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  Open-air flatcars handled robust industrial products like factory machinery and military vehicles. Their walled, hopper kin, came either open-topped or covered, with the first type hauling bulk mineral loads and the second, grains, or industrial powders. Squatty, low-walled, gondolas bore insensitive cargoes like quarry stone and scrap iron, while cylindrical tankers transported all liquids, ranging from bulk maple syrup to fuel oil.

  Lastly - though 30 years hence it would unimaginably be only a vague memory - one lost to cost cutting and crew reductions - the ubiquitous sign of a freight train in this day was still that rolling, long distance office and crew shelter known as a caboose.

  As commonplace as the plains bison had once been, total caboose numbers covering North America at this time were over one million; their end-of-train colors ranging from a bold crimson or yellow of flashier roads, to the bland, Tuscan-brown shade of those crummies plying the CC&S.

  Railroads owned, leased, or handled an assortment of all freight car types. But the greatest concentration of any style depended on the mainstay freight of a given line. And the majority of rolling stock handled by the CC&S was a mix of simple, open-aired hoppers for the road’s mined coal and the omnipresent, reefer.

  Refrigerated cars were designed as unique, mobile coolers. They were composed of thick, insulating kapok and cork laminates, with tight-fitting, tongue and groove sides that protected delicate, time-critical meats and produce, through a hostile landscape of heat, dust, and smoke.

  Besides being kept clean and cold during movement, meat, vegetables, and fruits also needed specialized protection from freeze-burns. Accordingly, reefers were arranged within a variety of bulkhead-baffles. Solid, 200-pound ice blocks chilled meat cargos during their ride, while a blanketing mix of shaved ice and salt were sprayed atop garden and orchard harvests, for a separate kind of long trip insurance.

  Specific attention was also given to the manner of packing. Again, with meat cargos demanding the most attention. Boxed cuts were kept at the car’s center. Hindquarters were hung at one extreme end on short meat hooks, shanks up; cut sides butted together and skin facing out. Forequarters were done the same way at the other end, on longer, two prong hooks, the carcass necks pointing down.

  A wholly unintended big city use of reefers also surfaced from time to time. That was in the way of unscheduled cargoes supplied by a very inventive Chicago crime syndicate. Occasionally, when the cars arrived for final unloading, buried amid the frozen ranks of future steaks and roasts were found board-stiff human corpses; the spent mortal coils of associates who’d fallen out of grace with the Windy City outfit and had been given complimentary rides out of town - gangland style - dangling from their own hooks.

  Train make-up of freight cars was done in a railroad’s classification yard. There, incoming cars were sorted for separate, outbound runs. They were arranged in new station order on the yard’s departure tracks, first-off cars hooked immediately behind the engine and others situated accordingly.

  A solid understanding of freight car types, loads, and train arrangements was the responsibility of switching crewmen, such as Jim Graczyk. And his job of breaking down and building up trains was the most dangerous work in all of railroading.

  A man afoot in blinding sun or smothered by shadow, labored in a lethal proximity with silent ranks of the immense cars passing closely about him. Long, late hours worked in extreme temperatures, amid an environment of ground litter and dangling shipping dunnage, increased the odds of serious, if not fatal, injury.

  But freight yard work also listed some enviable perks. Its hours were regular and the pay, decent. There were no travel expenses. You could sleep in your own bed off-duty and best of all, local guys like Jim could walk to work. It was a routine that well suited the young man and he did not understand why his dad so objected to it.

  A half hour before the start of today’s work shift, Jim climbed into his coveralls. Grabbing his signal lantern, he’d then headed toward Engine 702. The stubby old yard goat was a hardworking Baldwin, Model C-17, a tough, eight-wheeled veteran left over from the bygone government controlled, USRA days of World War I. It was out-shopped about the time his father was a young man fighting in France and even these decades later, the easygoing switcher was still a yard favorite and a reliable Mayhew fixture.

