Skateboard Heart
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
The next morning, as the train moved down a grade at what felt like breakneck speed to her, she was glad there was little conversation. Even though this trip would be shorter by several hours than last time’s train ride from Boston, it was still nerve-wracking for her not having any control over what happened outside the window or inside herself.
If she had known they were going so fast, she could have prepared for that part of it, but now she was afraid to even think about slowing down because she knew once again she’d have only one chance if she did try.
She sat with her legs crossed, trying to concentrate on keeping the train under control. As usual, she found herself wondering how many other people out there in the world had ever been able to do such a thing successfully without falling off and killing themselves?
How much effort went into mastering the act? She couldn’t imagine anyone who wasn’t either born with natural talent or put countless hours behind it until their body became an extension of their mind and soul.
She wondered whether any of these young men traveling with her had practiced this act for years before they got here and were just waiting patiently for someone else to show them the trick—a woman who had never done anything like it before.
Would any of them volunteer to take charge? What would happen if one of the cowboys stepped up, tried his hand first, failed miserably, and then left the women to fend for themselves? That wouldn’t be right; it would make her feel worse than useless already did. She’d be embarrassed enough without the added humiliation of failure.
She glanced back at the three other young men, hoping against hope that one of them would step forward to take on the task of leading her through this challenge. None of them did. They didn’t look interested. The youngest two sat with their heads together talking among themselves, while the oldest kept glancing toward her occasionally and looking uncomfortable.
As the train pulled into the station, she felt as if everyone in the car was staring at her. Her heart began pounding faster and she gripped the rail hard to steady her nerves. Once again, there was no choice but to face it head-on.
No use thinking about all the ways she might fail when the only option was to get it over with before they boarded another train. So what if she looked ridiculous? It would only add to her legend. At least it would make her seem more real. And in a situation where a fake was expected to appear real, surely that should count for something.
It seemed that as soon as the conductor announced the next stop, they were getting off. She followed the others down the steps, across the platform, and out into the fresh air. One of the boys stopped to ask directions to some of the nearby stores and she heard the older man reply that the town itself was small, so he probably wouldn’t need it.
This time the train continued on without them. She watched it go, wishing she were aboard, knowing that even if the next trip was longer by several hours, she’d rather die than have to sit in a hot box for hours on end.
She wanted a cool breeze blowing across her skin, and maybe some ice cream from one of the little shops, or a hamburger from a diner. Anything to take the edge off this unbearable heat and humidity.
She turned around, expecting to see the other young men approaching, but they hadn’t come down yet. Instead, she saw a group of cowboys sitting in front of her, watching. One of them gave her a slight nod of acknowledgment but made no move to follow her out.
“Why don’t you boys give me a hand?” She spoke loudly enough so that each of them could hear her. “Or do I have to wait for one of you to volunteer before we can move on?”
There was laughter among the men, and it sounded genuine and encouraging. The cowboy closest to her smiled. “We’re ready.” He stood up, and then reached back and pulled on the rope attached to his horse’s bridle. Instantly, the animal started trotting along the road ahead of them, taking the lead.
One after the other, the other men took their turns controlling her and the horse. Each managed the job with surprising ease, although she noticed most of them had difficulty holding on to her waist when she was standing.
They’d almost fallen off a number of times. When the last of the riders finished, she said, “I’m not sure how long this will work,” and asked for the reins, which she handed to him. “You take care of her now, will you, please?”
He nodded and rode on. For a moment, no one moved; then one of the younger men got onto her horse, holding his hat over his eyes to hide his expression from those in the cars. His horse followed the others without hesitation. She waited for someone else to try, but no one did.
They finally started moving at a good pace, heading northwest, leaving the town behind. She wondered if they planned to ride all night and arrive in the morning, or whether they were going to stop somewhere before reaching their destination.
