[Illustration]
"She'll be pulling out in a minute, Brett," Mr. Phillips said. He tucked
his railroader's watch back in his vest pocket. "You better get
aboard--if you're still set on going."
"It was reading all them books done it," Aunt Haicey said. "Thick books,
and no pictures in them. I knew it'd make trouble." She plucked at the
faded hand-embroidered shawl over her thin shoulders, a tiny bird-like
woman with bright anxious eyes.
"Don't worry about me," Brett said. "I'll be back."
[Illustration]
"The place'll be yours when I'm gone," Aunt Haicey said. "Lord knows it
won't be long."
"Why don't you change your mind and stay on, boy?" Mr. Phillips said,
blinking up at the young man. "If I talk to Mr. J.D., I think he can
find a job for you at the plant."
"So many young people leave Casperton," Aunt Haicey said. "They never
come back."
Mr. Phillips clicked his teeth. "They write, at first," he said. "Then
they gradually lose touch."
"All your people are here, Brett," Aunt Haicey said. "Haven't you been
happy here?"
"Why can't you young folks be content with Casperton?" Mr. Phillips
said. "There's everything you need here."
"It's that Pretty-Lee done it," Aunt Haicey said. "If it wasn't for that
girl--"
A clatter ran down the line of cars. Brett kissed Aunt Haicey's dry
cheek, shook Mr. Phillips' hand, and swung aboard. His suitcase was on
one of the seats. He put it up above in the rack, and sat down, turned
to wave back at the two old people.
It was a summer morning. Brett leaned back and watched the country slide
by. It was nice country, Brett thought; mostly in corn, some cattle, and
away in the distance the hazy blue hills. Now he would see what was on
the other side of them: the cities, the mountains, and the ocean. Up
until now all he knew about anything outside of Casperton was what he'd
read or seen pictures of. As far as he was concerned, chopping wood and
milking cows back in Casperton, they might as well not have existed.
They were just words and pictures printed on paper. But he didn't want
to just read about them. He wanted to see for himself.
* * *
Pretty-Lee hadn't come to see him off. She was probably still mad about
yesterday. She had been sitting at the counter at the Club Rexall,
drinking a soda and reading a movie magazine with a big picture of an
impossibly pretty face on the cover--the kind you never see just walking
down the street. He had taken the next stool and ordered a coke.
"Why don't you read something good, instead of that pap?" he asked her.
"Something good? You mean something dry, I guess. And don't call it ...
that word. It doesn't sound polite."
"What does it say? That somebody named Doll Starr is fed up with glamor
and longs for a simple home in the country and lots of kids? Then why
doesn't she move to Casperton?"
"You wouldn't understand," said Pretty-Lee.
He took the magazine, leafed through it. "Look at this: all about
people who give parties that cost thousands of dollars, and fly all over
the world having affairs with each other and committing suicide and
getting divorced. It's like reading about Martians."
"I still like to read about the stars. There's nothing wrong with it."
"Reading all that junk just makes you dissatisfied. You want to do your
hair up crazy like the pictures in the magazines and wear weird-looking
clothes--"
Pretty-Lee bent her straw double. She stood up and took her shopping
bag. "I'm very glad to know you think my clothes are weird--"
"You're taking everything I say personally. Look." He showed her a
full-color advertisement on the back cover of the magazine. "Look at
this. Here's a man supposed to be cooking steaks on some kind of
back-yard grill. He looks like a movie star; he's dressed up like he was
going to get married; there's not a wrinkle anywhere. There's not a spot
on that apron. There isn't even a grease spot on the frying pan. The
lawn is as smooth as a billiard table. There's his son; he looks just
like his pop, except that he's not grey at the temples. Did you ever
really see a man that handsome, or hair that was just silver over the
ears and the rest glossy black? The daughter looks like a movie starlet,
and her mom is exactly the same, except that she has that grey streak in
front to match her husband. You can see the car in the drive; the treads
of the tires must have just been scrubbed; they're not even dusty.
There's not a pebble out of place; all the flowers are in full bloom; no
dead ones. No leaves on the lawn; no dry twigs showing on the trees.
