The Last Martin (8 page)

“The little guys get stuck and pull and pull. They yank so hard their heads pop off.”

A rumbling begins deep in my stomach. I can feel the burn in my throat. I’m five seconds from sick.

Death everywhere. I run down the steps, race the length of the hall, and duck into the bathroom. I sit on the side of the tub and prepare for a violent stomach lurch. Dad’s steady footsteps approach.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, son.” He steps inside the bathroom, sweeps away the shower curtain, and eases down beside me. “I thought you might be interested to see who lives here besides us.”

“Yeah, well.” I swallow and lift the pulpy paper to his nose. “There will be one less here soon.”

Dad uncrumples the sheet and studies it top to bottom. His gaze shifts to me. “I’m going to ask you a serious question, Martin. I need you to be truthful. How long have you been thinking about death?”

“A little while.”

He puffs out a blast of air. “I know I’m not around much, but it looks like I need to be. Would you consider talking to a counselor?”

“About …”

“This obsession with dying.” He makes a fist and bumps my thigh. “Your mother mentioned it after our cemetery visit. I thought she was being her quirky self but maybe —”

I grab the sheet back. “I am not the problem. Look!” I point at the dates. “Don’t you see a pattern here? And in three short months, who is going to be born? Uncle Landis’s Martin Boyle. And who is going to die?” I point at myself. “Your Martin Boyle. This is not an obsession. Does this not look a bit curse-like to you?”

He shifts into thinking gear.

“Please, Dad. Say something.”

“You think you’ll die in a few months? My counselor friend specializes in helping veterans
following their tours of duty. He’s an expert on death fixations. He can help.”

“I don’t need a shrink.” I lift the page. “I need anti-curse lotion or un-naming powder or something! Dad …” I lower my voice. “I need … I need help.”

He puts his arm around me. It’s been awhile since he’s done that and it feels so good. I bury my head in his big shoulder. Everything will be okay.

“I see. Yes, Martin. You need help. And that’s what Dr. Stanker can give you.”

“You don’t believe me.” I push away from Dad, fly down the stairs, and into the backyard. “The man is blind.” I stare at the numbers on the sheet. “What is hard to see about this?”

“What, friend?”

Poole yawns and stretches and leans against the garden train.

I throw the page at him; it bounces off his chest. Poole bends over, flattens the sheet over his thigh, and reads. Two seconds later his gaze raises to me. The paper flutters to the ground.

“You
are
going to die.”

I
START A NEW ROUTINE. I CALL IT THE BIG PACE. EACH afternoon, I log hours wearing a trail in front of the boxcar.

I’m hyperaware of my body — each twinge, each sensation. Especially each wave of dizziness. They waft over me like the scent of mashed skunk. And like skunk stink, they don’t blow over. The confusion sticks.

Mom stares out at me through the kitchen window. Her nose twitches, and her fingers tap nervously on her lips. I don’t care. The Big Pace calms me and clears my head. There’s got to be a way out of this. A back door. There must be a way to cough up death’s hook and swim away from this mess.

Poole seems to enjoy my torment. Today he joins me in crisscrossing the grass. I peek at the window. No Mom. Where is the Owl when you need her?

“Let me guess,” Poole says. We meet in the middle of the yard. “He thinks you’re nuts.”

“Excuse me?” We continue on, turn, and meet back in the middle.

“Your dad.” Poole points toward the house. “The man thinks you’re crazy.”

“Certified.”

It’s been weeks since Poole pelted me. I know I’m supposed to stay far away from violent vagrants, but this one half-believes me. That changes things — if only he could keep his mouth shut.

On our next pass, he grabs my arm, and I glare.

“It’s not your fault, Marty. Adults never get this stuff.” He lets go. “They don’t know that words have power.”

“Words what?”

“Your string of dead Martins isn’t a coincidence. Your name is cursed. And a curse means words. Maybe written, maybe spoken. Words have power.” Poole forces his hand through his hair and exhales hard. “Why do you think I’m still here?”

“I don’t know. You’ll outlive me, so maybe you think you’ll inherit the house.”

He rolls his eyes and smirks. “Follow me. I’ll show you something.”