But they never stopped riding, and the next thing she knew, they were crossing a small bridge over the river and coming into the small settlement at its far side. A cluster of buildings, mostly wooden shacks surrounded a small church, and there were a few other structures scattered about: a schoolhouse and an old-fashioned country store with a porch lined with rocking chairs.
She dismounted, grateful for the chance to stretch her legs. The young man who handled her horse helped her down first, but before she could thank him, he was gone. The other boys gathered around her like a pack of wolves waiting to pounce.
As soon as she set foot on the ground, a tall boy rushed forward and grabbed her arm. In the same instant, he wrapped it around his shoulder, and she couldn’t resist the temptation to yank her arm free. It was as if he were trying to force her hand to stay on his shoulder for dear life, and she let it go without saying anything. There was nothing he could do if she didn’t want to be held.
Another of the boys pushed past the crowd and lifted her off the ground. For a moment, she thought she might fall. She’d been so focused on keeping her footing when they rode that she hadn’t given much thought to walking.
The young man who’d ridden beside her took hold of her other arm while two more came toward her, pushing through the rest of the boys. She tried to say something, but they were all talking at once. She wasn’t sure if any of them understood what she said because their words were so thick and fast that she couldn’t make sense of what they were saying.
All she could do was watch in bewilderment, wondering why they were treating her this way. Why were they acting this way? Wasn’t she supposed to be one of them? Did they think she was going to hurt them? If they did, they had no idea how wrong they were.
Then one of the older boys caught one of the younger boys by the hair, yanking him backward and out of the path of her intended swing. With the boy out of the way, she was able to hit him square across his nose, knocking off his cap. Blood streamed from his nostrils. He stared at her in disbelief, as if not believing what just happened.
When the other boys backed away, allowing her time to regain her balance, she stepped closer to the young man who’d helped her down and said, “Thank you again.” Then she turned away and walked slowly toward the church with its stained-glass windows and steeple and a bell tower above, thinking of how pretty the church looked from inside when the sun shone through the windows.
The boys followed her, calling out names and asking questions about things that made no sense to her. The church bells rang out, and some of the boys shouted back to her, “Goodbye!” Others yelled, “See you tomorrow!”
It took her a moment to realize why the others sounded different when she spoke than when she listened. Their voices were hoarse from shouting and yelling. And the boys in the crowd weren’t making noise at all. No wonder they acted this way—they were exhausted!
“What is it?” she called to the man who held her arms. “Why are these people so loud?” She didn’t recognize a single sound she heard among the shouts.
He glanced at the rest of the boys and shrugged his shoulders in exasperation, but before he could answer, he was interrupted by the ringing of the church’s bells. They stopped shouting and turned their attention to the bells.
With one final glance at her, they ran to a nearby field and disappeared behind a row of trees. When they didn’t reappear after a few minutes, she assumed they’d gone back to their homes. One by one, the church bells stopped ringing and the boys went home, taking with them a cloud of dust. Only then did she notice the faint smell of burning wood in the air.
She turned back toward the church, but before she could reach the front door, she saw a group of men approaching. It was hard to see much more than heads bobbing through the thick clouds of dust left over from the boys’ departure, but she recognized some of the faces in the crowd. They were men who were members of her father’s congregation.
One of the older boys waved to her, but the moment she started moving toward him, she was blocked by another man and quickly lost sight of everyone. She was surrounded by strangers, yet she felt like she knew every face.
Maybe it was because most of the faces were familiar to her or maybe it was because she’d grown up watching her father interact with this very group of men. But whatever the reason, she found it easy to talk to them.
She told them all that she had no intention of joining the church, and she hoped they understood that she didn’t come here for any religious reasons. All she wanted to do was find her son and get him to safety. Then she would return to Boston and forget the whole experience.
Some of the men asked her where her husband was. A couple of them offered to help locate her husband, saying they might have seen him in town. When she said they had nothing to do with her husband, none of them seemed interested in talking further. One of the men even laughed at her.
