Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

“That’ll be thirty-five seventy-four.”

July paid. “When does it leave?”

“Four forty-five. You’ll have to make a change in Cleveland and Chicago.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

He got a box from the station newsstand, poked three holes in one end with his finger and, when the Reading Railroad train arrived, put Butch in it and carried him aboard. He took a seat by a window at the end of the car so no one would be able to sit across from him, and put his luggage on the accompanying seat: the car wasn’t crowded and there was no reason for anyone to be forced up against a person who wanted to be alone.

It was a nice car, he noticed, with large, tinted windows, reclining chairs, footrests, head pads and little reading lights. Outside, people walked on the platform and he wondered if he shouldn’t have gone to visit his cement room before leaving. No, he thought. It’s just as well. He peeked into the box and said hello to frowning Butch, promising to bring him out as soon as it got dark (though they’d be through Cleveland by then). At the other end of the car a conductor came in and began punching tickets and attaching them over the seats. The train began to move, picking up speed in its slow, heavy, lurching way. Theconductor steadied himself against a passenger’s seat, and July turned back to the window, remembering how when he was little he’d always thought those men were so daring to be standing up when the train was accelerating, with their completely relaxed, almost bored look—tempting fate at every second turn. Then he heard the door bang closed. “Say, miss, please stay in your seat until we’re moving.”

“I’m sorry,” said a voice and July swallowed an icicle, “but I’m looking for someone,” and as he looked up he saw Mal with two big suitcases and a box, bumping her way down the aisle, her mouth set in a determined, grim manner.

“Mal!” he cried, and nearly upset Butch in his hiding place. “Over here!”

With all her luggage, she wedged herself quickly toward him. He put the shopping bag in the rack overhead, then her two suitcases. She fell into the seat beside him.

“I thought I’d never find you,” she sighed, and blew out a long puff of exhausted air.

“I don’t doubt it. Are you really coming? I can hardly believe it. It’s too good to be true.”

“I called your house and they said you weren’t there. So I called the station and hardly had time to get down here. The train was moving when I got on it!”

“What can I say?” said July.

When the conductor reached them, they handed their tickets over, and as he punched the small holes he looked at them suspiciously, then went on to the next car. July opened up the box on his lap and showed Mal Butch, his eyes green in the dark.

“What made you come?” he asked.

“I guess I’m just a fool for you. But just in case anything ever happens like this again, I brought enough to come back. It’ll be my escape money. I’ve never ridden on a train overnight. This is pretty nice.”

“I know. It’s the only way to travel without getting a headache.” July could sense that Mal was uneasy—that if the train hadstill been at the Philadelphia station she might have excused herself to the bathroom and never returned. But the decision was made, the train was moving flat out, stopping for nothing, and even if he himself might have wished differently it would have been of no matter. They talked easily back and forth, then Mal closed her eyes and kept them closed all the way to Cleveland, where they bought sandwiches and changed trains.

She was afraid. Most of her wished she’d never come. Something ominous hung in the air, a kind of impersonal dread. She tried to displace these feelings by stuffing them into her mind’s image of July so that he would become bigger, larger than her family, her school friends, her ambition to be a great painter, Carol and the apartment. But the more she tried to do this, the more July’s image resisted and stayed small and measly. She didn’t know that much about him, and now they were going to Iowa together. Of course there was some reason to come. She did like him a lot. He was nice to be with most of the time. He had a capacity for understanding her and never playing games. He was good-looking, and a conscientious listener. She was getting tired of school. Her roommate depressed her because her whole life was getting up, going to work, coming home, talking about her friends, and Mal was afraid her own life would become like that. And besides, a true painter would be able to work anywhere, and one whole suitcase was filled with her oils, brushes and sacred art books. She also desired adventure. There was reason for coming.

So it was back and forth all the way to Cleveland. But then the bad thoughts took the upper hand, and one hour into Ohio, with July talking quietly in the dark to his cat who sat on his lap, Mal decided that at the next stop she’d get off and go back. The decision brought her a great release.

As she sat there, eyes closed, content with her decision and running over how much money she could get back by exchanging the unused part of her ticket, she noticed July was becoming restless. He changed positions constantly, put Butch back in thebox, took him out again, went to the bathroom, came back, went for a drink of water from the water fountain, put Butch back, bought a paper, turned on the light, then turned it off.

“Say,” he asked when a porter passed by, finding his way in the blue overhead nightlights, “how far is it to Chicago?”

“About four hours.”

“How far