoke out of his nostrils. He plops down across the aisle from me and starts talking. He's wearing cowboy boots and there's a gold chain around his neck. His accent sounds odd and he says he's from Red Deer.
"I got a buddy in the Peg, eh? Gonna crash with him for the rest of the summer then back home to play hockey. I'm no hippie. The rest of em' are," he says, waving in their direction. "They're all from Toronto or somewhere down there."
I'm skeptical, thinking of the kick he gave me. But better a friend than an enemy? It feels like I have to choose between him and Murphy.
"I'm Matt."
"Well, okay, Matt. We got some hours left to go. About a hundred little shit-ass towns between here and there. Sorry I was mean to you back there, you know. I'm sick of that bunch of losers is how come. Made me owly."
I shake my head and smile. Eddie is quiet for a few minutes. He takes long draws from his cigarette and blows smoke rings.
As Eddie predicted, there are lots of stops. I fall asleep again. I wake up with a start and he is beside me, in the seat against the window. His hand is resting on my leg. The train is moving fast and I can see the faintest line of light ahead of us on the flat horizon. Eddie notices me stirring.
"That's either the sunrise or the lights of the city," he whispers. "Maybe both."
I can smell his cigarette breath. With a jerk I sit up suddenly and his hand falls off. The others in his group are all asleep. The car is dark. His hand slides back onto my lap - worse now than before.
"Hey, Matt. I been thinking. To make up for what I did there, when I was rough to you or whatever..."
My mouth is dry. I need to go and I'm confused from just waking up. Mostly I'm scared and know something bad is happening but don't quite know what. I try to push his hand away, but he stiffens his grip and I can't move it. His fingers clamp on my leg.
I try to speak but as in a dream I cannot. There is no air, and I'm afraid that whatever I say, it will be the wrong thing. I want to jump up and run. But I can't - he's grabbing my leg ten times tighter than Murphy had held my arm.
"Any problem here? You got a hippie issue, sonny?" Murphy's voice is low and sly. I see his bristled chin in front of me, and a flashlight flicks on suddenly and shines in Eddie's face. Murphy grins a yellow-tooth slash. His eyes are cold and they lock on Eddie's. A tall man in a train uniform crowds in. His legs push against mine and he holds something dark in one hand. He shows it to Eddie and whispers to him, hissing.
We pass a crossing, and the bells shriek and then quickly recede.
Eddie recoils, releasing his grip on me and putting his hand up to protect his face.
"Guess what? Your stop is next," Murphy says to Eddie, his voice deep. "You're gonna disembark in Portage la Prairie, in a few minutes. Am I right? Or would you prefer a welcoming committee in Winnipeg instead? Some of my buddies there, they'd like to meet you. Show you the train yard, give you a tour."
Eddie inhales. His eyes dart back and forth between the tall man and Murphy. He stares at the tall man's hand, at the black weapon in the clenched fist.
"I'll get off in Portage."
"Like I thought," the man whispers. He taps the back of the seat with the heavy black thing. It's a blackjack, like in old gangster movies.
"Floyd, why don't you and our friend here get his bag and wait for me in the next car back? I'll be right along."
The two of them leave and I breathe again.
"Well, sonny," Murphy says, his voice like running water. "What do you know about that? What did you learn?"
I shake my head.
"Okay, so, I liked it when you stood up to me and all. About the dollar. That was alright... felt to me like you had it covered, handled it well. You get me? I'm all for that. And, you know, you'll get better at reading people. I mean, I came on too strong and I shoulda done things different. I apologize."
"Thanks. And I'm sorry too. I do have a dollar for you..."
"No, no. Don't worry. This one's on me, sonny-boy. I'm sure glad I got Floyd to hang out with me and keep an eye on you. I seen that yellow-haired bugger sitting next to you and figured he was worth watching. Like I said, reading people. Become an expert, kiddo. A real expert. But right now, I gotta go with Floyd. Help him show that boy the exit when we get to Portage. He can hitchhike from there. You relax now. You won't see him no more."
