John Fitzgerald GB 04 Great Bra (4 page)

“Why do you call the wheels ‘drivers’?” Tom asked.

“Because they are the wheels that actually drive the locomotive,” Ed answered. “This is an American type 4-4-0 locomotive which means the drive wheels are four-and-a-half feet high. The drivers on a locomotive built to pull a freight train are smaller, which gives the wheels more pulling power. And on fast passenger trains they use locomotives with larger drivers because the bigger the drivers the faster a locomotive can go.”

Tom was getting used to the rocking motion of the locomotive and he let go of the handrail. “How fast will number 205 go?” he asked.

“She will do a mile a minute on a straightaway,” Ed answered. “And Walters was certainly right. You do have a curious mind.”

Tom didn’t want the engineer to get bored answer-

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ing questions. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must learn all about locomotives by the time we reach Salt Lake City. I won’t ask any more questions if you don’t want me to though.”

“Go ahead and ask all the questions you want,” Ed said.

“What is the fastest a train will go?” Tom asked, quickly taking advantage of the offer.

“Engine number 999. pulling the Empire State Express between Syracuse and Buffalo, New York, ran a measured mile at one-hundred-twelve-and-a-half miles per hour back in 1893,” Ed said.

“Boy, oh, boy!” Tom exclaimed. “That is really traveling.”

“We are coming to a road crossing,” Ed said. “Grab the whistle cord and give three long blasts.”

Tom pulled the cord. He discovered as long as he held it down the whistle kept on blowing and when he let it up the whistle stopped.

A few minutes later Ed spoke to the fireman. “We are coming to that bad curve now, Bill,” he said. “I’m go-ing to take it ten miles above our usual speed. You know what to do.”

Tom was astonished as he saw Bill go to the side of the cab opposite the engineer, place his hands against it, and push.

“As long as you are here, Tom,” Bill said, “give me a hand so engine number 205 doesn’t tip over.”

Tom stood beside Bill and began to push. He could hear Bill grunting as if using all his strength as they went around the curve. Tom pushed as hard as he could until he heard both Ed and Bill laughing.

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“Don’t feel bad about it, Tom,” Ed said. “I had a green fireman one time who fell for it too. And to make up for playing a little joke on you, I’m going to let you drive engine 205. No sense in riding in a locomotive if you can’t tell your friends you drove one. Get over here in front of me and put your left hand on the throttle and your head out the tab window.”

Tom did as he was toid.

“We’ve got a straightaway coming up now for a few miles,” Ed said. “I’m going to give it all old number 205 has got.”

Tom felt Ed pushing the throttle forward. With his head out the cab window and the wind whistling in his ears, it seemed as if they were flying.

“I’m going to take my hand off the throttle now,” the engineer said. “Hold her steady. There you go, Tom. You are now driving number 205 at sixty miles an hour.”

Tom said later that was the happiest moment of his life. Many times in his life he had made his great brain work like sixty. But this was the first time he had ever actually traveled at sixty miles an hour. Ed only let him drive the locomotive for about a minute but that was enough.

It was with a feeling of regret that he said good-bye to Ed and Bill when the train arrived at the depot in Salt Lake City.

“Good-bye and thanks,” he said. “I’ll remember both of you and number 205 for the rest of my life.”

“Bill and I enjoyed having you with us,” Ed said. “When we were boys your age we both used-to dream about riding in a locomotive. I guess that is why we be-came railroad men.”

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Tom climbed down the iron rungs of the locomotive to the ground. Then he went around the train to meet Sweyn.

Tom was just about the happiest kid in the world right then. But he sure as heck wasn’t a happy kid for long. And if he’d known what lay ahead of him that day he would have probably climbed back into the cab of the locomotive and just kept on going.

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I WAS SURPRISED when Tom wrote me that he had got off on the wrong foot at the academy but that it wasn’t anything serious. For my money, any trouble The Great Brain got into had to be serious. Papa was hoping the Jesuit priests would reform Tom. That to me was like hoping the priests would gel rid of the freckles on Tom’s face. I found out I was right when Father Rodriguez sent the first monthly report on Tom’s and Sweyn’s progress and deportment. These reports were sent to the parents of all students every month.

