It's a Little Haywire (2 page)

The door creaks when I open it.

“Hey, big fellow,” Gramps says. He has a
knife in one hand and a potato in the other. “Supper’s not quite
ready yet. I carried your suitcase upstairs. Go pick a room and
settle in.”

The steps are steep and narrow and I
hang on to the railing to guide my way up. At the top, the ceilings
start half way up the wall slanting upwards and meeting in the
middle. Kinda like a big tent. Dad complains because he’s tall and
has to slouch down, but I like it. It dawns on me that I will be
sleeping up here by myself, since Gramps sleeps in the only bedroom
downstairs off the living room. My stomach does a quick flip, but I
shake it off. I’m not scared. I’m not a kid anymore.

I pick the room my mom and dad used to
sleep in, back when they were still married and we were a normal
family. The window faces a wide creek that had dried out a lot over
the summer, but I’d still get wet up to my knees if I’d tried to
cross it. A railroad track runs alongside it just beyond. When I
was little mom used to always worry I’d get hit by a train.

“Wenny,” she’d say, using her nickname
for me that I hate. “Be very careful. If you hear the whistle blow,
run for the house.”

Just a normal overprotective mom I’d
thought, and never paid any attention to her concerns. Then one
day, when Gran was still alive and my parents still married, and
they were busy chatting it up together in the living room in that
boring way that adults do, I went for my own private hike into the
backyard. I was just a little five year old kid with no sense.

The water was up to my waist and cold
enough to make my skin break out in goose pimples. I’d only just
reached the other side when I heard the train coming, and I didn’t
feel like pushing through the rushing water again so soon.

It was just a train, right? Not like I
was going to lay across the tracks or anything. But that train was
a big hunk of fast moving steel that rattled my bones and pushed me
to the ground. I curled up like a baby and yelled my five year old
lungs out, sure that I was going to be sucked in under the train
and killed.

After an eternity the caboose zipped by,
and I was left with the sounds of my own whimpering. My pants were
wet and I wasn’t absolutely sure it was left over from the creek,
if you know what I mean.

I’ve kind of been freaked out by trains
ever since. Anyway, the trains stopped running through Haywire last
year when the mill closed so Mom doesn’t have to worry about that
anymore, and neither do I.

Gramps had left my suitcase in the hall.
I drag it into my new room and open it. I want to grab everything
in one armful and stuff the dresser drawers, but I can’t escape my
mom’s disapproving face. Fine. I place the items in one at a time
and finish by putting on a pair of shorts. I make sure to remove
the price tag before heading downstairs.

Gramps has the table set for two and in
the middle is a big frying pan filled with fried potatoes and
sausages. It smells really good and suddenly I am famished. The
kitchen is small and the table takes up most of the space. I
squeeze into my spot by the wall.

Gramps puts his hands together and
closes his eyes. Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. Gramps likes to pray
before meals. We never do this at our home in Seattle. I’m glad I
hadn’t started eating before Gramps had finished giving thanks.
It’s a little weird and I’m not sure what to do. I put my hands
together and close my eyes. Then I crack one open so I know for
sure when Gramps is done. At least he’s not one of those long
winded pray-ers who goes on for so long the food gets cold. I’m not
really paying attention, just waiting for the word, “Amen”. It’s
kind of like the gun shot that tells the horses to start
running.

Gramps goes “Amen” and I dig in.

“So,” Gramps says after a few bites,
“how was your first day in Hayward?”

I’m leaning my face against my hand,
elbow on the table, which Gramps ignores, shoveling food into my
mouth with my other hand. “Okay, I guess,” I mumble, my mouth half
full. Man, my mom would be on my case so fast if I did this with
her.

“Did you see your friends?”

“Uh, huh.”

Gramps leans back and studies me. “I
take it things didn’t go so well?”

Wow, Gramps can read minds. “Not
really. I don’t know what happened, Gramps, but things have really
changed around here.” It feels good to unload. “Mikki and Mason
don’t seem to like me anymore. Oh, and I’m supposed to call her
Mikala now, because apparently she’s so
mature
. And did you know that Haywi-, er, I mean,
Hayward, has a homeless man?”

