He could think about those two young men and climb the steps to the rail platform over and over to meet with the fancy one, or stroll down a mental street to wander into the pizza place, there to take an empty table near the door so he could watch his dark-haired Italian throw dough into perfect circles.
Then he met the Irish boy who worked at the insurance company just down the street and whom Jack had seen whistling as he walked down the street in the spring sunshine, and went into the Asian fusion place, where Jack hadn’t been in ages.
When he came out with a grease-stained to-go bag that probably smelled like ginger and cilantro, Jack’s mouth watered, and he went out to say hello before he could stop himself. He swiped a pack of Sugar Babies from the display rack with the intent to trade for one, just one, Vietnamese egg roll.
The boy, whose name was Nick, had vibrant red hair and green eyes, a wide smile, and more freckles than Jack could count. He was thin and wiry and full of energy, almost bouncing on his toes as they made the trade.
Jack had shoved that egg roll in his mouth before anybody could stop him, and Nick had laughed and asked Jack what else he’d be willing to trade.
The trading sessions started with Sugar Babies for egg rolls, strings of red licorice for crispy vegetable pancakes, and a pack of Pall Malls for a quart of pho. Then Nick had invited Jack to thepicnic area behind the baseball fields in Tookany Creek Park and had arrived empty-handed.
When Jack had asked what Nick wanted to trade for what Jack had brought with him, Nick had kissed him, blowing Jack’s mind, sinking his stomach, and sending him into a mental spin from which there was no recovery.
He likedboys. It wasn’t just that he enjoyed looking at boys; helikedthem. How had he not known this before? Or maybe he had. What with his Italian young man, and the guy from the train station occupying his thoughts night after night.
Somehow that girl, the one whose name he could never remember, had—perhaps in a fit of jealousy—followed Jack and Nick and spied on them. Then she’d run to the smoke-and-candy shop and spread a combination of lies and truth, mixing them together in a perfect ball of hate.
When Jack had gotten back to the shop, his dad had taken off his belt and beaten him into a corner, leaving him a shaking mess. Nobody, not his brothers, not his mom, not any customer, had stopped it from happening.
If Jack had still been in school, his teachers, maybe even the principal, might have stepped in. As it was, he had nobody to turn to.
Even Nick had kept his distance, and Jack didn’t blame him. Jack wouldn’t have wanted Ben Foxley to go after Nick, so he didn’t reach out, or stroll past the insurance office, or keep an eye open for him. It was better that way.
Which left Jack in a void, a place where nothing seemed to move, as though he were encased in a plastic bubble from which there was no escape. The alley behind the house smelled rank as the weather warmed and the winter’s ice melted, and the tobacco fug in the shop was stronger than ever.
“Are you mad at me?” the girl, maybe Sally or Susan, had come into the shop and asked, smacking her gum, her hairparted in the middle, her dress too tight, making her look like bones wrapped in cotton.
“That’s the girl for you,” his dad told him over dinner, cold cuts from the meat market, fried in a pan and layered onto white bread. “She’ll keep you on the straight and narrow. You should ask her out.”
Jack could see clearly how his dad meant for Jack’s life to go. Marry the girl. Take over the shop. Live his life in a cloud of cigarette-smelling air, selling candy to kids and cigars to men with grease-stained hands.
It was a couple of weeks before his birthday, in mid-April, that Jack had gone back to Devereaux Avenue to climb the stairs to the railway platform.
The young man in the blue coat wasn’t there. Jack had imagined he might be, but he wasn’t. He was living his own life and looking about as handsome as a man could while he was at it.
A passenger train pulled in, paused, and then departed again, leaving a wind in its wake that stirred Jack’s hair and made him wish for things he shouldn’t wish for. A kiss from the young man in the blue coat. Maybe more than that.
While he waited, he turned over images in his mind, moving flickers. Him and the blue coat boy in his bedroom at the back of the house. Under the sheets. Kissing. Soft touches. Shared pleasure.
Another train came through. This one was a freight, with two diesel engines pulling many, many cars: boxcars, flatcars, all trundling past without stopping.
And maybe it was Jack’s imagination, but he’d swear that hanging on to one of the freight cars, like acrobats, were two guys, dirty, grubby, smiling as they gave him the finger in unison. Then they climbed up and into a spot he couldn’t see,just above where two freight cars came together. Unafraid. In motion. Absolutely free.
Jack wanted to be like that. Unburdened by the sidewalk-edged confines of his life. The constant low roar of the blacktop street in front of his house and the one in front of the shop.
His only escape seemed to be the grease-slick cement steps up to Lawndale Station, where he could dream in the tree-draped shade, amidst the litter of cigarette butts and bits of glass, and watch the trains go by.
Sometimes, after his stint in the shop, or errands for his mom, or a dull lunch in the kitchen at the back of his parents’ house, an endless march of bland food that tasted nothing like Mr. Bao’s spring rolls, he’d look for the guy from Salerno’s, Nick, the young man in the blue coat, any young man, just to distract himself while he pretended that the life he was living—the one he was trying on, so his dad would stop drinking and hitting him—was the one he wanted.
That life never fit him. It took him a while to realize that it never would and there was no point in continuing the charade. Then, one night with just a taste of heat in the air, the low moan of a passing train came through his open window like a ghostly song, a hint of what could be. A hint of another night, warm, like this one—warm, but smelling sweet as flowers in the rain. Somewhere else, far, far away.
In the morning, he did some research. He was good at that, though none of his schoolteachers had ever agreed.
His dad thought he was useless and told him so pretty much every day. But Jack figured out what he needed: A backpack or duffel bag. A bedroll. Ear plugs. Bandannas or scarves. Good boots. Soap. A money pouch to hang around his neck. A sturdy pocketknife. Matches and something watertight to keep them in. A few packets of instant coffee. Socks. Underwear. Money. A flashlight. Extra batteries.
He managed to get most of that just scrounging in closets or going to the thrift store. Nobody paid him any mind as he assembled his getaway gear, keeping it stored beneath his bed in the space that usually held only dust bunnies, scraps of paper, and metal hangers.
He kept track of the passing trains, making a mental tally in his mind, a checklist of when they came by and how fast.
