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  Lorraine unconsciously rubbed her thumb along the fingers of her left hand. Feeling the white gold loop still residing there, a bitter chuckle rose in her throat. If she really did harbor all of these needs for independence and escape, then why continue wearing the ring? To use as a shield and actually enforce the conscription she so claimed to hate? Her husband was dead, her ties to him, over. She was indeed liberated. But what good were any escape plots, if she continued obliging the town’s mentality and willingly jailed herself with such a tiny shackle?

  A tear of self-contempt squeezed free of her clenched eyes. Finally drifting off toward a bitter sleep, jumbled, discordant echoes mingled deep in Lorraine’s head.

  I thee wed . . .

  Forsaking all others . . .

  Water over the dam . . .

  Water under the bridge . . .

  A stitch in time saves nine . . .

  I’ve been working on the railroad . . .

  CHAPTER 10

  Saturday morning.

  While he’d never admit to it, Joe Graczyk, like so many of his middle-aged counterparts, had evolved into a man of habit. He’d long run a train with a strict modus operandi that took his eyes off the road ahead just long enough for a sweep over the cab gauges and adjustment of his goggles. There’d be a brief, rearward appraisal of the cars strung out behind, checking for any unnatural movement, smoke, or dust. Then, a return to the tracks in front.

  Every so often, a fresh Pall Mall would appear between Joe’s lips. But that was only in unison with a long running straightaway. And there was the periodic, unconscious tap of his coin pocket, making certain that his lucky silver dollar hadn’t forsaken him.

  Workday lunches as well, were unvarying; two, wax-papered sandwiches of either garlic baloney, roast beef, or salami, nestled between hunks of seeded Jewish rye. They shared space with a thick onion slice, wedge of sharp cheddar cheese, and horseradish layering. An apple or pear kept them company in his work-worn lunch pail, along with the eternal Thermos bottle of stout black coffee.

  Even Joe’s work attire was signature. Not the usual railroad haute couture of baggy dungaree, tired chambray, or limp flannel, his dress code was a military approach; a hunter green uniform of workman’s heavy cotton pants and long sleeve shirt bought straight from the Sears men’s catalog.

  It was inevitable that Joe’s off-duty hours as well, would be so governed. Prominent among them was his normal, early morning Saturday stroll, which he referred to as a cruise around the horn. And it likewise, followed prescribed steps.

  Instead of his normal backdoor egress, Joe’s cruise commenced with a rare departure down his seldom-used front stairs. It fanned out through his longtime neighborhood and into the town’s nearby merchant district. Both, he reconnoitered thoroughly, before returning by way of an inbound loop.

  Fair weather stops included one at the local community ballpark, to take in any barehanded - Chicago-styled - softball practice. Or at this time of year, more likely some rough, touch football, among the young bucks.

  He’d swing by Fire Station Number 4 to chat with the boys as they washed the trucks or sat about sipping new-day coffee, girl watching, and otherwise killing time, until their next duty call. Optional visits included a monthly seat in Vic’s barbershop to get, his ears lowered, and some chitchat, either at Georgee’s diner or Walkowiak’s appliance store.

  Before any of it took place, though, Joe had formally established pre-trip rites to observe. And that included a daily shave. The bongo playing beatniks of those downtown coffee houses might get away with scruffy cheeks or spotty chin stubble. But memories of Depression-era hobos were still fresh to his generation and a short haircut and clean shave remained the conspicuous sign of a responsible working man.

  As with so many new commodities, Joe Graczyk gave no quarter to modern shaving conveniences. In this age of safety razors and electric shavers, he still used a lethal straightedge. His was stropped to artery-severing sharpness from an old length of cowhide belt slung beneath the bathroom sink.

  A chipped ceramic mug accompanied the blade. Frugally packed with mashed bits of old bath bars, it served up Joe’s homemade shaving cream. Each day he whipped it into a frothing lather, then soaped-up with a barber’s horsehair brush.

  No perfumy toilet water or scented aftershaves were splashed on, when done. In Joe’s world, that was the stuff of dandies and gigolos, not blue collar, working men. Even now, unopened bottles of such rested beneath the sink, a collection of past Christmas and birthday gifts from well intentioned, but misinformed folks.

  When done shaving, Joe ran scalding tap water over the deadly blade to help heat and dry it, before a folded return to its protective sheath. A last gander in the bathroom mirror passed inspection. Close and no nicks; a good scraping. Catching sight of the eyes reflected back, though, today the man lingered.

  These days Joe found himself wondering who that aging stranger was. The long-familiar, bronzed visage was slowly unraveling to time and gravity. Its eyelids were changing into hooded sacks, its angular ruggedness settling to a rounded, fleshy mug. He was becoming one of those mustached Petes he’d once chuckled at as a kid; another grim portrait ready for framing at the stodgy, Polish Legion hall.

  A bit of youthful defiance did remain in his square hunk of chin, though, and for that lone concession, Joe was thankful. He snapped off the room’s light, continuing in the last of his morning ritual.

