12:22 to Chicago Read online

feast, the whitest of bread embracing grilled bologna, with plain potato chips. He called for a second glass of water just to get the little supper down, then a third to make him feel full. The soft song of balls doing battle upon a lush cushion of felt serenaded his meal. As he paid at the register, legs straddling his suitcase, he carefully pulled a single bill from his pocket and left no tip.

  Dan stood in front of the café waiting for traffic to clear; a driver gave him a long look, then drove on. He grasped his suitcase with both hands and drew it up before him slightly, something of a shield, and watched after the car’s rear end as he crossed back to the grassy island. The sun had set, and no lights remained in the windows of City Hall; he felt the weight of human eyes seem to lift from him. A short walk delivered him back to the train station.

  Again the door swung freely to allow him entry, and he found the waiting room his alone. Happy in his solitude, he settled into the far end of a bench and set the suitcase under his elbow. The seat was well-worn and polished by long decades of patience, and Dan fought to keep his posterior from sliding forward. The floorboards too were smooth and grooved – their joints now loose, allowing the planks to bend and flex under the weight of footsteps – bearing the scars of the years. Dan looked about himself distractedly, gazing at the quaint mural of a diesel engine, the ancient coal stove, the Victorian clock that said 4:19. He didn’t have a watch, but he knew that time couldn’t be right. He stared at the clock face, as if peering deep into its works, finally realizing that it had stopped, leaving him in an eternal lurch until the train’s arrival would signify 12:22.

  Dan was left with nothing but judgment to entertain his thoughts. What a broken-down mess this is, he said to himself. What town would force a traveler to wait in such a dilapidated place, a decaying, ramshackle dump? Looking around, he spotted a patch in the ceiling where the plaster had fallen, exposing the laths. Whoever’s supposed to be maintaining this building is sure doing a bang-up job, he thought. Bet the stove doesn’t even work; probably would burn the joint down if it did. The water fountain beckoned, and boredom persuaded him to believe he was thirsty. Its cracked porcelain veneer spoke to its long service, and the fixtures promised a gay gush of water straight into the air. But it came up dry, and Dan stood there feeling parched and foolish.

  I don’t know what I expected, Dan thought. Denied a drink, he decided instead that he needed to take a leak. He wrestled his suitcase down a narrow hallway, bumping back and forth between the walls, until he found the restroom. The door was no more secure than the depot entrance, and Dan was not able to make it stay closed. The archaic urinal loomed before him like a great marble sarcophagus, and he neatly tucked the suitcase against its huge bulk. Quietly he left his mark in the vast receptacle, keeping a wary eye upon the door.

  Going down the hall again, he noticed the pay phone. If I needed to call someone, that’s the way I’d do it, he thought. If I had a cell phone, I wouldn’t use it, ’cause they could trace me with it. I’d use the pay phone, and they’d never know it was me. If I needed to call anyone.

  Dan re-entered the waiting room, horrified to find someone else had come in – a worn out old man, wearing clothes that didn’t fit and holding a crumpled paper grocery bag, sitting on the bench along the wall. He looked at Dan and smiled, which Dan ignored. “Waiting for the train?” he asked.

  Why else would I be here, Dan thought. “Yeah.”

  “Some folks just come in to get out of the weather. Some folks got nowhere to go, no reason to do nothing but live, but they don’t like the weather.”

  Dan grunted and sat with his back to the man. He tried to put his suitcase under the seat, but it was too cumbersome. He ended up tucking it under his knees, more or less extending the bench, and as a result he could not comfortably lean back. So instead he set his hands upon the bag and thrust his weight forward onto his stiff arms, letting it support him.

  “Me, I don’t come here often myself,” the old man kept on, “but today my bunions are hurting me.”

  Can’t you tell I don’t want to talk, Dan thought.

  “This room ain’t a bad place, though it’s got its faults. It gets a body out of the wind. In the old days, used to be the waiting room just for black folks.”

  No wonder it’s so run-down, Dan thought. But that’s got nothing to do with it, he hastened to add.

  “They turned the white-only waiting room into a museum,” the old man threw a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the next room over. “But they keep that one closed all the time – can’t nobody get in.” He started to laugh.

  This man is crazy, Dan thought. He tried to draw his suitcase more securely under him.

