Beautiful Dreamer (13 page)

‘Quick, we arriving somewhere. Gotta jump before they sees us.'

And, not waiting for the boy, he leaned out, hesitated a second and jumped. He landed on both feet and tried to stagger forwards, to break into a run and keep pace with the train, but his feet had gone from under him and he was falling forwards and then rolling sideways down an incline. Each time he turned over, he felt the pain of his wounds. The train sounded its whistle and covered a scream he let out without his even knowing that he had. He came to rest near a bunch of nettles, curious glad that he hadn't stung himself, curious because every nerve was screaming back at him from where he had scraped and torn himself in the fall. He lay for a second, his head spinning, half-expecting someone to call out, half-expecting a bullet, since there always seemed to be someone waiting to shoot him down. When at last he did sit up, there was the boy, holding his arm and sobbing silently. It was bust. It didn't take a doctor to see that. Only it wasn't. He saw now that it was out of its socket, sticking out in an odd way as if it didn't belong to him but had just been stuck on. Suddenly he was glad that the boy was dumb, though he was making a noise, a kind of strangled cry covered by the whistle which blew again to announce its arrival.

‘Here, boy,' he said. ‘You popped your arm. For God's sake, keep quiet. I can get it straight for you.'

And he could, having done so before, being taught when his father put his back in when he fell from the roof when he had been wanting to fly, learning that he couldn't, learning, too, that things were never as you thought they might be. He came round in front of the boy and put one hand gently against his shoulder. With the other, he took hold of his wrist.

‘Just look in my eyes, boy. Don't look nowhere else. This'll hurt for a moment and I wouldn't tell you other. But it'll be over fast. Listen,' he said, ‘that a woodpecker?'

The boy half-turned his head and he pushed hard on the shoulder and twisted the wrist. There was a sucking noise and a popping sound and the arm eased straight on back into place. The boy looked down at his arm as if he had lost it and someone had just come up and given it back. He nodded.

‘Ain't nothing,' said the man, oddly pleased that he had been able to do something in return for the boy saving him not once but twice. ‘Let's get going. Just get away from here and think a piece.'

There was a pine wood across an open field, but a ditch ran along the side of the field, so they could reach the trees without being seen, unless someone chose to stand on top of the water tower which they could see behind them as they crouched low and ran. It was hot now they were off the train. The breeze had kept things cool, but out here there was no wind at all and the sun beat down, though it must have been late in the day, judging where it was. It took them no more than fifteen minutes before they were in among the trees, the earth red and brittle as if it hadn't seen rain in an age. They sat down then, him with his back against the wood, the boy half-lying, looking toward the station, where they could see the train standing while water gushed down into the engine. Someone was walking back down the train, checking the wagons. Whoever it was was getting close to where they had been, close to where a man's dead body was who had been killed by someone else, someone long gone, leaving them to gather up the blame. And if that person walking along the track, checking each wagon as he passed it, found that man, then everything would change. But someone called him from the front. They could hear the sound across the fields and in the shade of the trees, and the man made his way back to the engine where two other men were standing, moving slowly enough, as if nothing mattered enough to pick up speed, as out here why would it, there being nothing around, nothing but an engine taking on water and a bunch of men just standing there.

They stood for a while, then one of them reached up and swung the soft tube that had been gushing water away from the engine, still flooding silver. It dribbled to a halt, like a man taking a pee, getting done and turning away. Two men climbed back into the engine while the other walked back to the shed that was all there was to the depot. The whistle sounded and the wheels spun for a second till they got a grip and then with a series of metal bangs and clangs, running back through the train, it began to pull away, moving slow against the gradient, jumping itself forward with shunts from behind where the wagons seemed to want to go faster than the engine calculated possible.

Behind them, the hills rose up away from the track. He had no idea where he was. Ten minutes before and he had been content that they were edging ever further from the consequences of their actions, moving toward something unknown but redemptive. Ten minutes ago and he had known that when at last he did get down from the train, he and the boy would go in different directions since it was them being together that was the root of the problem. Separate, they could become invisible. Who would notice a white man among his own or a black boy with his? But here together they were chained as much as if they had been convicts like those he used to see strung beside the highways, sweating in the sun, unable to lift a hand without it pulled on the one beside him. Well, that was the way they were again. How could they separate when he had no idea where they were and had had evidence enough that he needed someone along, that he would have been dead twice over if the boy hadn't been along, even if the boy or his father was who had caused him the trouble? And where would the boy be without him who but a moment before had been doubled in pain with an arm that was useless, just waiting for them to seek him out? No, he knew that whatever they did they would do together until things settled somewhat, until he could think his way through this, though his mind was as confused as it had ever been.

‘Best get away from the line,' was all he could think and all he could say and the boy saw the sense of it, getting up straight away and flexing his arm to see it was still working, still in its place.

He looked up through the trees, but there was nothing to see but the land rising up. Then it came to him that that was perhaps what they needed: to get up high where they could see all around, where they could see the lie of the land, spot those who might follow, understand where they might be and see where they could go. Before, he had thought that maybe it was a town they needed. People got lost in towns. No one knew anyone there, he had been told. All were strangers. But where was a town? And besides, he could never get by in such a place, would never know what to do. The land he knew. And so did the boy who had caught him a rabbit with nothing more than a rock, as it seemed. Well, they could do better than that together. And they were free. For the moment, that was what mattered most. To be free. There were two men dead and now another that might be put down to them, though they knew nothing of him, nothing of what had happened and who might have done it.

‘We'd best climb up a piece.'

