He lay back in the grass with the letter pressed to his face and for a few minutes inhaled its smell into his body. Part of her was on the inside of him now, filtering through the pipes and tracks, easing in among the muscle and bone, settling into little culverts and housings, finding shelter, seeping into his being. We leave these little trademarks and gizmos and reliquaries behind us. Little stacks of dust in a corner. That others snuff up and take away. Now I am one of them.
He turned over on his stomach and, propped on his elbows, read the letter again. She had sneaked away, that was a fact. But maybe because she felt too much to speak to him. Yes, she felt something strong. But maybe not. Maybe she was used to boys approaching her, used to giving them rides in her car. We didn’t even go to a beautiful spot, or beautiful enough. And what was an africano girl doing owning her own car? This was Bee-luther-hatchee, not Chicago. Not even Shelby, where they had a college. It was Ginny Gall. Bad things happening over on this side of the universe.
He jumped up, fierce in feeling now, ready to go save her. It was not a boy’s notion, or only a boy’s. The grass surged heavily under a freshening breeze. He shuddered — like a mule, he thought, old Stubbornness, twitching off flies — and a hooting, wailing thing slid off from him, peeling away into depths inside. It trailed a whole lifetime of griefs behind it like knots pulled tight in greased rope, headed toward a howling. He staggered and had to catch himself to keep from falling. What is this? His body, the inside of it, seemed to have slid down, dropped, concentrated itself in a heap, a muddle. He didn’t want any of this now. Not now, not any time. But here it was. Something sharp as a hawk cried
Ah, jeez — he felt like lying down and not getting up. He wanted to run after her without stopping until he found her. Just to get a look at her. What was it — five days since he met her? Before Tuesday he hadn’t in his whole life had one single thought about her, didn’t expect her, wasn’t looking, and now he’d do anything just to touch her hand again. A breeze charged the thin hair on his arm. He closed his eyes. He was an inch away from her. Then she was gone like a bird flown. He ran his fingers along his arm but they were only his fingers. His eyes stung.
The train, pulled by a scuffed green locomotive, rumbled out of a woody area just east and came smoothly on around the big curve before the straight run to the trestle. He watched as the men got to their feet and stood brushing off their patched pants, resettling bindles and soogans, jostling or joking or just standing alone looking. They were like passengers at the special open-air station — like fleas, he thought bitterly, returning to the dog. Sometimes the bulls got after you, but lately, so he’d heard, there’d been no real trouble of that kind. It was news you couldn’t count on. The train rolled clacking over the trestle and the men began to find their way onto the gondolas and into open boxcars, climbing ladders or pulling themselves through the doors. Many of the gunnels were already taken. In cities you could board a standing train, but there was sometimes more risk. No hobo names on the weigh bills. He wanted to run along and join the boys.
He took a few steps in that direction, folding the letter as he walked and sliding it into his breast pocket. He was about to start running, but he stopped himself. A bitterness that had risen into his throat subsided. The men were scattered across the cars. Some he knew. A baraby wearing a patched crushhat, Parly from Denver, gave a slow looping wave and made a finger sign of good times. Delvin gave a small cocked wave back. He could still make the train, but he didn’t try.
