move and his face grimace as someone responded to his interrogation improperly. Making time. Yes, as this inch of highway is past now, or then, as the sea draws nearer, smelling the sea, while sleep comes during the dying hours, the corpses of miles past, the pale memories of towns seen dimly—the pilot is moving, moving, moving toward a home they have never seen.
Chapter 4
An hour before dawn, a long, timber-loaded train that smelled sweetly of pine resin stopped them at a country crossing. Colonel Meecham got out of the car and stood watching the train silently reciting the names of the railroad lines tattooed on the sides of the freight cars. Trains released strange lyrics in Colonel Meecham and though he could not articulate what he felt as he watched the great trains roll in passage along warm, silver rails, his children knew that whatever poetry might lurk in their large, often unreadable father, it surfaced whenever he heard a train whistle. The destiny of his family in Chicago was wedded to the movement of trains through the Midwest. If the potato was symbolic of the Meecham family's flight from Ireland, then the freight train was the lucky talisman of their redemption in the new world.
The children stirred slowly out of their sleep. Lillian groaned into awakeness with a loud, feline stretch. Bull walked back to the open door and said," Pit stop. Head run. Get the dog out and let him lift his leg. Everybody out who needs to pee."
"Sugar," Lillian said," I know this is an outrageous request, but the girls and I feel more comfortable powdering our noses and doing our business in a clean well-lighted bathroom."
"It's good for you to get a little night air. C'mon Mary Anne and Karen, you two go over there behind those trees."
"Don't you dare make a move, young ladies. We will keep our dignity."
"O. K., then let's get Matt awake. You too, Ben. Here, Okra, I want you to pee on the track while the train's moving there."
"That's not funny, Dad. That's why Okra hates your guts," Karen retorted.
"I don't need to go," Matt said, only half awake and pulling his pillow tightly over his head to cut out the noise of the train.
"You better go now, son. You know your father doesn't stop often."
"He only stops for three reasons: trains, the death of someone in the car, or if he has to go to the bathroom," Ben said climbing out of the car over Matt.
As Ben walked toward his father, he was surprised to look up and see the universe shivering with starlight. Cotton grew in the field that bounded the railroad tracks and the air was laden with the opulent smells of greening crops and leafy forests. Approaching the sea the land had begun to slope gently, the hills were brushed downward, the earth was smoothing itself, and the rivers straightened for the final run to the sea.
Ben and the colonel were urinating in the ditch that paralleled the highway. Bull commented on each car that flickered past like a single frame on a long roll of film. His voice was excited. As always, Bull felt euphoric and princely in the company of trains. "There's the Illinois Central. The Southern Pacific. And right there goes the queen of them all, the Rock Island Line. That's the one that half your Chicago relatives work on, Ben. Watch where you're whizzin'. You almost hit my foot. Aim high and away. There's the Southern. Probably carryin' a box car full of grits to some southern pansy living in New York. "Then in the regionless drawl of a conductor, the half-intelligible patois belonging to no country that Bull had learned by imitation as a child riding free on the Rock Island Line, he began to chant, "Davenport, Ioway. Next stop. Ioway City, yes loway, loway, Ioway City. Dee Moynes. Dee Moynes. Dee Moynes, Ioway. All off for Davenport. "The voice of the conductor resided with great constancy just below the customary pose of the fighter pilot. "All aboooooard," he said, climbing back into the car as the caboose flashed by and the thunder of the
Chapter 4
An hour before dawn, a long, timber-loaded train that smelled sweetly of pine resin stopped them at a country crossing. Colonel Meecham got out of the car and stood watching the train silently reciting the names of the railroad lines tattooed on the sides of the freight cars. Trains released strange lyrics in Colonel Meecham and though he could not articulate what he felt as he watched the great trains roll in passage along warm, silver rails, his children knew that whatever poetry might lurk in their large, often unreadable father, it surfaced whenever he heard a train whistle. The destiny of his family in Chicago was wedded to the movement of trains through the Midwest. If the potato was symbolic of the Meecham family's flight from Ireland, then the freight train was the lucky talisman of their redemption in the new world.
The children stirred slowly out of their sleep. Lillian groaned into awakeness with a loud, feline stretch. Bull walked back to the open door and said," Pit stop. Head run. Get the dog out and let him lift his leg. Everybody out who needs to pee."
"Sugar," Lillian said," I know this is an outrageous request, but the girls and I feel more comfortable powdering our noses and doing our business in a clean well-lighted bathroom."
"It's good for you to get a little night air. C'mon Mary Anne and Karen, you two go over there behind those trees."
"Don't you dare make a move, young ladies. We will keep our dignity."
"O. K., then let's get Matt awake. You too, Ben. Here, Okra, I want you to pee on the track while the train's moving there."
"That's not funny, Dad. That's why Okra hates your guts," Karen retorted.
"I don't need to go," Matt said, only half awake and pulling his pillow tightly over his head to cut out the noise of the train.
"You better go now, son. You know your father doesn't stop often."
"He only stops for three reasons: trains, the death of someone in the car, or if he has to go to the bathroom," Ben said climbing out of the car over Matt.
As Ben walked toward his father, he was surprised to look up and see the universe shivering with starlight. Cotton grew in the field that bounded the railroad tracks and the air was laden with the opulent smells of greening crops and leafy forests. Approaching the sea the land had begun to slope gently, the hills were brushed downward, the earth was smoothing itself, and the rivers straightened for the final run to the sea.
Ben and the colonel were urinating in the ditch that paralleled the highway. Bull commented on each car that flickered past like a single frame on a long roll of film. His voice was excited. As always, Bull felt euphoric and princely in the company of trains. "There's the Illinois Central. The Southern Pacific. And right there goes the queen of them all, the Rock Island Line. That's the one that half your Chicago relatives work on, Ben. Watch where you're whizzin'. You almost hit my foot. Aim high and away. There's the Southern. Probably carryin' a box car full of grits to some southern pansy living in New York. "Then in the regionless drawl of a conductor, the half-intelligible patois belonging to no country that Bull had learned by imitation as a child riding free on the Rock Island Line, he began to chant, "Davenport, Ioway. Next stop. Ioway City, yes loway, loway, Ioway City. Dee Moynes. Dee Moynes. Dee Moynes, Ioway. All off for Davenport. "The voice of the conductor resided with great constancy just below the customary pose of the fighter pilot. "All aboooooard," he said, climbing back into the car as the caboose flashed by and the thunder of the
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