The sun is about to rise. It's light enough to make out some details - deer on a sand bar in the Assiniboine as we cross. There are grouse in the fields, two ducks landing on a slough and making parallel vee-wakes on the pond's silver surface.
I wonder for a long time about that Eddie guy. What was true? Donna? Hockey? Who knows?
It's getting light out. I rub sleep out of my eyes. In my head, I imagine my mom walking to the cop-shop in Hartplatz to drop off my bike. She's kind of wobbly and wearing that terrycloth cover-up and I feel shitty about it. I see it play out, her walking the bike, a car slows down, the driver stares. I'm sad for her. Not mad about the bike, I don't care about that. I'm ashamed too. Of her. I don't want to be but I am. Plus, I don't like the idea of the police secretly laughing at her, at her pool coverup and drunk face and stumbling gait.
"You're more than the worst thing you ever did," Mom said to me once. It was after I threw a rock through Old Man Kroeker's window. I did it on a dare and I felt so bad when he came and knocked on the door and asked for fourteen dollars. My mom paid him and never told my dad about it. She told me, "I covered it with my sewing money," and winked. Mom did not sew.
I see an airplane far ahead, taking off, lights blinking. We're nearing Winnipeg and the sun is coming up. The jet rises steadily and banks to the west, where Eddie is from or so he says. He made friends with me but for his own reasons. And why was he hanging out with those hippies, anyway? If that's even what they are. Was he trying to get something from them? Probably.
Part of me feels like I should have hit Eddie in his stupid face, should have punched him in the mouth for putting his hand on me. That was wrong. Should have stuck up for myself. Sometimes you have to. But when?
This train is not like our small town where everyone learns to act the same. And when someone doesn't, like my mom with the bike - it stands out and people get confused and upset.
I wonder about Murphy, too... I thought he was nothing but a cheat, trying to get a dollar from me; from a kid. What kind of person does that? And yet, he and Floyd watched over me as I slept. They didn't have to. They are adults and know the things they're supposed to.
I remember Mr. Dannard, on the hill overlooking the lake as we walked down through the tall grass that swayed in the night wind. I can still feel it brushing my arms; smell the earthy scent. "All this is our secret, Matty. Don't worry. Try to hold off next time you feel this way. Hang in there, you know? We all feel like that sometime - want to run away like you did. It's okay. That panicky feeling passes."
I stare out at the prairie through the window; the low sunlight makes me close my eyes and the sun's image persists, an orange blur. When I open my eyes, Floyd is beside me.
"'Bout twenty minutes to Winnipeg." He nods, and hands me an Aero chocolate bar and continues forward towards the hippie group sprawled out on the recliner seats. He stands near them up front and watches as they wake up in the flat, hard light of the sunrise.
I tear the wrapper and break off a piece of chocolate. It melts on my tongue and it's so sweet my teeth hurt.
The pretty dark-haired girl wakes up and stretches. She squints ahead into the rising sun and sees Floyd. With a shake of her hair she stands. She crosses her arms to hug herself and looks back at me. Then, pigeon-toed and yawning, she wanders down the aisle.
"Have you seen Fast Eddie? You know, the blonde guy? He was sitting with you last night."
"Fast Eddie, eh? Yes. They threw him off the train in Portage."
"What? Why would they?" she says, her voice high-pitched. Floyd's sentry gaze rests on us.
"He's... He's an ass, is why. But you already know that."
She pouts and shakes her head. "Well... look at you. Growing up." She laughs without humour. "He's an ass, all right. Capital A. But he was gonna buy me breakfast. Oh, well. No great loss."
"Here," I say, shoving the remainder of the chocolate bar at her.
"Thanks. Better than nothing." She slides it into her jeans pocket. Pivoting, she sidles back to the group, now waking up like puppies in a basket.
"You take care," she says with a quick glance as she passes Floyd, who is heading back my way.
