The Cypress House (4 page)

    "What
you have here," he'd said, "is the next great engineer this country
will see."

    It
didn't fly. Seems they'd had trouble in the camps down there, and the old Veterans
Work Program was becoming something of a black eye thanks to circulating
national news reports about the violent and troubled men who populated the
camps in the Keys.

    "You
want to go down there, we could use you, Arlen," the enlistment officer had
said. "Matter of fact, I'd appreciate it were you willing. We need some
steady men in those camps. But we won't be sending juniors."

    Arlen
figured that verdict would close the discussion with Brickhill. It didn't. The
boy simply said that if Arlen accepted the transfer and went south, he'd tag
along and talk his way onto the project. It was, Arlen had discovered, a
situation typical of the boy. He had a sort of focused determination you just
didn't come across much, and when you did, it tended to be held by men who got
things done. Paul Brickhill would surely be such a man.

    "Once
I'm down there, I bet the tune changes," Paul promised. "They need
workers. And if it doesn't sort out, I'll go on to one of the other Florida
camps and reenlist."

    "Might
be so," Arlen said, "but that requires me going as well, and I ain't
looking to transfer, son. This is my camp." "Why?"

    Well,
because he'd happened to be in the area when he hired on. It was that simple. A
local experienced man, that was what they called him, but truth was he was
hardly more local than the boys he supervised. Experienced, yes. Local, no.
Wasn't any place where Arlen could be considered a local.

    "You
don't have any reason not to head down there," Paul said. "You're not
one with family around here, or . . ."

    He
stopped as if fearing he'd said something offensive, but Arlen just shook his
head.

    "No,
I don't have any family here."

    Here,
or anywhere. The work at Flagg Mountain was nearing a close — there was a
reason these boys were about to be transferred west — and it might be
interesting, as Brickhill suggested, to work on an ocean bridge . . .

    That
was how Arlen Wagner came to be sitting beside a boy from New Jersey in a muggy
train car on the last day of August 1935.

    For a
time after the train had left, they just stood there in the glow of the station
platform and stared off down the dark rails. The flat air billowed up one long
gust and pushed the trapped wet heat out of the woods and into their faces, and
Arlen dropped his hand for his flask and then stopped when Paul's eyes followed
the motion. He didn't want the kid to think this was all due to liquor. Wasn't
drinking that caused it, was drinking that could ease it.

    "All
right," Paul said at length, "we aren't going to die on that train
tonight. We also aren't going to get anywhere on it. So unless you intend to
spend the night right here . . ."

    "Hold
on. We'll find someone to ask."

    There
was a station attendant, a stooped man with a squint that seemed permanent, who
met all of Arlen's questions with the same statement:
I don't understand —
why didn't you get back on your train ?

    At
last he was made to accept the idea, if not understand it, and informed them
that there was a boardinghouse five miles up the highway.

    "Look
here," he said, "why go five miles away to spend the night if you're
not looking to stay around here anyhow? Now that you got off your train, where
is it you're bound?"

    That
was a hell of a question. Paul looked at Arlen, a challenging look.

    "Next
train to the Keys?" he said.

    "If’n
you still want to go to the Keys," the attendant said, "why in the
hell didn't you stay on your damn train?"

    Arlen
ran a hand over his face. The next train for the Keys might well be safe, but
it might well not. How could he explain that to the boy? All he knew for
certain was that those men they'd just left were heading toward death. And if
somehow he'd been wrong, then he wasn't real eager to chase after them, set up
in a camp down where every man looked at Arlen and chuckled and whispered.

    "You
said you're with the CCC ?" the station attendant said.

    "That's
right," Paul said.

    "Well,
there's a camp down in Hillsborough County, out toward Tampa, and I could get
you on a train headed that way tomorrow afternoon. Bunch of you boys are down
there. Working on a park."

    "We
aren't heading to a park," Paul said. "We're going to build a bridge.
A highway bridge. In the Keys."

    "Well,
don't know that you can get on another train to the Keys till late tomorrow. If
you're still headed that way, then why did you —"

    Arlen
interrupted him and pulled Paul aside.

    "Here's
the problem, as I see it," he said, fumbling out a cigarette and lighting
it. "It's not just a matter of finding another train. It's a veterans'
camp, not juniors, you know that. They didn't want you down there in the first place.
Now those fellows are going to show up ahead of us and tell this tale, and
we're going to have ourselves a reputation before we arrive. Understand?"

    Paul
gave him a long look, one that said,
You're going to be the one they've
heard tales about, not me,
but he didn't let the look turn into words.

    "So
there you're going to be," Arlen said, "in a camp where you don't
belong, and now they'll see you coming and see a problem. That's my fault, not
yours, but it's the fact of the matter, son. I wasn't sure I could get you a
hitch down there to begin with. Won't be near as easy now. So could be time we
think about a different direction."

    All
of this sounded like wheedling even to Arlen, and it dropped Paul Brickhill's
face into a sullen frown. This was the first time in their short acquaintance
that Arlen had actually seen him show displeasure.

    "We
had it all set and planned," Paul said. "You got a worry with that
train, okay. We need to get on another one, though!"

    "I
don't know," Arlen said. "Let's just hold on a minute here, all
right? I'm not sure of what we need to do now."

