Dust girl

13

I used to like trains. I’d watch them go by out my window and wave to the people. I’d even envied the hobos. At least they were on their way somewhere, while I was stuck in the dust. The train songs were my favorite, whether Mama sang them to me or we listened on the radio: “Rock Island Line,” “This Train,” “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” even “Little Black Train.” And of course “The Midnight Special.”

But I’ll tell you what, now that I was in the middle of all those trains, I didn’t want anything more than to find my way out again. Nothing makes sense in a rail yard at night, and there’s no way to see where you’re going or what’s coming toward you. Huge sheds rose up to our right like giants’ caves, with steam engines bigger than any storybook troll squatting inside. The lines of train cars-Pullman cars, refrigerators, tankers, open-top coal cars, flatbeds-rose up on every side, cutting off any easy way forward or out. We had to squeeze between or under those silent, empty cars to get anywhere. But even then, the only place we were getting was deeper into the dark, broken maze. A wind stinking of oil, diesel, metal, and sawdust wormed its way between the cars, following us. Things clanked and creaked, but I couldn’t tell where any of the sounds came from or what they belonged to. Anything could be hiding here, and we’d never know until it was right behind us.

Jack held my hand so we’d keep together, and I didn’t mind at all. I startled and tripped on the rails and the ties as I tried to cross. I wished a thousand times we’d just gone to the movies. Whatever waited inside the Bijoux could not have been scarier than all these shadows. Jack acted like he knew where he was going, but nobody could in all this dark, with all these giant cars and all these sounds coming from nowhere. Part of me knew this was just fear shunting my brains around, but it surely made a good job of it.

Finally, Jack pointed to a bunch of dark bundles beside a stack of railroad ties. I thought they were coal sacks until I saw one unfold itself and arch back to stretch its shoulders. Those bundles were all people, huddled close in the dark.

I wanted to hang back, but Jack squeezed my hand and marched us forward. As we got closer, I could see there were dozens of people, maybe as many as a hundred. All of them hobos, bums, Dust Bowl refugees hunkered down together because as bad as it was here, being here alone would have been worse.

Jack picked out one man from all the others, a wiry fella in overalls and a loose undershirt, his thin hair brushed back. He wasn’t huddled on the ground. This man leaned against the stack of ties, staring hard at the dark, his big, crooked nose making him look like a hawk. Jack walked us both into a patch of floodlight and went straight up to him.

“How do?” Jack asked politely. The man nodded.

“Been here long?”

The man shrugged. “Few days.”

“All right we set down too?”

That man’s eyes were sharp and clear as he looked us over. I would have bet money he could see in the dark. Not because he was a magic man or anything; just because he’d been watching so hard and so long.

He shrugged again. “It’s a free country.”

“Thank you kindly,” said Jack.

I’d seen plenty of hobos. They came to the Imperial looking for work almost every time a train pulled into the station. But I’d never been in a whole camp of them like this. All these people were dried out and wrinkled by sun and wind, and then starved down so far that their bones rode right under their skin. Even the babies looked old. The families clustered together. Women sat with skinny children around their knees and in their arms, their men standing watch while they dozed. The boys traveling on their own hunkered down a little ways away. Some of those boys with their hats pulled low and their hands shoved in their jacket pockets might have been girls, but their faces were just as hard and exhausted as any of the others.

All of them waiting to hop a train. All of them trying to get someplace, anyplace where there might be work and a chance at keeping body and soul together just a little bit longer. They watched us settle down between them with hollow, hungry eyes. I remembered the barbeque, and guilt squirmed around inside me, making itself all comfortable.

“So, what now?” I said to Jack. “We wait for the Midnight Special?”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d know that song.”

I shrugged. “Mama sings it all the time. One of her favorites. I never heard it on the radio or anything. I always thought… maybe it was something Papa taught her.”

Jack shrugged. “Could be, I guess. I heard it on the road. A fella told me the prisoners in this big jail over in Texas, they said if the light from the midnight train touched you as it went past the jail, you’d be freed.”

I let that sink in awhile. The idea of Mama spending her life trying to keep the Imperial from falling down and the whole time singing a song about getting out of jail was not one that sat well with what was already in my head.