Gramps puts his fork down. “Well, Owen,
the thing is, things have gotten really tough for folks in Hayward
since the mill shut down. Most of the people here earned their
living working there, so now, they don’t have work. It’s called a
re-cess-ion.” Gramps says it like it’s three words.

I don’t understand, but I don’t
understand a lot of things these days. I help Gramps with the
dishes; he washes, I dry. Through the window I see a red breasted
robin tugging a worm out of the ground.

Gramps sees it too. He breaks into
song:

There’s a lonely little robin in the
tree by my door that waits for his mate to return evermore...

I laugh, remembering how Gramps always
has a song for every situation. Weird that this is the first time
since I got here that he’s done it.

Another thing weird? How quiet it is in
this house. Gran always had their old kitchen radio blaring her
favorite oldies station. It has a blue vinyl casing and a clock
face with small and big hands. The knob to set the time is busted
off. It used to annoy me when Gran turned it on, especially when
she and Gramps would sing together. Not exactly American Idol
material, if you get what I’m saying. But now, I miss it.

“How come you don’t play the radio,
Gramps?”

“Ah, I don’t know. Reminds me too much
of your Gran.”

I feel bad, and kind of awkward.
Gramps goes to the living room and turns on the TV and I head
outside. I sit on the old log, a worn trunk of a tree that the wind
blew over in ’98 (according to Haywire legend) and toss pebbles
into the creek. Man, life is the pits. I mentally cross one day off
of my sentence in Haywire. Only twenty-nine days to go. I hope Mom
is having a nice time in the Bahamas with
Ar-throw-up
. I get that they had to go on a
stupid honeymoon, but for a whole month? I mean, what are they
going to do for all that time? Won’t they get bored?

Maybe they’ll get sick of each
other. Yeah, and
Ar-throw-up
won’t move into our condo with us after all. He can just
drive away in his fancy schmancy two-seater car and never come
back.

That way, maybe Dad would come home.

I’m making myself sick with all
this sissy thinking. Mom’s not going to get bored of
Ar-throw-up
and Dad’s not coming
home. He’s too busy with his
really
important job
. So busy, I couldn’t even go live with
him for a month.

Man, my life sucks. One month of Haywire
Heck and then back to Suckage in Seattle, aka, seventh grade. What
is there to look forward to, I ask?

My morbid line of thinking is
interrupted by the train whistle. I almost sprint back to the
house, when I remember that the trains don’t run through Haywire
anymore.

But I hear the tooting sound again. It
sounds just like a train whistle.

I strain my ears. There it is again. And
again. Something is coming from down the track.

The sun has disappeared behind the hills
and the sky is that pink smoky gray color that girls seem to really
like. Dusk.

And some kind of fog? Weird. I stare
hard not believing what I’m seeing. The fog rolls and twists like a
big snake made of white cotton candy. It breaks into sections like
a string of sausage, staying on the tracks as if it were an actual
train.

I admit, I’m a little freaked out, but I
can’t peel my bugging-out eyes away.

The whistle blows again and I dare to
look around. Does anyone else hear it? I half expect Gramps to come
bounding out the door.

Actually, I really, really wish he
would. Maybe I should just go back to the house. But my legs won’t
move. It’s like I’m paralyzed!

The foggy snake/sausage thing draws
closer. My heart is thumping like a banging drum, but I can still
hear the whistle.

I squint my eyes, trying to make it out.
It’s kind of like when you watch the clouds move and you can pick
out different images. Rabbits and things.

This one is a train. Except it isn’t
daytime and it’s not in the sky.

And, man oh man, it’s barreling towards
me! My legs won’t move and I think I’m going to pass out. At least
it’s staying on the tracks, which are on the other side of the
creek.

It shoots by, and I can almost hear a
chug, chug, chug.

Then, when the “caboose” approaches, an
enormous being springs out of the “window”. I’m so freaked out I
slide off the log and fall hard onto my butt. I think I’m even
whimpering.

The thing develops a face and its eyes
look straight at me. Two massive sheets spring from its back like
wings.

