Flying Crows (13 page)

XII

JOSH AND
BIRDIE

UNION STATION

1933

Birdie stretched his arms out as if they were wings.

“Make the sound of a crow for me, Josh,” he said.

Josh tried. No noise came from his mouth, but he was pleased to see that Birdie was better—calmer. He seemed almost happy. Who knows what happened to him? thought Josh. Who knows anything about lunatics?

Birdie made his own crow music as he began a quick swooping circle around the small space at the rear of the train. He sounded more like a croaking frog or a neighing horse than a squawking crow. But it didn't seem to matter to him.

“Here we are,” he said, as he stopped and lowered his arms. “Two flown crows, about to land at Union Station on The Flying Crow. No matter what happens, no matter who finds us, don't you feel like a flown crow right now, Josh?”

Josh said nothing. He had not spoken since they climbed onto the back of the train fifty minutes ago. He had sat, silent and motionless, on the platform in a corner against the open rear of the observation car. His senses took in the motion of the moving train and the blustering wind. He heard the
clickety-clack
of the wheels on the track and the loud blares of the whistle—two longs, a short, and a long—as the train passed over grade crossings and through tiny Missouri towns on the way to Kansas City. But he hadn't talked—or moved.

“Flown crows feel like they've been flying straight,” Birdie yelled, answering his own question. “Here we are, Birdie and Josh, having just flown straight as the crow flies. Straight from the Somerset lunatic asylum to Union Station. That's us, flown crows.”

Birdie could talk as loud as he wanted to now, as the train crept slowly into the main yards of Union Station. In a few moments, someone somewhere would throw a magic switch to direct it to a particular track for its arrival below the Union Station building.

Josh's original plan for Birdie was based on the probability that no conductor or any other person, passenger or employee, aboard The Flying Crow would have an occasion to check the outside observation deck at the rear of the train this time of morning, this close to its final destination. He had been right. They had made their stolen trip from Somerset to Kansas City undetected.

The train's brakes screeched.

“Hey, Josh, here we are!” Birdie said, his voice going higher and higher. “Up on your feet. Welcome to
the
Union Station!”

Josh did not move.

“I used to come here on Saturday mornings with my cousin Paul,” Birdie said. “He was a paperboy for the
Star—
the
Kansas City Star.
On Saturdays I'd come with him and help him sell papers. I loved it. I love this place so much!”

Josh couldn't imagine loving a train station. Loving people was hard enough. But this was Birdie. He was some strange kid. He seemed scared to be coming here one minute, and now he was talking like a kid at the circus, at his favorite place.

“Come on, Josh, come on! We'll have to be careful, but let me show you around. Let me show you my Union Station, my massacre.”

So Birdie really did see something awful at a train station?

When he got no response, Birdie came over to Josh and leaned down. “You're a free man, Josh, free as a bird, a crow, just like I am—thanks to you. No more rocking in those chairs, sweeping with those brooms, eating cheese sandwiches, running around naked, sitting in water for hours—and mostly no more ball bats to the head. Nothing could be worse than that; that's what I decided. Yeah, yeah, that's what I decided. Everything's going to be fine now.”

Josh wanted to say something about who really decided what about leaving Somerset. And he wanted to say something else about some things being worse than living at Somerset—at least for him. Who knew about Birdie. But Josh couldn't speak or move. His body, his mind, and his mouth were frozen in place.

Josh trembled at the last long squeal of the brakes. The train stopped. He could hear the noise of people on the platform. The noise of regular people in the outside world was something he had not heard in years.

Birdie jerked his hat down farther on his head and turned up the collar on his shirt. His eyes and nose were about all of his face that could be seen. Birdie could do whatever he wanted, but Josh figured there was no point in doing anything like trying to hide his own face. He had to go back to Somerset as quick as he could no matter what.

Birdie grabbed Josh by his shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Josh did not resist. “You took care of me at Somerset, Josh, and now I'm going to take care of you,” Birdie said. “Think of me as your nephew. Or son. No, no, not any of those: friend. You are my friend. I am your friend. How old are you anyhow?”

Josh did not answer Birdie's question. Ages, like last names, were things that didn't matter at the Sunset in Somerset.

“You've got to be at least double my age, maybe triple—forty, sixty, one hundred, who knows? Who cares? We're friends, Josh.”

Josh, still silent, accepted Birdie's arm around his shoulder and his help in climbing up and over the ornate fencing onto the station platform. If anybody in authority—a conductor, a porter, a cop—saw them leave the train, they must not have cared because nobody stopped them or said anything.

Birdie tucked his head even farther down into his body in an attempt, it seemed to Josh, to be invisible. Josh couldn't figure what Birdie was so scared of. Wasn't it too soon for anyone to have gotten the word from Somerset to be on the lookout for two escaped lunatics? Birdie didn't seem to think so.

They started walking forward with the train on their left like any other two arriving passengers.

“I love this place,” said Birdie, keeping his head down, his voice soft. “I always loved coming here with Paul, being here—except for that awful morning. I didn't love that.”

The jumble of noise and commotion on the platform was suddenly too much for Josh. It overwhelmed him and he stopped. Birdie grabbed him around the shoulders again and propelled him forward.

“It's OK, Josh. It's OK. Stick with me. I won't let anybody catch us, either of us.”

Passengers were still getting off the train, scurrying ahead of Josh and Birdie toward some distant stairs. Men wearing red caps were calling for customers who needed help with their luggage. Men in dark blue uniforms with billed caps, starched white shirts, and black bow ties were hawking items from shops on wheels with signs over them that said TRAV-ELERS ' NEEDS. One sold magazines, cigarettes, apples, and candies; another offered hot coffee and slices of coffee cakes and cinnamon rolls.