  “Ain’t that the way? Ever’body’s equal now, ever’body’s equally cut out.”

  The man’s prattling made the minutes even more excruciating, and Dan tried to sort his thinking in between the distractions. Distracted, he scanned his surroundings, noticing the detail of the smudges on the door window, the papers on the bulletin boards hanging askew, the intricate designs of the cobwebs overhead. He remembered sitting mesmerized by the fountain outside, the dying sunlight dancing upon the water, as he waited for a hint of what to do. He thought about Chicago, his perfect sanctuary, now only hours away. The events of the past would be forever forgotten there, the burdens that had fallen upon him in recent days, and he would never have to worry again. The background noise of the old man’s voice grated on and on.

  “No, ain’t a bad place. Ain’t cozy enough to want to stay, neither, but you can’t really expect anything more. Worl’ don’t make no promises.”

  Suddenly it was black as ink outside, and Dan thought maybe he had dozed off. His wrists buzzed with that sleepy numbness of being constricted too long, and he shook his hands alive again, happy to find them still upon the suitcase. The old man was gone, but a small collection of others had gathered. A distant horn blared, and he knew the train had awoken him to its arrival, like a thief in the night.

  He dragged his suitcase out to the platform, and waited for the sleek locomotive to ease to a halt. The porter set down a wooden step by the door for passengers to use. The conductor took tickets as the people filed aboard.

  “How much to get to Chicago?” Dan asked him.

  “That’s an $87 fare.”

  “Uh –” Dan tried to sort one-handed through his money.

  The conductor considered the wad of bills. “Fifty dollars gets you to Centralia, and sixty to Mattoon.”

  Chicago was out of his reach, at least for the moment. Dan had never heard of Mattoon, but it sounded small and obscure to him. It wasn’t perfect, but it might do for now. “I have to get to Chicago,” he said.

  “You’re cutting it close, son.”

  The pressure to decide ticked against Dan. “Mattoon, then,” he said, frustrated. At least he would get far out of reach of Finger. At least there was that.

  “Take your luggage, sir?” the porter asked.

  “No, I’ll keep it.”

  “That’s a little big for carry-on, sir. You’ll have to check it.”

  “No,” Dan’s eyes grew urgent. “I have to hang on to it.”

  “Sorry, sir – ”

  “I have to. I have to keep it – it – it’s mine, and no one else’s.” Dan lifted the suitcase into the cradle of his arms. I don’t have to justify myself to these people, he thought. No, stop thinking that way. I’d better not make them angry.

  The porter looked to the conductor. “It’s not terribly big,” he said.

  “I’ll keep it under my feet,” Dan offered.

  “All right, then, get aboard. It’s okay, Gaston, I’ll write the report,” the conductor said. “Do you have everything you need now?” he asked Dan, an edge to his voice.

  “I believe so.”

  Dan found his seat and settled in, propping his feet upon the suitcase, which drew his knees uncomfortably high. But he didn’t trust the porter – he would try to stay awake so the man couldn’t sneak his sui
tcase away. He hoped nobody would sit next to him at another stop; the car was nearly empty, so he thought it unlikely. Perhaps soon he might arrive at the place where he would belong. The train lurched forward, and soon its hypnotic motion was rocking his head side to side. The rich blackness outside passed by silently. Try as he might, Dan could not keep his eyes open.

  A tremendous screeching howl jerked him awake, and his world churned violently into sudden chaos, catapulting and tumbling through the deep.

  Dawn broke on the wreckage, railroad cars sheared open when the derailment shot them into a bridge abutment. Shining metal peeled back like a sardine tin revealed a jumble of seats, packages and bodies. Emergency workers picked their way carefully through the jagged edges, seeking signs of life and retrieving mangled personal effects.

  “Holy crap! Look at that suitcase!” one said.

  A ragged leather suitcase lay on the ground, its weary lid popped open by the shock of impact, its contents scattered and exposed.

  “What the hell’s that?” said another. “A head?”

  “Oh, God, it’s a head. Looks like some little black kid.”

  “How’d that happen to a passenger?”

  “A passenger? This head packed in a suitcase?” The man’s eyes hung open, incredulous at the thought. “No, this used to be somebody’s baggage.”

  ***

  “12:22 to Chicago” is a featured story from the upcoming collection Red