  702 and a pair of sister engines were manned by three daytime, two afternoon, and one late night switcher crew. Each crew contained an engineer, fireman, pair of switchman/pin-pullers, and a conductor. Their work period, known as a trick, was ten hours long and overlapped with both the previous and following work shifts.

  Jim’s standard afternoon crew was composed of Ernie Stacks Kaminski, Kurt-Charles K.C. Jones, Ron Buckeye Vogle, and Willard Jeep Olinski. Until early the next morning they would spend their time breaking down the day’s freight car accumulation into fresh departure groups.

  Four trains had come to Jim that afternoon, including father Joe’s local. Their engines and cabooses had been taken away for varied degrees of service and reassignment, leaving 200-plus freight cars clogging the yard. Considering that all such work at Mayhew was done manually, the daily end result was nothing less than spectacular.

  While the railroad’s larger and more modern yards had air or electric switches and hump-styled gravity feeds, smaller, flat places like Mayhew continued to use the antiquated approach of setting switchmen at each turnout to maneuver car cuts. It was cumbersome work. But, Mayhew switcher crews had their tasks down-pat.

  Tonight’s awaiting work included the building of a couple of 50 car merchandise trains, as well as an expedited, red ball freight; all needing predawn departure for far-off cities. Sundry fare would be gathering empties for interchange routings to the area Hotpoint Appliance, Western Electric, and Thor Power Tool plants.

  The appearance of a tardy Cicero set-out had placed yard space at an additional premium this afternoon. Several crippled freight cars also needed detouring to the bad order track for a quick reloading of their goods into replacements. A half dozen casual laborers were already lined up in that regard and among them Jim saw his friend, Ulees.

  Earlier, Jim had seen Joe’s local enter the yard and its crew disband for the weekend. His father’s sober conversation with Boots could only mean one thing, talk of the newest road-fireman’s tests. Jim had grown to dread the approach of those exams. Not seeing eye-to-eye with his dad on the assumed progress a railroader should make, meant he’d have to keep a low profile around Joe, until things again, hopefully, cooled off.

  An elbow in the ribs from conductor Olinski brought Jim back. The man handed over a work order copy, then twirled a hand at the locomotive cab, glancing toward the yard tower.

  “Full plate tonight boys! Okay, Stacks! Let’s make some smoke! Just not too much.”

  The switchmen climbed aboard and 702 marched for the classification tracks. There, the squatty machine zeroed in, on its first cut of towering boxcars and gave them a stiff shove. Jim got a hand signal indicating four cars to be cut loose. He set the appropriate siding switch, hopped back aboard the proper one and gave its coupler a parting yank.

  Jim Graczyk’s work day had begun.

  At 1:30 the next morning Jim watched the last block of cars roll away, set for pairing up with their power assignment. As usual, his crew had cranked out all of the shuffling that was expected of them and two of the reclassified trains were already on their way into the night.

  Many neighborhood second-trickers of both the freight yard and local factories would now gravitate toward Eddie’s nearby saloon for a blue-collar nightcap. But, except for an occasional holiday appearance demanded by his switchyard cronies, Jim didn’t much care for warming a bar stool. So, he started off in the other direction.

  He swept a glance across the heavy, purple-blue canopy of night as he walked for home. October was just around the corner and yet lingering bits of last summer’s heat st
ill hung on. Jim did have a smile, though, knowing that on this hot night his mom would have a cold glass of after-shift milk and slice of fresh pie, covered and waiting for him in the ‘fridge.

  His eyes and thoughts then wandered toward the distant residence of a pretty young widow.

  CHAPTER 9

  3 a.m. Finally asleep.

  Lorraine gently laid Geri to a spot of her own bed and settled in beside. She peered at the closed door of her room, listening to the silence extending in the house beyond. As obliging as they’d been during the child’s restless bout, her parents couldn’t have gotten much sleep either. At least they’d kept their distance, allowing her to address the matter on her own and for that Lorraine was thankful.