Poole hops on the track and heads east, toward the depot. I glance over my shoulder at my back door. I take
three steps after him and pause. “Couldn’t you describe whatever it is from here?”

Poole says nothing, and I scamper to catch up. One track turns to two, then four, and soon rails stretch in all directions. Midway Depot. BNSF. Canada. Even Amtrak. Every train in the city must pass through this bottleneck. Train cars rattle tracks beneath my feet, and I leap off the rail each time I feel vibrations.

But Poole doesn’t flinch. A train rushes by on the next track over, and he doesn’t flinch. Poole just smiles and waits for me, and on one occasion, points to a wrought iron bench in the middle of the yard. Poole hops over, sits, and stretches. He’s in his glory.

I won’t sit. Too many birds have flown overhead and left their mark on the seat.

“Your boxcar isn’t my home; it’s more like my summer cabin.
This …”
Poole waves his arms around him. “… is home.” He leans back, sighs, and clasps fingers behind his head.

“You don’t like your family?”

Poole sighs. “Getting right to it, now, aren’t we? This
is
family.” He stares out at a slow-moving Burlington caboose. “There. The last place I saw my dad. Wavin’ off the back end of a caboose. He drove engines all his life.” He nods. “See, Ma had taken off and it was Dad and me and the trains.” He pats the bench. “Take a load off. The
bird stuff’s dry.”

I take off my T-shirt, lay it across the metal, and join him. Poole exhales hard and continues.

“Well, Ma’s leaving made a mess, ‘cause Dad would be gone for days at a time. But you know about that.”

I nod.

He points at the depot. “When Dad was gone, the railroad guys took care of me. So that was home. Then one day — “ Poole nods toward the train, now in the distance. “Dad went around that bend, and I heard a squeal, and men shouting. Dad’s big ol’ heart stopped and that was that. Max, the conductor, tracked down my ma, got her on the phone. First time I’d talked to her in years. She said, ‘Wait right there at Midway, honey. I’m comin’ back for you.'” Poole’s eyes glaze, and his gaze sticks trance-like to the ground. “'I’ll be back for you,'” he whispers. “Well, I’m still waitin'.”

Minutes pass and I clear my throat. “How long ago —”

“Comin’ on three years.” He blinks and shakes his head. “See, words have power. I can’t bring myself to leave. What if she comes and I’m gone?”

Poole changes before my eyes. Twenty minutes ago he was a grimy vagrant. Not now. Now, I feel for him. I don’t want him in my boxcar. I want him in our guest bedroom.

“So why’d I tell you? I don’t know. Ain’t told anybody in so long, it felt good.” He straightens, stands, and breathes deeply. “What a beautiful day.”

I frown. “Okay, right there. You did that oh-every-thing-is-so-wonderful thing again. Your dad’s dead, and your mom … well, you always talk way happy, but you live in a boxcar, and you don’t have family or Band-aids or soap or …”

Poole dashes from the bench and leaps onto a stationary locomotive. “But I have one thing you don’t. Thankfulness, my friend. My dad’s medicine. He started taking it the day Mom left.” Poole points. “Each day he’d come round that bend and shout out something he still had to be grateful for. Maybe he was trying to convince himself, don’t know. I picked up on the habit the day he died. Helps somehow.” Poole jumps off the train.

I glance at Poole’s ankles and wince. “Why’s it help?”

“Don’t have a clue. I reckon if I feel thankful when life stinks, I must actually be thanking Someone.” Poole points up. “Strange way of prayin', but it works for me. How ‘bout you? Ever felt thankful, Martin? For the warm sun on your face?”

“Without sunblock?”

“Marty, Marty.” He walks back to me. “Try it.”

“Try —”

“Every stinkin’ day, say something you’re thankful for. But you got to do it out loud. You have to hear yourself say it. Words have power, you know. Here’s an
example for you.”

He cups his hands to his mouth and yells. “Hallelujah! I’ll never have to wear dentures!” Poole peeks at me and winks. “See, you’ll be dead long before that and —”

“I get it. Very funny.”

I don’t want to turn into a kook. A nut. But Poole whistles happily and I look like a mess. A worm of an idea wriggles into my skull.

