The Day Steam Died (22 page)

Chapter 44

“A valiant attempt to keep the Shops open sent workers to be trained on the new diesel locomotives at converted work stations at the Shop facility.”

House of cards

“Go ahead, old man, blame me for all your problems,” Tank said as if Sam was still in Tank’s office. “If I’m worthless as a son, you can take some credit for that. You never acted like a father or were there if I wanted to talk about my problems. You just gave me money, the prescription that fixed everything. Well, it won’t fix things this time. And you’re right, playing football was all I was ever good at and you took that away from me.”

Fatigue saturated every muscle in Tank’s overweight body. He propped a pillow under his weary head, stretched out on the couch, and was drifting off to sleep.

“Sir, is there anything I can get for you before I leave?” His Chief of Staff, Jeff Arminger had slipped into the room unnoticed during Tanks alcohol-induced soliloquy.

Tank’s puffy eyelids opened partway, his bloodshot eyes cutting toward the sound from behind the couch. Trying to sound tired instead of drunk, he worked his jaw so he didn’t slur. “How long have you been standing there, Jeff?”

“We finished early on that tax proposal rebuttal bill. I just came by to see if you needed anything else before I leave.”

“You’re a good man, Jeff. You always have the right answer.” Tank’s words slurred despite his effort. “I’m fine. You go on home to your wife and baby daughter.”

“Yes sir, I hope you sleep well.”

Tank laid his head down again. His breathing deepened, releasing his consciousness to a darkness where he could finally hide from himself.

Jeff took the empty glass from Tank’s hand before it dropped and spilled on the carpet. He spread a white blanket with the big sky blue NC Tar Heel logo over his boss as he had done on many occasions.

Chapter 45

“Several stalls were converted in the roundhouse to accommodate diesel repair work. That effort wasn’t enough to save the Shops. A modern facility had to be built in Atlanta.”

Three weeks later

Ann removed the wreath from the front door of the drab building. Inside, she sat at her desk for a moment of reflection then plunged back into a world that weighed heavy on her conscience. She wasn’t excited about being back at work but had moped around the house long enough, driving Alice to physically push her out the door.

Work would help chase away the deep aching in her heart when she walked around in their once happy home. Alice did her part making her get up from her refuge in bed to take care of Ricky and Libby. They needed their mother back in their lives to reestablish a daily routine. They were hurting too. Ricky acted up at school and spent time in the principal’s office. Libby was too young to grasp the finality of Jerry’s death. She was old enough to understand her daddy was never there to kiss her goodnight before she went to bed. She still cried herself to sleep in her mother’s arms.

Ann had long since cried herself out of tears. He was never coming back. It was time to put her life back together. A meeting with Ricky’s teacher and intensive mother and children time had restored normalcy to the Blackmon house. Now she had to deal with work.

An eerie quiet hung over the office. Marie was always the first one there and had a pot of coffee ready to jumpstart the day. When she was too sick for work, which was almost never, she called Ann at home to let her know. But today, she wasn’t in the office.

Ann walked out to the warehouse. “Marie, are you out here?” she called, hoping to hear Marie’s cranky, Monday morning voice respond, “Where else would I be?”

She didn’t answer.

“Haven’t seen her,” Ronnie replied from the center of the warehouse.

“Has she called?”

“Nope.”

“Was she okay Friday when you left?” she asked.

Ronnie shuffled over, puffing from his cigarette habit of ten years. “With her, how can you tell? She’s always grouchy, especially at Joey. They really got into it a couple of weeks ago while you were out when a reporter from Raleigh showed up. After they left, he was so mad I thought he was going to kill her if she didn’t shut up. You know, saying stuff like he had better be nice to her because she could put him and Sam behind bars for a long time if she wanted to. I don’t know what she was talking about. She’s crazy if you ask me.” Ronnie’s expertise at loading boxcars didn’t mean he really understood what was illegally taking place right under his nose.

“Reporter?” Ann raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I guess part of it was my fault,” he stammered. “I was sitting behind the press section and spilled some beer on a guy at the Dixie Classics basketball tournament. I apologized. We swapped coats so I could get his cleaned and send it to him. And he mailed my jacket back to me. Then he shows up here last week with a photographer, pretending to make sure I got it back okay. That’s when he started asking a lot of questions like what we ship from here. Stuff like that.”

