As he wandered down the sidewalk, Sam discovered that he was actually slightly happy in spite of the unpleasant encounter with Mr. Greasley. It sort of made sense, when he thought about it. He'd been dreading leaving the apartment for weeks, and now that he was finally out, it gave him a sense of closure.
Perhaps happy wasn't the right word to describe what he was feeling. It was impossible for him to truly feel happy when he knew how thoroughly unhappy Mrs. Greasley was. She had been like a mother to him through the dreadful ordeal involving Rosalie, and at times she'd been the only thing that had kept him going, supplying him with advice and sympathy when he'd needed it. She'd even somehow convinced her husband to let Sam stay in the apartment for an extra month. Sam still didn't have the slightest idea how.
Mixed feelings, he thought as he walked, are worse than even the worst feelings because you never really know what they are. They aren't sadness but they're never happiness, and even when they're almost good, they're always tinged with the shaky knowledge that the sadness is always just out of sight, waiting for me to be weak enough to let it back in.
He stumbled as his sneaker lodged in a crack in the sidewalk. Regaining his balance, he continued walking.
Leaving the paintings behind, he thought, was probably the best decision. The only thing thing bringing them with me would've done would have been to remind me of how much I miss her. Even thinking about the paintings made his stomach knot up queasily. It's probably best, he told himself again. At the same time, his heart longed for them because they were all he had left of Rosalie except for the envelope, a set of stiff security blankets made of paint and canvas.
The best thing to do doesn't always feel the best, does it?
His stomach growled, interrupting his thoughts. Frowning, he squeezed his lips together tightly against the cold wind streaming over his face. The diluted sense of happiness disappeared as he grew annoyed at himself. You could've used the beer money to buy food, he scolded, and now you wouldn't be feeling like this. You could've had one more meal.
But then, his mind shot back, you might've lost your mind when you painted her that last time, and it wouldn't have mattered anyway, would it have? He'd stressed over using his last canvas all day yesterday as he'd searched the area for jobs, and when he'd plodded wearily into the gas station that evening to buy whatever dinner he could afford, he'd seen the case of beer inside the brightly lit refrigerated section and had forgotten all about food.
Steel-colored clouds loomed overhead as he walked down the street. I'm homeless now, aren't I? He'd been through quite a few hard times during his life, especially since he'd been a foster child, but no matter how difficult times had been, there had never been a time when he hadn't had a place to go home to at night. Even when he'd moved out of his last foster home, he'd used the money he'd saved from his job at the factory to rent the Greasley's apartment. It hadn't been much, but at least it had had a roof.
Looking up at the sky, Sam knew that a roof would be something he'd probably need in the near future. The gloomy clouds were a forewarning of cold rain or perhaps snow flurries. It was only late October, but where he lived, you couldn't be sure what was going to happen when it came to the weather.
A train whistle wailed in the distance. Aimlessly, Sam headed towards where the whistle blast had come from. He didn't have money to rent an apartment, so it was pointless to look for one; he couldn't find a job since nobody wanted to hire him. Unable to think of anything better to do, he walked in the general direction of the whistle, shivering as icy gusts of wind blasted into him.
An occasional junky car sputtered past; aside from that, he was alone. Peering out from the depths of his hood, Sam suddenly wished that the streets were filled with people so he wouldn't feel so conspicuous. It was much harder, thought Sam, to blend in when there was nobody to blend in with.
Not that I could blend in anyway.
Sam had always wanted to blend in, but he'd never been able to. Ever since he was eight years old, he'd been passed from foster home to foster home because the foster parents had never been sure how to deal with him. He didn't like school; his mind was always on other things, particularly art. Nobody wanted a child who the teachers always complained about; well, almost nobody. There had been one wonderful family that had loved him and that he'd loved back, but they'd faded out of his life just like everything else that was important to him.
Sam heard the train whistle screech again, louder this time. He was getting close. Quickening his pace for no conscious reason, he jogged down the sidewalk.
A drop of something wet splattered against his face, and he smudged his jacket sleeve against it, wiping it off. It was a raindrop. Great. Just great. He looked hastily for a place to escape the rain, but he couldn't see anything, so he continued running towards the train whistle.
A battered Oldsmobile rumbled past, dirty smoke pouring out of its exhaust pipe. Sam coughed as he inhaled the fumes; he spat on the pavement.
I can't even have clean air, he thought angrily. I can't even have that! I can't have a house and I can't have a family and I can't have Rosalie and...
Don't start.
He could hear the train itself now, not just the whistle. Skidding to a stop, he stood on the sidewalk, listening to the rumbling of the train and searching with his eyes, scrutinizing the shabby streets for signs of its presence. At last, he cut down a sidestreet and saw the line of enormous metal cars moving slowly along the tracks.
Graffiti covered their sides. Sam had always loved trains for just that reason. While some people might've glanced at the spray painted symbols covering the cars and merely seen colors splashed onto the trains by delinquents, Sam saw art. One of his foster parents' cars had been stuck at a railroad crossing when he was fourteen, and Sam had been enthralled by the train, hypnotized by the paintings. They were wild and tipsy and, most importantly, they were art. He could never seem to get enough of art.
