The train I ride on is a hundred coaches long
You can hear the whistle blow nine hundred miles
Ohh-oh me, ohh-oh my
You can hear the whistle blow nine hundred miles.
At one point the police asked me if I knew who it was. I shook my head. “I never even saw them,” I said. This technically was true. But I thought I knew them anyway. I recognized the sentiment. I heard in the furious contention the curses of my own kind. Swaying and tumbling all together, we were one being in the snow, one self-reproaching self-punishing being.
The police wore their blue tunics over sweaters. Their hips were made ponderous by all the belts and holsters and cuffs and sticks hanging from them. They were tough and stupid, there were four of them in the hospital emergency room, four cops writing their reports on pads wound with rubber bands. Then the reporter arrived from the local paper, a thin small man in a Mackinaw and fedora, and he asked them if they had found anything in the lot. I could tell it had not occurred to them to look.
When Clara got there with Sandy I was lying on a table in one of the treatment rooms and on the table next to me was the body. I think I’d been given something before they set my arm because I saw Sandy’s stunned very white face but I didn’t hear the sound she made. The attendant pulled away the sheet the lips were curled back from the teeth like he was grinning and Sandy passed out. Clara, who was holding the baby, grabbed Sandy’s arm and kept her from falling while the attendant ran for the smelling salts. I thought it was still Red making her do whatever he wanted.
Sometime later I had a chance to talk to Clara for a minute.
“He was a company op,” I said.
She shook her head. “The poor dumb galoot.”
“None of this had anything to do with us,” I said, “and I danced us right into it.” I didn’t want to talk this way. I looked in her eyes for the judgment and not finding it tried to put it there by talking this way.
She touched her fingers to my lips.
“He couldn’t have been placed better,” I said. “It was a secret strike plan, nobody knew except the officers. And then the company took out half the machines.”
“Some men came to their house this afternoon,” she said.
“What?”
“Just when it was getting dark. We happened to be on our side. At first Sandy thought it was the radio, that she left it on.”
“Did you get a look at them?”
“I didn’t want to. I heard what they were doing. They tore the place apart.”
“Jesus.”
“It’s lousy that she got hit with all this,” she said.
“Well, now I know why they didn’t believe him.”
“What? I don’t think you should try to talk.”
“No, it’s all right, I’m doped up. I’m saying he was trying to pin it on me. I guess he couldn’t think of anything better.”
“What?”
“But they weren’t buying it because they must have got into his files.” I found myself panting in the effort to speak. I was having trouble catching my breath.
At this moment I saw in Clara’s calm regard the disinterested under-Standing of a beat-up face—as if nothing I had to say was as expressive as the condition I was in.
“He tried to make me the fink,” I said. I realized I was crying. “The son of a bitch. The goddamn hillbilly son of a bitch!”
She turned away.
I stayed that night in the hospital and once or twice I realized the moans on the ward were my own.
In the morning I caught a glimpse of myself in the metal mirror of the bathroom—arm in a sling, a swollen one-sided face, a beauty of a shiner. I found myself pissing blood.
I was released—I supposed on the grounds that I was still breathing. I walked a couple of blocks to the car line. A clear cold morning. I sat in the streetcar as it gradually was engulfed in the tide of men walking to work. I thought of trying to work the line with a broken arm. I was out of a job.
Men stepped aside to let the streetcar through. Faces looked up at me. I had pretended to be one of them. That was the detective’s sin.
When I got home I found Clara and Sandy James and the baby asleep in my bed. The house was cold and there was a fetid smell, faintly redolent of throw-up or death, it was a very personal smell of mourning or despair. I got the fire going in the coal stove—I was learning with each passing moment the surprises of a one-armed life.
I went next door. The place was a shambles. Red’s desk had been jimmied open, the sofa cushions and chair cushions were piled up, the braided rug was thrown back, his collection of pulp magazines was tossed everywhere. His secretarial ledgers were on the floor, one with the names and addresses of the membership, another with his meeting minutes. I found boxes of mimeographed form letters, a loose-leaf folder with directives of the National Labor Relations Board, a scattered pack of blank union cards.
Inside the splintered front door, stuck in a crack, was the carbon copy of a handwritten memo dated some months before. It had been stepped on. It was addressed to someone with the initials C.I.S. It was signed not with a name but with a number. But I could tell who the writer was, Red wrote a very chatty espionage report, very folksy. He spelled grievance greevins.
The bedroom was no less worked over. I straightened the mattress and lay down and pulled a blanket over me. I knew that I should be thinking but I couldn’t seem to make the effort. Eventually I fell asleep. A wind came along and worked at the broken front door, banging it open, banging it closed, and I kept waking or coming to with the intention of seeing who it was, who it was at the door who wanted to come into this pain and taste of blood.
In the parlor a man was picking up papers and tapping them into alignment on the floor. It was the tapping that woke me.
“Hey, pal,” he said.
He wore a topcoat that was open and followed him like a train as he duckwalked from one item to another. His hat was pushed back on his head.
