Invisible (13 page)

“Is this an all boy school?” I ask.

“Yes it is,” says Dr. Monahan.

“And you have to wear uniforms?”

“That's right. It's much simpler that way, don't you think?”

In fact, I do. I like the idea of not having to figure out what to wear every morning. Everybody has to look equally dorky. But that's the only thing I like so far. I let my parents and Dr. Monahan get a little ahead of me, then stop and stick my head into one of the rooms.

“Hey,” I say.

There is only one kid in this room, a bulky Asian kid with a broad face and heavy eyebrows. He looks up at me but says nothing. His eyes are animal empty.

“My name's Doug.”

He blinks slowly.

“I'm here visiting.”

His eyes lose focus.

“So … how do you like it here?” I ask.

He stares blankly into the distance. I think he must be drugged. Probably Proloftin. Or rhino tranquilizer.

“Doug?” Dr. Monahan's hand comes down on my shoulder. “Let's keep on moving. The students aren't supposed to talk to anyone during lockdown.”

On the drive home my parents discuss my future. They pretend to be talking to me, but they are really talking to each other.

“It seems like quite a nice facility, dear,” says my mother. “I liked Dr. Monahan.”

“I thought he was spooky,” I say.

“We should be able to afford the tuition for the first year,” says my father. “After that, well, we'll see how it goes. We'll see how you do.”

“I'm not going,” I say.

They ignore me.

“Of course, money isn't really the issue; it's whether the change will be good for you.”

“They want you to stay at the school full-time for the first three months. After that you could come home most weekends.”

“Why don't I just study at home?”

My words roll right off them.

“I thought the cafeteria menu looked delicious. They have lasagna on Thursdays. Isn't that one of your favorites?”

“We'll need to buy you some new clothing.”

“Didn't you think the uniforms looked nice, dear? They don't look at all like uniforms.”

“The police have agreed not to pursue charges against you if we can place you at St. Stephen's. We're very lucky that they have an opening.”

“I'm not going.”

My father turns his head and looks straight at me for the first time all day. “I'm sorry, Doug, but we really don't know what else to do with you.”

“Why do you have to do anything?

His voice goes soft. “You can't spend the rest of your life playing with model trains, Doug.”

“Why not?”

“Because that's not the way life works, son.”

M
y parents plan to deliver me to St. Stephen's Academy next Monday, November 17. That gives me less than seventy-one hours to complete my bridge. Strangely, the closer I get to finishing, the more things I find to do.

For example, while laying the track I notice that some of the suspender cables have mysteriously lost tension. Perhaps the humidity in the basement has changed, or the weight of the track has stretched the cables on one side of the bridge. I readjust them, one strand at a time.

Eventually the bridge is ready, and by Sunday morning I am working on the Madham Special itself. Because
a bridge can be inaugurated only once, I want everything to be perfect. I scrape the decals from all the cars and engines and replace them with the sigil logo:

This is in honor of Andy, who should really be here for the inaugural crossing of the bridge. Of course, he might not show up. He's supposed to be dead. But maybe he'll show up. Anyway, I know he'd appreciate the gesture.

Once I get all the cars relabeled—it only takes me about three hours—I get out my Dremel tool and make some alterations to the Coalveyor and the four tank cars.

You would think I'd be very excitable at this point, but the fact is, I'm calm as ice.

My mother makes me try on my new khaki pants and blue chambray shirt. I pretend to be very happy with them, because there is no point in upsetting her.

“I finished my bridge,” I say. “I'm sending the first train across it tonight.”

“Really! That's wonderful, Douglas! Are we invited to the inaugural crossing?”

So cheerful.

“I'd rather be alone,” I say. “I might never get to see it again.”

“Now, Douglas, that's simply not true! I'm sure you'll be coming home often.”

“You say that now, but just wait till you find out how nice it is when I'm gone.”

“Now you're being silly,” she says with an expression that means either I hurt her feelings or I spoke a truth she didn't want to hear.

That night after dinner I make my final preparations for the inauguration. I fill the tank cars and the Coalveyor car with cargo. I'm using every car I own for this train, including both locomotives. There are seventeen cars in all.

The track itself is 170 segments long. Each segment is five inches long, so the entire track, connected by the new bridge from East Madham to West Madham, is more than seventy feet in length.

I then go to my room to work on the final sigil. It takes me most of the night to finish this one. I am thinking about mailing it to Mrs. Felko. Even though I'm permanently kicked out of school, I think she would appreciate it. This one has that quality of line she was always looking for.

A
t 12:01
A.M.
on November 17, the Madham Special, powered by two diesel locomotives, departs the terminal in downtown Madham, heading east through town. It moves down the track past Madham Stadium, where 102 spectators watch the passing of the inaugural train.

This is my gift to the people of Madham—a train day they will never forget. I am bringing them all the drama and excitement of a big Hollywood movie. This is the day of the bridge, the first crossing of the Madham Special.