The train races through a level crossing, the clang of the bells rising and fading as we speed by. A single pick-up truck idles on the gravel road. Whitish, a thread of exhaust smoke climbs slowly from the tailpipe and the flashing lights give it a pink glow.
"Here, for the candy," I say to Floyd, and pull a quarter from my pocket, in case that's why he was back.
"Nah. My treat. Sorry for what happened with that blonde guy. But he's long gone and I got him." He taps his head. "He's in the file drawer. He won't ride this train no more. Plus, he got himself a thick lip. Murphy made sure about that."
Like Murphy said about reading people - it sure seems hard.
"I guess you had to do that... Hurt that guy, I mean?"
"Why, what would you have done?"
"I don't know, exactly. Put him somewhere else on the train?"
"So he could pull the same stunt again, some other time? Nah, kid. Look, it's best to show him the hard way, but not go overboard - a little forget-me-not, like Murphy says."
"Would you call the police?"
"Not for what happened," he says quickly. It's like he wanted to say more, but he cricks his neck, and says, "Well, I have to get ready for arrival. You did good, all considered. Hope to see you again."
Winnipeg. I get off, go through the glass doors into the terminal. The ceiling is a mile high. Mom and Dad are there, looking small in the oversized room. Dad is wearing his tweed car coat. Mom hugs me. She smells like soap and clean clothes.
"How was it?"
"Fun. Great. Hey, I thought Uncle Barney was supposed to pick me up?"
"Oh, you know," Dad says. "Change of plans is all. Besides, we missed you. Hungry?"
"Starved."
"There's a new restaurant a block away. We can get you some pancakes there. Sound good?"
"I could use some coffee!" Mom says, resting her small hand on my shoulder and guiding me. We are in a crowd. Mom, Dad and I moving slowly toward the exit. I think back to Murphy's grip on my arm. Taxis line the curb lane. I'm glad to be home.
Outside, Dad reaches to carry my bag but I say it's okay. His keys jingle and he unlatches the car doors, Mom's first. "How're the Dannards?' he asks and guns the engine to life.
"All good. Mr. Dannard won $25 at bingo one night."
"Wow. Big night in Saskatchewan, sounds like."
We all laugh. Mom shoots me a warm smile, and I return it.
"So, that was it? That's the highlight? No other adventures to report?" Mom says with a wink.
"Nah, that's pretty much it," I say. "You know - I had it covered."
 |
| Image generated with OpenAI |
I say I'm shy about going. She says we'll talk about it tomorrow. So I have to go. Crap.
It's the first day of my visit to my friend Craig in Saskatchewan and I'm nervous and feel out of place. The Dannards moved here from Manitoba this spring when Craig's dad was transferred by the bank.
I got here by train, by myself. I made it without any trouble. That night, I lie in the top bunk in Craig's room watching moths butt against the streetlight. Some are as big as a small bird. The farmers' fields come right to the edge of town, a waist-high border of green and gold. With his voice coming out of the dark below me, Craig recites the whole Regina defence. I reply with the Winnipeg Blue Bombers' starting offence.
I tell him about my mom and what happened a few weeks ago.
"She was having some drinks in the backyard, you know. Gin..."
"Smells like Christmas trees," he says.
"Yeah, yeah. And I forgot or whatever - put off - mowing the lawn, and she was pissed. She quit suntanning after a while and put on a, like a beach cover-up thing and runners, and she told me if I wasn't responsible there were consequences. She told me to make better choices."
"Oh, boy."
"I know, eh? Then she walked my bike to the cop shop and turned it in."
"No way!"
"She did so! She told them it was an abandoned bike."
"Why'd she do that? Because of the lawnmowing?"
"I don't know, other stuff too, probably, but mostly the mowing. The gin didn't help either."
Craig's quiet for a while. Then he clucks his tongue and says, "Well, that's weird, but I sure like your mom. Your dad too. They're so funny, and your mom is like this tiny person who can act so tough and she doesn't back down at all. My mom really likes her. She always says, 'Justy Zehen has those eyes, those wrath-of-God eyes, I swear!'"