Sam sprinted to the chain link fence blocking him from the train. Hooking his fingers through the wire, he pressed his face against the fence and stood watching the cars. The rain, drizzling steadily now, was seeping through his jacket, but he barely noticed. A plan was formulating in his mind, and he was debating whether or not he should try to follow it.
One of the car doors was open. It was roughly two hundred yards away, but the train was moving slowly, and he knew he could jump into the car if he truly wanted to.
Why not? Why shouldn't I? I can jump out of the train when I want to, and maybe I'll be able to find something better when I get off. There's nothing left for me here, anyway. Should I risk it? I could get in trouble if I get caught, but it's not like I've got anything to lose. If I go to jail, at least I'll have a place to live.
I'll do it.
He backed up a few paces and, looking around to see if anybody was watching him, prepared to scale the fence. Seconds later, he pulled himself over the top, and his sneakers crunched against the loose gravel on the other side. Advancing carefullly to within a few feet of the train, he waited for the car with the open door to come within reach. When it was roughly thirty feet away, he began to run to get his momentum moving. He leapt into the train as the open door came within reach. He landed clumsily, his face slamming into the hard straw-covered floor of the car.
The interior was dark and smelled pungently salty. Tarp-covered stacks of something surrounded him; he wasn't sure what they were, so he crawled to one of them, feeling unsteady as the train swayed. Lifting the corner of a tarp, he noticed a label on one of the plastic covered squares beneath. Squinting in the dim light, he was able to make it out.
Salt blocks? Don't they use those for cows? He pulled the tarp down again and sat with his back leaning against the pile, looking through the open train door as the world he knew went by. The shabby houses and factories he was familiar with disappeared, giving way to new, unfamiliar scenery.
Suddenly, the train began to slow down, and Sam crawled quickly behind one of the tarp-covered stacks. He listened as the murmuring of a man's voice grew louder and louder until it was directly outside of the car door. Sam heard the man, who sounded as if he was middle-aged, speaking angrily to whoever accompanied him.
"Look at this! Another door open! Don't anybody know that stuff'll get stolen if they don't close the doors?" The light from outside quickly disappeared as the man pulled the car door shut, telling whoever was with him to help him. The man's voice grew distant; when he couldn't hear it any longer, Sam stood up and stumbled to the door, pulling futilely as he tried to open it. It was no use; the man had locked it. It wouldn't budge.
No! thought Sam, feeling panic tugging at the edges of his mind as he realized that he was trapped. He beat on the door helplessly, but the train was gaining speed. It was useless. Nobody could hear him now. His hands trembling, he felt his way back to the middle of the car and leaned against a stack of the salt blocks, telling himself to calm down.
The car door stayed locked for the remainder of that day. The train stopped at times, but Sam didn't hear voices outside of the door again. It wasn't extremely bad being in the car; he made a makeshift blanket out of one of the tarps, huddled next to a pallet of salt blocks, and was decently warm. What really bothered him was the hunger. He hadn't eaten a decent meal for days. Mrs. Greasley's candy bar only whetted his appetite, and his stomach ached emptily as he laid next to the salt blocks. His tongue grew parched as he watched the light from around the edges of the door change to a subdued, muted glimmer. It would be dark soon.
At least then I'll want to sleep. At least I won't be hungry.
As he watched the light vanish entirely, the train rumbled unsteadily beneath him. Once, it'd shaken particularly hard, and he'd been thrown against the wall, his head snapping against it and slashing his cheek open. It hurt horribly, and he'd spent several minutes cradling his head in his hands, feeling the warm blood seeping through his fingers. Angry and frustrated, he'd stumbled to the door and slammed his fists into it again and again until he'd worn through the skin on his hands and they'd starting bleeding. The pain made him retreat, and he'd returned to his spot and sat down, the blood from his face mixing with what was streaming from his fingers. The train rattled on heartlessly.
What'll happen when the door opens? he asked himself. Will the police be called? Will I end up in jail? Oh well. At least I'll get food. His stomach grumbled at the thought of it. Shut up, you stupid thing. As if to annoy him, it answered with another growl. He pulled his hood snugly around his face and tried to sleep.
It had seemed so easy when he'd stood at the fence. People in movies did things like this all the time! They hopped on and off trains as if it were nothing, but in reality, doors got locked and people got trapped and then they got hungry.
It's not so simple now, is it? His mind began taunting him. Not so easy now, is it?
This won't do. Shut up and go to sleep. You'll need your rest tomorrow.
Slowly, everything began to blend together. As he drifted away, he found himself dreaming about a hospital room in the springtime. A pale girl slumped in the bed, her chest rising and falling slowly with each laboured breath. The window was open, and a balmy spring breeze blew in, rustling the sheets.
He awoke the next morning to the sound of the door creaking open. A bright light singed his eyes, and a man's deep voice asked,
"Who's there?"
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