And so they set off, the air freshening a little, as it seemed to him, though it was hot enough still, the sweat smarting on his neck and burning his chest and his shoulder. And as he climbed, the pain reminded him that his body could go bad. He knew to keep the wounds clean, but how was that to be done, rolling in the dirt, sweating like this? He would need to look for water, need the boy to check on him. It didn't pay, maybe, to be alone. First thing was to get better, to heal a bit. Maybe, he thought, they could find a place to hole up, let his body get back into shape. Maybe then he would be able to think straight, as at the moment he was none too sure that he could.

*   *   *

The train went right off and there were nothing I could do. They were on it for sure. I seen their legs under it. I started running, got halfway across before I saw it weren't no good. I stood looking every way, not knowing which to take. Quickest way back was along the track to the station. Take maybe a couple'n hours. But what would I need to go there for? I could call the sheriff, round up some people, but this was family. No cause to bring others in. If I did, though, they could call ahead, get it stopped so we could catch up. But once the sheriff were on to this, we would never get at them at all. Worst would be that some other sheriff got in on it, too, put them in jail some other place, let them get off, let them get away. No, I weren't going for that. But how could I get the others? One brother over the river somewhere, the others off in the wrong direction. It wouldn't take Ralphy no time to get here, but there was no crossing the river. He would have to get back where he crossed first time.

The others would know by now that they was heading the wrong way, but then what would they do? Would they come on this way or maybe go back? And if they came this way, which side of the river would they go? The more I thought, the less I knew what to do and all the time the nigger and his friend was getting away, going north where maybe we wouldn't get to reach them, shoot 'em down. At last I decided the best thing would be to track back. I could call across the river and then get to meet the others. Best thing then would be to get a truck and run up the road, close as we could get to the railroad. I started out, running at first and then walking, figuring that running wouldn't count in the end. Then I got to thinking. How would we know where they got off? They jump on, they could jump off anywhere. Fair bet they would stay on long as they thought we might be there, but what then? And how fast would it go? It would be two hours or more before we could set off and how fast does a train go? I never been on no train nor never wanted to. Why would I want that, going off somewhere? But how fast do they go? Maybe they went right on up north. I started in to running again and then saw my brother across the water.

‘They jumped the train,' I shouted.

The dog turned around him, all excited.

‘What?' he called back, the noise of the water making it difficult to hear.

‘The nigger and him jumped a train up by the bridge.'

‘What nigger?' he asks.

‘The kid.'

He shrugs his shoulder, not knowing about the nigger.

‘You see him?' he shouted.

‘Of course I seen him. How else would I know?'

‘What you doing, going that way?'

‘Got to go back, get the truck. Get the others, too. You keep on over there, case the others crossed. Go back and we'll meet at the house.'

‘You reckon we can catch him?'

‘Course we catch them. They ain't getting away.'

‘Cause he killed two'n ours.'

‘I know they killed two'n ours.'

He were never bright. Got kicked in the head when he were four and never been the same. Even so, he weren't simple.

‘I'm going,' I said.

‘Right,' he shouted. ‘Where are you going?'

‘Back,' I said. ‘I told you before.'

‘Right,' he shouted, and even then I wasn't so sure he knew what was happening.

I found his gun. I was crossing the open where I shot him and there was his shotgun, shining in the sun. I still couldn't see how he got out of the river, let alone climbs on a train, running along as I see him do. Or at least his legs. I seen his legs. Then I thought that maybe it wasn't him. I only seen their legs. But who else would be jumping a train? And what white man would be with a nigger, besides? I picked up the shotgun. It were too good for him. At least I got something to show, I thought. Then I thought how when I caught up with him I'd shoot him in the head with it. That seemed the right thing to do. Pay back. I broke it open but there weren't no shells in it. I guess he was out of ammunition.

It took me best part of couple hours before I run into the rest. They'd been wasting their time backtracking up the stream when it was obvious he wouldn't have gone that way. You could jump over it some places and where would they have been heading for if they had gone that way? I told them what I had seen and we decided on home. Just then there was a splashing and the dog come over the river. He'd run ahead of my brother.

‘We going for the sheriff?' he called as he crossed over behind it.

‘Shit the sheriff. This ain't his business. It ours. Let's get us back and head on out.' Which is what we did, only we took time to get us something to eat and decide to take a fresh dog. Just the one. We didn't see as how there'd be much tracking to do. Just find where they got to, if'n they did, seeing that I never seed them, not really, so as you could say. We filled the tank from the cans kept out back. It were a crap truck but it would do for what we needed, just driving up the state road that run right close to the railroad for a good bit. Seemed like we should be able to catch up in good time. Pa said it had to stop and take on water and if it were a freight they often laid up a piece to load this and that. He asked about the sheriff, too, which seemed pretty strange to me. I thought he would be the one who said to keep it in the family. But the sheriff had come, as if he knew we'd be talking about him.

*   *   *

He turned off the ignition and let it come to a halt on its own. This was as far as he could get without risk of scraping it on branches or running over a rock. It was his car and not the department's and with only a hundred and fifty on the clock he was damned if he was going to take any chances. He sat there a while, tapped a cigarette out and lit it. He didn't flip the match out of the window. There were those that did and it took days to get the fire out. He picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue and looked at himself in the mirror. The hair was receding. Well, it would, stuck in a place where nothing happened and when it did you would as soon be somewhere else. But you took work where it was. Pity his wife hadn't understood as much. All the windows were wound down. You could bake in weather like this, not that there was any other kind around here. Which was maybe why they were like they were. You couldn't call it police work. The odd still or two and a dozen jugs buried out back. Things went on inside some of these places you didn't want to think about. They were even illegal, but who wanted to get into that. Brothers and sisters and who knows what else. And now this race thing. It seemed they could live without it a year or two and then something boils up in their blood, some cancer starts growing and they got to cut it out, no matter what.