"Yeah, I know. Tell me about it. Dad got my bike back. He says Mom sometimes gets something like a hormone attack or whatever. People in town know about her 'spells.' I'm sure the cops knew the bike wasn't abandoned. A few days after that whole mess her and Dad said I could come here for a visit."
I can't sleep, too restless. I'm worried about the dance party and I'm tired from the train and I have ideas spinning in my head, over and over. My mom and her spells. Dad has the same thing but he calls it "the blues" or mostly doesn't talk about it. I can still see his face when we were coming home with my bike in the back of the station wagon. In a trance; didn't even put on his blinkers when he turned onto our street - swerving, squealing the tires, staring dead ahead.
Gravel crunches. Brakes creak. Patio lanterns swing in the wind. Mrs. Dannard swivels around in her seat and smiles her friendly smile. "Now, young man! The dance party'll be such fun for you. Come on! Craig will introduce you."
A small group of teenagers gathers around the car. I am surrounded.
No guts, no glory, I tell myself, but it doesn't help. It feels like everything is rushing at me. Before I can slow things down in my head I sling the door open and dive out and run as fast as I can down the sandy lane. Mrs. Dannard shouts my name as I bolt from the car.
I don't know where I'll run, but it doesn't matter. It's only the feeling of running that I want - the sense that at least I'm doing something besides waiting for things to turn awful. So I run.
There's a row of boxelders ahead and a distant hill beyond. I reach a barbed wire fence and rip my shirt when I shimmy under. There's no going back now. I know I'm acting like a little kid. I get to the hill and pant up the incline, whelmed in tall switchgrass. Killdeers announce my arrival.
On the hilltop, I watch the spreading dusk draw long curving shadows on the prairie and the little puddle of a lake. It feels like I have outrun everything, even the bedlam in my head. From my perch, I can see the lanterns jigging in the breeze and Mrs. Dannard on the road, tapping her brakes every few seconds. There's Craig too, at the head of a kid's search party that snakes the shoreline, single file like soldiers on patrol.
Craig punches me on the shoulder and I do the same to him and put my foot up on the step. I'm standing next to him on the platform. The air is fragrant with the pungent tang of machine oil and a dull ticking sound comes from under the train car. My visit in Saskatchewan is over.
"Bombers suck," Craig says with a smirk.
"Roughriders are pussies," I whisper back.
Inside, it's like an old Western once we get rolling, except it's 1970 and the engine doesn't chuff-chuff-chuff but the cars still rock and sway. The prairie seen through the window glass is tinted beige, bright yellow where the sun glints off the side of a hill.
The conductor - Murphy, his name badge reads - explains: "See there, how people hang their seat tag on the string that comes with it? From that button on the side of their seat? It's so I can wake you up when the train gets to your stop." I nod and keep quiet even though I already know about this.
"Don't worry, sonny, you're a young one to be travelling alone. I'll keep an eye on you like I always do."
Some young people with long hair and bright-coloured clothes board the train in Swift Current. A tall man in a train uniform helps them, slinging their bags into the overhead bin with ease. There are three boys and four girls. Hippies? One of the girls makes a fuss over me, saying how I am "adorable" and stuff like that. I don't mind much but I'm not that much younger than them, despite how I look.
I have a seat that reclines and my window opens. Plus there is extra leg space.
When the group comes back from the diner car the two biggest guys come over and tell me they want to trade seats.
"I don't think we're supposed to."
"We ain't asking. Move it, kid," one of them says. He looks older than the rest and has the name "Donna" tattooed on his forearm. A girlfriend?
I move my suitcase to their seats and one of the girls tries to give me a hug but I step aside and go further down the aisle. The car is nearly empty and I move to the back.
After a while I fall asleep and when I wake up one of them is playing a guitar and the girls are singing and braiding each others' hair with flowers. I remember about my seat tag which I'd forgotten to bring along. I sit for a while and then go up to get it, but it's gone. One of their tags hangs in its place.
"My tag was here," I say, touching the button.
