in solid yellow waves through the glass.
“Lower the shade, Michael,” instructed Leonard Bair. “These windows should be tinted, but then we accept what we get. Ah, that’s better.”
The tall man arranged a magazine on his lap and adjusting his steel-rimmed spectacles, settled into the velvet seat, his lips already moving almost imperceptibly as he read.
Michael studied his father’s calm face above the magazine, thinking: You killed her and I know it. No matter how she died you killed her. She needed us and you sent her away. Why should I care what happens to you? Why should Lucy care? Michael’s heart began to beat faster in his chest and he could fed its steady throb behind his eyes. An anger was building inside him, a deep and long-withheld anger which was only now, in the coach on this particular day, fully revealing itself The train changed things. The train was taking Michael away from the old world of fear and darkness; the small Missouri town of his childhood was behind them now, lost in gleaming rails and distance. It was easier not to care, here in his new world of the train.
It was easier to hate.
I saw him pack, thought Michael, and I know he didn’t take along the gun. Or a knife, either. Only the bottle. That was all he took along—just the small, green bottle.
“May I please be excused?” Lucy asked, standing in the aisle between the seats.
“Go with sister, Michael,” said their father, his eyes still fastened to the print he was reading. “But don’t be too long.”
“All right,” said Michael, and pushed open the door.
The rest room was at the far end of the coach, and Michael braced one hand against the compartment walls to help balance himself in the swaying car.
“Here we are,” said Michael, reaching the rest room door. “It’s empty. You can go in okay by yourself, can’t you?”
Lucy nodded and entered the small cubicle.
While he was waiting, another boy approached him, maybe a year or two older. Tall and blond and bored-looking. He started toward the door.
“My sisters in there,” said Michael.
“Okay,” said the blond boy. “I can wait.”
A moment of awkward silence. Then Michael said, “This is my first train ride.”
“Me, too. We always fly. You fly a lot?”
“I’ve never been on a plane. Are they fun?”
The boy looked at him oddly. “Yeah... I guess so. Sure beats rattling across the country on this damn thing. How far you going?”
“Los Angeles.”
“L.A’s a good town. Too much smog, though. Been there before?”
Michael shook his head. “I’ve never been anywhere. Is it big, Los Angeles?”
“Sure it’s big. Takes all day just to get from one end to the other.”
“I see,” said Michael, but he didn’t. He could never imagine a town that large. Jefferson had seemed enormous to him.
“I’m afraid of big cities,” said Michael.
“How come?”
“A big city can swallow you up. They frighten me.”
“How old are you anyway?”
“Fourteen.”
“Jeez,” said the blond boy, shaking his head. “You sure don’t know much.”
“I don’t know anything,” said Michael honestly. “I have to learn it all new.”
The rest room door opened, and Lucy came out. The boy darted in, closing it behind him. “Jeez,” he said, faintly.
As he moved back down the coach aisle with his sister, Michael thought: to that boy I’m a fool. And he’s right. I’ve got to grow up. It’s time now. Time to begin acting like a man.
Why should I be afraid of a city? A city is really the same, big or small, familiar or strange. It can’t, of itself, hurt you. People can hurt you, but only if you let them, only if you get in their way. He was good at staying out of people’s way and so was Lucy.
Michael’s heart thudded faster as he neared their compartment. I’m almost a man now, he thought, I’m very close to being a man. I must no longer be afraid.
Outside the window, the sun was nearly down and Michael felt the quietness of
“Lower the shade, Michael,” instructed Leonard Bair. “These windows should be tinted, but then we accept what we get. Ah, that’s better.”
The tall man arranged a magazine on his lap and adjusting his steel-rimmed spectacles, settled into the velvet seat, his lips already moving almost imperceptibly as he read.
Michael studied his father’s calm face above the magazine, thinking: You killed her and I know it. No matter how she died you killed her. She needed us and you sent her away. Why should I care what happens to you? Why should Lucy care? Michael’s heart began to beat faster in his chest and he could fed its steady throb behind his eyes. An anger was building inside him, a deep and long-withheld anger which was only now, in the coach on this particular day, fully revealing itself The train changed things. The train was taking Michael away from the old world of fear and darkness; the small Missouri town of his childhood was behind them now, lost in gleaming rails and distance. It was easier not to care, here in his new world of the train.
It was easier to hate.
I saw him pack, thought Michael, and I know he didn’t take along the gun. Or a knife, either. Only the bottle. That was all he took along—just the small, green bottle.
“May I please be excused?” Lucy asked, standing in the aisle between the seats.
“Go with sister, Michael,” said their father, his eyes still fastened to the print he was reading. “But don’t be too long.”
“All right,” said Michael, and pushed open the door.
The rest room was at the far end of the coach, and Michael braced one hand against the compartment walls to help balance himself in the swaying car.
“Here we are,” said Michael, reaching the rest room door. “It’s empty. You can go in okay by yourself, can’t you?”
Lucy nodded and entered the small cubicle.
While he was waiting, another boy approached him, maybe a year or two older. Tall and blond and bored-looking. He started toward the door.
“My sisters in there,” said Michael.
“Okay,” said the blond boy. “I can wait.”
A moment of awkward silence. Then Michael said, “This is my first train ride.”
“Me, too. We always fly. You fly a lot?”
“I’ve never been on a plane. Are they fun?”
The boy looked at him oddly. “Yeah... I guess so. Sure beats rattling across the country on this damn thing. How far you going?”
“Los Angeles.”
“L.A’s a good town. Too much smog, though. Been there before?”
Michael shook his head. “I’ve never been anywhere. Is it big, Los Angeles?”
“Sure it’s big. Takes all day just to get from one end to the other.”
“I see,” said Michael, but he didn’t. He could never imagine a town that large. Jefferson had seemed enormous to him.
“I’m afraid of big cities,” said Michael.
“How come?”
“A big city can swallow you up. They frighten me.”
“How old are you anyway?”
“Fourteen.”
“Jeez,” said the blond boy, shaking his head. “You sure don’t know much.”
“I don’t know anything,” said Michael honestly. “I have to learn it all new.”
The rest room door opened, and Lucy came out. The boy darted in, closing it behind him. “Jeez,” he said, faintly.
As he moved back down the coach aisle with his sister, Michael thought: to that boy I’m a fool. And he’s right. I’ve got to grow up. It’s time now. Time to begin acting like a man.
Why should I be afraid of a city? A city is really the same, big or small, familiar or strange. It can’t, of itself, hurt you. People can hurt you, but only if you let them, only if you get in their way. He was good at staying out of people’s way and so was Lucy.
Michael’s heart thudded faster as he neared their compartment. I’m almost a man now, he thought, I’m very close to being a man. I must no longer be afraid.
Outside the window, the sun was nearly down and Michael felt the quietness of
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