The train picks up speed as it crosses Oak Street, Elm Street, Poplar Street, Maple Street. At each intersection it is cheered on by crowds of plastic people. Little do they
know that the train carries hazardous cargo. The tank cars are filled with red phosphorous. The Coalveyor is piled high with the pink powder. Even the caboose is loaded.

I know I'll never touch these controls again. Once they send me away, I'll be locked up forever. My father will turn my bedroom into a study. George Fuller will sleep soundly through the night. Melissa Haverman will leave her bedroom shades open. Freddie Perdue will have to find some other kid to beat on. Everybody will be happy.

The train enters East Madham. The track curves to the left, climbs a hill, passes Madham Hospital, crosses over itself on a short trestle bridge, and heads back into downtown. Once again the people cheer as it passes the stadium on the other side.

Me? I'll be in my khakis and chambray, veins sluggish with rhino tranquilizer.

The train, picking up speed now, approaches the West Madham Tunnel. There is a danger sign as it enters the tunnel—some problem with the track ahead. The engineer ignores the warning. As the train exits the tunnel it hits a bad section of track. Cars rattle and sway, wheels chatter, phosphorous spills from the Coalveyor onto the steel rails.

Here it comes.

A huge crowd—153 plastic people—is waiting at the entrance to the Andrew Morrow Bridge. The train slows as it begins its crossing. The scene is one of great excitement, anticipation, and joy. Several people have climbed up to the bridge cables to watch the inauguration—troubled teens, no doubt. The mayors of East Madham
and West Madham are waiting at the exact center of the bridge, each of them holding a champagne bottle to break across the bow of the locomotive as it passes.

Suspender cables quiver as the train rolls majestically onto the bridge. One of the teenagers falls from the main cable and lands headfirst on the second locomotive. Oh no! He's hurt! The train does not stop. Another boy falls from the bridge, this time into the nameless abyss. Death has come to Madham.

The entire train is now on the bridge. As it nears the midpoint, a crosswind hits the Coalveyor, dusting the mayors and the bridge deck with red powder. The Madham Special continues across the span, leaving the mayors coughing and hacking. It reaches the end of the bridge, where yet another crowd waits, cheering.

The first crossing is successful. The bridge architect sighs with relief as plastic mothers mourn their dead sons. The crowd cheers; the engineer increases speed. The train accelerates through the woods outside of East Madham, past the school, the soccer field, the terminal, the stadium. It barrels through downtown Madham and approaches the West Madham Tunnel at three-quarter speed. Rough track ahead. The engineer boldly increases speed; wheels clatter and spark. There is a bright flash as some of the spilled red phosphorous ignites. The train races on, leaving behind it flaming track. It takes the big curve through the West Madham residential district and again enters the Andrew Morrow Bridge, crossing at near maximum speed. More troubled teenagers fall from the cables, onto the tracks, into the abyss. Phosphorous spills from the
Coalveyor, the train flies across the bridge and into East Madham. The fire spreads from the tunnel into central Madham. The movie theater is in flames, people are melting, an acrid cloud of black smoke mushrooms on the ceiling.

The engineer goes to full throttle.

The Madham Special plows into the flames. For one frozen moment, as the first locomotive emerges from the pillar of flame and smoke, it looks like it will make it through, but a lick of flame catches the coalveyor cargo and the mound of red phosphorous goes off with a tremendous
whoof
. The engineer staggers back. The train continues through the tunnel and toward the bridge, the Coalveyor trailing long, hungry licks of flame.

Will the Madham Special make it across the Andrew Morrow Bridge a third time? It looks good … but one of the mayors has fallen onto the tracks. The locomotive plows into him, the train jumps the track, and the red phosphorous on the bridge deck ignites. The suspender cables begin to burn, snapping one after another. Fire races down the bridge, engulfing the passenger cars, the box cars, the tank cars filled with phosphorous.

I look up at the sky and see flames spreading across the basement ceiling.

The bridge is sagging. The fire has spread to East Madham. The air is filled with smoke and shrieks and yelling.

Is that my father's voice?

The first tank car explodes with an ear-cracking, face-stinging bang, louder and sharper than any cherry bomb. The front of my shirt is peppered with bits
of burning plastic. A second tank car goes off; I am blinded by the flash.

Is that my ears ringing, or am I screaming?

I am burning and I am blind and I can't find the stairs and I do not know how to get out of Madham.

I
am sitting in the park, watching the smoke, when a shadow falls across my lap. I look up. It's Andy again.

“Hey, Dougie,” he says with a grin.

“Hi,” I say.

He sits down on the grass beside my wheelchair. “How's it going?”

“Okay.”

“How you feeling?”

“Okay.”

We sit for a while. That's pretty much all I do these days. Sit and watch the smoke.

“So … what's new?”

“Not much.”

“That's cool.”

We sit for a while longer, and nobody bothers us. I can hear the train in the distance. You can almost always hear the train, but you never actually see it.

Andy says, “It's nice here.”

“I suppose.” We sit for a while longer watching the plume of black smoke over the horizon. The fire is always there, always burning, but it never gets closer. Some days I can smell it. They say it's been burning for years.