When The Train Stops
By
Dennis J. Kafalas
The new kid was dead.
Tommy and I were talking about Yaz and the Red Sox when Bonehead said, “Look.”
Bonehead, the meanest seventh grade jerk at Saint Oily-Fishes Grammar School, didn’t like fourth graders. With an overbite and bulging eyes, he looked like a snapping turtle.
The kid leaned against the school door with his creased gray school pants, blue clip-on tie, and freshly ironed white shirt—he might as well have held a sign: New kid! New kid! His hair was course and wiry, and his cheeks were bright red.
“Hey, Brillo Boy,” Bonehead said, but the kid didn’t look. He hugged his book bag, waiting.
When the morning bell sounded, I ran with Bonehead, but Sister Marie-Looks-Like-a Man grabbed my collar and stuck me in line. I was behind the kid, his neck and ears shiny. I figured he’d was in second grade, but his polished black shoes shuffled into my classroom and waited by Sister Marie’s desk.
Tommy said, “Fourth?”
We stared. The kid looked at his hands, whispers buzzing, until Sister came. She had hair on her lip and chin, and made us stand in the corner if we forgot our milk money or talked in class. The kid wasn’t lucky to be in this class.
“Children, a new student for Saint Aloysius.” Grabbing his arm, Sister tugged him forward. He was close to my desk, his warm breath on my neck. “Peter Stankowski. What do we say?”
“Good Morning, Peter.”
“There’s a month of work for him. Anyone want to help?”
Annoying Amanda’s hand reached for the ceiling, “Oh! Oh!”
“Franklin, you’ll help. Peter can sit behind you.”
“But that’s Michael’s seat,” Tommy said.
Sister Marie’s black eyes glared. “Were you asked a question?”
Peter put a little kid’s book, Our Friends on The Train, onto the desk. The cover had a blue and black locomotive with smoke drifting skyward, waiting for passengers.
We recited the Pledge of Allegiance, then our prayer, “Jesus is the Light of the World, a Light which never knows darkness,” to start the day.
I was nervous about helping, but after Sister collected lunch money, the morning went fast. He was good in math, but took a long time writing numbers. He moaned as he moved the pencil in short, twitchy jabs.
“Kid’s smart,” I said to Tommy in the cafeteria. “Just takes long.”
“I was in public school before,” the kid said later.
“What’s with the train book?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Just like it,” he said, his fingers tangled around the spout of small milk carton.
He lived with his grandmother in a first floor tenement on Benevolent Street because his parents wanted him to, “It’s closer to the doctor’s office,” he said. “Plus, they like the school.”
“Like the school?” Tommy said. “That’s weird.”
“You sick?” I said.
“Sometimes.”
“What you got?”
He sniffed the milk. “Something I was born with.”
He took a small bite from a ham sandwich. “Going to eat those?” Tommy asked, pointing to five Oreos. He shook his head, and I felt the eyes of others upon us.
“Hey, Brillo Boy,” Bonehead said. He and his jerky seventh grade friends, Jimmy, Michael and John stared at us. Bonehead was the loud mouth, but John was scary. No one messed with him, not even the Sisters, who’d smack a kid for breathing. I laughed at him once and he grabbed my neck, squishing it like a banana.
At dismissal, the kid waited for me. I smiled, then saw Bonehead. “See you,” I said. The kid turned for home.
Bonehead and the goons ran behind a row of tenement houses. “Here we go,” Tommy said.
The kid, with his shoulders forward and chin pointed down, walked along Ascension Street. Tommy and I took the shortcut. We waited across the street under a porch until he kid came along, kicking at rocks.
Bonehead grabbed him, and they disappeared into the alley behind the fish market. We hustled closer.
John stood on the sidewalk with a cigarette.
Bonehead pushed the kid against the wall, grabbed his bag and dumped it. “Like trains, little baby?” He pressed the book against the kid’s face, then dropped it. “Pick it up,” but the kid didn’t.
Jimmy stomped on it. “Go ahead,” Bonehead said, motioning to the book. “It’s okay.”
The kid reached, his fingers dangling, when Jimmy slammed a knee into the kid’s gut. He fell, thump, to the ground. Bonehead checked the kid’s pockets. “Nothing,” he said. They dumped a barrel full of sticky trash on him. We waited until they ran off, laughing and whooping.
Once they were out of sight, Tommy and I went to him. He was on his side, eyes closed. “Hey, kid,” Tommy said, but he didn’t move.
I grabbed the book. The cover had an oily sneaker print, and a few pages were torn. Between the houses of the alley, I saw the white Catholic cross of Saint Oily-Fishes high above the tenement rooftops, shining in the autumn sunlight.
“Kid,” Tommy said, shaking his shoulder.
He opened his eyes. Pebbles stuck to the skin of his forehead, and his nose bled from a scratch. “Let’s go,” I said, but the kid didn’t move. “Come on. There’s a shortcut.”
His arms and legs then jerked like someone yelled, boo! He shook his head. Dazed, he wiped blood onto his shirtsleeve.
Tommy and I ran ahead. We waited for him by the wooded opening near an abandoned cemetery. When the kid was close, we jumped into the shadows. ”This way,” Tommy said.
He paused and looked down at the dirt path winding into the darkness. A bolt of guck flew from of his mouth, splashing at his feet. He leaned forward, head bobbing, mouth open. Finally, he stopped, and we called to him.
Looking back at Ascension Street, he sighed. The kid stepped ahead like someone sticking a toe into cold water.
“Bonehead sees us, we’re goners,” Tommy said, walking fast. The kid followed behind, breathing hard.
When we reached the end, I pointed to Benevolent Street on the right. Blotches of mud and grease stained his pants and shirt. His face was covered with blood and snot. He wiped the streaky tears from his eyes as he walked home.
End of Part 1 -- Please download PDF Part 2, thank you.