    What
Arlen wanted, now that they were off the train, was to head in the opposite
direction, try to forget this had ever happened. He'd drifted on his own for so
many years and it was so much easier to do that. Now he had Paul with him, and
with every word that came out of the boy's mouth Arlen wanted to walk off
alone, the way he always had before.

    "Not
sure?" Paul echoed in disbelief. "Arlen, shoot, there's no question
about it! We're due in the Keys, and we better find the next train!"

    That
fed Arlen the inspiration he required. The kid was ardent about rules, one of
those who just shook and rattled at the idea of balking orders. He was arguing
now because Arlen had been trying to convince him instead of giving him the
boss voice and the boss attitude.

    "Look
here," he said, "ain't going to be a debate held. Fact is, we got off
the train and changed the plan. Something about that you don't understand? You
too dull-minded to realize that your pretty little schedule just got altered,
boy? Not going to be a damn thing decided tonight, because there's no more
trains passing through. So let's get on to this roadhouse and find a bed for
the night."

    Paul
wanted to argue. He scowled again and then wet his lips and lifted his head as
if a retort would be forthcoming. Arlen hit him with the stare then, a partner
to the voice, perfected in places he'd rather not remember, and the kid couldn't
hold his eyes.

    "He
said the boardinghouse was five miles away," Paul muttered.

    "At
what point between here and Alabama," Arlen said, "did you lose the
use of your legs?"

    It
was a long, dark walk. The highway was bordered with scrub pines and tall
grasses that rustled even when the wind was flat, and the summer night pressed
down on them like a pair of strong hands, made each step feel like ten. They
were both lugging bags, tossed to them by a sneering Wallace O'Connell as the
train pulled away. They'd been at it for an hour, had probably gone four miles,
when a car came up behind them and slowed. Cars had been passing occasionally,
maybe five during the whole time they'd been walking, but this was the first
that had slowed. Neither Arlen nor Paul had stuck out a thumb, and though the
boy said, "Hey, they're stopping!" with delight in his voice, Arlen
dropped his bags and put a hand in his pants pocket, near his knife. There were
different reasons a car would stop for strangers on a lonely midnight highway,
and some drifted far from acts of kindness.

    The
car was a newer-model sedan with gleaming chrome and whitewall tires. The
window cranked down, and the driver called, “‘Lo there." Cigarette smoke
rolled out in a haze.

    "Hello."

    "I
see two men with bags walking down this road at this hour, I figure they're
either lost beyond hope or headed to Pearl's."

    "Pearl's
the name of a roadhouse farther up this highway?"

    "Not
but a mile ahead."

    "That's
good to hear," Arlen said. "Thanks. We'll carry on now."

    "Why
walk that last mile when you can ride?"

    Arlen
didn't much want that, but Paul stepped up close and said, "Yeah, why walk
when we can ride ? This is an Auburn."

    "The
kid knows sense when he hears it," the man with the shadowed face said,
and then he slapped the side of the driver's door. "And he knows cars —
this is indeed an Auburn, and it moves like you won't believe. Climb on
in."

    So
they climbed in. The car was clean and new, and Paul was clearly impressed,
running his palm over the seat and looking around with appreciation.

    "Say,
this is nice. The twelve cylinder, isn't it?"

    "It
is. Fastest damn car I've ever held the wheel of." To demonstrate, he
accelerated — hard. The car's engine gave a throaty howl and they lunged
forward. Paul gave a chuckle and the driver grinned. Tall guy, lean, with big
knobby hands wrapped around the steering wheel.

    "What's
your name, friend?" Arlen said.

    "Sorenson.
Walt Sorenson." He tucked the cigarette back into his mouth and reached a
hand out. Arlen clasped it, and then Paul, offering their own names.

    "Wouldn't
ordinarily so much as slow for any poor soul walking on this road at
night," Sorenson said. "I'm in no hurry to have a knife stuck in my
back."

    Arlen
released his hand from the knife in his pocket.

    "Bad
area?" he said.

    "Isn't
everyplace after the sun goes down? Can't trust the world anymore, you know?
Was a time strangers helped strangers.

    That
time's gone. Too many people out to do harm, is my point. It's hard to pick
good from bad, and takes too much energy trying. But then I see you two, with
bags in your hands, and I say,
Walt, you'd be a bastard if you drove on by.
Where are you headed?"

    Arlen
kept quiet while Paul explained that they were CCC and had gotten off the train
en route to a camp in the Keys.

    "Why'd
you leave the train?"

    "Arlen
wanted to get off," Paul said uncertainly. "He had a bad
feeling."

    "A
bad feeling?"

    "Let's
not worry over it," Arlen said curtly. Lights glowed ahead of them then, a
two-story building with a wide front porch coming into view. When Sorenson came
thundering off the road and jerked the Auburn to a stop, Arlen could hear music
from inside, somebody plucking at a guitar.

    "Pearl's,"
Sorenson said, and then the conversation was done, and Arlen was grateful for
that.

    The
only connection Arlen could see between Pearl and her name was that she was
round. Plenty round. Looked to go every bit of three hundred pounds, in fact,
and to call her an ugly woman would be an offense to the word — woman or ugly. She
was in the midst of a profane shouting match. The argument sounded harsh but
didn't seem to stir much true heat from anyone in the bar, including the
participants. She cut it off fast when Walt Sorenson flagged her down and told
her that the gentlemen with him would need a room for the night.