Papa always stopped at the post office at the end of his day’s work, but he never opened the mail until after

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supper. Mamma said it was because Papa didn’t want to spoil his appetite if there was any bad news in the mail. It was a good system because Papa wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite if he’d read the report on Tom before supper.

Papa waited until after the dishes were put away and then read the reports aloud to Mamma, Aunt Bertha, and me in the parlor. He read the report on Sweyn first and when he finished he looked as pleased as a rabbit with two carrots. But by the time he finished Tom’s report his cheeks were so blown up with anger I thought he would blow his teeth right out of his mouth.

“I’ll wager they expel him and send him home!” he shouted, waving the report in the air like it was a red flag and he was a bull-Mamma took it very calmly. “He just needs time to adjust,” she said.

“Adjust?” Papa cried. “The Great Brain will have a difficult time adjusting in heaven.” And then he added, “If he ever gets there.”

I didn’t blame Papa for being so upset. The report was in polite language but made it very plain that if Tom didn’t mend his ways he would be sent home. I didn’t get all the details of what had happened until my brothers came home for the Christmas vacation. And, of course, what Tom told me and what Sweyn told me and what Father Rodriguez wrote in his report were three slightly different stories. So I have to be sort of a detective to figure out exactly what happened.

Tom met Sweyn on the platform in back of the depot in Salt Lake City. If there was any truth in that business about people turning green with envy Sweyn would have

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been the color of our grass in the summertime.

“I thought you were joking,” he said, “until the conductor told me you were actually riding in the locomotive. How did you ever pull that off?”

“When a fellow has a great brain, anything is possible,” Tom said, taking off the raincoat and hat.

“Well, you had better put your great brain to work on a way to get cleaned up before Father O’Malley sees you,” Sweyn said. “You look like a chimney sweep with that soot and coal dust all over your face. Maybe you can sneak into the washroom in the depot and wash up.”

But Tom didn’t get a chance to wash up. Father O’Malley was waiting for them just inside the doorway of the depot. He was a middle-aged man wearing the traditional black robe and hood of a Jesuit priest. The hood was pushed back on his neck, revealing a head that was bald except for a fringe of hair around the edges. There was a braided cord around his waist and a crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck. His cheeks were rosy red, as if somebody had just pinched them.

“Welcome back, Sweyn,” he said as they shook hands. “I trust the good Lord gave you a pleasant journey from Adenville.” Then he looked at Tom. “And this must be your brother Thomas, who doesn’t look as if he had a pleasant journey at all.”

“I rode in the cab of the locomotive from Provo,” Tom said proudly, still thrilled by the ride.

“Did you now?” Father O’Malley said. “That is something I’ve always wanted to do. You must tell me all about it some time, Thomas.”

“Please don’t call me Thomas,” Tom said. “It sounds kind of sissified. Please call me Tom instead.”

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“I doubt if anyone would call your patron saint, Thomas, a sissy,” Father O’Malley said. “However, I will call you Tom if you prefer. But Father Rodriguez may take an entirely different point of view.”

“Speaking of Father Rodriguez,” Sweyn said, “can my brother wash up before we go to the academy?”

“I’m sorry, Sweyn,” the priest said. “But my orders are to deliver the out-of-town boys exactly the way they arrive. If it wasn’t for this rule they would all want to wash up, clean the dirt from beneath their fingernails, put on a clean shirt and necktie, and anything else that might help make a good first impression on Father Rodriguez.”

Sweyn looked at Tom. “That means on your first day you’ll get demerits,” he said.

Did that bother Tom? Heck no.

“It was worth getting demerits to ride in a locomotive,” he said.

He followed Sweyn and the priest out of the depot to where several horse-drawn liveries were waiting. Their drivers were soliciting customers by proclaiming good accommodations and free transportation to the various hotels. Father O’Malley stopped when they came to a sin-gle horse hitched to a buggy with two seats. He got into the front; seat and Tom and Sweyn climbed into the rear.