  She gazed warmly on her daughter. Geri was growing so quickly. Already, the little one was in command of many random words and phrases. Soon, there’d be whole sentences. With it would come real talk and all those cute and innocent questions of the world about her. Lorraine could only wonder when Geri’s fatherless existence might be among them.

  The woman caught herself in mid-thought. But, she knew it was already too late. The lurking old pangs had again been sprung free and now there’d be nothing she could do, but weather their unholy rampage.

  What awaited a widow and mother at age 20? What might she allow, accept, condone, or even grab at, for security in upcoming years? Was she destined to stay here with her parents forever, like some pathetic charity case - or one of arrested development? Or, would she get an apartment somewhere in town and muddle along as a working, absentee mother and latchkey kid, living their lives like ships passing in the night?

  Still, a grown woman did need things that she personally earned, foremost being the self-respect found in her independence. And sooner or later, a growing child would merit a degree of privacy beyond bunking in the same room with her mother. But, neither could be acquired by living under her parents’ roof, existing on a housekeeping stipend they granted.

  From a practical standpoint, Lorraine had taken realistic shorthand and typing courses in high school, which had come easily to her. Though any chance at practically utilizing them would still be another few years away, making her a tad old for entry-level work, Lorraine wasn’t concerned. For, she’d also have the added asset of maturity to bolster a résumé and she’d make up for any deficiencies with plain, old fashioned, hard work. In the meantime, there was that battered Royal typewriter and plenty of notepads to keep her skills honed.

  Once Geri was in school, Lorraine might find secretarial employment at the nearby Western Electric or Hotpoint plants. But, if office work didn’t avail itself, she had nothing against punching a time clock on the factory floor. Chicago based appliance makers were going full speed since the war, pumping peacetime commodities out to a convenience starved public. And, with skyrocketing television sales, downtown electronic giants like Motorola and Zenith were always hiring assemblers.

  The hopeful notion lightened her thoughts. Though, on the verge of relaxing, that other issue waded in.

  What of her as a woman? What might the future hold for her on a personal, feminine level? What of romance? Marriage? Did she want them? Did she need them? If an opportunity presented itself, would she recognize, accept, or even snatch at some illusion of it?

  The thought of merely bagging a meal ticket disgusted Lorraine. Conversely, could any new man be expected to truly embrace another’s child as his own? Or, just dutifully accept Geri as some hunk of obliged baggage, merely to be contended with?

  A morose part of Lorraine could honestly understand how some war widows shielded themselves from all such complications. Becoming flesh and blood memorials to their fallen husbands, they developed an emotionally protective aloofness as a kind of personal armor against making a bad choice. And in this town, there certainly was adequate public pity to support that venue - enough for a dozen more girls like her to easily share in.

  Socially, Lorraine tried maintaining a casual link with some still single high school chums. But, the results had been mixed. Girls’ nights out were okay, as long as things were limited strictly to a matinee movie and dinner, with no innocent tavern stops for fending off the inevitable pick-up artists, misunderstood husbands, or inebriated Romeos. Even so, high school friendships generally grew bland once the common denominator of classroom survival gave way to real life concerns and diverging adult roads.

  An unattached friend fraternizing with married ones was even more of a lopsided mechanism; one that either collapsed under its own cumbersome weight or sooner or later, was prevailed upon to condone the innocently misguided and pity fueled, matchmaking efforts.

  Although her experience at true dating was only a couple of years removed, the notion of doing so again was daunting. Whatever courting protocols took place during one’s school days were superficial and done in a mostly controlled arena - a social lark, compared to the heightened gravity of going solo in an adult playing field.

  Lorraine’s thoughts drifted to something of a safe harbor in that regard - Jim Graczyk. Gentle and easygoing, Jim’d always held a kind of suppressed attraction toward her and she in turn, had an odd, reciprocal affection for him. Having known each other since grade school and before his older and imposing brother had entered the picture, theirs’d genuinely been a platonic relationship. Jim’s soft-spoken, slightly self-conscious nature around Lorraine were refreshing mannerisms, ones which she interpreted and valued as true respect.