"Screw off," the tattoo guy says and gives me a kick - he slides his boot against my runner and I stumble a bit.
As I sit back down, Mr. Murphy goes by me and stops to speak to the hippies. The girls are quiet but the guys give him some lip. He comes back down the aisle and bends forward to whisper to me.
"Don't worry, sonny, I'll wake you. Winnie-peg, right? I never forget. I guarantee it. You give me a dollar and I'll make sure you're awake and I'll help with your bags too."
I wait a few seconds. I can feel my face and neck getting warm. Like when I walked down off the hill after Craig and his dad finally found me that night. I look at the hippies.
"It's not my fault. That "Donna" guy - there's a tattoo on his arm - he took my ticket off my chair. I bet he threw it out the window."
"Eh?" Murphy looks annoyed and glances at the hippies. The tattoo guy lights a cigarette and watches us through slitted eyes.
"He should pay you that dollar, Mr. Murphy. Not me. Can't you get the dollar from him?"
"No dollar, no wake-up call, kid."
"No. I... I had a long nap." I stop, a bit flustered. "I mean, I'll stay awake. You don't have to do nothing." I say it wrong on purpose. Makes me sound older. "Besides, I like to look outside and see the cars waiting at the crossings."
"Kid, you're starting to get me a little annoyed here." He reaches down and snakes his long fingers around my arm. "Now, give me the dollar and everything goes back to where it was. I can even get you your old seat back if you want. Two dollars for that, mind you."
Just then the Donna-tattoo hippie comes up with a face like stone and says something in the conductor's ear. Murphy whips his head around, lets go of my arm and says, "We're gonna see about that!" and takes off.
"My name's Eddie," the guy says, blowing blue smoke out of his nostrils. He plops down across the aisle from me and starts talking. He's wearing cowboy boots and there's a gold chain around his neck. His accent sounds odd and he says he's from Red Deer.
"I got a buddy in the Peg, eh? Gonna crash with him for the rest of the summer then back home to play hockey. I'm no hippie. The rest of em' are," he says, waving in their direction. "They're all from Toronto or somewhere down there."
I'm skeptical, thinking of the kick he gave me. But better a friend than an enemy? It feels like I have to choose between him and Murphy.
"I'm Matt."
"Well, okay, Matt. We got some hours left to go. About a hundred little shit-ass towns between here and there. Sorry I was mean to you back there, you know. I'm sick of that bunch of losers is how come. Made me owly."
I shake my head and smile. Eddie is quiet for a few minutes. He takes long draws from his cigarette and blows smoke rings.
As Eddie predicted, there are lots of stops. I fall asleep again. I wake up with a start and he is beside me, in the seat against the window. His hand is resting on my leg. The train is moving fast and I can see the faintest line of light ahead of us on the flat horizon. Eddie notices me stirring.
"That's either the sunrise or the lights of the city," he whispers. "Maybe both."
I can smell his cigarette breath. With a jerk I sit up suddenly and his hand falls off. The others in his group are all asleep. The car is dark. His hand slides back onto my lap - worse now than before.
"Hey, Matt. I been thinking. To make up for what I did there, when I was rough to you or whatever..."
My mouth is dry. I need to go and I'm confused from just waking up. Mostly I'm scared and know something bad is happening but don't quite know what. I try to push his hand away, but he stiffens his grip and I can't move it. His fingers clamp on my leg.
I try to speak but as in a dream I cannot. There is no air, and I'm afraid that whatever I say, it will be the wrong thing. I want to jump up and run. But I can't - he's grabbing my leg ten times tighter than Murphy had held my arm.
"Any problem here? You got a hippie issue, sonny?" Murphy's voice is low and sly. I see his bristled chin in front of me, and a flashlight flicks on suddenly and shines in Eddie's face. Murphy grins a yellow-tooth slash. His eyes are cold and they lock on Eddie's. A tall man in a train uniform crowds in. His legs push against mine and he holds something dark in one hand. He shows it to Eddie and whispers to him, hissing.