“Have you ever been to Salt Lake City before, Tom?” the priest asked.

“No, Father,” Tom answered.

“Then I shall give you a very short tour of it,” the priest said.

Father O’Malley drove without speaking until they came to Temple Square. “The six-spired gray granite building is the Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of

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Latter-day Saints,” he said. “Construction was begun in 1853 but it wasn’t completed until forty years later. The big building with a roof that resembles the back of a huge tortoise is the Mormon Tabernacle. The acoustics are remarkable. You can drop a pin at one end and hear it drop at the other end two hundred feet away.”

Tom had read all about the temple and tabernacle. But what excited him most were the horse-drawn streetcars, the tall buildings, and the crowds of people as they drove down Main Street.

They left the business district and Father O’Malley pointed out Saint Mary’s Academy for Catholic Girls and the Presbyterian Westminster College. After seeing these two schools Tom was very disappointed when they arrived at the Catholic Academy. Sweyn had told him it had once been the home of a wealthy Catholic who had donated it to the Jesuits for a school. Tom didn’t blame the wealthy Catholic for not wanting to live there anymore. It might have been a nice neighborhood at one time but now the big homes had been turned into cheap rooming houses or torn down to make way for factories and warehouses.

The academy itself was a three-story wooden building with dormer windows in the attic, making it look four stories tall. Its white paint was a dirty gray color from the smokestacks of surrounding factories and so blistered with age that it was peeling from some of the boards. One side of the academy was flush up against the sidewalk. The other three sides were enclosed within a high rock wall that had a gate at the front entrance.

Tom had to admit the grounds looked nice with trees and shrubs and a green lawn. But one thing surprised him. There were statues of saints all over the place. It

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looked as if every Catholic in Salt Lake City had donated a statue of his patron saint. A gravel circular driveway led up to the entrance, where there was a huge statue of Saint Ignatius Loyola, founder of the Society of Jesus.

“Well, Tom,” Father O’Malley said as they stopped at the entrance. “What do you think of the academy?”

“Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, Father,” Tom said, “I think it could use a little more paint and a few less statues.”

“You are so right,” the priest agreed. “But I suppose we should thank the Lord that enough money was donated to remodel the home into an academy. You boys go right in. Father Rodriguez is expecting you. I must return this horse and buggy to the livery stable.”

Tom followed Sweyn up stone steps and into the academy. They entered a long hallway with white painted walls and a highly polished hardwood floor. There was a statue of Saint Paul in one corner, one of Saint Anthony in another corner, and between them a statue of the Vir-gin Mary with child. Sweyn put down his suitcase and pointed to a large room at the left. It was furnished with chairs and tables and there were bookcases filled with books covering two of the walls.

“That is the library and visiting room,” Sweyn said. “On the same side down the hall is the dining room and beyond it the kitchen. On the right is Father Rodriguez’s office and next to it his bedroom. Then comes the chapel and the bedrooms of the other priests. The stairway at the end of the hall leads up to the classrooms on the second floor and the dormitory on the third floor. Maybe you can sneak up to the washroom and clean up before we see Father Rodriguez.”

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“It wouldn’t do any good,” Tom said. “Father O’Mal-ley is sure to mention to him how I look.”

“We will leave our suitcases here,” Sweyn said. Then he walked over and knocked on a door that had a brass plate on it reading:

FATHER RODRIGUEZ

SUPERINTENDENT

“Come in,” a baritone voice called.

If Tom had known what that deep voice had in store for him, he would have taken Sweyn’s advice and tried to sneak upstairs. But the trouble was that Tom judged all Jesuit priests by the only priest he knew, Father Joe-His real name was Father Giovanni but nobody could pronounce it right so everybody called him Father Joe. He was known as “the priest on horseback” because he covered such a big territory all over southwestern Utah. Father Joe only came to Adenville once a year for one week. During that week he baptized Catholic babies, mar-ried Catholics, and held confessions and masses in the Community Church because we didn’t have a Catholic church in Adenville. Father Joe was a regular fellow who smoked cigars and wasn’t above taking a nip now and then.