Beneath the Apple Leaves(13)

Wilhelm drank his coffee, finished his oats and placed the dishes on the side shelf to be washed at the next stop. His voice dropped low. “Sorry about you losing your father. Should have told you that straightaway.”

Andrew paused, swallowed the cereal lodged in his throat. “He was a good man.” A memory of his father sweetened the air, made the coffee less bitter. “He used to play the violin. How he wooed my mother, he said. Stood under her window and played until she agreed to marry him.”

Wilhelm lowered his chin and thought about this. “A romantic, eh?”

“Except he was the worst violinist you ever heard.” Andrew chuckled and raised his eyebrows. “He was awful. God-awful. Pretty sure my mother married him just to make him stop.”

Andrew was no longer in the caboose; he was sitting in their tiny patch house watching his father on the fiddle, his foot stomping in uneven rhythm. “He played at home in the evenings sometimes, screeching on that thing. Could hear dogs howling for miles.” He laughed. “Then my mother would start singing to the music and she was just as awful. Guess they were made for each other. Love is blind, guess it’s deaf, too.”

Wilhelm grinned. “What about you? Got a girl waiting for you back there?”

“No,” he answered without regret, rubbed the rim of his mug with his thumb. “Courted a few for sure, but”—he paused to run the pretty faces through his mind—“never felt anything close to what my parents had. Didn’t want to settle. Still have some girls there cursing my name because of it.”

“Heartbreaker, eh?”

“To be honest, I’m glad I didn’t have the distraction. Just wanted to get out of Uniontown.” Andrew dropped his spoon in the empty bowl, met Wilhelm’s eyes square. “My parents sacrificed everything so I wouldn’t have to pick coal like my father. Every day I watched as the mine crushed my family, my friends.” He stood, placed the dish next to Wilhelm’s on the shelf. “Through spirit or body or both.”

Wilhelm’s stance softened. “Guess we’re both running then,” he said. “Me from tilling the land above and you from picking it below.”

His uncle cocked his head, smiled affably. “Want to take a look at the roof? Old girl’s dancing on slippers today. Rails as smooth as you could want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, feels good. Free as a bird up there. Once walked across the full length of the train with my arms out like a tightrope walker. Makes you feel alive. Besides, it’s a rite of passage.”

Andrew smiled, felt the rush before he even stepped outside. He opened the side door, looked down at the ground rushing past his feet in a continuous blur. From the rain, the landscape appeared a charcoal sketch that had been erased and smeared with speed. The wind ripped at his shirt, puffed the fabric, tried to drag him into its pull. With effort, Andrew held his breath and grabbed the ladder rung. He flung his body against the caboose siding, his forehead pressing against the wood.

“Just hold on tight and take it one step at a time!” Wilhelm ordered above the clattering cacophony of the rails. “You’ll be fine.”

Andrew began his ascent, one rung and then another. On the top of the train, he pulled at the handrail, pushed his belly against the roof. Slowly, he bent his legs and sat upright. The curve of the train snaked along the contours of the rails, the puffing steam engine leading the charge.

The rush of cold air washed over his face and body, enlivened every cell. The pulsating caboose below seeped into his muscles, made them tight and strong. His heart raced, but his breathing slowed, each inhale a conscious movement that filled his lungs and expanded his rib cage. He was free. Any fear melted away. He lifted his hands from the roof and settled his arms on his bent knees, his body flowing with the train as if welded. He was free. He tilted his head back, his eyes following the trail of smoke that stretched and morphed against the endless sky. Andrew never wanted to look down again. All his life he had waited to move forward and here he was—moving forward—faster than any other man on earth.

Andrew closed his eyes. The rain pelted his face in stinging droplets that tingled the skin. His father was with him now. The dark memories faded behind the curtain of happier times. He would bring the light back, erase the darkness once and for all.

A short blast shot through the steam whistle at the locomotive. Andrew opened his eyes, the sound shuddering. He snapped out of reverie, his ears alert. The train whistle shrieked again, long and desperate. Something wasn’t right.

Steadily, Andrew pulled himself upright, reached his arms out for balance. From the curve in the tracks, the conductor in the front engine was visible for a moment, waving madly before the tracks straightened and he was out of sight. The whistle screamed. Instinct took over. Andrew lunged for the handgrip. The train jolted. From below in the caboose, the rear brake ground, crashing Andrew to his knees. He slid on his stomach, his hip spinning without traction on the wet iron. He rolled to the edge, his legs flaying over the side of the caboose while his knuckles and fingertips squeezed the weather-beaten seams.

The wind tossed him, dragged his legs outward. He grunted and gritted his teeth, worked to pull himself up, his shoulder nearly disjointing from the socket. His muscles turned to cement, his limbs threatening to shatter as he braced against the wood with all his strength. The train jerked again. The wheels ground in anguish. Sparks jumped from the rails, rose high as his body. Andrew clawed at the paint, his nails useless against the pull of the wind. His muscles twisted and yanked his limbs from the roof. He reached for the ladder. His fingers grasped empty air.