  But in this last year, the safe arm’s length of their friendship had subtly compressed. To be honest, maybe she had contributed by inadvertently flirting with him. In truth, their recent meeting in the town park hadn’t been completely accidental. Strolling that morning, she’d seen his distant approach and had sat down on the bench, well aware that it was on his way home.

  Why? Lorraine really wasn’t sure. Possibly, she felt somehow immune, able to toy at keeping her sexuality honed, while staying safe from any real life onus. Or, was and had there always been a sliver of genuine attraction on her part?

  Bottom line, it simply wasn’t fair to Jim and that made Lorraine feel selfish. With her widowship came a new barrier of worldliness that just shouldn’t be allowed to contaminate his innocence of heart. Besides, there were all the small town social complexities that figured in.

  Lorraine finally overpowered the subject, pleased with a certainty that one day Jim would make a great match for some very deserving girl. Personally, she settled on the simple, mundane, and structured routine that presently gave her life order.

  Early to bed and early to rise, hers was an existence of mostly tending her child. There were bench-warming bouts in the park, sitting witness to the amusing antics of aged town men, who played checkers, compared their catalogs of ailments, and vigorously defended lifelong politics. The busy work of family errands and household chores helped occupy other time, while her machinist father and waitress mother were at work. And long stroller-walks about the neighborhood helped keep a low profile whenever those parents got ouchy with each other, or presumptuous with the upbringing of their granddaughter.

  Following the gentle rise of her daughter’s chest, Lorraine prayed that Geri would now stay asleep and hoped the same for herself. But, in the bitter routine of such nights, she instead, found one batch of thoughts again merely traded for another - those of the future giving way to those of the past.

  Two years and three months ago, only two days before the Korean War ceasefire, her life had irrevocably changed - or, had it? At someplace called Hill 111, Mike’s 3rd Battalion, 1st Division Marines had gotten into a brawl and did what Leathernecks do, fought to the bitter end. There, Corporal, Michael Joseph Graczyk had saved someone else’s life, while giving his own, in the bargain.

  His recent bride and new widow was properly stoic and dignified at the public gathering and gravesite. She’d stood amid sympathetic family and friends, bravely accepting her
country’s gratitude, flag, and a cased medal. But once it was all over and she sat in the dark of that first night truly alone, Lorraine found herself confronted by one grinding question.

  Why didn’t it hurt more?

  Why hadn’t she collapsed into some blubbering, catatonic mess, anguishing for weeks or months afterward? It was permitted - expected - of a young woman whose newly ordered life had just been shattered. But honestly, she just could not grieve that much.

  For if she peeled away the normal layers of shock and loss, to truly examine the core of the matter, Lorraine could not say that she had ever genuinely loved Mike. The more she considered it the more she wondered if their marriage, the very essence of their relationship, had simply been the consequence of pure social expectation, a penalty levied against a high school track star and its class vice president by their peers in the dreaded perfect couple syndrome.

  Yet, even after her husband was buried, the medals and flag left with his parents, Lorraine remained branded as his possession. Where could she go in all of Mayhew even now, that she still didn’t see the condoning nods of the town’s older women and choke on their syrupy pity; forever marked as someone accepting an involuntary vow of middleclass cloistering? For all intents and purposes of this burg, Lorraine was and would always remain, as Mike Graczyk’s widow.

  At times, Lorraine fantasized about grabbing Geri and simply leaving. Riding off in the night until there was no more bus fare, then driving a stake in the ground and calling that new place home.

  Once, she’d gotten up enough nerve to actually enter the town hall and secure forms for retrieving her maiden name. But, she hadn’t had the courage to look at them since. The papers now remained stashed away, yellowing in the bottom of a dresser drawer, like some filthy little secret. And she dreaded the day when a town clerk might accidentally bump into her parents, recall the matter, and expose her heinous crime.