A Little Catch

Through the small window at the foot of his bed, Mike looked down on the engine, which rested, puffing clouds of steam, along the edge of the platform below him. An engineer in grease-stained overalls leaned far out the cab to take a yellow sheet of paper from the outstretched hand of the station agent, Mike’s father. Within moments the engine shuddered, let out another hissing sigh of steam, and began its slow acceleration along the tracks. Freight and boxcars clicked by beneath the boy at ever-increasing speed. The walls of his bedroom trembled as though shaken by a giant hand. His bed swayed back and forth until finally the familiar red caboose flashed by, and moments later the train’s whistle faded into the distance. Mike rolled over in bed, pulled a baseball glove from under his pillow, and began pounding a ball into its pocket. He lay on his back and stared at the low ceiling that slanted away from just above the window to a height of nearly twelve feet in the middle of his room. The ball made a loud cracking sound each time he smashed it into the worn leather glove. “Michael Smith, you knock off that racket and get down here to breakfast!” His mother’s voice shook the boy from his morning reverie. He stuffed the ball into the glove’s pocket, dressed quickly, and hopped down the stairs, two at a time. “My goodness, child, you shake the house worse than those old trains do,” his mother said. “Now, get out there and wash the sleep out of your eyes; then come back in like a gentleman.” Mike dashed out the kitchen door, jerked twice on the pump handle, splashed a handful of cold water on his face, and returned, still dripping, to the breakfast table. Bacon crackled in the skillet, and its welcoming aroma mixed with the acrid, chocolaty smell of brewing coffee to fill Mike’s nostrils. With a heavy sigh, he pulled back a chair and seated himself at the large oak table. His mother glanced up from the stove briefly to meet the boy’s impatient eyes. “The others’ll be here in a minute,” she said. “Just sip on a glass of tomato juice while you’re waiting.” “Mom, how ’bout throwin’ me a few after breakfast?” The boy pushed back from the table and approached the business end of the kitchen. “Dad’s always too busy, and I need the practice. Will ya, huh? Please, Mom?” “I believe, young man, that you have a few important chores to attend to this morning. And, as slow as you are, they may take all day.” She wiped her hands carefully on the front fold of her apron; then a warm smile spread across her face. “But,” she added, “if you can make yourself hurry a bit — for once — you might find an old friend out in the freight house who’s willing to play catch any time you are.” Mike pushed back from the table and ran to his mother. He grabbed her waist with both hands, lifted her three inches off the ground, set her down, then raised her again. “Joe’s back!” he said. “Joe’s back! Can I go see him right now, Mom? I’ll be back before breakfast is on. Okay?” He bounced from foot to foot, all the while tugging on his mother’s apron. “Land o’goshen, you’ll get me seasick shaking me so! All right, go on then, but be here at this table, sitting calmly, ready to eat, in five minutes.” Mike was halfway out the door. “You hear now? Five minutes!” * * * * * * * * * * * * * The boy ran hard down the station’s brick platform and across the back lawn, then slowed and stopped at the freight house door. I wonder if Joe has changed? Each time he returned, there seemed a few more lines on his leathery old face, a little less spark in his eyes. It seemed Joe was aging too fast, that time was sweeping over him at an unfair pace. Mike was thirteen years old that summer of 1934, and he felt qualified to make such adult judgments. Joe Kuyper was of that category of men known in those years as “railroad bums,” but to Mike he seemed one of the lucky ones, often smiling, joking with the trainmen, and winking, always winking. Mike closed his eyes and tried to visualize the old man. On the short side and thin, Joe held his body in a way that made him seem large. A military bearing marked his every movement, head high, back uncommonly straight, feet always together. And his eyes. His eyes laughed at the world, sometimes almost scoffed at it, from under thin black eyebrows that shot across his forehead like a long hyphen. Joe was in his 30’s then, but several years chasing trains had marked and aged him. In fact, Mike thought of him as ten or fifteen years older than he really was. The boy hitched his pants, leaned against the ten-foot wide freight door, and fell flat as it swung open without resisting. Joe Kuyper stood in the doorway, chuckling. He watched Mike scramble to his feet and dust his pants awkwardly. The boy turned a sheepish grin toward the older man. “You in a hurry t’ get somewhere, Mike?” Joe asked with a wry smile. “Man, you ’bout tore the hinges off that ol’ door!” “Hi, Joe. When’d you get in? This mornin’? Last night? Can you stay awhile? How ’bout playin’ some catch in a few minutes?” “Hold ’er, boy,” Joe said. He grabbed Mike by one arm and steadied him. “Slow down a bit. We got plenty o’ time to toss a few. Now I figger you’re rushing things here this morning ’cause your ma’s holding breakfast for you. Right?” “Yeah. Well, sort of. But she said I could come out here and say hello.” Mike paused. “I, um, well, I’m glad to see ya.” The man looked away for a second. “Well, now, I appreciate this here welcome,” he said, “and you’re a sight for these sore ol’ eyes, but you just get back in there’n finish off that meal. I’ll meet you out by the tracks in a half-hour. Okay?” The boy nodded and turned to leave. “Sure, Joe. And I’ll bring the glove you always use.” Joe smiled as the boy backed through the doorway and ran, full-speed, around the freight house, across the backyard and into the kitchen moments under the deadline. The man settled back against a hay bale with a contented grunt. That boy sure can give a man a lift. Reckon that’s one of the main reasons I head this way so often. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mike’s dad, C. J. Smith, was a railroad telegrapher who had been transferred to the small town of Walnut, Nebraska in 1926, where the family lived in a three-bedroom apartment above the train depot. Mike, the youngest of four children, spent a great deal of time with his dad, the trainmen, and the transients like Joe who passed through on their way to nowhere. His mother would sometimes tell him to stay away from those men, but she too developed her favorites, occasionally hiring one for a small, two- or three-day job around the yard. C. J. had an unwritten rule that no one could sleep in the depot’s waiting room for more than two consecutive nights, but during the coldest periods of mid-winter or when someone was doing a special job for him, he made exceptions. With the onset of the Great Depression, growing numbers of the dispossessed crisscrossed America by rail, and, as a result, some nights the floor of C. J.’s waiting room would be covered with the forms of sleeping men. They would lie in even circles around the great pot-bellied stove, which thrust its black chimney up through the center of the depot’s high ceiling. Late on weekend nights, the older sons would often have to tiptoe over a dozen sleeping figures to reach the stairs leading to the apartment. In return for a warm place to sleep, the men kept the fire stoked through the night. Every time Joe passed through Walnut he stayed the allotted two days and nights. During the day he would help with odd jobs around the house; at night he took charge of bringing in coal from the outdoor bin. And, when the weather permitted, he always played a little catch with Mike. For a homeless man it was the nearest thing to home he could find.