Look at Flower Page 8

  She smiles in our direction. I look at Run. He’s smiling back.

  I feel all sort of funny inside, and it’s weird, but I’m feeling a little sorry for my friend. Here all the lumberjacks—and he’s become a lumberjack—are pairing off with the Audrey Hepburn chicks, and here he is stuck with me; skinny little blonde hippie Flower up till two weeks back a virgin.

  “Do you want her?” I say softly. I’m smelling his Canoe, it’s strong and musky.

  “What?” It’s not clear from Run’s expression if he hasn’t heard me, or hasn’t made sense of what I said.

  “The dark-haired chick. You interested in her?”

  Now he hears me. “Flower, what? What’re you saying?”

  I dip my shoulders, look at him through my bangs. “I just wonder, you know, if, well, maybe you think you should get it on with the girls too.”

  Run looks appalled. “Why would you say that?”

  I’m not sure, exactly. I start to shrug, but he really wants an answer, so I say, “I don’t know. I just think you’d want to groove with this, you know, somebody who really knows what they’re doing—”

  Run takes my hand, runs his fingers over my palm. “Are you serious?”

  Am I? I half nod. I know I’m not joking with him.

  “Are you saying I’m—that I need, what, practice?”

  I shake my head. Where did that come from? “Of course not.”

  “Then what are you saying?” Run’s looking at me surprisingly sternly.

  All kinds of things are in my head, but what I say is, “You know, we believe in freedom—that’s our whole lives. I’m just thinking, with these girls here, that maybe you want to, I don’t know, experiment or something—”

  Run shakes his head violently. “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m—”

  “Nuts, Cynda.” His hand now is up my arm, gentle, easeful. “I only care about you. Don’t you know that?”

  “But they’re all so—”

  “But you’re beautiful.” His eyes sparkle. “I love your big blue eyes, like warm ice, your little dimple chin—” he reaches out and touches it “—your untraced forehead—” reaches out and touches that, his padded fingertips soft on my brow “—your . . . just everything about you.”

  “You do?” His touch is the sweetest thing ever. I’m getting all whooshy inside. And I swear I didn’t have any of this planned, really.

  “I do, yes.”

  “But—when you were here before, did you? I mean, isn’t it just part of being a lumberjack—”

  “You don’t really understand me, do you?” Run says.

  “I—I thought I did. I—”

  “You never quite got it with me and the guys back at Big Star, either. I bet you thought I was sleeping with Merry.”

  It was all coming back to me. I gave him a little nod.

  “Yeah, free love and all—all that stuff. Sure, it’s out there, but it’s not for me. I never got it on with Merry, with any of them. I never—it just didn’t feel right to me. Then, first time I saw you, well—” He gives me a big smile. His eyes behind his bowl haircut look so cute.

  “I’m sorry, Run. I—”

  “It’s a screwy time out there—” he waved his hand out “—and we did some screwy things.” A low snort. “Some really screwy things. But I want you to know, the reason we’re here, with my pals, is that we both just needed to get away from all that for a while. Cool out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And put us closer together, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say again. “That’s been really good.”

  “So there we are.” He folds his arms before him.

  “Oh, Run,” I say, prying his arms open. “Run, Run, Run.”

  The secretary ladies stay all day and through the night, and at dawn they come staggering out of cabins with blouses misbuttoned and fine hair flying loose to face the full pancake treatment, mountains of golden cakes that they shove down like the proverbial trencherman; and then the bus is back, and all the girls, put back together in their gray suits and seamed stockings, climb back on like they’re heading back to the insurance company, and they’re off.

  It’s not long after they leave, when all the lumberjacks are still radiating a good vibe, that Run comes to me and says, “It’s time.”

  “Right now?” Run means, time to leave.

  “I just feel it.”

  “Fine by me.” I smile. “Aren’t you going to miss everyone?”

  Run nods. “Sure.”

  I brighten up; guess I’m ready, too. “So where we going?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  I twirl around, my skirt flying. “You’re asking me?”

  “We’re in this together, babe.”

  No sooner do I hear this than I throw myself at him and plant the biggest, gooiest kiss on his lips. “I love you,” I whisper.

