“We have our own troubles,” he said. “Let’s not ask for more. Tell the waiter, or a conductor.”
She deflated and slid back into the booth. “You’re right. He’s just so…”
“Creepy.”
Violet laughed. “I was going to saybroken-looking.”
“Either way. Let’s focus on the task at hand.”
She agreed, but all the while as they waited for their food, she thought of the little boy, and the child’s hand on the curtain of that lower berth in the second sleeper.
They would have to walk right past it on the way back.
17
Malcolm wondered if the chickens had gone to sleep. They had quieted except for the occasional soft noise that made him think they were dreaming. He doubted creatures so small actually did dream, but it amused him to consider what those dreams might be.
He stood at the window and tried to get a sense of their location. The train whistled past acres of rainswept farmland. He imagined the remains of the harvest now rotting in the fields, awaiting the coming winter. Whatever vegetation was left would feed the fields so the growing could begin again, come spring. Starting over.
As much as he wished it otherwise, human lives didn’t get to follow that pattern. They might have four seasons, but once he had lived through his personal spring, summer, autumn, and winter, there would be an ending. The cycle didn’t begin again. Maggie’s death echoed in him, reminding him to make the most of the time he had, especially now, when he was still young enough to call it summertime.
Something flashed across the farmer’s field to the north. In the dark, he could not make it out, but he stared a few seconds, hoping for another glimpse. He wondered what nocturnal animals might be prowling the farm at night. A coyote or a bobcat, probably. But would they be out in the rain?
Behind him, Elias began coughing again.
As much as his brother deserved a comeuppance, and severalkicks to the balls, Malcolm had begun to worry about him. The cough had mostly subsided, but when it erupted—like now—it sounded dry as sandpaper.
“You okay?”
Elias shivered and huddled up against Maggie’s crate. Malcolm went over and knelt beside his brother. The lights in the baggage car flickered and then steadied again. He stared at Elias, an icy knot forming in his chest.
“Hey, Elias.” Malcolm gripped his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
Shivering, Elias opened his eyes a sliver. “I feel like hell.”
Malcolm wondered how much he’d been drinking lately, and if it had gone beyond booze. They’d grown up fairly innocent, but Korea had taught Malcolm a lot about the kinds of drugs that were available if you wanted them badly enough. New York and Chicago nightclubs had given Elias that education, and more.
“Did you take something?”
Elias pressed his eyes shut. He’d gone from pale to gray. Malcolm bent closer and reached a tentative hand toward his brother’s face. His skin looked so rough and dry. Worried and mystified, he ran his thumb over Elias’s forehead. Skin flaked and cracked.
Malcolm felt sick in his gut. Maggie had just died. He’d been nursing resentment and anger toward his brother, but that was another Elias—the irresponsible one, the healthy one who ignored his wife and his family responsibilities.
This time when he shook Elias’s shoulder, he did it more firmly. “Tell me what’s going on. Are you sick? What’s wrong with you?”
Elias murmured, “Dunno.”
He’d seen a lot of sickness in the war—dysentery, tuberculosis, encephalitis. He’d even heard the other side had been hit with smallpox and the goddamn plague. But as he began to investigate Elias’s hands and arms, and found the skin just as dry and gray, he knew he’d never seen anything like this.
Malcolm froze.
What if it’s contagious?
He glanced up at the door that led into the sleeper cars, and backward toward the rest of the train. Violet and Alfie had been gone awhile. They might come back anytime. As Malcolm knelt there, the skin on Elias’s chin and neck whitened and cracked. He thought of the ocean receding, leaving sand to dry.
“Elias!” he said sharply.
His brother’s eyes moved beneath closed lids, but he said nothing. He’d fallen unconscious. Malcolm used one hand to steady his brother’s head. With the other, he wiped at that same spot on Elias’s forehead. The upper layer of skin shredded away. A deep crack opened, and for a moment, blood welled up, but then it subsided as if it had sunk deeper.
