The Invisible Sign

Two boys, a boxcar, and a hot summer day in 1966. What could possibly go wrong?

Twins of a Different Mother

August 1966—

Brothers of different mothers — Ben and his nephew Richard — crossed the 12th Street Bridge with empty pockets and not a whole lot to look forward to. The boys were on their way to the restaurant to beg Ben’s mother for some money for the theater.

Ben was the youngest brother of Richard’s mother, who, like her mother before her, was pregnant with Richard at eighteen and bulging at the altar to prove it.

At the same time, Richard’s grandmother (Ben’s mother), at the ripe old age of thirty-six, was pregnant with Ben, the last of her brood of seven. Ironically, the exact double of eighteen.

The two, uncle and nephew, were less than six months apart, with Ben being the elder, and Richard, of course, refusing to call him “Uncle Ben.”

One other point: Since this story takes place in Appalachia, I feel compelled to add that they were not pregnant by the same person, just in case you have ‘that sort of thinking’.

If that were the case, the story would be found in a seedy paperback novel titled “Who’s yer daddy?”

The Roaring Sixties

The hurricane of youth quickly blew them into their early teens, and the angst of adolescence served to accentuate the boredom of the dank, dusty, dwindling railroad town into which they were born.

This was Altoona, Pennsylvania, whose population was thinning annually, and as far as they were concerned at the time, it had a population of just two: Ben and Richard.

The summer of ’66 was raging with Beatlemania, the Vietnam War, protests, the Beach Boys, Star Trek, and, most importantly, Dracula: Prince of Darkness was sucking blood at theaters everywhere.

They lived in poverty; their fathers were drunken abusers, which very much limited their social circle and subjected them to ridicule at school.

It was more than two decades after WWII, and yet such was the world they inherited. It was a new age, which to them meant only, “What should we do with the remainder of today, because today is all we have, and tomorrow is too far away to care about.”

A Day’s Wage for a Theater Ticket

Where were we then?

Oh yes! No money and nowhere to go.

So they crossed the Twelfth Street Bridge that led from a residential part of town directly into the downtown shopping area.

The bridge passed over the PRR rail yards and dropped back to the street on the far side just shy of the railroad station and federal post office. It was also less than two blocks from the restaurant where Mom/Grandma worked as a waitress.

She spotted them as they entered, and immediately loaded two glasses with ice and Coke and set them on the counter.

 “And where are you two off to?” she asked.

Using typical teen body language, they both shrugged, and Ben asked,

“Can we each have a quarter to go to the Olympic?”

The Olympic was built in 1914 and opened June 3, 1915, with Betty Nanson in A Woman’s Resurrection. 

By 1966, the old theater was the home of a bargain matinee featuring three movies, cartoons, and a newsreel for twenty-five cents.

Those tickets meant more than four hours out of a hot summer afternoon spent in the cool darkness of the theater with the likes of Vincent Price, Bela Lugosi, the Frankenstein monster, and the Wolf Man.

Pulling a handful of coins from her apron pocket, she slid two quarters and two dimes across the counter. (Seventy cents, which was more than an hour’s wage for her as a waitress at that time.)

“Are you gonna be here to walk home with me tonight?” she asked Ben.

“Sure, Mom. I’ll come help with cleanup after the movie.”

The Olympic Theater was less than a block away from the restaurant on Eleventh Avenue, a few doors down from Joe’s United Cigar Store.

She left the boys to wait on a customer, thinking, At least I know where they are.

The boys finished their Coke and left the restaurant. Walking toward the bridge, Richard stopped and stared toward the train tracks. A sudden thought flashed in Richard’s brain that nearly set his hair on fire.

“Come on, I’ve got a better idea than a movie,” he said.

Slapping Ben on the shoulder, he started toward the bridge at a quick trot that sped up as they approached the tracks that ran beneath the bridge.

Ben, less than excited about running in the summer heat, called to him,

“Hey man! Come on! It’s too hot to be running.”

As they reached the bridge, Richard paused to watch a very slow-moving freight train passing to the east. Quickly turning left onto Tenth Avenue, he again began jogging as if to keep up with, or even pass, the train.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ben shouted.

Just beyond Tenth Street, they passed behind an old warehouse and stopped in front of a large clump of bushes that hugged the chain-link fence that kept people off the tracks.

“Why are we here?” Ben asked, panting slightly and feeling even more sweaty than he ever liked to be, not to mention more than a little perturbed.

For reasons known only to himself, Richard decided to run three blocks to look at a trash-laden group of eight-foot-high hedges adjacent to a vacant brick building.

Why Watch a Story When You Can Be In One

Richard stepped toward the fence and pointed to the freight train that was slowly creeping along the tracks.

“There, that boxcar right there,” he said.

Glancing back to be certain Ben was paying attention, he pointed again to the boxcar.

“So What?” Ben asked. “What about it?”

The boxcar door was wide open, exposing its cargo. Richard spotted that car just as they were leaving the restaurant, and he knew they could catch up to it and see what was inside.

A quick in, a quick inspection, and then to the movie! They had time—according to Richard’s calculation, anyway.

Richard inherited his fearless and often reckless nature from his father, Rocky. Unafraid to try just about anything, Richard considered the thought of jumping into a moving freight car just to see what was inside a form of entertainment far better than any movie.

Ben, on the other hand, much rather enjoyed sitting in a cool, dark movie theater with a Coke and popcorn while watching monsters, ghouls, and whatever else they wanted to project onto the screen.

As the boxcar moved closer, Richard’s excitement flared, and he almost literally dove into the waiting hedgerow, leaving Ben with no other option but to follow.

After all, HE was the uncle and the elder.

How Richard knew about this rabbit hole, Ben never thought to ask, but there, beneath the hedges, was a hidden opening cut out of the chain-link of the fence, through which they both popped like proverbial weasels.

Train Robbery at High Noon!

“Oh, goody! Now we’re what? … Frank and Jesse James robbing a train!” Ben murmured to himself.

Previously caught trespassing in the rail yard, the boys both got their butts whipped with a belt by Richard’s dad and were warned against ever doing it again.

Now, as they readied to bolt across numerous sets of tracks, Ben’s mind conjured images of a long jail sentence in which Richard’s dad would visit to administer daily whippings even worse than the one they’d had before.

Ben’s stomach was in knots as they crouched against the fence, waiting until the boxcar was at a slight angle coming toward them.

Richard whispered as if the hedge behind them were crowded with anxious people waiting to watch an amazing feat of derring-do!

As Ben was seriously considering crawling back through the fence, Richard whispered heavily, “Let’s go!” and broke into a crouching run.

Ben’s heart was pounding, and his brain was filled with images of his life in prison as the two ran like rabbits from a fox.

Running and leaping over the open tracks, Richard quickly closed the diminishing angle of space between himself and the approaching boxcar door.

Lagging several yards behind and looking toward the Twelfth Street Bridge that lay clearly in view, Ben quickened his pace as he shouted,

“They can see us, ya know! We are definitely going to jail this time!”

Richard, however, was dauntless, never hearing, never fearing. His determination to do stupid things in such an energetic and determined way was almost enviable.

Ben, trying to talk and run, continued jabbering:

“Why,
— in anybody’s mind,
— would jumping into
— a moving freight car
— seem like
— a fun thing to do?”

Perplexed, frightened, but following along nonetheless, Ben caught hold of the bar next to the open door.

It was far more difficult than he’d imagined, and as he finally pulled himself into the moving car, he shouted,

“You don’t have to do all this to see a movie!”

What’s behind Door Number One?

The boxcar was unlike anything Ben had ever experienced. Blinded by the stark sunlight at the entrance, the enormity of the interior lay in a deep, stifling hot shadow that belied its exterior dimensions.

Impossible to see more than a few feet beyond the door, still, the car appeared to be filled with pallets stacked with large crates and boxes as high as seven or eight feet.

Dust motes swirled in the sunlight that slanted through the open door, obviously stirred by the unexpected entrance of two fast-moving bodies.

The boys stepped back into the shadow of the nearest pallets to avoid detection—if that they had not already been. Which was Ben’s thought, exactly.

Richard began his inspection, hoping to find some treasure small enough to carry home, while Ben, on the other hand, watched for armed police to begin charging the train.

To his chagrin, Richard discovered that the nearest pallets were encased in thick cardboard and strapped in multiple directions with heavy steel bands, making them inaccessible.

“There’s no way to get them open!” Richard shouted.

“Far out!” Ben said. “You grab one side, and I’ll grab the other. Just watch your step getting off the train! That first step’s a doozy!”

Richard, ignoring Ben, was not giving up that easily.

Climbing atop the nearest pallet, he began to ninja hop from one to the next, quickly disappearing into the darkness at the leading end of the car.

All of the pallets appeared to be strapped and sealed in the same fashion. Maybe some type of mechanical equipment, but he couldn’t tell for certain.

 Coming back to Ben at the door, Richard shouted,

“I’m gonna check the back,” he said as he leaped across the pallets and over Ben’s head.

Ben rolled his eyes as he sat in the shade, trying to catch a piece of the very slight breeze offered by the open door.

Although they were still moving slowly, Ben saw that they were about to leave the city yards and enter the Juniata shop yards.

In the meantime, neither of the boys noticed that the frequent clacking of the wheels on the tracks was steadily increasing.

The cool darkness of the theater fell farther behind, and Ben, sensing that they had overstayed their welcome, was becoming very anxious.

“How about we be good little shepherds and get the flock out of here, and just go see the movie, eh?” Ben shouted the last part toward Richard.

Richard, who had already moved well away, continued to ignore him. The trailing end of the car, although still in deep shadow, was not quite as murky as the leading end.

As he leaped onto the last pallet in the center row, Richard paused, allowing his eyes to better adjust to the dimness.

On the floor beneath was a shape that looked like a pile of rags or a tarp or some kind.

Although still able to stand upright, the stacking seemed much higher here than at the other end of the car.

As daring as he normally was, he hesitated, leaving the safety of his perch. Despite concentrating his vision, he could not quite make out what it was.

“It looks like a sack of something,” he said out loud.

The Confluence

That was when Ben shouted very loudly over the top of the cargo-laden pallets:

“WE’RE STARTING TO SPEED UP!”

The alert uncharacteristically startled Richard as he concentrated on the shadowy enigma below him.

His attention quickly diverted to the sound of the clacking wheels; he decided to abandon the investigation. Then just as he turned to leave, the bundle on the floor moved, looked up at him, and said in a gravelly voice:

 “If you’re gonna get your ass off the train, you’d better move it, or your dumb ass is on its way to Harrisburg!”

That’s when the unflappable Richard nearly pissed his pants. Quickly hopping across the pallets toward the door, he seemingly left behind all of the curiosity that spurred him to investigate the boxcar to begin with.

By now, the Twelfth Street Bridge had long faded from view, and they were well beyond the Juniata shop yard. Harrisburg, here we come! Well, maybe!

The Hobo’s Lament

By the time Richard leaped and hopped his way to the door, the train had gained too much speed to allow for an easy exit.

The boys stood at the open door contemplating their predicament.

Richard, however, kept glancing over his shoulder, having not yet informed Ben that they were not alone in this untidy mess he’d brought them to.

“Go ahead and jump!” Ben said, flopping his head side to side sarcastically. “I want to see if you live through it!”

Having no idea at what speed they were moving, the set of tracks next to them sped ominously by. The likelihood of being shredded by the shale or pummeled to death by the railroad ties seemed the logical outcome!

They stood on opposite sides of the door, hands clasping the iron bar they had used to hoist themselves aboard, watching as the train gained greater and greater momentum.

There was too much at once to comprehend.

First, they had no way to know where the train was going.

Richard, on the other hand, alone knew only that the bag on the floor said something about Harrisburg!

Then, just as he went to say something to Ben about the possible destination, the gravelly voice once again filled his ears:

“What in hell da you two think yer doin jumpin onto my fuckin train? When ya see a door standin open, that tells right then tha’ som’uns already in there!”

Ben nearly fell out the door as he spun to face Richard, who himself was staring at Ben with a look like the devil himself had just spoken to them.

From somewhere amid the stacks of pallets, a ragged, weathered creature suddenly appeared behind them, a lit cigarette between his fingers and smoke billowing from his mouth and nose as he spoke.

Ben Enters the Twilight Zone

The hobo shook his head in disbelief as he took a long draw on his cigarette.

He threw the smoldering butt to the floor and crushed it out with his booted toe.

He stood motionless, silently staring at the two boys.

The boys’ heads jerked, first to one another, then out the door, then back at the hobo, then back to each other; both were suddenly numb and speechless.

To jump or not to jump—jumping—THAT was out of the question! There was no escape!

The hobo extracted a new cigarette from his pocket.

Again raising a scolding voice to the boys, he said:

 “Well you ken jes sit yer asses down now, cuz yer gonna be here for good bit ba’for ya kin git off agin! Oh, and I hope ya wore yer walkin shoes cuz yer gonna be a helluva-long-way from home!”

The hobo lit his new smoke, spitting a bit of loose tobacco off his lip toward the open door.

“I’m sposin you two are from Altoona since that’s where ya hopped on, or are ya on yer way back somewheres?” The hobo asked.

The boys just looked at one another without response.

The stranger shook his head as he stepped toward the door and asked:

“Is everyone who lives where you live stupid as you two assholes, or was you just bred that way?”

Keeping their grip on the bars at the edge of the door, the boys pressed themselves against the frame.

Then, rather than responding to either statement, Richard’s brass balls took over:

“Can I bum a cigarette?” he asked.

A look of shock appeared on the stranger’s face.

He croaked a short, guttural laugh as smoke billowed from his face.

“You ken go shit in yer hat, boy! I ain’t given you my smokes! Do I look like I’m made of money?” he replied.

Richard reached into his pocket and pulled out the thirty-five cents he was to use for the movie.

The hobo raised his eyebrows.

“Now, that’s more than a whole pack costs!” Richard said, holding the coins out to the hobo.

The stranger’s laugh sounded like an exhalation through bubbling tar.

“Thirty-five cents! How much more ya got?” he asked.

Squinting at the coins in Richard’s hand like they might be counterfeit, he said:

“Yeah, boy! That’ll buy a lungful these days, with a little left over. Wha’d you two do, break open yer piggybanks? That’s not travelin money, and yer gonna need more than that to get back home on.”

He paused, his eyes darting back and forth between them as if they were holding a secret he needed to know.

“Oh, yeah, that — that’s right ,” he continued,
“I heard ya sayin so!
That’s ‘movie-money,’ ain’t it?
I forgot!
I’ll bet mommy gave youse yer allowances for be’n good boys, didn’t she?
Well, you two are in a world of shit now,” he said.

As though trying not to touch skin, the hobo leaned forward and with his nicotine-stained fingertips, gingerly plucked the coins from Richard’s hand.

First, he shook the coins in his palm as if to confirm their value, then dropped them into his coat pocket and patted it to ensure their security.

Proffering a crumpled pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes toward Richard, he squinted one smoke-filled eye as he said:

“Yer two boys is too young to be smokin! I’ll bet yer mom don’t know about that neither, does she?”

Ben, who was struck entirely dumb by this utterly bizarre lecture, began to wonder if he hadn’t found himself in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

Holding Back a Dime!

The hobo turned to Ben and said,

“This here ain’t a charity, boys. But fair’s fair. You want one too?”

The stranger poked the pack of Luckys toward Ben, who continued his slack-jawed stare at what might be a scene in Dante’s first circle of hell.

Ben’s eyes locked onto the cigarette. He timidly reached for the smoke as if he were about to put his hand into a bear trap.

The hobo quickly jerked it away.

“Hold on now, boy! That’s thirty-five cents! Jes like thu other!” The man grunted. “These ain’t cheap, ya know!”

“I only got a quarter,” Ben said, putting his hand into his pocket.

He held the coin out to the hobo in exchange for the cigarette.

At the same time Ben took the cigarette, the stranger made a quick, wizard-like motion, and the flame of a battered Zippo lighter appeared in front of the boys.

“Perty slick, huh?” The hobo gave another rasping laugh, amusing himself.

The letters S.A.B. were double-engraved beneath the emblem of the United States Marine Corps. Letters that nobody likely asked about for quite some time.

As quickly as it appeared, the lighter snapped shut and disappeared. Watching the boys with deep curiosity, he appeared to be judging whether they were really smokers or just pretending to be grown up enough to smoke.

The hobo sized them up with the eyes of someone who, for many years, had seen the best and worst of people and all too often on the same day.

It was becoming obvious that he was happy to have someone to talk to for a change.

“Nice lighter,” Ben said. “U.S. Marine, huh? What’s the S.A.B. stand for?”

Time For Some Introductions

The hobo sank to his haunches against a pallet, folding himself into the shadows (something that, from Richard’s experience, the man was very good at).

“Names don’t matter out here, boys,” he said loudly as if the last question had somehow upset him.

“But if you need to call me somethin, you kin call me Sully.”

He took a long drag of his stubby, unfiltered cigarette and held it as though he had forgotten to exhale. Seconds later, he let the smoke billow from his mouth and nose while he said,

“So, what is it? You boys running away, or just being stupid? What’s this I heard about going to a movie?”

He squinted an eye toward them as the smoke rolled over his head, but the boys remained silent.

“This ain’t no goddamned movie theater, is it?” he said, suddenly letting loose another loud, rattling laugh, flip-flopping from possible anger to mock crazy.

Ben opened his mouth to answer, but Sully cut him off with a grunt and continued,

“Hell, it’s six of half or one dozen of another,” he said nonsensically.

“Can’t say as I mind having the company neither, and I hope you boys enjoy the trip cuz it could be a long one!”

Sully paused, took another long drag, and then turned his gaze to Ben:

“My guess is that you,” he said to Ben, shaking his nicotined fingers with the lit cigarette still between them as smoke again billowed from his face, “you are the follower, ain’t-cha? I’d bet a pack a Luckys on that!”

“And you,” he said, turning his gaze to Richard, “yer the instigator! I know a troublemaker when I see one, and you, boy, you got some balls on ya. Didn’t act like you’z afraid of me at all.”

“Kin I bum a cigarette,” he said mockingly.

“Well, do you both have names?” he asked.

“I’m Richard, and he’s Ben,” Richard responded.

“Ah!” Sully paused for a second or two, eyeing the boys.

He continued, “So I’m in the midst of royalty, eh! Ben! As in Beauregard, and Richard as in King Richard. Noble knights, I take it, both of ya!”

The boys fell quiet and turned to watch the scenery pass. Squatting near the open door, they drew on their smokes like old pros, with neither of them knowing when or where this journey would end.

That’s Why I’m Riding the Rails…

The train  rolled on— much like their brief years of youth— carrying them through a sudden, hurried preview of the miles that lay ahead of them.

The trees flew past to reveal open fields, distant roads, and farms with shabby houses, piles of old rusted cars, and ragged men not unlike Sully camped along the rails.

Lost in their indifference, facing a future they’d never planned, they found themselves cast together as characters on the stage of a living theater.

Richard, rarely still long enough to frame a serious thought, stoically gazed at the air in front of him, barely registering the passing world, the stub of his cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

Ben felt his desire for an afternoon at the theater dissolve like the celluloid film that got stuck behind the lens.

While he squatted at the other end of the open door, the rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the tracks and the ethereal reality of the present moment changed his vision of life and living.

Perhaps he was beginning to understand why Sully accepted this existence. An esoteric life that only riders of the rails are privy to and fall in love with, marrying themselves to it.

Sully’s was not a what shall I do today life, but one that renewed itself with the passing of another train.

A sudden rush of calm came over him. A complete escape from fear and anxiety that Ben had never felt before. Not only was he escaping his mother, siblings, teachers, and the jerks and bullies at school, but more than anything, he was leaving behind the requirement to answer to others for his life and thinking.

Here, he could live his way, coming and going as he pleased. No more guilt for living off his mother’s meager wages.

Sully’s voice suddenly broke through the noise of the moving boxcar,

“Yer a thinker, ain’t cha, boy?” he asked Ben.

The hobo stared at Ben, instinctively knowing what he was mulling over.

“Believe me, you don’t want this life, boy! No way for a dog, let alone a man, to live. I guarantee it — Still, I guess yer gonna do what yer gonna do, ain’t-cha?”

They rode in silence for several minutes when, suddenly, they sensed the train beginning to decelerate.

The boys sprang to their feet and stepped to the open door.

Can I Have Another Cigarette?

“Yep,” said Sully, “best back away from the door, boys, we’re rollin into the Tyrone rail yard, and we don’t want the bulls to see us. Fact is, I should probably pull that door nearly to, lessen you boys are thinkin’ bout git’n off here.”

Sully paused, looking from one boy to the other.

“Which I strongly advise,” he said loudly while closely watching their reaction.

Watching the pair inquisitively, Sully suddenly let out another bubbling chuckle.

Once more, digging the pack from his coat pocket, he offered them each another cigarette, but they both refused.

Instead, the boys stood together at the open door, leaning out, peering ahead at the slight beginnings of the town called Tyrone.

The track they were on was the farthest of the three passing along the rail yard, making their presence less conspicuous as the train finally slowed to a point where they could easily step off.

Ben and Richard looked toward one another, and then back toward the approaching town.

“I’m jumpin off,” said Ben.

Richard remained unmoved, staring into the distance.

“You ready?” Ben asked at the back of Richard’s head.

Richard stepped back and squatted next to a pallet near Sully and asked,

“Can I have that cigarette now?”

Sully handed him another smoke, staring as if trying to read the boy’s mind.

Then, out of the deepest parts of Sully’s roiling thoughts, he blurted,

“Are you shittin me?” and he laughed raspily.

Looking from Ben to Richard, he continued,

“Son-of-a…’’, stopping short of saying it, he slapped Richard’s shoulder as he again produced the magical Zippo to light his smoke.

“Boy—what the hell!” Sully continued.

“Here I thought I could read anybody but—damn! Not YOU! No sir!“

Sully, shaking his head, stopped short to light another cigarette.

He continued, “I sure didn’t read you like this. I think you just have something you want’a be rid of.”

Richard’s eyes stared at the floor between his feet. His thinking was simple: what would it be like to keep going, to see places like Harrisburg, Philadelphia, maybe even the coast, New Jersey, or even New York City?

For Richard, there was nothing philosophical, nothing thought out, just spontaneous and certain, just the way Richard did things.

He looked up at Sully, who appeared to be smirking, but instead was grinning at Richard as if he’d just discovered gravity or the wheel for the first time.

“So? It’s my life, ain’t it?” Richard snapped back.

Sully brought his smoky fingers to the bill of his cap in a mock salute.

“I’ll be damned, I hope you know what yer doin,” Sully said as his voice trailed off into silence.

Parting Is Such Sweet Trauma

Ben had already taken hold of the handle at the edge of the door and stepped out onto the ladder.

Looking imploringly toward Richard, Ben said, “Come on, man, let’s go before it starts moving again.”

There was no time to argue about it. Richard continued to look toward the fields, past Ben’s head, as if Ben was already gone.

The train came to a narrow patch of grass leading to an open field. The first of the rail yard buildings was approaching as Ben’s foot met the ground.

He let go of the boxcar. Standing there, waiting, he felt that there was no way Richard would refuse to get off that train.

As the slow-rolling car continued to move away, the open door became a shadow. A few seconds later, Sully leaned out, touched a smoky finger to the bill of his hat in farewell, and slid the door over to hide from the rail yard bulls.

It was nearly nightfall — and despite the heat of summer air, Ben felt frozen inside and out, his thoughts tumbling, trying to comprehend what was happening and why it was happening.

Ben watched as the train quickened its pace. The faster it moved, the greater Ben’s desperation became.

He walked in circles, mumbling, fighting back tears, dumbfounded and confused without his brother, his nephew.

The boxcar had long since disappeared, and the dangling caboose at the end of the huge string of railcars approached.

With only seconds remaining, his panicked mind compelled him: “Get back on the train!”

His sober mind, on the other hand, cautioned: “But what if I get on and Richard gets off and I don’t know it? Or what if Richard is already off and I didn’t see him?”

Taking a deep breath, he watched the caboose clatter past, his eyes fixed on the tiny, cottage-like car until it disappeared around the curve beyond the rail yard.

Moments later, the air around him empty and silent, he turned and walked across the field away from the yards, hoping to find a nearby rail station.

No more than a half mile beyond, rather than a rail station, he found a covered platform completely devoid of passengers, with a few benches and a phone booth at one end; no building, and no one to talk to.

Ben sat and waited on the wooden bench nearest the phone booth until the sun and long shadows of the day disappeared. Long enough to assure himself that Richard would not come walking in from somewhere beyond hope.

Longing For Hearth and Home…

As the darkness deepened, Ben stopped hoping and went to the pay phone at the end of the platform.

Dropping in the dime he’d withheld from Sully, he dialed the number beginning with WI.

The voice at the other end said, “Hello.”

Thankfully, it was his older brother Terry, and not his sister, who would have asked for far too many details. Not to mention that she was most likely to say, “You got yourself there, now get yourself home!”

“It’s me,” Ben said. “I need a ride. Can you come get me?”

“Where are you?” Terry asked.

“I’m at the Tyrone train station,” Ben said weakly.

“What the hell are you doing there?” his brother asked sharply.

Ben felt his face flush. He paused and said, “I um—I got onto an open boxcar, and it started moving too fast, and I, uh, I couldn’t get off.” 

Opting for the half-truth of a lone rider, Ben was hesitant to reveal the part about Richard and his impulsive flight to who-knows-where.

“Dumb ass! Are you all right?” Terry asked.

“Yeah—um, I guess just cold and hungry,” Ben replied.

“Is Mom at work?” Ben asked, remembering that he was supposed to walk her home after.

“Yeah, she is,” Terry said, suddenly sounding perturbed.

Knowing that Ben would have to walk the fifteen-to-twenty miles along a darkened highway, he continued, “I’ll be there in half an hour or so. Just keep your dumb ass right where you are.”

The phone clicked, and Ben sat down again on the bench. All he could do now was sit and wait.

Forgive Me, Mother, For I Have Sinned

When Terry arrived, Ben was sitting directly beneath the dim light above the bench. Leaning forward, Ben had his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his palms.

It was a summer evening and not at all cold, but after spending the day broiling in the sweaty boxcar, Ben was shivering in his T-shirt, making him all the more grateful for his brother’s rescue. 

It felt like midnight when his ride finally arrived. Dragging himself off the bench, his legs felt weak and worn as he lifted his feet into the car.

“Hey,” Ben said. “Thanks for coming.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Terry stared at Ben, who looked far more haggard than he’d expected. “Tough day, was it?” he asked.

Ben remained silent as they pulled away from the station, and they were more than halfway home when Terry finally spoke again, “You know,” he said, glancing over at Ben, “people have been killed pulling crap like that.”

“I know,” Ben responded despondently. “It was a dumb ass thing to do — I know.“

Terry glanced at Ben. “I suppose you’re hungry,” he said in a questioning tone. “I’ll fix us something when we get home.”

“Do you have any cigarettes?” Ben asked.

Terry shook his head. “No, why should I? I don’t smoke,” he shot back at Ben’s unreasonable request.

Feeling more sick than hungry, Ben was mentally numb and filled with worry: “Where is Richard now? Is he still on that train with Sully? What is he going to eat?”

His only hope was that Sully’s wisdom of the road would teach Richard how to survive and how to avoid ending up in jail somewhere.

The sense of loss and panic consumed Ben and settled into the deepest pit of his stomach. As they rode on, the anxiety took its toll, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep.

When they arrived home, little more was said about the adventure than:

“I was on my way to the movie theater, saw the open door on the boxcar, got a little crazy, and decided to take a ride, and,” Ben paused a few seconds, “Just don’t tell Mom about it, okay? I don’t want her to worry that I’ll ever do that again.”

There was method in this madness, however.

Ben’s mother knew that he and Richard were together, and she would question why they were not together at the station in Tyrone.

Richard and Ben often stayed days at a time in one or the other’s homes with nobody questioning where either boy was at any given time.

So without knowing the story, she would assume that Richard went home after the movie.

Richard, on the other hand, had a younger brother and two even younger sisters at home, so when he was away, it meant one less mouth to feed.

Ben felt responsible, but he wasn’t about to send everyone into a panic.

Two days passed without any sign of his return, and the most disturbing fact was that no one seemed aware of his absence.

That ignorance, sadly enough, was not unusual, as he had run away before and barely missed.

Ben lay across his bed, wondering what would happen if and when the absence was finally discovered. 

He questioned himself constantly. “Should I tell? It’s not like he was kidnapped or anything, but they wouldn’t know that. So, then, who do I tell, and will they understand that Richard chose to run away? Will they think Sully kidnapped him? Will I be in trouble for not making him get off the train?”

After four days and still no sign of Richard, Ben’s guilt and shame overcame his reticence.

Ben went to the dining room where his mother was having her morning cigarette over coffee.

She took a drag from her Pall Mall and looked at him pensively as he sat down near her.

“Mom, do you remember the other day when me and Richard stopped at the restaurant…and I said that we were going to the movies?”

Always very stoic and armed with the wisdom of raising six children ahead of him, she slid the cigarette pack towards him and tossed over the matchbook.

Giving her a long, questioning look, Ben hesitantly reached for the pack.

“Well,” Ben began …