Transcontinental (34 page)

That was a lot to remember, and cost two-thirds of his remaining cash, but Leroy figured she knew what she was talking about. He found the bills in his pocket and relinquished them. He wished he could return the dress clothes he bought, but the store was out of the way.

“What time is it now?”

“Eleven-twenty,” she said, handing him a ticket. “Your train will be on track three when it arrives.” She smiled at him. “Thanks for your business.”

Leroy sat in an empty, isolated area far from the gleeful children and the stressed parents trying to calm them down. He felt dumb for paying to ride a train. Thoughts of how easy it’d be to slip through a back door and hop aboard one played in his head. Easy as it might be, the risk was steep. He didn’t want to end up like Ant.

Guilt cut away at him. But what choice did he have besides keep going?

Leroy’s eyes dropped to the floor, to the two bags he carried. His bags, now. He emptied his backpack onto the seat beside him then dropped it. After, he eyed Ant’s rucksack. He felt guilty before he began, but gently he removed the contents and placed them on the seats to his other side. From the small outside pockets, he found a Swiss Army knife, lighters, a compass, double-A batteries, a pen, a laser pointer, a paperclip, and a worn hood ornament for a Mercedes, the chrome stripped in spots. From inside the rucksack, he removed trash bags, a flashlight, Gerald’s bayonet knife, the tip still stained with blood, squashed wonder bread, chunky peanut butter, a notebook, a first-aid kit, a pair of flip flops, vitamins, a wallet, and three books: Our Mutual Friend, by Charles Dickens, On the Road, by Jack Kerouac, and Crime and Punishment, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Well, at least he’d have
something
to read on the train.

He hurried to stash the knives in the rucksack, then regarded the mass of possessions. He wasn’t going to get rid of any of it, not even the bread and peanut butter. But it was counterproductive to carry two bags. Leroy worked to fit the items, his included, into the rucksack by weight, shape, and need for accessibility. His Tetris proficiency via a kids’ meal toy, the only game he’d ever owned, came in handy. How about that—his mother’s penchant for fast food had paid off. As he was finishing up, an announcement over the building’s intercom caught his attention.

“Final boarding call for eastbound service to Missouri, now on track three. Final boarding for service to Missouri, track three.”

Leroy furrowed his brow and looked up. That forty minutes had flown by. He shouldered the heavy bag and slipped his empty backpack into a trash can before exiting onto the concourse.
 

The familiar clacking of the moving train made his hair stand on end. It was as exhilarating as ever, but with a fresh dimension of hazard. He trotted over to track three as the commuter came to a stop, the hot hiss of the air brakes tickling his ankles. A musical two-note bell tone rang out as the doors opened, and a handful of people filtered in and found seats. Leroy found his in the back of the rear car and set his bag down. It still felt wrong to consider Ant’s bag as his own, as if it was some sort of betrayal.

Leroy peered through the window to the spot across the yard where Ant had been beaten, nothing more than a patch of bent grass, now. He was one of only a few people who knew of the brutality that’d occurred there. Anyone else would think nothing of it, if they even noticed. A grave injustice had taken place, and the only person who’d face the consequences was the victim.

It wasn’t fair.

He took his eyes off the spot and the anger dulled. Turning his head, he surveyed the rest of the yard, until his gaze stopped on none other than his enemy, schmoozing with crewmen. Bile rose in his throat, the burn nowhere near as strong as his hatred. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

The bell rang out again, and the doors closed. He couldn’t wait to put this all behind him. Leroy looked away, then dug through the rucksack and pulled out a book to soothe his nerves.

On the Road. How appropriate. He opened the cover and a slip of paper fell into his lap. Scribbled at the top was the name Rehema Shepherd, above a Tampa address. He hadn’t even thought about her actual address, only that she lived in Tampa. Anxiety and relief passed through him in one confusing moment.