  And so here’s Flower in the cab of Big Mike’s pickup, we’re grabbing a lift back to town. Big Mike’s not a sentimental guy, and lumberjacks come and go; when we get to the train line he simply leans over, shakes Run’s hand (it’s Run’s injured arm’s hand, and I see him wince a little), pinches my cheek, then drives off. As he clears our sight, he gives a toot on his horn.

  Run says, “Great guy.”

  I lean up and peck his cheek. “It was a trip.”

  Big Mike said there’s a freight train at 11 a.m. and again at 9 p.m. We’re going for the morning one. We’re told there’s a bunch of warehouse buildings right outside of town, and trains usually come to a full stop there. Cops will drive by, but they almost never bust anyone; not that many people hop freights anymore, and the cops don’t really bother.

  But having the cops mentioned has got us both thinking about what happened in Oregon.

  “So now what?” I say. “I guess we gotta decide something. Which way do you think we should head?”

  Run lets out a long breath. “I’ve been getting a little homesick, I was thinking of west, but—”

  “We don’t know anything, do we?” I say, alarmed. “Whether they’re looking for—” I hesitate just a second, then say, “—us.”

  “You mean me, Flower.” Run’s looking down.

  “I was in the car!”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t even know what was going down.” Run gives his head a shake. “That should get you off.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I say, not wanting to be separate from him even in this. “But, look, nobody’s going to get busted.” I look up at him. “I bet they’re not even looking—”

  “Oh, they’re looking,” Run says. His eyes are dark. “We called ourselves revolutionaries. We robbed a fuckin’ bank.” He draws in a quick breath. “I mean, I did.”

  “Sometimes I can’t—”

  “You can’t? Man, I don’t know what got into me. I was—I guess it was just everyone, and they sort of brain—” Then he shakes his head violently. “No, no, there aren’t any excuses. It was my fuckin’ mistake.”

  I don’t know what to say to that; just reach out and touch the ends of his black hair, flutter them lightly between my fingers.

  Run steps back, and I can see his gaze run the length of the train tracks, stretching boundlessly into the distance both ways. I follow his eyes. “How about—I have an idea—”

  “What?” The way he says this, and looks at me, it’s like he’s a little lost right then.

  “First train,” I say. “Whichever way it comes, we hop it.”

  Run considers this for a moment, then a slow smile breaks on his face. “It’s fate,” he says. “Fate. Yeah, I can dig that—that makes sense.”

  And it does. It’s a huge relief that we don’t have to decide anything; that whatever comes along will determine where we’re going, what happens to us. We find some shade under a roof’s three-foot overhang, pressing in against the redwood-colored building. It’s 10:15 and as slow and floaty a morning as I can remember. Fat bugs spin lazily through the thick air, the sunlight gli
des down easy, a glimmery wind flutters tall stalks of weeds. I sneeze: pollen in the air.

  It’s only fifteen minutes later when we hear a loud whistle crack the sky. Not long after, the train is coming our way.

  “It’s early,” Run says. We’re both up, the duffel clutched between us. “I guess that means it’ll stop longer.”

  We watch it pull up; it starts to slow, but only so much; then it’s moving past us.

  “Flower, it’s not stopping.”

  “Come on,” I say. I’m dashing toward it, dragging Run with the duffel. “We can get it.”

  It’s clear it’s not going to stop, and the idea of waiting here all day for another train makes me crazy. Besides, this one is heading east. I let go of the duffel and run to catch my pace up with the train. It’s still slowing some, and the connectors between cars are bucking loudly, clanging together then apart. I’m up to pace and see a boxcar with an open door. There’s a few metal steps dropping off the side, and, striding just right, I grasp the side of the door and make a leap to the lowest step. The train at that second jolts ahead a little, and at first try my feet don’t make it.

  “Flower,” Run calls in alarm.

  I’m holding on tight, and my shoes drag for about ten feet over the railroad ties, bumping and jolting.

  “Let go!”

  But I don’t. I lean back, then with all my strength I haul myself up and catch my right foot on the lowest step. I’m quickly upright. It’s easy to climb into the car.