Then it raises its arm
and...salutes?

And disappears into thin air.

I spring to my feet and flee to the
house. My heart feels like it’s the size of a basketball, and
someone’s bouncing it in a big gym.

I blast into the house searching for
Gramps. The door slams behind me, but I can’t get my breath to call
out.

Gramps is in the living room, stretched
out on the recliner. The TV is too loud, blaring out the news.
Gramps’ eyes are shut and his mouth is a gaping hole. He fills the
room with a loud snore.

I don’t have the heart to wake him.
Besides, what would I tell him? I just saw a ghost train?

And did I even...? I’m no longer sure.
The whole thing’s pretty crazy. I go back outside and peek around
the corner of the house. Nothing but darkness.

It
has
been a hard day and I
am
pretty exhausted.

Maybe I just imagined it.

Maybe.

CHAPTER THREE

Owen True – The Overdressed

UGH, I THINK MY BLADDER’S going to
burst. I quickly throw on a t-shirt and head (very carefully) down
the steps. In my boxers. Good thing there aren’t any girls
around.

Did I mention it’s uncomfortable?
Kind of like torture? Did I also mention the bathroom is in
the
basement
? That’s
two
flights away.

I tip-toe through the kitchen, the mud
room, and down the cement stairs that lead to the “dungeon”.

The cold cement steps bite my feet.
Dang. I forgot my slippers again. Cold feet and a full bladder
equals not good.

Al-most. There.

Pull the string hanging from the ceiling
that turns on the light.

Ahh. Relief.

Okay, now I can focus.

Oh, yeah, I’m in the dungeon. This room
scared the eebie jeebies out of me when I was a kid. It’s still
kind of eerie. Low unfinished ceilings and small windows that
barely let in any light because they are grimy and full of cobwebs.
My lungs fill with the musky smell of rotting wood and dried up
potatoes left in the cellar. A work bench is covered with old
fashion tools. The shelves along the side wall are mostly empty now
since Gran died. When I was little, they were full of canned
stuff.

Anyway, it’s why I don’t use the
bathroom in the middle of the night.

Gramps is brewing coffee when I get back
to the kitchen. I grab a bowl and empty a box of cereal into
it.

“We’re out of cereal, Gramps,” I
say.

“I noticed.” He joins me at the table.
“We’re out of a few things. Maybe you could make a run to Don
Chan’s for me today?”

Don Chan runs the General Store.
Yup, the
General Store
. No big
box stores in Haywire. No Ralphs, no Shop N Save, no Barnes &
Noble, nada. Haywire only has
one
gas station for Pete’s sake.

“Sure, Gramps,” I say. Not like I
have anything
exciting
planned
for day two of my exile. In fact, saying “hi” to Mr. Chan will
likely be the most exciting moment of my day.

“How’d you sleep?” Gramps asks.

That’s when I remember the crazy fog
train and the thing that popped out of the caboose.

Did that really happen last night?

Or was it a dream?

The whole thing feels kind of fuzzy. I’m
not sure. I decide to wait on telling Gramps.

“Yeah, slept like a rock.”

Gramps nods then takes a sip of his
coffee.

Okay, so I’m at the General Store. I
have Gramps’ list in one hand and a plastic basket in the other. I
don’t know where anything is in this store. I don’t know where
anything is in any store—my mom does the shopping! But, it’s just a
few things. How hard can it be?

I look at Gramps’ shaky handwriting. I
can barely make it out. Box of cereal, my choice (he told me this
as I walked out the door), carton of milk, peanut butter, jam,
bread.

The milk’s easy since the coolers are at
the back wall. I grab a small carton, enjoying the blast of cold
air that rushes out when I open the door. The rest of the items
seem to disappear in the mass. I find myself in front of the candy
rack. I remembered to bring my wallet this time. I toss a couple
candy bars in my basket and a pack of Gummi Bears.

A bell rings over the door. An actual
bell hanging from a string that gets knocked by the door when it
opens. This is how Mr. Chan knows he has customers. I figure a lot
of time can go by in between.