Chapter 3
nimble
They’d come pretty far north, Blue and Star and him, in their attempt to get west before it really got cold.
Star had heard that Bailey Yard, the large railway intersection near Brule, Nebraska, had hired more bulls to roam the yard and keep an eye out. So they needed to take a more northerly line to go around it.
According to Star, passing through the yard in Brule used to be easy, but every now and then, the railroad companies liked to make it difficult for hobos and hoppers and boxcar boys.
He’d pulled out his mental map of the world, consulted his little notebook, and decided they needed to head up the line.
Blue, sitting there in his navy surplus wool coat, looking very much like the young man in the blue coat Nimble remembered from the station back home, had listened to Star with rapt attention.
He’d swept his blond hair back from his face and shaken his head, like there was no other choice but the one Star proposed.
“A bit west and then up,” Star said, using his finger to point to an imaginary map in the air.
“It’ll be cold,” Blue said.
“We’ll beat the snow,” Star said.
As the train rumbled on, they’d been sitting in the well above the trucks, in the deep trough that jutted out over the point where two cars were coupled together.
The sides of the well were high enough to keep the wind out, mostly, though it was dirty and noisy and sometimes the bottom of the well was rusted through, so you could see the sparks from the trucks and the iron rails as the trucks slid over them.
If they couldn’t get inside a boxcar or find a spot in an empty coal car, the well was the next best option.
In the wells they were so close their legs and feet overlapped, but that kept them warm at night and in bad weather.
And having their bodies in contact always made Nimble feel a little bit safer as the train rolled along, jumping and twisting and thumping.
“Nimble?” Blue asked. “What sayest thou?”
Both Blue and Star looked at Nimble, because from the beginning they’d all agreed decisions needed to be unanimous.
He looked at them. At the way the wind tossed Blue’s fair hair around like dandelion fluff, getting it in his eyes, which were a deep, bright blue.
He was tall and pretty in a city kind of way, with angular features and perfect teeth.
A long nose and a sweetly curved mouth. Skin without flaws, what could be seen of it beneath the grime and dust from their travels.
Blue could have been a model, but his expression was always cold, like he’d had just about enough of Nimble’s shit before he’d even opened his mouth.
Nimble didn’t know for sure, but he had a feeling that Blue’s family had money, and lots of it.
Maybe it was the way he carried himself, with the assurance of someone who knew he could have a warm bed each night if he wanted it.
Or maybe it was that perfect skin, miles and miles of it, that Nimble had plenty of time to think about when he kept watch over the other two as the train raced on in the dark.
He looked at Star, who was younger than Blue and Nimble, and who said he’d been riding the rails since he was sixteen with enough conviction that Nimble just about believed him.
His dark-penny-colored hair hung over his eyes like a curtain, a curtain he hid behind. He had a plump, raspberry-colored mouth that always looked on the verge of a smile, though that smile was seldom seen, not even in his green-flecked hazel eyes.
He was a little rough around the edges, but he was smart, always reading out of any book he could get his hands on or writing in that little black notebook of his, pausing to lick the end of the pencil before scribbling like mad.
Nimble had no idea about Star’s background, couldn’t even begin to guess, but maybe Star had come from a regular family, like he had. Had left hearth and home behind in search of adventure.
“Nimble?” Blue asked again.
Nimble had met Blue and Star only a little while after he’d started hopping trains. Those early days hadn’t been easy, scrabbling for food and staying out of the way of the other hobos, the ratty ones, the dangerous ones. The scary ones.
Then, one day, the train he’d been on had pulled into the Chicago yard, a snake-fest of metal and cement and noise, and he’d spotted the two young men who looked to be his own age slinking down a metal ladder off the side of a boxcar. They’d seen him and waved him over.
“We’re going to Wisconsin,” the tall, blond one had said.
“You can come with us,” the shorter one said.