“Why would a reporter from Raleigh be asking questions about our business?” Ann knew exactly why a reporter might be snooping around, but she wanted to pull some more information from Ronnie without him thinking much of it.

“I don’t know, but we were working a couple of boxcars. Forklifts were all over the dock, loading about two thousand cases that day. The girl was sneaking around on the other side of the tracks at the edge of the woods, taking pictures. I snuck around behind her. She was a scrappy little thing. Nothing I couldn’t handle, though.” Ronnie puffed out his bony chest, proud of his actions.

“I dragged her kicking and screaming back to the dock. That’s when Joey took her camera away. Then she really lost it, took a couple of swings at Joey. She talked like a Yankee and cussed us out like a sailor. We took her around to the front parking lot where the guy was looking for her. I exposed her film and she cussed us all the way to their car.”

“I hope you didn’t hurt her. The last thing we need is a lawsuit on our hands. Did the reporters say what newspaper they worked for?”

“Don’t worry. The girl wasn’t hurt except maybe her pride. She was just mad about the film. He wanted a tour of the warehouse, but I told him I didn’t have time to mess with him. He started in on Marie next. I left the office. You’ll have to ask Joey if you want to know what happened in there. After about fifteen minutes Joey came out to the warehouse pretty steamed. He said the reporter was gone. That’s when we saw the girl.”

“Ronnie, do you know where their car was parked?”

“Yeah, right over there.” Ronnie pointed to a spot diagonally across from the front door. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh nothing, just curious. Thanks. I need to find out where Marie is. I’ll get back to the reporter issue later.”

Ann hurried to her desk and dialed Marie’s home number. It rang at least ten times before she hung up. Now she was really worried. This wasn’t like Marie. Ann pulled her coat and gloves on and went back to the warehouse. She found Joey in his usual spot overlooking the warehouse floor.

“I’m going to Marie’s house to see if she’s all right. She didn’t answer her phone. Will you catch the phone until I get back?” she asked Joey in her nicest tone of voice, knowing he didn’t like her much more than Marie.

“Of course. I’ll handle things here,” he said with a slight smile.

Ann thanked him graciously, though she was shocked at his pleasant response to her unusual request and the fact that he spoke to her in words of more than one syllable. Joey wasn’t cordial to anyone. He tolerated Ronnie and had little to do with the rest of the warehouse crew. That was Ronnie’s job. If things weren’t to his liking, Joey would dress Ronnie down in front of the crew so everyone got the message.

What a sad life, she thought.

Marie drifted back into Ann’s thoughts while she made her way through traffic. “I don’t remember traffic ever being this heavy in the morning,” she said aloud.

It was a cold January day with patches of the Christmas snow still hiding under shady spots, untouched by the early morning sun.

Ann’s attention was drawn to the living room window when she pulled into Marie’s driveway. Marie always switched the lamp off on her way out the door to work. The lamp was still burning bright.

Concerned, Ann hurried up the steps and nearly tripped over a loose board on her way. Peeling porch paint exposed weathered flooring with signs of rot. Even the paint on the outer walls had started to peel. Neglect showed everywhere Ann looked.

She tried the door. It was locked. At least no one had broken in. She removed her glove to retrieve the key from the mailbox where Marie always kept a spare.

A musty odor rushed past Ann when she opened the door, as if it were anxious to leave the house. “Marie, it’s Ann,” she called out.

A shaft of light through the front window helped the lamp brighten the living room’s dark furnishings and wallpaper. She listened for a reply; only silence blanketed the room. Marie’s multi-colored cat she lovingly called Fuzzle Duff greeted Ann with a mournful cry. Fuzzle Duff caressed Ann’s ankles, rubbing against them with her chin, almost tripping her.

“Where’s your mamma?”

Creaking sounds from old floorboards preceded her across the living room to the hall. Ann called out again, more urgently, “Marie, where are you? Are you all right? It’s Ann.”

