My parents were arguing. From
my bed upstairs, I couldn't hear what they were arguing about, just the
unmistakable rhythm of a vocal argument: rapid exchanges, talking over each
other, both trying hard to convince the other and neither succeeding. There was
no violence, no screaming, no broken dishes, but I hated it just the same.
I rolled over and pulled the pillow over my head trying to block out the
sounds. I'd always hated my
parent's arguments. They made me
feel awkward and helpless, like it was somehow my fault.
Like I should be able so say something that would solve the problem. But I could never think of anything to say.
When my parents argued, I could hardly think at all.
I had lots of friends whose parents were divorce; I could not imagine
only seeing my Dad on the weekends. I
liked seeing him every day.
I don't know how
long I laid there in the dark, listening, but trying not to hear, but it seemed
like hours. Finally, I finally could stand it no more.
I got out of bed, pulled on jeans, a tee shirt and some sneakers, then
crawled out my window, edged out over the roof and dropped down onto the
dew-dampened lawn. The grass was
thick and lush with early summer's growth and I didn't make a sound as I landed.
I reminded myself I was supposed to mow it tomorrow, wiped the dew from
my hands onto the thighs of my jeans, and started walking toward the railroad
tracks.
I could not even
guess how many times I had made to trip over to the tracks, both with my friends
and alone. It might have been
millions. It was definitely enough
that darkness didn't slow me down. Over
the back fence into Mrs. Graham's yard (careful not to land in her prize winning
roses), then out through her side yard. Cross
the street, wander down two blocks to the drainage ditch.
On maps it was called Robinson creek but it was dry unless it rained; we
just called it the ditch. A dirt
path led down the slope to the gravel creek bed.
From there it was a straight shot down to the train yard.
All in all, the walk took maybe ten minutes and I had plenty of time to
think of life in a broken home. The
thoughts weren't appealing.
I climbed up the slope
just short of the little bridge that allowed trains to cross the ditch and stood
on the edge of what we called the yard. It was actually a tiny forgotten siding with two old boxcars
slowly rotting to one side of the single track and an equally broken down
three-walled building like a giant lean-to on the other.
My father said he couldn't remember the last time the siding had actually
been used and I'd only seen a handful of trains run through.
Certainly none of them had ever stopped.
It was a magical
place, full of the smells of creosote, old diesel, and gently rotting wood.
There were ancient bolts and pieces of rusted machinery amid the gravel
around the tracks. Shards of thick
antique glass scattered beneath and around the lean-to.
A kid I knew had even found an Indian head penny out here. The first milkweed were knee high and red thistle and rough
grass had found purchase in the gravel. It
was warm and far enough away from the houses to be very dark, lit only by a
sliver of moon. It was perfect.
I
took a step and a rabbit scurried away into the weeds to my left. I tried to follow it down through the grass at the edge of
the siding, but I didn't have much luck. Night
was its protector. An owl hooted,
then again, then a third time and stopped. Crickets chirped everywhere and nowhere.
I turned and started up toward the boxcars.
I dropped to my
belly on the gravel, my first thoughts being of cops. I was trespassing, though I
couldn't imagine anyone worrying about that now.
We--me and my friends, all the kids in the neighborhood--came out here
all the time. Why worry about it
now? Besides, we didn't hurt
anything. We just hung out.
Now I heard
voices, several voices, and one of them seemed to be upset, crying.
Footsteps sounded in the gravel.. A
light came on beyond the boxcars, but it looked weird, kind of too yellowish and
flickering to be electric, but not red enough to be fire.
Besides, I didn't smell smoke. Maybe
some teenagers had come out here to drink and make out with their girl friends.
We had found a few used rubbers in the building.
The crickets had
stopped chirping.
I told myself I should
just turn around and go home, but my curiosity held me tight.
I could still hear the voices. It
definitely sounded like a couple of guys and one girl.
If they were making out . . . I'd never seen a girl naked.
I wasn't counting my little sister.
I'd never seen a girl naked who had tits and everything. That decided it. The
possibility of seeing a girl naked, especially a high school girl with real tits
was just too much to walk away from, dangerous or not.
I pushed myself
to my hands and knees and slowly crawled up to the nearest boxcar, trying to
move cat quiet. I was curious, but
I had no illusions about what would happen if I were caught.
If I was making
out with my girl friend and caught some punk kid spying on us, I would beat the
crap out of him. I expected nothing
less would happen to me. If I were
caught.
I safely reached
the boxcar and peered under it, but the angle was wrong, I could only see the
unsteady yellow wash of light on the gravel.
But now I thought I could hear something else. A girl cried softly. Were
they arguing, like my parents? Or
maybe she didn't want to be here? Maybe
this wasn't a make out session; maybe I didn't want to see.
But again I was trapped by curiosity.
Something was happening here and I had to see what it was.
I had to know.
I
dropped onto my belly and crawled forward until my face was right behind one of
the rusted-out boxcar wheels. There
were cobwebs everywhere down there and I had to wipe a curtain of them away from
my face, then fight the heebie-jeebie feeling that spiders were crawling around
in my hair. But what I saw in the
old building made me forget all about spiders.
The yellow,
flickering light from a lantern filled the front of the building, while leaving
the back in black shadow. Three men
stood with their backs toward me, silhouetted by the light.
I couldn't make out any details. Besides,
my eyes were glued to woman. She
was naked alright. She was also
hanging by her wrists from a ceiling beam.
"Oh
shit," I whispered under my breath. This
was something I definitely did not want to see.
Yet my legs would not move and my eyes never left the woman.
"Please
. . . ," I heard her say. "Please
don't hurt me."
"Why
not?" One of the men said. His
voice was deep and dark and dripped evil "After what you did to me?
Why shouldn't I hurt you?"
She didn't
answer, but I could hear her muffled sobs.
"What did
you think I'd do? Just let you fuck
around behind my back with a bartender? You're
my wife. I'm the only one you fuck
around with."
She whimpered.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry."
I wondered where
the bartender was. I wondered if I
wanted to know.
He turned and
said something to the other men, who started walking off to the left, their
shoes crunching on the gravel.
I ducked behind
the wheel of the boxcar and held my breath.
But they weren't coming for me. A
few seconds later, two car doors slammed and I realized he'd sent them to the
car, which must be parked close by. I
slowly edged back around the wheel. The
man and his wife were just there, not talking.
I could hear her ragged breathing.
"Don't
leave me like this," she finally said.
"Please. I swear.
I'll never look at another man."
"The damage
has already been done. Everyone
knows about it. Everyone's laughing
at me behind my back. I can't have
that. I can't do business unless I
have everyone's respect. So now I
have to get their respect back."
"Please,"
her voice took on an even more frantic tone. "Please, Eddy.
I'll leave town. I'll
disappear. You'll never see me
again."
He walked slowly
toward her.
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