They looked well-traveled and knowledgeable, and were a welcome sight in the busy yard with the jagged, cloud-flecked Chicago skyline looming overhead.
He thought he’d been getting tons of experience, figuring everything out, but they knew even more. Especially Star, who looked like he should be wearing glasses and teaching history.
It was Star who explained, pretty much before Nimble could say anything, that he needed an adventure name. A hobo name. Nimble had to think quickly, and after they introduced themselves as Blue and Star, he came up with Nimble, like the nursery rhyme.
When he’d first heard the rhyme, as a small child, he’d thought it was written about him, jumping over candlesticks. It was not, but now it could be useful. Nimble was his train name, his disguise to the world, a code to other hobos that he was one of them.
Now they wanted him to agree to head north before heading west, to avoid trouble at Bailey Yard. “Yeah, sure,” Nimble said.
It hadn’t been a mistake joining his friends.
It hadn’t even been a mistake to say yes to the Star’s suggestion that they detour north.
It hadn’t been anyone’s fault when the train went down a spur line, headed west, to avoid a train wreck up the line.
But it had been a mistake to trust that his two traveling companions would have his back if anything went sideways.
Star could not have known the train would start up so quickly while Nimble was getting supplies. Nor could Blue.
It would have been too much to expect that they’d have climbed down off the train to join him until the next train came past, but either of them could have thrown him his stuff. They hadn’t.
That was the world. The shitty world. And now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, with the snow coming down hard and steady from a sky that looked like mean, gray cotton candy, the clouds tumbling over themselves as if pushing to get on top of each other.
The perhaps more immediate problem was the sheriff’s cruiser that he’d seen going up and down the streets as he’d searched for food and water for their journey.
When he’d been behind the coffee shop, digging through the trash for day-old food, he’d seen the patrol SUV roll past the mouth of the alley. As he’d moved quickly through the grocery store, filching bottled waters, he’d seen it going by.
If he went wandering around looking for shelter now, he’d stick out like a pole in the middle of an empty field. He needed someplace to hide, to stay warm until the storm blew over. A place to lick his wounds after his so-called friends’ betrayal.
He had nothing on him but his wallet. If he got picked up, they’d check his ID, throw him in jail, and then send him home, into the teeth of his dad’s rage.
That wasn’t going to happen. Not if he could help it.
Nimble stepped back from the tracks, long dark lines beneath the white snow that had already started to gather, and looked east and then west.
To the east was nothing but open emptiness buried beneath stretches of white, trimmed with the dark, white-and-gray sky.
To the west was the town, a clump of buildings and streets and bare trees, almost empty of people and activity, from what he could see.
Which was probably due to the coming storm, but what did he know.
He walked to the railroad crossing and turned toward the town.
The short street was flecked with snow, shiny where it had melted beneath the passage of tires.
As he rounded the corner, he could see the bank and the grocery store to his left and, to his right, a long building that sat along the railroad tracks, as if they had a relationship of some kind.
Some old guys came out of the building, piled into three separate trucks, and took off like they had someplace to be.
Nimble blinked the snow out of his eyes, cupped his hands together for warmth, and headed that way, hurrying as he spotted the sheriff’s SUV making a left turn, which would bring it back toward him.
He skirted the parking lot and neared the building, where a painted sign, faded and snow-dappled, announced the place as being Malone Feed & Grain, whatever that meant. A yard in the back looked to be full of crap he could duck behind to hide.
He was cold to the bone by the time he made it to the gate to the yard, just as the sheriff’s SUV turned the corner onto the road that went past the building.
The snow flurried around Nimble as he slipped through the gate. It would be warmer inside the building, so he tested the door. The handle jiggled and then fell off, and he pushed the door open. He darted through, shut it behind him, and took a deep breath, blowing on his hands to warm them.
Standing still made him miss the movement of the train, the constant motion like a promise that he was headed someplace warm, someplace better. Only now he was inside a store, safe for the moment.