That other house in the background looks like a palace, and the man with
the rake, looking over the fence: he looks like this one's twin brother,
and he's out raking leaves in brand new clothes--"
Pretty-Lee grabbed her magazine. "You just seem to hate everything
that's nicer than this messy town--"
"I don't think it's nicer. I like you; your hair isn't always perfectly
smooth, and you've got a mended place on your dress, and you feel human,
you smell human--"
"Oh!" Pretty-Lee turned and flounced out of the drug store.
* * *
Brett shifted in the dusty plush seat and looked around. There were a
few other people in the car. An old man was reading a newspaper; two old
ladies whispered together. There was a woman of about thirty with a
mean-looking kid; and some others. They didn't look like magazine
pictures, any of them. He tried to picture them doing the things you
read in newspapers: the old ladies putting poison in somebody's tea; the
old man giving orders to start a war. He thought about babies in houses
in cities, and airplanes flying over, and bombs falling down: huge
explosive bombs. Blam! Buildings fall in, pieces of glass and stone fly
through the air. The babies are blown up along with everything else--
But the kind of people he knew couldn't do anything like that. They
liked to loaf and eat and talk and drink beer and buy a new tractor or
refrigerator and go fishing. And if they ever got mad and hit
somebody--afterwards they were embarrassed and wanted to shake hands....
The train slowed, came to a shuddery stop. Through the window he saw a
cardboardy-looking building with the words BAXTER'S JUNCTION painted
across it. There were a few faded posters on a bulletin board. An old
man was sitting on a bench, waiting. The two old ladies got off and a
boy in blue jeans got on. The train started up. Brett folded his jacket
and tucked it under his head and tried to doze off....
* * * * *
Brett awoke, yawned, sat up. The train was slowing. He remembered you
couldn't use the toilets while the train was stopped. He got up and went
to the end of the car. The door was jammed. He got it open and went
inside and closed the door behind him. The train was going slower,
clack-clack ... clack-clack ... clack; clack ... cuh-lack ...
He washed his hands, then pulled at the door. It was stuck. He pulled
harder. The handle was too small; it was hard to get hold of. The train
came to a halt. Brett braced himself and strained against the door. It
didn't budge.
He looked out the grimy window. The sun was getting lower. It was about
three-thirty, he guessed. He couldn't see anything but some dry-looking
fields.
Outside in the corridor there were footsteps. He started to call, but
then didn't. It would be too embarrassing, pounding on the door and
yelling, "Let me out! I'm stuck in the toilet ..."
He tried to rattle the door. It didn't rattle. Somebody was dragging
something heavy past the door. Mail bags, maybe. He'd better yell. But
dammit, the door couldn't be all that hard to open. He studied the
latch. All he had to do was turn it. He got a good grip and twisted.
Nothing.
He heard the mail bag bump-bump, and then another one. To heck with it;
he'd yell. He'd wait until he heard the footsteps pass the door again
and then he'd make some noise.
Brett waited. It was quiet now. He rapped on the door anyway. No answer.
Maybe there was nobody left in the car. In a minute the train would
start up and he'd be stuck here until the next stop. He banged on the
door. "Hey! The door is stuck!"
It sounded foolish. He listened. It was very quiet. He pounded again.
The car creaked once. He put his ear to the door. He couldn't hear
anything. He turned back to the window. There was no one in sight. He
put his cheek flat against it, looked along the car. He saw only dry
fields.
He turned around and gave the door a good kick. If he damaged it, it was
too bad; the railroad shouldn't have defective locks on the doors. If
they tried to make him pay for it, he'd tell them they were lucky he
didn't sue the railroad ...
* * *
He braced himself against the opposite wall, drew his foot back, and
kicked hard at the lock. Something broke. He pulled the door open.
He was looking out the open door and through the window beyond. There
was no platform, just the same dry fields he could see on the other
side. He came out and went along to his seat. The car was empty now.