  Just outside, the man halted in a moment’s proud study of wife, Sarah. Through some pretty tough times they’d always been a team and only his respect of the woman could ever possibly equal his love. He smiled, watching his mate at work in her kitchen, making the complex, advanced Sunday dinner preparations as she had for so long.

  Because of the rubied highlights once dominating her lush hair, Joe’d early on, taken to calling her, Czerwony or Red. But now, owing to that russet shade having gone a dignified gray and her ensconced position of Graczyk matriarch, he referred to Sarah in a time-honored, more traditional Polish title.

  “Matka.”

  Joe offered the familiar greeting of mother, making himself known.

  “Gonna fix Vintski up with some leftovers, tomorrow?”

  The woman chased a tedious glance after her man.

  “Have any of my boys ever left here without a doggie bag?”

  He paused in his teasing and entered their bedroom for his personal effects. There, at carefully appointed spots atop his dresser, waited the accoutrements which gave Joe Graczyk his identity.

  First, came the old, bone-handled pocketknife. Its single blade was honed to a saber’s edge, ready for any utility needs that might crop up. A loop of gold chain followed and the open-faced railway watch it tethered.

  Joe slid the timepiece in a front pants pocket, again feeling the honored lines of Cyrillic script engraved on its back.

  To Joe Graczyk

  In Grateful Recognition

  25 years’ service; 12/8/44

  Chicago Cahokia & Southern RR.

  The war had been blazing away on both fronts, the day he’d received it; Nazis counterattacking the American army in Belgium, while U.S. Marines clawed their way through the Pacific’s last bloody sand.

  Rail traffic was at its absolute zenith back then, allowing little spare time for niceties. So, no showy dinners or company back-pats accompanied the gift. Approving nods came only from the cluster of begrimed trainmen assembled in the blustery, trackside cold that day. But to Joe, their presence was forever, so much better.

  He’d been climbing into his engine for the Cairo run when Alex Kaczmarek led a gang out to offer up the blue velvet sack with its braided gold drawstring.

  “Hey! Something came in for you!”

  Joe reached down from his cab window, quizzically hefting the item as if a quid of tobacco.

  “What’s this? I don’
t chew.”

  “How should I know?” Baited Alex. “Showed up from downtown. Open the damn thing and we’ll all find out.”

  Public exhibitions of emotion were regarded as unmanly to those of his generation and Joe displayed the stately timepiece in mock complaint.

  “It’s a minute slow!”

  He dismissed any sentiment with a businesslike slip of the watch into his vest pocket. But few moments in life ever held such pride for Joe as did those men, that day, and this watch.

  Lastly, came the man’s lucky piece; a 1921 silver dollar. He’d found it in the mud on his return to road service, day after the Pearl Harbor attack. Possibly lost by some tipsy horserace patron after a night at Sportsman’s Park, Lady Liberty had ridden in his hip coin pouch every day since. Her classic Grecian profile and luxuriant tresses’d slowly eroded in the cloth darkness of countless trousers over the years, making her the polished and nearly featureless slug she was today. Yet, even so, her favor remained strong.

  In this age of enlightenment, who didn’t publicly snort at the old-fashioned peasant superstition of such things? Though, to a man, all of Joe’s pals had some lucky custom or workday keepsake that they never let get too far away. And being no different, Joe Graczyk gave his mystic coin a luck-energizing flip, before pocketing it, too.

  He reappeared from the bedroom, announcing to Sarah.

  “I’m headed out, around the horn. Need anything from Poulson’s store on my way back?”

  “I do.”

  She nodded toward the special sugar bowl and its general housekeeping fund.

  “There’s a small list on the counter. And see if you can find a bottle of raspberry wine for tomorrow. It’d be a nice touch, toasting our dinner guest.”

  Joe took another moment to affectionately tease her.

  “Wine? Making it pretty fancy, aren’t we? After all, it’s not a holiday, just Vint.”

  Sarah’s pointed stare spoke for her. All visitors in a Polish household were to be treated formally and Joe offered a conceding chuckle. He gathered up his wallet with a fresh pack of Pall Malls, but benevolently, waved off the cash.

  “Special day; got you covered.”

  Her hands dusted in flour, it was Sarah’s turn to scoff.

  “Ho! Ho! Didn’t know I married me a rich man. Doesn’t need grocery money? Okay then.”

  Joe swept a broad hand about their no-frills house.

  “That’s why I scrimp and carry my lunch every day. To give you the best of the best!”

  “Well, don’t trip over your wallet, Diamond Jim.”

  He gave his longtime mate an exaggerated, head to toe appraisal.

  “Married me a sassy one, huh?”

  Sarah winked solemnly.

  “Pick of the litter sweetheart and don’t you forget it.”

  Joe raised a departing hand in oath.

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  The couple shared a smile as he started for the door.

  “Na rasie, matka.”

  “Uwazaj!”