At the end of the center hall, she heard voices coming from the den in the back of the house where Marie watched TV. Darkness still hung in the cold hallway like a moonless night. Ann slid her hand along the wall until a faint flicker of light fell across her face. Prickling fear crept up her spine,

“Marie, please answer me, you’re scaring me.”

Still no answer.

A black and white TV with tinfoil wrapped around its rabbit ear antenna was the only light in the room. The voice was that of Arthur Godfrey singing and strumming his ukulele. Ann glanced around the room, looking for signs of Marie. She switched on the overhead light, and her eyes were drawn to Marie’s arm hanging limp from the side of her recliner. The black simulated leather chair was a Christmas present to herself. It was where she dined on TV dinners while she watched
Gunsmoke
. She never missed an episode of her big crush, James Arness, as Marshal Dillon.

Ann tiptoed around the chair. An aluminum TV tray with several green beans and congealed meatloaf gravy rested on the lamp table beside her. She thought it was odd that the lamp wasn’t on.

Marie’s head was slumped forward, chin resting on her chest. Saliva left a crusty trail down the side of her mouth leading to a damp stain on her flannel nightgown. She was bundled up in a heavy bathrobe and wool socks under her bedroom slippers.

Ann touched the back of her hand against Marie’s forehead. It was ice cold.

“Oh my God, Marie, wake up!” Ann patted her cheeks trying to revive her. She placed two fingers on the large artery on her neck. No pulse.

Ann ran to the kitchen and got the funeral home’s number from a list of emergency numbers Marie had tacked up beside the wall phone.

“Hello, can you send an ambulance to 2704 Ludford Lane? And hurry. She’s not breathing. I don’t know what happened, I just found her this way...Yes, her body is cold, please hurry! Thank you.”

Ann hung up the phone but couldn’t force herself to go back into the den. She wrung her hands and paced the kitchen floor. Marie’s old Underwood typewriter sitting on the kitchen table caught her eye. There was a piece of paper with something typed on it still in the carriage. She leaned closer to read it.

Dear Ann,

I am so sorry I let you send Jerry after my sister. I just couldn’t face you coming back to work knowing I was responsible for the death your husband and the father of your two children. Please forgive me.

Marie.

Ann collapsed into a kitchen chair and fell face down on the table. Her body shook as she sobbed into her folded arms.

The ambulance attendants shouted from the front door she had left ajar. “Hello, anyone here?”

A quick wipe of her tear-streaked face with a hand towel soaked with ice cold water snapped her back to the surreal scene swirling around the room like the vortex of a tornado.

“Back here, in the TV room. Please hurry,” She yelled as loud as her shocked throat would let her.

Two ambulance attendants burst into the den. One dropped a black bag beside Marie’s chair. While he examined Marie’s vital signs the other attendant approached Ann.

“Are you a relative?”

“No, just a good friend. We’ve worked together for several years. When she didn’t come in today I was concerned and came to check on her.”

“Do you know if she is taking any medications?”

“She has heart trouble.”

While Ann was being interviewed by the lead attendant, his partner finished his examination. He approached Ann with his stethoscope still around his neck and interrupted the interview. “Ma’am, I’m sorry. Your friend is deceased. Does she have any living relatives, someone we can contact?”

The blood drained from Ann’s head. She retreated to the kitchen chair before she lost her balance. “I guess I’m the only one close to her. She has a sister in a nursing home in Boone. Senile, doesn’t . . . didn’t always recognize Marie.”

“It appears your friend has been dead for some time.”

Ann twitched, her muscles sending spasms through her whole body. “I’m sorry, I’ll be okay. Just give me a minute. It’s just such a shock.” She wrapped her arms around her body as tightly as she could to stop the tremors.

The attendants waited patiently until Ann had regained control.

“I think you need to see this.” She nodded toward the suicide note in the typewriter.

“Yes, ma’am, this changes things. May I use the phone? We have to report suicides to the police.”

“Yes, of course. Can you tell what caused her death from your examination?”

“No ma’am, that will have to be determined by the coroner’s office. We’ll deliver the body to the city morgue for the autopsy. Now, I really need to call the police. Excuse me.”

Ann cringed at the thought of Marie being cut open like a cow at the slaughter house. Why would she do this? This wasn’t like her.