He looked out the window. Why had the train stopped here? Maybe there
was some kind of trouble with the engine. It had been sitting here for
ten minutes or so now. Brett got up and went along to the door, stepped
down onto the iron step. Leaning out, he could see the train stretching
along ahead, one car, two cars--
There was no engine.
Maybe he was turned around. He looked the other way. There were three
cars. No engine there either. He must be on some kind of siding ...
Brett stepped back inside, and pushed through into the next car. It was
empty. He walked along the length of it, into the next car. It was empty
too. He went back through the two cars and his own car and on, all the
way to the end of the train. All the cars were empty. He stood on the
platform at the end of the last car, and looked back along the rails.
They ran straight, through the dry fields, right to the horizon. He
stepped down to the ground, went along the cindery bed to the front of
the train, stepping on the ends of the wooden ties. The coupling stood
open. The tall, dusty coach stood silently on its iron wheels, waiting.
Ahead the tracks went on--
And stopped.
He walked along the ties, following the iron rails, shiny on top, and
brown with rust on the sides. A hundred feet from the train they ended.
The cinders went on another ten feet and petered out. Beyond, the fields
closed in. Brett looked up at the sun. It was lower now in the west, its
light getting yellow and late-afternoonish. He turned and looked back at
the train. The cars stood high and prim, empty, silent. He walked back,
climbed in, got his bag down from the rack, pulled on his jacket. He
jumped down to the cinders, followed them to where they ended. He
hesitated a moment, then pushed between the knee-high stalks. Eastward
across the field he could see what looked like a smudge on the far
horizon.
He walked until dark, then made himself a nest in the dead stalks, and
went to sleep.
* * *
He lay on his back, looking up at pink dawn clouds. Around him, dry
stalks rustled in a faint stir of air. He felt crumbly earth under his
fingers. He sat up, reached out and broke off a stalk. It crumbled into
fragile chips. He wondered what it was. It wasn't any crop he'd ever
seen before.
He stood, looked around. The field went on and on, dead flat. A locust
came whirring toward him, plumped to earth at his feet. He picked it up.
Long elbowed legs groped at his fingers aimlessly. He tossed the insect
in the air. It fluttered away. To the east the smudge was clearer now;
it seemed to be a grey wall, far away. A city? He picked up his bag and
started on.
He was getting hungry. He hadn't eaten since the previous morning. He
was thirsty too. The city couldn't be more than three hours' walk. He
tramped along, the dry plants crackling under his feet, little puffs of
dust rising from the dry ground. He thought about the rails, running
across the empty fields, ending ...
He had heard the locomotive groaning up ahead as the train slowed. And
there had been feet in the corridor. Where had they gone?
He thought of the train, Casperton, Aunt Haicey, Mr. Phillips. They
seemed very far away, something remembered from long ago. Up above the
sun was hot. That was real. The rest seemed unimportant. Ahead there was
a city. He would walk until he came to it. He tried to think of other
things: television, crowds of people, money: the tattered paper and the
worn silver--
Only the sun and the dusty plain and the dead plants were real now. He
could see them, feel them. And the suitcase. It was heavy; he shifted
hands, kept going.
There was something white on the ground ahead, a small shiny surface
protruding from the earth. Brett dropped the suitcase, went down on one
knee, dug into the dry soil, pulled out a china teacup, the handle
missing. Caked dirt crumbled away under his thumb, leaving the surface
clean. He looked at the bottom of the cup. It was unmarked. Why just one
teacup, he wondered, here in the middle of nowhere? He dropped it, took
up his suitcase, and went on.
* * *
After that he watched the ground more closely. He found a shoe; it was
badly weathered, but the sole was good. It was a high-topped work shoe,
size 10-1/2-C. Who had dropped it here? He thought of other lone shoes
he had seen, lying at the roadside or in alleys. How did they get
there...?
Half an hour later he detoured around the rusted front fender of an
old-fashioned car. He looked around for the rest of the car but saw
nothing. The wall was closer now; perhaps five miles more.
A scrap of white paper fluttered across the field in a stir of air. He
saw another, more, blowing along in the fitful gusts. He ran a few
steps, caught one, smoothed it out.