He stood up with an effort. “Oh boy,” he said, “these old bones ain’t what they used to be.”
A lean face, pitted and scarred, very thick black eyebrows, and carbon-black eyes with deep grainy circles of black under them. A heavy five o’clock shadow. But the skin under all was pale and unhealthy-looking. He had collected Red’s union records and was stuffing them now in a briefcase. He righted the armchairs and looked under the cushions. He felt around the desk drawers. He stacked Red’s pulps, flipping through each one to see if there was anything in it. He was very thorough. And all the while he talked.
“Whatsamatter, the lady’s husband come home early? Well, you tell me: was it worth it? I’ll tell you: no. I know about ginch. It is seldom worth it. It is seldom worth what you have to go through to get it. I been married twice myself. I was happy in love for maybe five minutes each of those women.”
It was speech intending to divert, patronizing speech, his eyes and hands busy all the while.
“Put that stuff back,” I said. “It doesn’t belong to you.”
He smiled and shook his head. He came toward me. “Where’s the widow?” he said.
“What?”
“His bereaved.”
“I don’t know.”
He came over to me. “Hey, kid, look at you. Look at how they worked you over. How much can you take? What’s the matter with you?”
I immediately recognized the professionalism of the threat.
“Listen,” he said, “don’t be a wiseass. I’m here with the money, her death benefit.” He waved an envelope in front of my eyes. I could feel the breeze on my hot face.
“She’s at my place. I’ll get her.”
“I would be grateful,” he said.
The women were up, they were in the kitchen, Clara was drinking coffee, she was wearing the clothes she had slept in, she looked gaunt, grim.
Sandy James’ eyes were large and glistening with the unassuageable hurt of someone betrayed. The corners of her mouth were turned d
own. She was trying to feed her baby and the baby was enraged, it was twisting and turning, and making dry smacking sounds. It pulled on her breast and waved its tiny arms.
I explained, but even as I did he appeared in the doorway behind me. Sandy stood and thrust the baby at me and pulled her dress closed and buttoned the buttons while I held the crying baby, wriggling and twisting against my cast.
Now we all stood there frozen in that way of those overtaken by ceremony. Even the baby quieted down.
“I’m sorry for your trouble, Mrs. James,” the man said. He held a legal-looking paper in one hand, an uncapped fountain pen in the other. “Your husband, Mr. James, was a brave man. The company knows it has a responsibility to his family. It ain’t something we have to do, you understand, but in these cases we like to. If you will sign this receipt and waiver, both copies, I have a death-benefit sum of two hundred and fifty dollars cash on the barrelhead.”
Sandy James looked at Clara. Clara sat with her head lowered, the fall of her hair hiding her face.
Sandy James looked at me. I knew what the waiver meant. Two hundred and fifty dollars seemed to be the going rate. Sandy James age fifteen was in no position to sue anybody. I nodded and she signed the waiver.
The fellow tucked one copy in his pocket and put the other on the table. He glanced at Clara. He took out his wallet and counted the money and put it in Sandy’s hand. He came over to me and stuck his finger in the baby’s cheek. “Hey, beauty,” he said. He looked at me and laughed. “Beauty and the beast,” he said.
When he was gone Clara found a cigarette and lit it.
“Two one-hundred-dollar beels,” Sandy James said. “And a fifty-dollar beel.”
I sat on the kitchen table and read the waiver. The party of the first part was Mrs. Lyle James and all her heirs and assignees.
The party of the second part was Bennett Autobody Corporation and its agents, C.I.S., Inc.
I said to Sandy, “You know what C.I.S. stands for?”
She shook her head.
Clara cleared her throat. “It means Crapo Industrial Services,” she said. She took the baby from me. She hugged her and began to pace the room, hugging the baby and saying soft things to her.
“Mah milk’s dried up,” Sandy said. “She’ll have to get on that Carnation?”
“Red worked for Crapo Industrial Services,” I said to Sandy. “Did you know that?”
“Nossir.”
“Neither did I. Why should it surprise me?” I said. “Clara? Does it surprise you?”
Clara didn’t answer.
“No? Then why should it surprise me?” I said. “After all, a corporation like Bennett Autobody needs its industrial services. Spying is an industrial service, isn’t it? I suppose strikebreaking is an industrial service. Paying off cops, bringing in scabs. Let’s see, have I left anything out?”
“Why don’t you take it easy,” Clara said.
“I’m trying to,” I said. “I’m just one poor hobo boy. What else can I do?” I went out to the privy. The sky was clear but a wind was blowing dry snow in gusts along the ground. I was still pissing blood. When I spit, I spit blood. Someone who had business connections with F. W. Bennett was big-time. Tommy Crapo was big-time. Surely he did not even know the name Lyle Red James. It was a coincidence that the fucking hillbilly who lived next door to me was an operative of Crapo Industrial Services. That was all it was. It was not a plot against me. It was not the whole world ganging up on one poor hobo boy.