He folded the address and slipped it into Ant’s wallet, then stared hard at the cover of the book. A crude outline of the United States featured prominently, with a sketch of the path evidently taken in the story, which almost matched his own—it ran up through California, then headed straight to the east coast, but up to New England rather than the southern states, and looped around west, back to California. He wondered what other parts of the country were like—the midwest, the northwest, the northeast, Texas—but after this, Leroy figured he was pretty much done traveling.

A man came through to check his ticket, then left just as quickly.

As he turned the page, the train rolled forward. Leroy glanced out the window one last time at the cop who’d taken Ant away from him as he grew smaller in the distance until he disappeared. Just the way Leroy wanted it.

Chapter 9

Washington, MO

With the book flipped open in his lap, Leroy regained consciousness. He hadn’t realized he’d dozed off, but he supposed that was how it worked. Sleep had been rare last night, and taken effort, but the emotional stress, the weight of it all, was what fatigued him.

He lifted his gaze and found himself looking straight into the eyes of an older man a few rows down, hair slicked back and wearing a suit. The man didn’t speak, didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Leroy averted his gaze. The last thing he wanted was trouble.

Leroy thumbed through the pages of the book, catching only random words and phrases. He was starting to regret falling asleep; he had no idea how long he’d been out, and his head was groggy.

“Going back to sleep, you lazy animal?”

For a moment Leroy didn’t realize the man was speaking to him, then he sent up a cautious glance. “What?” he asked in a low voice.

A sneer parted the man’s lips. “You heard me.” His eyes burned cold.

Leroy’s fists clenched, before he noticed and loosened them. It was one thing to think something so disrespectful, but to say it aloud was indefensible.

A recorded voice over the intercom alerted him that they were approaching Washington station, to his relief. He couldn’t wait to get away from this crazy person. Leroy hoped the guy wouldn’t follow, although even with a sore ankle, he imagined he could outrun him. Still, he felt uneasy.

He placed the book in the rucksack. He had to be prepared for anything. Then, he remembered the knives Ant carried in his bag. The bayonet knife was a bit much, but he slipped the Swiss Army knife into his pocket. It was small, but if wielded effectively, could probably deal some damage.

Reality smacked him in the face. He was thinking about
stabbing
someone. Obviously he didn’t want to, he told himself, but if it came down to it, he would have no choice. The guy had clearly shown hostile tendencies. He wasn’t about to be taken down by some cranky old man after crossing half the country.

The man stared him down.

Leroy let his gaze drift off in an attempt at a neutral response.

Through the window, he could see couplets of idle train cars tagged with amateur, squiggly graffiti, crewmen heaving freight into boxcars, silos dispensing ton after ton of grain in a thick, steady, rushing stream like a huge faucet, and then the parallel rails of the concourse as the bell sounded and the train slowed to a stop. Leroy hopped up, one hand grasping the knife in his pocket, and rushed toward the exit.

On the opposite side of the exit, the old man stood. As Leroy neared the door, the man charged him. Clutching his bag, Leroy jumped through the door just as the man’s hand reached out to grab him.

“That’s right, go, monkey! Back to your tree!” he cried, hanging in the open doorway, clutching the walls beside him. “Monkey! MONKEY!”

Leroy hurried through the sparse crowds of commuters, down the concourse, around the station, and into the parking lot. He weaved between cars, the rucksack swaying, then, as he turned to look back, he crashed into a man in a black shirt and slacks, knocking him down before falling onto his butt. He searched for a sign of the racist old man, but saw nothing.

With the heavy rucksack weighing him down, Leroy felt like an upturned turtle, but before he could find his footing, a large hand presented itself. He grabbed it and was swiftly pulled to his feet by the man he’d knocked down—a minister, if the white square of his collar meant what Leroy thought it did. His skin was nearly as dark as his clothes. He was tall and taut, with wiry glasses, hair cropped close, and a bright smile. His frame reminded Leroy of Ant.

“Sorry,” Leroy panted, “I was just… There was—”

“That’s quite alright,” the man said in a baritone voice that burrowed under Leroy’s skin, but was not altogether unpleasant. “God has decided we must meet, and so we have. I’m Pastor Demonde Mercer. What’s your name?”