The sign over the pair of glass doors in the front now made sense, as he took in the bags of grain and seed, blocks of salt, leather saddles and tack, mousetraps, empty metal trash bins, and on it went.
There was a smell of earth and dust, and beyond, through the windows, he could see three tall silos.
The fenced yard he’d come through held stacks of wooden pallets being buried in the snow.
An old green-and-yellow tractor, and an even older pickup truck.
The train tracks beyond. And snow coming down as though rough-handed angels were shaking it from a blanket.
He didn’t see anyone around as he looked for a place to hole up. Maybe the store was closed because of the storm. The three old guys had left in a hurry, that was for sure.
Maybe the store was even abandoned. Just like the small town, where he’d barely seen anyone on the streets, it looked dead. Dead was fine with him, because it meant nobody would catch him poking around.
He spotted the cash register and wondered if there was any money in it. Wondered where the door behind it led. And where the smell of burning wood was coming from.
A number of grocery bags sat on the long counter, but Nimble ignored them. Just as he got behind the counter and placed his hands on the cash register to test if it, too, would jiggle and fall open, the wooden door behind it opened, and a man came through.
He was using a shiny purple cane, which was the first thing Nimble noticed, and walked with a limp, favoring his left leg.
When Nimble looked up from the cane and the leg, he took in the man’s face: unshaven, with an expression that seemed etched and raw, like he’d not smiled in forever.
His eyes were very blue and intense, with bruises underneath them, and his brown hair was messy and a bit ragged for so handsome a guy. He was wearing gray sweatpants and slip-on sneakers, as well as a stained white T-shirt and a dark blue robe that flopped, untied, around his legs.
“What are you doing?” the man asked, his voice coming out dark and low. “The feed and grain is closed.”
“I’m looking for—” Nimble started and then stopped, his mind flicking through items that might be purchased in this type of store. “Seed.”
“Seed?” the man asked, his dark brows furrowing. “It doesn’t matter. We’re closed for the storm. Haven’t you heard? There’s a blizzard that’s going to shutter the whole town for days.” The man paused, shuffling forward a step, chuffing out a breath as if the motion cost him. “You need to leave.”
Through the front bank of windows, Nimble saw the sheriff’s SUV pulling up. When it stopped, two people got out: by their uniforms, the sheriff and his deputy. They were bundled against the cold and walked purposefully up to the main door of the feed and grain.
With a sharp glance at the man, Nimble ducked behind the counter, leaving the cash register untouched as he crouched there with his hands on his thighs, trying to ignore a sudden desperate need to pee, reeling at his own stupidity that he’d actually thought this would work.
The sheriff and the deputy were coming into the store, and the man was going to point Nimble out to them. Then Nimble was going to end up in jail, arrested on charges of vagrancy, trespassing, train hopping, and who knew what all else—and, by that time, he’d smell of piss.
Nimble tried to calm his shaky breaths and just about couldn’t. Then, as he listened to the conversation, he wanted to laugh, but that would be the worst thing he could do, giving away his hiding place. His hiding place that the man—Morgan—could see, but somehow, for some reason, failed to mention.
The conversation wasn’t funny, really, but Morgan’s reaction as the cops insisted on offering help and advice was, with Morgan getting more and more worked up, cane thumping, refusing everything they offered.
Yes, he knew about the blizzard. No, he didn’t want help carrying those bags of groceries. Yes, he was fine. No, he wasn’t worried about the weather.
Nimble could hear Morgan’s frustration rising higher and higher. He had a warm voice, but there was strain in it, as well. It was pretty clear that Morgan didn’t want these two in his store. Like he didn’t want Nimble in his store.
But at least he was giving Nimble a chance. Letting him hide, and then, hopefully, later Nimble could sneak out, though where he would go from here he had no idea.
If there was a blizzard bearing down on the town—and he had no reason to imagine Morgan and the cops were lying—then Nimble needed shelter, or he’d be dead.