But in my mind I saw the death-benefit man stepping into a phone booth and placing a call.
I went back inside.
“Can you eat anything?” Clara said. She spoke in a hushed voice that irritated me. “Do you want some coffee?”
“Sit down,” I said. I faced her across the kitchen table. “You knew that joker.”
She folded her hands in her lap. She sighed.
“Well, who is he?”
“Just some guy. I used to see him around.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Oh Christ, no. I don’t think I ever spoke five words to him.”
“What’s his name?”
She shrugged.
“What’s his name, Clara?”
“I don’t remember. Buster. Yeah, I think they called him that.”
“Buster. Well, did Buster say anything? Did he recognize you?”
She didn’t answer.
“Clara, for Christ’s sake—do you think he recognized you!”
Clara bowed her head. “He may have.”
“Okay,” I said. I stood up. “Fine. That’s what I wanted to know. See, if we know what we’re dealing with we know what to do. Am I right? We need to know what the situation is in order to know what to do. Now. Is Tommy Crapo in Jacksontown? You tell me.”
“How should I know? I don’t think so.”
“Well, where would he be?”
She shrugged. “He could be anywhere. Chicago. He lives in Chicago.”
“Good, fine. When Buster calls Mr. Tommy Crapo in Chicago to tell him he’s found Miss Clara Lukaćs, what is Mr. Tommy Crapo likely to do?”
“I don’t like this. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
I leaned over the table. “Hey, Clara? You want to talk about us? You want to tell me how you love me? What is Mr. Tommy Crapo likely to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he going to hang up the phone and laugh and call in his manicurist? Or is he going to come get you?”
She wouldn’t answer.
“I mean what happened at Loon Lake? Why did he leave you there? Did you do something to make him mad? Or was it just a business thing?”
She slumped against the back of the chair. Her mouth opened. But she didn’t say anything.
“Well?”
“You fuckin’ bastard,” she said.
“Oh, swell,” I said. “Let’s hear it. Step a little closer folks. Sandy!” I shouted. “Come in here and listen to this. Hear the lady Clara speak!” We heard the front door close.
“You’re terrific, you know?” Clara said, her eyes brimming. “That kid has just lost her husband.”
“Don’t I know it. And what a terrific guy he was. They’re coming at me right and left, all these terrific guys. They run in packs, all your terrific friends and colleagues.”
I ran next door.
Sandy James had put the baby in her carriage and was standing in the middle of the room pushing the carriage to and fro very fast.
“Sandy,” I said, “I’m very sorry for all this and when we have the time we’ll talk about it if you want to. I’ll tell you everything I can. Did Red ever give you instructions who to call or what to do in case something happened to him?”
“Nossir.”
“Does he have family in Tennessee, anyone who should be notified? Anyone who could come help you?”
She shook her head.
“How about your family?”
Her lower lip was protruding. “They cain’t do nothin.”
“Well, did Red carry life insurance?”
She shook her head.
“Do you know what that is?”
She shook her head.
“Well, where does he keep the family papers? I mean like the kid’s birth certificate. He must keep that somewhere.”
That’s when Sandy James began to cry. She tried not to. She kept rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands as if she could press the tears back in.
I looked around the room. With Buster’s tidying, the parlor was not too badly messed now. I began to go through it myself, opening the desk drawers, tossing things around. What was in my mind? I thought if Red James had not told his wife of an insurance policy, he would be likely to have one. I was looking with absolute conviction in the clarity of my thought for an insurance policy but why it seemed to me the first order of business I couldn’t have said. I supposed it would lead to something. Different pieces of Lyle Red James had been lifted—his espionage self
by the union avengers, his union self by the industrial-service hoods, surely there must be something left for me, something of value to me, something he owed me. Maybe there was a strongbox and maybe along with a birth certificate and an insurance policy there would be cash. How owed me something. He owed me a broken arm and a battered face and a considerable portion of my pride. How owed me my abused girl, he owed me the care and protection of his own wife and child. He owed me a lot. I ran into the bedroom and began to go through the closet. Every move I made was painful, but the more I searched—for what? where was it?—the more frenzied I became. My body had thought it out: I needed to get us all off Railroad Street. I needed to save Clara. I needed to get Sandy James and her baby home to Tennessee. I needed the money for all of this. I think I must have whimpered or moaned as I searched. I was in a cold sweat. At one point from the corner of my eyes I saw the two women standing in the door watching me. I took the sling off my arm so that I could move around more easily. Without the sling I felt the true weight of my cast. I thought of the weight as everything that had to be done before I could get out of Jacksontown. I wanted to shake this cement cast from my bones as I wanted to shake free of this weight of local life and disaster. None of it was mine, I thought, none of it was justly mine. I had stopped over. That was all. I wanted to be going again. I wanted to be back at my best, out of everyone’s reach, in flight. But I had all this weight and I felt there was no time for condolence or ceremony or grief or shock or tears, there was hardly time for what I had to do in order to lift it from me so that we could get free.