We pass a crossing, and the bells shriek and then quickly recede.
Eddie recoils, releasing his grip on me and putting his hand up to protect his face.
"Guess what? Your stop is next," Murphy says to Eddie, his voice deep. "You're gonna disembark in Portage la Prairie, in a few minutes. Am I right? Or would you prefer a welcoming committee in Winnipeg instead? Some of my buddies there, they'd like to meet you. Show you the train yard, give you a tour."
Eddie inhales. His eyes dart back and forth between the tall man and Murphy. He stares at the tall man's hand, at the black weapon in the clenched fist.
"I'll get off in Portage."
"Like I thought," the man whispers. He taps the back of the seat with the heavy black thing. It's a blackjack, like in old gangster movies.
"Floyd, why don't you and our friend here get his bag and wait for me in the next car back? I'll be right along."
The two of them leave and I breathe again.
"Well, sonny," Murphy says, his voice like running water. "What do you know about that? What did you learn?"
I shake my head.
"Okay, so, I liked it when you stood up to me and all. About the dollar. That was alright... felt to me like you had it covered, handled it well. You get me? I'm all for that. And, you know, you'll get better at reading people. I mean, I came on too strong and I shoulda done things different. I apologize."
"Thanks. And I'm sorry too. I do have a dollar for you..."
"No, no. Don't worry. This one's on me, sonny-boy. I'm sure glad I got Floyd to hang out with me and keep an eye on you. I seen that yellow-haired bugger sitting next to you and figured he was worth watching. Like I said, reading people. Become an expert, kiddo. A real expert. But right now, I gotta go with Floyd. Help him show that boy the exit when we get to Portage. He can hitchhike from there. You relax now. You won't see him no more."
The sun is about to rise. It's light enough to make out some details - deer on a sand bar in the Assiniboine as we cross. There are grouse in the fields, two ducks landing on a slough and making parallel vee-wakes on the pond's silver surface.
I wonder for a long time about that Eddie guy. What was true? Donna? Hockey? Who knows?
It's getting light out. I rub sleep out of my eyes. In my head, I imagine my mom walking to the cop-shop in Hartplatz to drop off my bike. She's kind of wobbly and wearing that terrycloth cover-up and I feel shitty about it. I see it play out, her walking the bike, a car slows down, the driver stares. I'm sad for her. Not mad about the bike, I don't care about that. I'm ashamed too. Of her. I don't want to be but I am. Plus, I don't like the idea of the police secretly laughing at her, at her pool coverup and drunk face and stumbling gait.
"You're more than the worst thing you ever did," Mom said to me once. It was after I threw a rock through Old Man Kroeker's window. I did it on a dare and I felt so bad when he came and knocked on the door and asked for fourteen dollars. My mom paid him and never told my dad about it. She told me, "I covered it with my sewing money," and winked. Mom did not sew.
I see an airplane far ahead, taking off, lights blinking. We're nearing Winnipeg and the sun is coming up. The jet rises steadily and banks to the west, where Eddie is from or so he says. He made friends with me but for his own reasons. And why was he hanging out with those hippies, anyway? If that's even what they are. Was he trying to get something from them? Probably.
Part of me feels like I should have hit Eddie in his stupid face, should have punched him in the mouth for putting his hand on me. That was wrong. Should have stuck up for myself. Sometimes you have to. But when?
This train is not like our small town where everyone learns to act the same. And when someone doesn't, like my mom with the bike - it stands out and people get confused and upset.
I wonder about Murphy, too... I thought he was nothing but a cheat, trying to get a dollar from me; from a kid. What kind of person does that? And yet, he and Floyd watched over me as I slept. They didn't have to. They are adults and know the things they're supposed to.
I remember Mr. Dannard, on the hill overlooking the lake as we walked down through the tall grass that swayed in the night wind. I can still feel it brushing my arms; smell the earthy scent. "All this is our secret, Matty. Don't worry. Try to hold off next time you feel this way. Hang in there, you know? We all feel like that sometime - want to run away like you did. It's okay. That panicky feeling passes."