“L— Marcus. Marcus Jackson.” He shifted his weight off his sore ankle.

The pastor looked him up and down. “Going somewhere?”

“Uh, yeah. Thanks. For, you know… helping me up. I gotta go.”

The pastor chuckled as he brushed off the seat of his pants, the elbows of his long-sleeve shirt. “Not a problem. Where are you going?”

“I’m just kinda going. Nowhere particular,” he lied.

“Well we’re just about to leave, ourselves. Let us give you a ride.”

“Who’s we?”

“The Bishop and I, as well as a few kids, just about your age.”

Leroy weighed the proposition. He didn’t know them, but they were clearly religious men, and thus couldn’t pose much threat. It was about as safe a ride as he’d find, he figured, unless a bus of nuns showed up. Maybe they could just take him to the next station. He wasn’t feeling this one.

“Ah, there’s the Bishop now.”

Following Pastor Mercer’s gaze, Leroy saw a lighter-skinned man in a snappy brown suit and cowboy hat, flanked by three boys and a girl, swaggering toward them with a wide grin and arms outstretched.

“Like Jesus after three harrowing days, I have
returned
,” he said with a vivacious cackle as he neared. “Who’s this? Hello, young man.”

“This is Marcus Jackson,” said Pastor Mercer, scratching an ear. “I offered to give him a lift. I hope you don’t mind, Bishop.”

The Bishop shot a furtive glance at the smiling Pastor. “Course I don’t mind! That’s why I started SpiritWood—to help underprivileged children. Bishop Wardell Wood. Pleasure to meet you. Whereabouts are we taking you?”

“Just up the road, maybe to the next train station. If you can, I mean.” He tried, but couldn’t keep his eyes off the girl in the Bishop’s group. She had a full, toned figure, chestnut skin, and soft eyes that would look away every time they met his. He could swear, though, he saw the seed of a smile in her face.

“Well, Marcus, I believe we can accommodate you.” The Bishop interlocked his fingers and glanced again at the Pastor. “I know just the place.”

* * *

“So, Marcus, have you heard of us?” Bishop Wood asked, turning back from the front passenger seat of the van to face Leroy. The Pastor drove, the boys sat in the back seats, and across the aisle sat the girl who wouldn’t even look at him. “SpiritWood. Have you heard of it?”

“Nope.”

“Good, good. Gives us a chance to make the right first impression. You see, SpiritWood has its detractors, its critics. Of course, their accusations are complete nonsense. Right, children?”

The other kids verified his claim, if slightly unenthusiastically.

“For pete’s sake, we just came from a charity event for abused youths—one of many we engage in annually, I might add. We have our own school, church, farm, clinic, affiliated businesses. We give back,” he stressed, ostensibly debating himself. “Every time a black man is successful, they wanna bring him down. Every time. Call it what it is, children: racism. Pure and simple.”

His gaze trailed off.

“But that’s a whole other conversation. You believe in God, Marcus?”

Leroy pulled his eyes away from the girl and onto the Bishop, or at least his general vicinity. “Never thought much about it, honestly.”

“Well sure you have. You just didn’t know it,” he reasoned. “Every time a bird sings its tune, that’s God you’re hearing. Every breeze across the trees, that’s God. Every drop of rain, every starry night, every speck of sand on the beach—it’s all God. And God is beautiful.”

Leroy didn’t know what to say. That was one way to look at it, he supposed. Not one he’d considered, but there weren’t many he had. His mom hadn’t been religious, and if his dad was, he never knew about it, although he doubted many Christians went to prison. Religion was a mystery to him.

“That’s the way God
should
leave you—speechless,” the Bishop grinned.

Leroy forced a smile. He had to admire the Bishop’s zest. The man seemed to believe in what he was saying, through and through. Leroy wished he believed in anything so wholly.

Watching the trees and meadows pass outside the van, he wondered if it all really
was
God, or from God, or however it worked. The notion was so profound he couldn’t fully comprehend it.