Chapter Twelve
The cooler was given to a motel neighbor bound for the Sierras. Rodger’s tools were in a metal chest which could be strapped and shipped. The rest of their luggage packed with them, they took a cab to the station.
Mike had been on a train before, in a caboose towed by a freight line. It was a short trip to another Kansas town, yet he had managed to annoy the brakeman by clambering over the car’s interior and drinking repeatedly from its fountain. His father, who finagled the passage somehow, had smiled indulgently at all of this.
The Super Chief, by contrast, was somewhat overawing. This was a famous liner, and although superseded by air transport, it had retained its claim on their minds. The cars were silver, the passenger ones with windows and the luggage ones without. The engine was silver and red with a gold Santa Fe emblem on front. When Mike asked his dad what “Santa Fe” meant, Rodger knew enough Latin to answer, “Holy Faith.”
They found their seats, father giving his son the window view. Rodger trusted that Veronica’s casket was also on board. He had left that detail to the funeral home and the railroad. He felt negligent about it, but with everything going on, some reliance on others seemed fitting.
Mike had his school books along, and he tried to do arithmetic and work on alphabetization. Neither held his interest, nor, he was surprised to find, did he wish to explore the train. Exploring was usually his first activity upon arriving somewhere new. He instead looked out the window, at the people around the station and yard. Then came the anger.
He felt it suddenly, for no apparent reason. It started in his chest and moved throughout his body. More a rage than a distemper, Mike looked about for a target, for someone on whom to impose vengeance. But there was none, only the people, his father, and himself.
Rodger, hearing Mike’s quick breaths, looked over and saw the boy’s red face and clenched hands. He said nothing but pointedly turned towards his son. Mike did not look at his father, however, and the fit was clearly escalating. Rodger could not think of another place to take him; the train was loaded, the whistle would soon sound, and their seats were as private as anywhere else.
Taking a risk, Rodger laid his hand on Mike’s. The boy’s hand was hot and jolted with each pulse. Mike gradually turned and gave his father a look that Rodger could never shake. A combination of betrayal and love, Rodger immediately understood the cause. He could think of nothing to say, but he noticed Mike’s catechism under the neglected school texts. Handing the book to the boy, Rodger smiled and released his hand. Mike took a sudden breath and began sobbing, tears dropping onto Christ’s image on the front cover.
The whistle blew and the train started forward. Rodger settled back and gave his son room to grieve. Mike eventually noticed the raised spots on the cover of his catechism. He tried to brush them away, but this only abraded the paper surface. Calming down a bit, he held the book up and turned it around, as if to obscure the damage he had unintentionally caused.
On the back was a picture of the crucifixion. Jesus hung on the cross, and just before him stood Mary, hands clasped in prayer with her eyes on her dying son. Mike read the exhortation below the picture:
LOOK AT JESUS AS MARY DID
SEE His bleeding wounds.
SEE the nails in His hands and feet.
SEE the thorns in His head.
SEE His side open for us to enter.
HOW do you think our Lady felt?
HOW should we feel?
If Jesus loves us so much, what are we going to do for Him today?
MAY THE PASSION OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST AND THE SORROWS OF OUR MOTHER MARY BE ALWAYS IN OUR HEARTS.
Mike held the book to his chest. He thought he would never read from it again. He would read other religious books, those meant for older kids, but that would have to wait for home.