  “Come on,” I shout to Run once I’m settled in the boxcar. There’s straw everywhere, and it’s slippery over the wood-slatted floor. I get as much of a grip as I can and lean out to him.

  He’s running almost as fast as the train, and when he’s right up to me, he reaches back and swings the duffel over his head. I grab it and pull it into the car. Then he reaches out for the same side of the door as I grabbed, gets a hold of it, and starts to pull himself up to the steps. He’s reaching out with his left arm, the one he was shot in, and at the same second I notice that, I see the wince on his face. His mouth opens and his teeth are bared.

  “Run, here, grab on to me.”

  I’ve tossed the duffel deep into the car, and now I’m leaning out as best I can, and Run is trying to swing his hand up to me, but his fingers only brush mine then fall back.

  The train speeds up. It’s just a little, but Run’s not able to hold on with his bad arm. When I look at Run again, he’s fallen off the train.

  “Run!” I cry as loud as I can. “Come on, you can do it!”

  But the train’s clear of the warehouses and is speeding over open track, and though Run dashes as fast as he can, he’s falling behind my car.

  “Grab anything,” I yell. “Get on any car you can—”

  But the train’s really roaring now, so fast that when it hits me that I oughta jump off, I’m afraid to. There’s no way I could land easily, and where we are now, it’s just gravel graded around the ties. I lean out of the car and look back. Run’s grasping at the ladder leading up the next to last car, but again it’s his left hand, and he can’t get a grip on it.

  The huge whistle blows, right on top of me it seems, the loudest thing I think I’ve ever heard. And the train simply roars ahead.

  My breathing’s coming fast, my forehead’s sweaty, and it takes me a long time for it all to hit me. I’m on the train; Run, my love, isn’t. There’s no way I can get off. I’m heading . . . right, east . . . into God knows what. . . .

  - - - - -

  Look at Flower, she’s exhausted and scared. And lonely—cold and lonely to my bones. Where am I? The train’s rattling and crackling down the track. The sun’s setting behind me, so I’m still heading east. Am I still in Montana, or whatever state comes next—Wyoming? One of the Dakotas? The train just bumps along. I’m afraid to simply jump off—where will I be?

  But where will I end up?

  It’ll be dark soon. It’s hitting me hard that I’m just a lone girl, on this mystery train, and anything can happen. I remember how Run told me—oh, poor Run! I miss you, sweetie—that riding the rails was really much safer than anyone ever thought; that there was a camaraderie among all the guys doing it. Yeah, all the guys doing it. How much, or what kind of, camaraderie’s gonna come when all those guys discover this pretty little hippie chick in this box car? I shudder.

  And . . . it’s getting colder outside, too. Are we heading north? But the sun’s still half a big orange ball behind me, its rays flitting in and out through the slats of the railroad cars. It’s a beautiful scene, green pines and firs shooting sky high, rocky granite outcroppings catching slivers of the golden sunlight, the mountains towering over me—somewhere from school I remember that Montana means mountains in some language, so maybe I’m still in that state, not that it matters. I’m pulling my arms tight around me. Yeah, it’s getting colder, and scarier; and as much as I’m missing Run, I’m starting to really freak about being out here all alone.

  Then I get this idea. It’s really . . . no, it’s too crazy. I’m pulling out my jacket, but then I’m fingering Run’s bomber coat. Remembering how he used to drape it over my shoulders when I got chilled at Big Mike’s. Remembering how he used to say how cute I looked wearing it. Remembering his arms looped around me. . . .

  Run was a little bigger than me, but not by much. And when we packed to leave the lumber camp, we took all our clothes, of course; and thus all of Run’s clothes are right here in the duffel. (Oh, Run, what’re you gonna wear?) I pull out a pair of his Levi’s and a shirt, hold them in front of me.

  The clothes go on quick, they fit—well, they really don’t, but I find if I roll up the cuffs and the shirtsleeves, at least it’s not too ridiculous—and are surprisingly comfortable. But what am I going to do about my hair . . . oh, wait, didn’t Run have a second cap he threw in the bag? I root around again, through my underwear and filmy skirts, Run’s T-shirts and boxers, and I feel the stiff cardboard brim of his cap. Yeah, here it is. It’s a sewn-denim newsboy cap, and when I put it on my head, it’s big, but not too big, and it’s easy to get all of my usually free-flying blonde hair up under it.