She turned toward him and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. You can go ahead and laugh if you want.”
He didn’t bother answering her but instead laughed harder. After a while, he turned around and started walking away with his friends. His laughter echoed off the walls of the church as they passed between its stone columns.
Her mother’s words came back to her: “You need to learn that laughing at someone is never nice.”
But there was something funny about her being here on this dusty day, trying to find her son in a town of strangers when she was completely clueless about how to do so.
The only thing she really needed to know was why these people looked so strange when she talked and laughed. She was convinced that she must be making fun of them somehow. That would explain why the boys hadn’t answered her questions; they must have been afraid to talk to her.
Why else would they hide behind the tree? If she couldn’t figure out what was going on, she’d never find her son. So she kept quiet and tried to observe them as they went about their days.
***
By noon, she realized that she should’ve stayed in her room until her husband returned from his trip. But she couldn’t stay locked up in her room forever. She had to do something, and if nothing else, she could try to meet her husband when he got home.
As she walked down the streets, she watched all the people going about their lives, many of whom wore their Sunday best, as they attended services at the various churches. They sat quietly in pews and prayed, but none of them looked like they were having any particular troubles, not even the children who attended mass at St. Luke’s.
They didn’t look like they’d ever lost anything or were worried about where their next meal might come from.
And although their dresses and suits were different colors, styles, and cuts, they appeared to be similar in that they all seemed well-fed. The women didn’t appear to be struggling at all to lose weight. Nor did the men seem to be bothered by their lack of clothes. They all dressed as though they could afford whatever style they preferred without worrying about how others saw them.
They seemed happy. And she wondered how such happiness could be achieved when they had so little to live for. Her mother was right: the men were too obsessed with their possessions, and the women were too consumed by shopping trips.
It wasn’t long before she began wondering if any of the men in town were capable of stealing a child. Perhaps her fears about one of the boys were true after all. Or maybe they were just playing pranks on the girls who came into town. She had to admit it would be funny if they actually kidnapped someone.
A sudden gust of wind sent ripples across the dirt street, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air. The clouds grew thicker and darker, and the sky soon turned dark gray.
As the storm approached, a few men gathered up their hats and jackets and headed toward the nearest building—a store where men could buy goods to outfit their families or themselves, or even trade some of their personal belongings for other things. A few minutes later, the men were back outside with bags full of items purchased inside.
As she walked toward the store, she noticed several men standing around watching a young girl walk through the crowd. It took her a minute to realize that the girl was carrying an armful of clothing. The men seemed to be enjoying seeing the girl carry the bag in both hands.
“Why don’t you take off your coat?” one of the men said to her. He pointed to the ground next to him, saying, “Lay it here. We’ll watch out for it.”
When she hesitated, he added, “We promise we won’t steal it. Just leave it here for a couple of hours, then you can pick it up again.”
She didn’t understand how the man knew her name, but she nodded anyway. “Yes, okay,” she said.
After placing her coat in the middle of the street, she continued to the front door of the store. When she entered, she found herself facing rows upon rows of shelves lined with everything from shoes to boots to hats, all made of fine leather and stitched with bright thread.
There were also shelves that held guns and ammunition. In the back was another room filled with bolts of cloth and a table covered with bolts of material laid flat on top of a wooden platform. A woman stood beside the table and smiled as she watched customers browse the items offered.
A man in a white shirt and black vest greeted her, asking, “May I help you find something?”
“I need a dress,” she replied.
He led her to a rack of garments, and as he started picking up a few outfits for her to inspect, his wife asked, “Are those new? I didn’t think there were any stores here in town.”
“There aren’t, but our seamstress has brought in some merchandise from her own store. I’m not sure what else is available, but she’s offering some bargains today.”
Her husband handed over two dresses to the woman, telling her he wanted them hemmed. With his wife’s help, she chose three more dresses, which she paid for with cash, and then left the store.