“I have a deal for you,” I say.

Poole’s eyes sparkle.

I pause. “You go to school for me tomorrow, and I’ll play your thankful game.”

His sparkle vanishes, and for the first time Poole looks sickly.

“Okay, I’ll play your thankful game,
and
I’ll get you some new boots.” I point at his flap-soled pair. “Those look way small.”

Poole frowns and bites his lip.

“All right, how ‘bout this?” I raise three fingers. “I’ll play your thankful game, I’ll get you boots
and
a home-cooked meal. Frank probably doesn’t cook
that
well, and Mom, well, she’s awesome in that category.”

“School,” Poole repeats.

“There’s this girl and I can’t seem to talk to her, but I’m running out of time, and I need your help.” I exhale
hard. “Go to school, get Julia’s attention, you know, casually bring me into the conversation. Talk me up, fire
some volleys back and forth, and make me sound, well, use some of those smooth words. That’s it. The next day I’ll swoop in and work my charms.”

“You want me to go to school.”

“I want you to break the ice with Julia and make me sound unforgettable.” I stand up. “Are you scared?”

“I’m not scared, not really, it’s more about this uncomfortable rash I get whenever I think about the
s
word.” Poole frowns, puffs out air. “One day. I’ll go to school one day.” He pauses. “Size 10, wide.”

“Yeah,” I grin. “Wide.”

“And lasagna. Does the Owl do lasagna?”

“Extra cheese.”

“Yeah,” Poole grins. “Extra cheese.” He grabs my shirt. “You better keep up your end.”

I grimace. “You better take a shower.”

He smells a pit and furrows his brow. We walk back to my house in silence. Poole hops into the boxcar, and I head toward my home’s back door. I reach it and grab the knob.

“Hey, Martin.” Poole swings his feet. “I know things don’t look good for you. Eight weeks ain’t long. But you are the only Martin right now.”

“So?”

“And according to that curse, there always
has
to be a Martin.”

“Yeah?”

“Just one Martin?” asks Poole.

“One.”

“So unless I’m wrong, since there isn’t any other Martin Boyle eating ham sandwiches at your family reunions, at least for these next eight weeks …”

I freeze, my eyes wide open. “I can’t die.”

Poole grins and disappears into the boxcar. “Have a fantastic evening!”

Oh, man. If he’s right, if I’m right, I could do … anything.

I feel light, buoyant. I burst in the back door. Mom and Dad stand side-by-side wearing their worried faces. I step up to Mom and kiss her cheek. She reaches for her antibac soap. I move to Dad, raise my hand to high-five him. His stares and slowly presses his paw against mine.

I step back, lift both arms and holler. “I can’t die!”

That should count for today’s thankfulness.

Mom grabs Dad’s arm. “Oh, Gavin, he’s delusional. It’s far worse than we thought.”

“Son,” Dad wraps his arm around me. “We need to talk.”

“Sure,” I say, “but when we do, let’s talk fast. I have a lot of living to jam into a little time.”

Mom gasps.

“It’s fine, Mom. I don’t know why it feels fine, but it does. For the first time, I feel great.”

“Great?” Mom looks from me to Dad. “Gavin, do something!”

I laugh, clear and free.

The next morning I meet Poole by the boxcar. He sits in the mouth, his left leg bouncing. “Nervous?” I ask. “No.” He exhales. “Okay, yes.” “Here.” I toss him my most oversized clothes. “A couple pairs of jeans to choose from and a T-shirt.”

He looks long and hard at the options before snatching ripped denims and disappearing into the blackness. “How am I supposed to find this girl?” he calls out. “You won’t need to. She’ll find you.” “How?”

“You’re a new kid.” I say, “Everybody gawks at new kids.”

“So I’m a zoo animal.” “More or less.”

He slowly appears from the dark recesses of the car. He strokes the shirt flat, zips his fly, then fights his hand through his hair. “What do you think?”

I raise my palms and scrunch my face. “Not bad. But that mop on your head. When was the last time you had that cut?”

“Oh no. Hair wasn’t in our deal. These are sacred strands, friend, and you ain’t puttin’ your Germ-Xed hands on ‘em.”