“We're at Track Three, but it doesn't matter because they're all the same,” Birdie said. “Track Twelve was where it started, where the train came in from Arkansas on the morning of my massacre.”

Side by side, Josh and Birdie continued down the concrete platform, passing the first and then the second movable shop. They could hear the engine of The Flying Crow, its bell at the front still ringing, steam hissing out from underneath the wheels.

Words continued to tumble out of Birdie, but nobody except Josh could possibly have heard what he was saying—and Josh barely could.

“There's no
Star
boy here. Somebody's missing a big bet; somebody ought to be meeting this train with the
Kansas City Star.
Passengers on these early trains haven't had a chance yet to pick one up. Somebody ought to be here with the first paper they'll have had a chance to buy anywhere since they woke up on the train. Paul knew that. I'd come with him on Saturdays. Smart, huh, Josh?”

Josh nodded. None of what Birdie was saying made sense to him. Maybe this kid had a lot more mental problems than not being able to close his eyes without screaming. . . .

Birdie suddenly stopped and looked back toward the rear of the train. “I thought I saw a policeman back there. Did you see a policeman, Josh?” There was alarm in his voice.

Birdie motioned for Josh to look, too. There were only a few slow-moving passengers behind them, coming their way.

After letting out a long breath of relief and turning completely around to look in all directions, Birdie said, “I was down here that morning to meet the Missouri Pacific's Southerner, Josh. Most of the trains have names—you know, like people do, like The Flying Crow does. Burlington's are Zephyrs, the Rock Island's are Rockets. Did they do that with the trains when you were you—you know, before you went to Somerset?”

Josh couldn't remember. It wasn't something that stuck in his mind one way or another. This was the kind of crazy train talk Birdie should have had with Streamliner. Josh wondered about himself. Words wouldn't come. What had come over him? Was he having a relapse of some kind? He was afraid for himself. He had to get back to Somerset as fast as possible. Had fear locked up his ability to speak?

Again, Birdie went on without an answer. “Could be that telling you and showing you what happened to me here at Union Station makes me crazier. Can you stay with me and help me forever?”

Josh ached to speak but still couldn't. He wanted to say, Had you stayed any longer at Somerset you'd really be crazier—maybe even dead. Although you're looking and sounding crazier and crazier with each passing second now. But no matter how crazy you get, I can't stay with you. I have to return to Somerset.

“Hey, Josh,” Birdie said, “don't think I haven't noticed you're not talking. I don't know what's come over you, but that's OK. Like I said a while ago, we're going to help each other.”

Josh didn't want or need any help. Right now he just wanted to do what he could for Birdie and then get back to Somerset.

Birdie said, “You never did really return to your train station in Centralia the way I'm doing now, did you?”

Josh shook his head and then touched his temple with the index finger of his right hand.

“Got it, yeah, yeah, your thing on the stage in the auditorium. You went back in your mind. That must be quite a bloody story you tell. Sorry I never saw your big performance. My story's got some blood, too. Mostly from one guy in the car. . . .”

Birdie started to close his eyes and then suddenly opened them wide— as if remembering something. His body shook.

Josh patted Birdie on the back. But, still, no words would come.

After a couple of seconds, however, like a short breeze, whatever was happening to Birdie passed on. And his low babble continued.

“The Southerner was due in at seven-fifteen A.M., and the men in the stationmaster's office said it was going to be about fifteen minutes late. Think what that means. That train left New Orleans at something like ten o'clock at night on June fifteenth, 1933, went all night and day on June sixteenth up through Louisiana and Arkansas, and then went all night a second night before getting to Kansas City in the morning on June seventeenth only fifteen minutes late. They all did that, those Santa Fes. I love those big Santa Fes; they go to Chicago one way and to California the other and do the same thing—maybe more, maybe three nights, I think— before they get to one end or the other, Los Angeles or Chicago. Think about how hard that must be for the engineers and the brakemen and the other guys who work on the trains to get them to where they're finally going on time—or just fifteen minutes late. Threading a needle at night with no light and no fingers is what it's got to be like. Only fifteen minutes late, say at seven-thirty, like that Missouri Pacific did the morning of June seventeenth. That's something, isn't it, Josh?”

Josh nodded agreement. Why is Birdie going on and on like this? But, come to think of it, Josh couldn't even imagine having the ability to make a train arrive at a place exactly when it was supposed to, at the right time or even the right day. He knew there were people born into this world who could do such things but he wasn't one of them. He was an approximate man, not an exact man.

As they walked down the platform, Josh noticed that Birdie, most of his face still hidden by his hat and his collar, was keeping a constant nervous lookout. But he never stopped talking.

“I was running by the time I got right about here, because I could see and hear the Missouri Pacific train coming in. I remember thinking the stationmaster was wrong; it wasn't quite seven-thirty yet. But there it was. I stood right here as the engine went by, blowing steam and clanging its bell, and the fireman on the right side waved at me, and then came the baggage car and a chair car or two, and then came the sleeping cars. Those were the ones I was keen on because I figured they carried the passengers rich enough and interested enough in the news to buy a newspaper. Yeah, yeah. Smart, huh?”

Josh didn't respond. He so wanted Birdie to shut up. He knew telling his story was helpful to Birdie, but the noise of the telling was getting to be too much for Josh.

“The first sleeping car—there were two sleepers on that train—stopped right in front of me. I sure admire the way train engineers, not only on the Missouri Pacific but all of them, like the one on The Flying Crow just now, can stop those trains on a dime, right where they're supposed to be on the track.