“Better get some sleep, Callie.” Jack stretched himself out right on the ground, using his cap as a pillow. “Nothing going to be leavin’ before mornin’.”

I shook my head. “I don’t like this.” Something bothered me about all those people squatting in the dark, and I needed to dig it out before I could rest.

Jack opened one eye and peered up at me. “What’s the problem?”

I had it now, and I didn’t want it. “Bull Morgan. The man from the lunch counter. He said he didn’t allow hobos on his trains, or in his town.”

I wanted a different answer than the uncertainty on Jack’s face. “Bull Morgan?” he repeated. “As in railroad bull?”

I knew that one. A bull was a private detective hired by the railroad company to keep bums and thieves out of the yard. “He had a badge,” I said. And a club. And a gun…

Jack thought about this. Then he got to his feet and walked slow and easy back over to the man with the hawk nose.

“There been any trouble with the bulls?” Jack asked him.

The man shrugged. “Naw. Some of us lent a hand with the digging out after the duster. Stationmaster said it was okay if we set here for a while; he’d warn Morgan off.”

“That guy was not goin’ to give anybody a pass.” I remembered those cold gray eyes and I shivered. “And he said he didn’t allow hobos in his yard.”

The man’s face went hard, just like Jack’s had when we got into Constantinople. I wondered which of those women and kids were his. He strolled over to a couple of the other men who were leaning against the stack of ties and said something soft to them. They nodded, straightened their hats, and closed in behind him. I knew what they were doing, and I was glad. They might have the stationmaster’s word, but they were going to check things out for themselves.

Jack drew himself up to his full height and started after the men. I went to follow, but he put up his hand.

“No, Callie. You stay here. You’ll just get lost.”

I wanted to argue with him, but I already knew he was right, so I nodded and let him go. The men walked off, melting into the shadows, and in a minute it was like they’d never been there at all.

I went back to our spot and sat down cross-legged. A baby started crying, high and thin and persistent in the darkness. A woman’s voice rose up soft: “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…”

But Papa wasn’t going to buy that baby anything at all, never mind a diamond ring. Hope and despair wound like the dusty wind through that song. I thought again about the barbeque dinner I’d made, and about all the heavy worry that held the people around me. Worry had worn itself deep into their minds and souls, but it was still finding new channels to dig. I wanted something to do, like Jack. I didn’t want to just sit and wait.

“And if that diamond ring turns brass, Papa’s gonna buy you a looking glass…”

I’d wished up a whole dinner at Shimmy’s. Why couldn’t I do it again? I knew how this time. I could hold the power together and shape the wish. It didn’t even have to be a barbeque; it could be something smaller… a kettle of stew or something.

“And if that looking glass gets broke, Papa’s gonna buy you a billy goat…”

I picked myself up and moved deeper into the shadows. Lamb stew. One big kettle. Enough for one meal. Just to let people get through the night, just to ease the worry a little. I cupped my hands, like I was catching water coming from a pump, but instead I caught the feeling of that lullaby, the worry and the tired, desperate wish to make it all better. It was a strong feeling, and it sank right into me, to the place where I could spin it into a wish.

A wish for food. Everybody here wished that wish. I could feel the aching, gnawing hunger bound together with the worry. Hunger as plentiful as dust. I took that hunger, I took that song, and I wished for food. For lamb stew, with rich broth and new potatoes. A big kettle full of it. I could smell it, hot, meaty, savory. A whole kettle of stew to feed the people. I held my hands out. It was almost here. Almost.

But something was holding on to it. Something heavy pushed that wish back while I tried to pull it forward. I leaned into it and wished harder. But the whatever-it-was pushed harder yet.

She’s here. That’s her. I know it is!

Quiet!

My eyes snapped open, and the wish flew into a thousand pieces. Everything Shimmy had tried to tell me about how I’d feel the wishes around me, how they’d make me itchy, came rushing back. She’d been right. I was surrounded by worried wishes, and they had made me so itchy, I’d forgotten I still had people out looking for me. The Hoppers had been the beginning, not the end.

I needed to find Jack and warn him. Trailing the fading scent of hot stew, I lit out into the shadows.