A clatter ran down the line of cars. Brett kissed Aunt Haicey’s dry cheek, shook Mr. Phillips’s hand, and swung aboard. His suitcase was on one of the seats. He put it up above in the rack and sat down, then turned to wave back at the two old people.
It was a summer morning. Brett leaned back and watched the country slide by. It was nice country, Brett thought, mostly in corn, some cattle, and away in the distance the hazy blue hills. Now he would see what was on the other side of them: the cities, the mountains, and the ocean: strange things. Up until now all he knew about anything outside of Casperton was what he’d read or seen pictures of. As far as he was concerned, chopping wood and milking cows back in Casperton, they might as well not have existed. They were just words and pictures printed on paper. But he didn’t want to just read about them. He wanted to see for himself.
Pretty-Lee hadn’t come to see him off. She was probably still mad about yesterday. She had been sitting at the counter at the Club Rexall, drinking a soda and reading a movie magazine with a big picture of an impossibly pretty face on the cover—the kind you never see just walking down the street. He had taken the next stool and ordered a Coke.
“Why don’t you read something good, instead of that pap?” he asked her.
“Something good? You mean something dry, I guess. And don’t call it . . . that word. It doesn’t sound polite.”
“What does it say? That somebody named Doll Starr is fed up with glamor and longs for a simple home in the country and lots of kids? Then why doesn’t she move to Casperton?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” said Pretty-Lee.
He took the magazine, leafed through it. “Look at this: all about people who give parties that cost thousands of dollars, and fly all over the world having affairs with each other and committing suicide and getting divorced. It’s like reading about Martians.”
“I just like to read about the stars. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Reading all that junk just makes you dissatisfied. You want to do your hair up crazy like the pictures in the magazines and wear weird-looking clothes—”
Pretty-Lee bent her straw double. She stood up and took her shopping bag. “I’m glad to know you think my clothes are weird—”
“You’re taking everything I say personally,” Brett objected. “Look.” He showed her a full-color advertisement on the back cover of the magazine. “Look at this. Here’s a man supposed to be cooking steaks on some kind of back-yard grill. He looks like a movie star; he’s dressed up like he was going to get married; there’s not a wrinkle anywhere. There’s not a spot on that apron. There isn’t even a grease spot on the frying pan. The lawn is as smooth as a billiard table. There’s his son; he looks just like his pop, except that he’s not grey at the temples. Did you ever really see a man that handsome, or hair that was just silver over the ears and the rest glossy black? The daughter looks like a movie starlet, and her mom is exactly the same, except that she has that grey streak in front to match her husband. You can see the car in the drive; the treads of the tires must have just been scrubbed; they’re not even dusty. There’s not a pebble out of place. All the flowers are in full bloom; no dead ones. No leaves on the lawn; no dry twigs showing on the tree. That other house in the background looks like a palace, and the man with the rake, looking over the fence: he looks like this one’s twin brother, and he’s out raking leaves in brand-new clothes—”
Pretty-Lee grabbed her magazine. “You just seem to hate everything that’s nicer than this messy town—”
“I don’t think it’s nicer. I like you; your hair isn’t always perfectly smooth, and you’ve got a mended place on your dress, and you feel human, you smell human—”
“Oh!” Pretty-Lee turned and flounced out of the drug store.
* * *
Brett shifted in the dusty plush seat and looked around. There were a few other people in the car. An old man was reading a newspaper; two old ladies whispered together. There was a woman of about thirty with a mean-looking kid; and some others. They didn’t look like magazine pictures, any of them. He tried to picture them doing the things you read in newspapers: the old ladies putting poison in somebody’s tea; the old man giving orders to start a war. He thought about babies in houses in cities, and airplanes flying over, and bombs falling down: huge explosive bombs. Blam! Buildings fall in, pieces of glass and stone fly through the air. The babies are blown up along with everything else—
But the kind of people he knew couldn’t do anything like that. They liked to loaf and eat and talk and drink beer and buy a new tractor or refrigerator and go fishing. And if they ever got mad and hit somebody—afterwards they were embarrassed and wanted to shake hands. . . .
The train slowed, came to a shuddery stop. Through the window he saw a cardboardy-looking building with the words baxter’s junction painted across it. There were a few faded posters on a bulletin board. An old man was sitting on a bench, waiting. The two old ladies got off and a boy in blue jeans got on. The train started up. Brett folded his jacket and tucked it under his head and tried to doze off. . . .
* * *
Brett awoke, yawned, sat up. The train was slowing. He remembered you couldn’t use the toilets while the train was stopped. He got up and went to the end of the car. The door was jammed. He got it open and went inside and closed the door behind him. The train was going slower, clack clack . . . clack-clack . . . clack; clack . . . cuh-lack . . .
He washed his hands, then pulled on the door. It was stuck. He pulled harder. The handle was too small; it was hard to get hold of. The train came to a halt. Brett braced himself and strained against the door. It didn’t budge.
He looked out the grimy window. The sun was getting lower. It was about three-thirty, he guessed. He couldn’t see anything but some dry-looking fields.
Outside in the corridor there were footsteps. He started to call, but then didn’t. It would be too embarrassing, pounding on the door and yelling, “Let me out! I’m stuck in the toilet. . . .”
He tried to rattle the door. It didn’t rattle. Somebody was dragging something heavy past the door. Mail bags, maybe. He’d better yell. But dammit, the door couldn’t be all that hard to open. He studied the latch. All he had to do was turn it. He got a good grip and twisted. Nothing.
He heard the mail bag bump-bump, and then another one. To heck with it; he’d yell. He’d wait until he heard the footsteps outside the door again and then he’d make some noise.
Brett waited. It was quiet now. He rapped on the door anyway. No answer. Maybe there was nobody left in the car. In a minute the train would start up and he’d be stuck here until the next stop. He banged on the door. “Hey! The door is stuck!”
It sounded foolish. He listened. It was very quiet. He pounded again. Still just silence. The car creaked once. He put his ear to the door. He couldn’t hear anything. He turned back to the window. There was no one in sight. He put his cheek flat against it, looked along the car. All he saw was the dry fields.
He turned around and gave the door a good kick. If he damaged it, that was too bad; the railroad shouldn’t have defective locks on the doors. If they tried to make him pay for it, he’d tell them they were lucky he didn’t sue the railroad. . . .
He braced himself against the opposite wall, drew his foot back, and kicked hard at the lock. Something broke. He pulled the door open.
He was looking out the open door and through the window beyond. There was no platform, just the same dry fields he could see on the other side. He came out and went along to his seat. The car was empty now.
He looked out the window. Why had the train stopped here? Maybe there was some kind of trouble with the engine. It had been sitting here for ten minutes or so now. Brett got up and went along to the door, stepped down onto the iron step. Leaning out, he could see the train stretching along ahead, one car, two cars—