I stare out at the prairie through the window; the low sunlight makes me close my eyes and the sun's image persists, an orange blur. When I open my eyes, Floyd is beside me.
"'Bout twenty minutes to Winnipeg." He nods, and hands me an Aero chocolate bar and continues forward towards the hippie group sprawled out on the recliner seats. He stands near them up front and watches as they wake up in the flat, hard light of the sunrise.
I tear the wrapper and break off a piece of chocolate. It melts on my tongue and it's so sweet my teeth hurt.
The pretty dark-haired girl wakes up and stretches. She squints ahead into the rising sun and sees Floyd. With a shake of her hair she stands. She crosses her arms to hug herself and looks back at me. Then, pigeon-toed and yawning, she wanders down the aisle.
"Have you seen Fast Eddie? You know, the blonde guy? He was sitting with you last night."
"Fast Eddie, eh? Yes. They threw him off the train in Portage."
"What? Why would they?" she says, her voice high-pitched. Floyd's sentry gaze rests on us.
"He's... He's an ass, is why. But you already know that."
She pouts and shakes her head. "Well... look at you. Growing up." She laughs without humour. "He's an ass, all right. Capital A. But he was gonna buy me breakfast. Oh, well. No great loss."
"Here," I say, shoving the remainder of the chocolate bar at her.
"Thanks. Better than nothing." She slides it into her jeans pocket. Pivoting, she sidles back to the group, now waking up like puppies in a basket.
"You take care," she says with a quick glance as she passes Floyd, who is heading back my way.
The train races through a level crossing, the clang of the bells rising and fading as we speed by. A single pick-up truck idles on the gravel road. Whitish, a thread of exhaust smoke climbs slowly from the tailpipe and the flashing lights give it a pink glow.
"Here, for the candy," I say to Floyd, and pull a quarter from my pocket, in case that's why he was back.
"Nah. My treat. Sorry for what happened with that blonde guy. But he's long gone and I got him." He taps his head. "He's in the file drawer. He won't ride this train no more. Plus, he got himself a thick lip. Murphy made sure about that."
Like Murphy said about reading people - it sure seems hard.
"I guess you had to do that... Hurt that guy, I mean?"
"Why, what would you have done?"
"I don't know, exactly. Put him somewhere else on the train?"
"So he could pull the same stunt again, some other time? Nah, kid. Look, it's best to show him the hard way, but not go overboard - a little forget-me-not, like Murphy says."
"Would you call the police?"
"Not for what happened," he says quickly. It's like he wanted to say more, but he cricks his neck, and says, "Well, I have to get ready for arrival. You did good, all considered. Hope to see you again."
Winnipeg. I get off, go through the glass doors into the terminal. The ceiling is a mile high. Mom and Dad are there, looking small in the oversized room. Dad is wearing his tweed car coat. Mom hugs me. She smells like soap and clean clothes.
"How was it?"
"Fun. Great. Hey, I thought Uncle Barney was supposed to pick me up?"
"Oh, you know," Dad says. "Change of plans is all. Besides, we missed you. Hungry?"
"Starved."
"There's a new restaurant a block away. We can get you some pancakes there. Sound good?"
"I could use some coffee!" Mom says, resting her small hand on my shoulder and guiding me. We are in a crowd. Mom, Dad and I moving slowly toward the exit. I think back to Murphy's grip on my arm. Taxis line the curb lane. I'm glad to be home.
Outside, Dad reaches to carry my bag but I say it's okay. His keys jingle and he unlatches the car doors, Mom's first. "How're the Dannards?' he asks and guns the engine to life.
"All good. Mr. Dannard won $25 at bingo one night."
"Wow. Big night in Saskatchewan, sounds like."
We all laugh. Mom shoots me a warm smile, and I return it.
"So, that was it? That's the highlight? No other adventures to report?" Mom says with a wink.
"Nah, that's pretty much it," I say. "You know - I had it covered."
No comments: