Hippomobile! (13 page)

That was as long as we were alive! “Is that why your hat says ‘
MILES
' for? For all the miles you done traveled?”

Then Fitz took off his hat and looked at it and said, “Yeah, guess it could mean that, too. Never thought of that.”

But he didn't have a chance to tell us what it really meant because the control panel butted in and started to say something.

“Now en turr ing dark terr uh torr eee.”

It was like a robot voice. “What was that?” we asked.

“That? Just the trackside scanner.”

“The what?”

Fitz told us that his train automatically told him stuff, like if it had any defects or what the temperature was outside. And in this case, it was telling us that we were now entering dark territory.

So of course we had to ask, “What's dark territory?” Because it was as sunny as a song outside.

Fitz adjusted his cap and said, “It's kinda complicated. But basically it means I gotta talk to somebody directly on the radio to find out what I need to do instead of readin' my directions from off this chart here.”

He flipped a switch and bent over and spoke into an intercom thing built into the control panel. “CNABTB goin' dark,” he said.

And about ten seconds later, a crackly voice came back out of the intercom and said, “All clear.”

And that was it. Until about five minutes later, the robot said, “Now lee ving dark terr uh torr eee.”

“Understand it this time?” Fitz asked us.

And we said, “‘Now leaving dark territory'?”

“You got it! Couple of future engineers right here.”

That made us feel good.

We traveled some more and looked out the windows at the dramatic and sensational
³
amount of empty space all around us. For a while we got to push the mushroom and blow the whistle about every mile or so, and soon thereafter we passed by a deserted road, and the whole time we ain't never once seen a single pickup. And the more we chugged along, now at only 26 mph, we started to get a bit drowsy from the sun and the rocking of the train and the slowness and the sameness of it all. If the cabin we were in had air conditioning, it sure wasn't working no good.

We yawned and asked, “What happens if you ever fall asleep out here?”

“I'll show you,” Fitz said.

He didn't fall asleep or nothing, but he did stop fiddling with the control panel for the first time during our whole trip, and almost right away what sounded like a smoke detector went off and made us nearly jump clean through the roof. Fitz smiled and pushed down a different mushroom, and the screaming stopped.

“That's what happens,” he said. “I stop workin' this here panel for fifteen seconds, that alarm goes off. Which'll wake you up no matter how loud you're snorin'. Way back a long time ago, you had to keep a foot pedal pushed down the whole time. Called a dead man's pedal. And if you let up on that thing,
bang
, the train stopped.” And Fitz made the sound of brakes screeching.
Urrrrrrrrchchch!

“Speakin' of which,” Fitz said, “I reckon it's about time we start slowin' her down.”

“Aww!” we complained.

And Fitz said, “All good things must come to an end.”

And we looked at him and said, “Except hot dogs.”

And Fitz said, “Hot dogs?”

And we said, “Yeah, because they got two ends!”

Fitz laughed at that one so hard that he had to wipe his eyes afterward. “You two kids are all right.”

Then he started playing his control panel with both hands, and we felt ourselves slowing down a bit and could even feel the weight of the train pushing up against the back of our seat. And before we knew it, Mr. Buzzard's yellow pickup came into view.

Fitz stopped the coal train right in front of Maggie's Crossing. We had imagined it was gonna be some great big flashing deal, but it was nothing more than another deserted dirt road with at most a jackrabbit running across it.

“Let's hustle down outta here before Maggie catches wind of us,” Fitz said, and reached over and opened the door for us.

We took our school bag and climbed down, and when our feet touched the ground, the first thing we noticed was how still the earth was and not all vibrating like up on the train. Then we noticed how there was one sizzling hot wind blowing out there, with nothing around to stop it. No trees, no buildings, no nothing. Luckily we didn't see no lady in boots and a shotgun neither.

Fitz leaned out the window and said, “Been nice travelin' with you two kids!” He tipped his hat again that said
MILES
on it that we never learned how come, and we said “Thanks, Fitz!” Then Fitz disappeared from the window, and we stood out next to Mr. Buzzard's truck and shaded our eyes and watched the train slowly pull away.

“Okay now, Stella. Jimmy. Time to crack the whip,” said Mr. Buzzard.

But we weren't about to move before we found out how many cars our coal train had, and we'd already counted thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six . . .

“Okay, now, I ain't kiddin'. You don't wanna be late to Dixie's, do ya?”

Of course we didn't. But we was up to seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one . . . and there still wasn't no end in sight.

“I'll go without you. I will, now. Just take that school bag of yours and head right on out . . . All right, then, here I goes. Openin' the door to my pickup . . .”

We heard his door moan worse than a haunted house, but we still didn't move none, since we were already up to hopper number 125 and counting.

“Okay, kids, listen, now. I'm climbin' right on in. And diggin' for the keys . . . Now, where'd I put them keys, anyhow?”

We shouted when we busted the record at 133, and there was still even some coal train left to go. And it wasn't until we counted the caboose as number 145 that we yelled, “Okay, Mr. Buzzard, we're coming!” and scampered off to his pickup.

“Good thing, too,” Mr. Buzzard said. “'Cause I was just about ready to pull off without ya. Now, get here in the cab. It's too hot out back.”

That was fine with us, as much as we loved sitting out back in an old tire. But we were already overheated, and so we climbed up in through the driver's door because the other one didn't work anymore. Pops always said Mr. Buzzard's truck was held together by wire and a prayer.

Mr. Buzzard tried starting his pickup, but it wouldn't start. And it really did look like he was praying there, bent over the steering wheel like that with his eyes closed. Pops also said that Mr. Buzzard himself was about as handy as a back pocket on a shirt.

“It's hot in here,” we said.

“You two kids just hold on to your saddle. Once we get goin', I'll turn this place into a meat locker.”

Mr. Buzzard turned the ignition and pumped the gas pedal and whacked the dashboard and blew the horn and pumped the gas pedal and turned the ignition and whacked the dashboard and kept whispering something to himself about hail Mary. And long after we thought it was ever gonna be possible, his pickup started, and it was shakier than the train we were just on.

“See there? What'd I tell ya?” Mr. Buzzard said. “Now, watch this.” He slid a knob on the AC over to the blue side, and almost immediately little pieces of ice started flying out of the vents. He wasn't kidding about that meat locker. And then we were off.

“We should be at Dixie's either in under thirty minutes or over sixty minutes, depending on if the truck breaks down.”

That ended up being about the last thing we heard. Because once Mr. Buzzard's truck got going, it stopped being so shaky, and the air cooled down nice, and we got good and comfy on the beat-up old seat we were sitting on, and Mr. Buzzard turned on the radio and picked up a nice soft song about highways and heartaches. From all the excitement we'd been through that day, we were as beat as two eggs in a mixing bowl, and the next thing we knew, we were back in Wymore, and there was some drool on our chins, and our school box wasn't in our school bag anymore.
⁴

 

 

 

 

“
SO, HOW WAS YOUR DAY
?” Mom asked. We noticed she sounded awful chipper.

We said, “Day?” And we made faces at each other for not knowing what we should say. Until finally alls we said was, “Oh, not much.”

But Mom pressed us like a pair of pants. “It was Train Day, though, wasn't it?”

“Train Day?” By then it was clear to us that we should've spent less time being mad at each other and more time preparing for Mom's call.

“You know, only your
favorite
day of the week?”

And we said, “Oh,
that
Train Day. Yeah . . . It was Train Day, Mom.”

“Well, that's nice to hear,” Mom said. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You're welcome!”

“How many cars were there?”

That was an easy one. At least it should've been, since we set a new record. But on account of being nervous, we jumbled the numbers all up. “Four hundred fifty-one.”

“Four hundred fifty-one?! Are you sure about that?” Mom asked.

“Five hundred forty-one!” we corrected ourselves incorrectly.

“Come, now,” Mom said.

We were getting more cornered than a triangle. But then we saw our bulletin board full of presidents and thought we had a way out. “Mom?”

“Yes, dears?”

“Can we tell you something?”

“You know you can always tell me everything.” Boy, was her voice sounding sweet.

“You promise not to get mad?”

“Well, that will depend, of course. But I'll try.”

So we took a deep breath and said, “It's about our summer homework.”

Mom laughed. “Is that all?”

“Well, it's just that we're not getting very far on it.”

“I'm certain you'll both do just fine. You should go talk to Grandpa Chester. He's got the memory of an elephant. In fact, he helped your Pops and me when we had to take that test.”

We told Mom we'd be sure and talk to Grandpa Chester the very next day. So long as he'd talk to us, that is.
¹
And for the rest of our conversation, we did our best to talk about the presidents and were never gladder about that summer homework than just then.

It seemed like Mom was happy to talk about presidents too. She even told us some funny stories about them, like how George Washington had his horse's teeth brushed every day, and how Thomas Jefferson once got sent a thousand-pound hunk of cheese. She even knew that Millard Fillmore installed the first bathtub at the White House.

Our phone call swam along like a fish, and before we knew it, it was time to hang up. That was a relief, because we didn't enjoy fibbing to Mom like that for so long.

Mom must've been waiting for that very moment. “Oh, before I go, what was the name of the engineer again?”

We said, “You mean Fitz?” And then we said, “Oops!” and covered our mouths like a hole in our britches.

But in the sweetest voice we ever heard her speak, Mom just said, “I'm glad you had such a good time.”

 

 

 

 

YOU NEVER WOULD'VE
believed your own eyes had they seen the bustle and enterprise that swept through Wymore like a dust storm the following day. Truth be told, we had a hard time believing our eyes ourselves.

We were up in Old Tom Wood, flicking ants off our bare knees and reciting the presidents, and Jimmy was sucking on a nickel because that was Secret Trick #3 on how to get a loose tooth to fall out. And on account of that that's where we were, we missed it when the phone rang at Mabel's. It was Pops calling with good news. And the good news was that he liked the looks of the dingsbums all right and that he'd be on his way to Wymore no later than last week, by which he meant as soon as possible.