  God, I wish I had a mirror, when I remember that Run kept a pocket mirror of polished tin, only about three inches by five, in his emergency pack. (Right next to it is a small knife; I pull it out and put it in my jeans pocket.) I get the mirror, too, and after a few tries get it stuck up behind a loose board in the boxcar, then I back up and . . . strike a pose. You know, my face is girlish, but you couldn’t say I wasn’t just a young guy, maybe not yet shaving, out looking for adventures. I bite my lower lip, gaze long and hard at the shaky image. Can I pull this off? Is it really that crazy?

  The thing is, I immediately feel safer as a guy. So look at Flower, she’s falling asleep in Run’s jeans and shirt, still missing him terribly but also thinking heavy about what comes next—not having a clue, but feeling much stronger dressed this way. A name . . . I need a name. Dirk? No, that’s silly. Craig? Not very interesting. Chuck? Boy, Cynda, is that the best you can do? Then I think: simple, simple, simple. I’ll be John—John Evans—Johnny Evans. Hey, that’s cool. I smile to myself—my first smile since the lumberjack camp—then yawn. It’s been a long, long day. But look at Johnny Evans, he’s riding the rails, he’s taking it as it comes, he’s a tall-in-the-saddle kind of chap . . . yes, a chap. Look at Johnny, I’m a chap.

  - - - - -

  The first sun wakes me up. We had a couple sandwiches and a quart bottle of water in the duffel, but I consumed those yesterday, and now I’m starving. I also got into the thick heavy java they had at Big Mike’s and could use a strong cup. I look out the door. We’re out of the high mountains but moving through a thick forest; I see nothing but trees—an endless corridor of green and brown. Oh, Jeez! Nowhere to get off, no place to stop, and I still don’t even know where I am.

  I’m sitting there in my man get-up just getting hungrier and hungrier when I catch a whiff of coffee. No, that can’t
be; I must be hallucinating. But . . . there it is again, a strong sharp smell that can only be the roasted bean.

  I take off Run’s cap, my hair tumbling out, thinking that somehow the smell’s attached itself to the cloth, but that doesn’t make any difference. The scent’s getting more intense, like I’d just walked into a diner and they’re brewing a fresh pot.

  I put the cap back on and lean my head out the door to the car. Nothing. Then I move toward the scent, the far front wall of the car, and it gets stronger. The car in front of me’s also a boxcar, and I lean out the door of mine again to see if I can see anything. We go straight for a while, then a curve comes up, but even as the car’s door shifts into my sight, I still can’t see anything unusual in it.

  But I’m not hallucinating the coffee smell. I head back to the front wall and shout out, “Is anybody there?”

  No response, but I didn’t make it that loud, trying to sound like a guy. I take a deep breath, pitch my voice a little higher, where it’ll be stronger, then shout out again, “I’m over here. Are you cooking some coffee?”

  A minute later I hear what I think is a low, “Yeah.”

  “Who are you?” I cry at the top of my lungs, my man voice be damned.

  “Andy,” I hear back. “You hungry?”

  Ohmygod! “Yeah, I’m starving.”

  “Can you get over here?”

  I don’t say anything for a moment, then call out, “I think so. Hang tight.”

  To the left of the door is a series of metal bars leading like a ladder to the roof, and I can see there’s the same thing on the next car up. I decide to leave the duffel here, then lean out the door. From the other car I see this young guy with longish but nicely barbered black hair and a plaid shirt leaning out, too. He’s smiling and giving me a wave. I wave back, then grab one of the rungs, swing myself out—for a scary, thrilling second my feet float free—then settle on the ladder and climb up. It’s a bit of a leap to get onto the top of the car, but I do O.K. Fortunately, the train’s not going fast. The big thing is jumping from my car to the next, but it’s only about five feet, and with a run I’m able to leap across it without even losing a step. Then down the ladder, and with help from the guy, I’m into his car.