While she waited for them to finish with the dresses, she walked around the store, looking at the different kinds of fabric that were neatly folded on racks. Many of the bolts were faded from years of use, but others showed no signs of wear or fading.
Some were stained or frayed along the edges. She wondered whether the women who owned these dresses had worn them often enough to show them any sign of wear.
Most of the customers seemed content to buy one item and be done with their shopping trip, while some of the men carried armloads of goods into the store. Others simply bought small items and left. She tried not to stare at the children who were walking among the patrons.
The boys looked like they belonged in school, but the girls didn’t look as if they needed to be in a classroom yet. Their dresses were all different styles, but none of them were suitable for school. The older girls wore plainer dresses that were simple and neat, but nothing compared to the styles worn by the younger ones.
One girl was wearing a short-sleeved dress that barely reached midcalf. She was holding a large bag full of ribbons, bows, and flowers, and she kept reaching down to tie one of the ribbons behind her head. Another girl wore a white gown with a blue bow on the bodice. And another wore a yellow dress with tiny white flowers sewn on the bodice, waistline, and skirt.
A group of children appeared in the doorway to the rear room and ran toward her.
“Do you have toys?” one of them called out.
“No, sorry,” she told them.
One of the little boys came running up to her, saying, “My friend wants a doll.”
“Sorry, we don’t sell dolls,” she replied.
The boy shook his head and said, “But my friend wants one.”
Suddenly she felt overwhelmed by the children’s presence, and she stepped aside to allow them to pass by. They quickly left her alone and wandered back into the store.
It took almost an hour before the dresses were ready, so she sat down at the back counter and read through some of the books stacked there. Most of the novels were western romances, but a few seemed to be mysteries set in the Wild West.
She didn’t recognize the author, but she enjoyed reading the stories because they gave her a feel for what life might have been like in Texas and other frontier states. But when she thought about trying to write her own novel, it suddenly became too much work. It wasn’t just writing; she would have to find an agent willing to represent her.
How could she do that without any connections or contacts in publishing?
She glanced around the store again then headed for the back room where the tailor was working on her skirts. As she walked, she noticed something she hadn’t seen before: a long mirror attached to the wall next to the door. She stopped in front of it and stared at its surface.
Her face looked very pale and thin, even though her hair was still black. For the first time since she left Chicago, she truly understood why people described her as having dark skin.
When the tailor finished cutting off the excess length from the skirts and then pinned them up with safety pins, she took her measurements and went outside. She stood for a moment staring at the tailor’s wagon as he gathered up his tools. He had a wooden bench on wheels and several sewing machines on rollers, and she assumed he must use all of them to make clothes.
“How much did the dresses cost me?” she asked him.
“Twenty dollars each, ma’am,” he replied.
“I only had twenty dollars with me.”
“That’s quite a lot for this part of the country.”
“I’ll give you half now.”
His gaze shifted from her to his wife and back to her. He nodded and handed over a bill. She took it and slipped it into her handbag, wondering how many people in this town made that much money selling dresses.
As soon as they drove away, she started walking toward the train station. She wanted to know more about the people she was meeting. Why would anyone want to leave Chicago and come to this godforsaken place to live? What kind of jobs was available here? How could a man support a family on so little pay?
The train platform was filled with passengers standing and sitting in clusters, talking quietly as they waited for their trains to arrive. Some of the men sat against the back wall smoking cigarettes or pipes. A woman was playing the banjo on one of the benches near them.
It sounded nice, but she would rather listen to music played by musicians who were actually good. The banjo player seemed bored, but she continued to play the same song over and over.
She watched a small group of cowboys enter the building. Their hats and boots were polished; their faces wore broad smiles as they passed by her to board one of the passenger cars. Then she realized that three of them were carrying sacks containing fresh vegetables, meat, and other foodstuffs.
It was obvious by looking at them that they were going west to the ranching areas. They probably owned those ranches and would be gone for months, leaving behind their families to manage everything.
The End