  CHAPTER 11

  Joe’s town of Mayhew waited outside. A municipality residing just beyond the Windy City and neighbor to gregarious, Cicero. It was a no-nonsense middle class world, a blue-collar place constructed of metal, wood, and concrete; one maintained through a network of callused hands, sweated brows, and a generous serving of political influence.

  Here, laboring immigrant families with solid work ethics and no illusions of life had learned American ways, taken root, and stayed. Here, softball was played without fancy uniforms; shopping coupons were clipped, shoes resoled, and work socks mended. Its people drank their coffee black and a shot and beer was the cocktail of choice.

  In Mayhew broken English was still the tongue de jure. Its speech was clipped and curt, almost bitten off; issued in the brusque, quick syllables of hard, East European dialects that comprised straight tongue with little space left for fancies.

  Town streets were traveled by sensible workingmen’s cars - low-end Chevys and Fords, a good number of which were still pre-World War II vintage. A well-used, second, or third-hand Packard might occasionally take up residence. But, there were as few Cadillacs to be seen plying its avenues as there were pickup trucks. And it was a fair bet that any overly-chromed car witnessed about belonged to either a high rolling out-of-towner, here for late night, big stakes gambling in Eddie’s corner saloon, or an underworld denizen, in town to conduct some sort of shady business.

  The male educational level of Mayhew was on the rise. Though, with respectable postwar factory wages dangled before them, the academic level of many young men yet fell shy of a high school diploma. Still, any lack of secondary schooling left no deficiency among the ranks of new job seekers.

  Forfeited classroom lessons were exchanged for those learned on town streets and back alleys; firmed up by duty tours in the armed forces. And where book learning was lax, commitment and endurance kept the balance. Mayhew sons honored expected avenues of responsible family tradition. They loyally followed their laborer fathers into Chicagoland factories and trades, dutifully remaining for decades, turning out proud, reliable goods.

  The town’s loss of other sons to World War II was still sharp in the collective memory of this mid-decade year, its flesh and blood forfeitures to the more recent Korean police action, were even more vivid. But in the vein of true Mayhew toughness, its residents took what was dealt them. The dead were buried and the pain of those left behind was put aside. Life’s efforts went on in the practical concerns of bill paying and grocery buying.

  Town skies were an environmental rubber stamp of manufacturing settlements camped all about the Great Lakes. No matter how clear, its air perpetually held a sulfurous nip and metallic tartness born of the East Chicago - Gary refineries and steel mills. Blended high over Lake Michigan’s south shore, the resulting porridge descended to marry with the town’s own assortment of industrial fumes, settling out as a kind of personalized and defining scent.

  Ironically positioned as close to the lake as it was, few shreds of cooling breeze ever made their way to Joe’s hometown during the blistering summer months. But the reverse was always true in winter, with Mayhew guaranteed to shovel its way out from under huge gouts of lake effect snow all season long.

  In this day, the town’s robust elms were its lordly patrons. Their trunks spread wider than a man’s reach and their entwined, soaring canopy lined every Mayhew street. They were old friends, offering neighborhood moderation from sweltering sun or raw wind since before Joe was born. And he smiled in passing beneath them again now, no way knowing that the trees’ days were numbered.

  High atop their unseen crowns, mysterious clumps of withered leaves were appearing with the newly arrived Dutch Elm disease. It was making its cancerous début throughout the Midwest and in just a few years the sickness would eradicate legions of these lofty giants. An army of chainsaws would clear town streets into an urban desert, forever bringing the trees’ proud reign to a quick, inglorious end.

  In another generation the anchorage of such towns themselves, would likewise begin to shrivel. The future middle class would change into a throng of urban gypsies with stranger living beside stranger and creating a society where home alarm systems would supplant welcoming front door mats.

  Yet today, folks still knew their neighbors well for several blocks in every direction. All were people working for a common good and pulling together in lean times. Town laundry was done at home and hung in the yard to dry. Meals were cooked in its kitchens and children, raised within its rules and walls.

  Shared echoes of Depression-era empty pockets and austere World War II rationing were still keen in the minds of these hands-on 1950s people. They existed with the understanding that life owed them nothing. While they or their parents may have arrived by way of some less than grand, ocean voyage, there were no true seaside
vacations in their future.

  Any plant shutdowns or model change furloughs allowing time away from the job were spent around the house, conducting practical, cost saving, personal maintenance. A rare idle day might allow at most, nothing more exotic than a rare trip downtown to see a ballgame or a jaunt to the Indiana dunes. But nothing more was expected.

  Frugalness was the watchword throughout blue-collar Mayhew. No durable goods were purchased as status symbol, top-of-the-line stuff and whatever dollars remained after groceries were bought and bills paid, were stuffed into strict savings accounts for the proverbial, rainy day. Terms like disposable income or impulse buying were unimaginable here. Town folk instead, all shared in a deeply ingrained personal dignity of paying their own way and in the common prayer that when their usefulness gave way to old age, they would pass on before their money ran out, not making them into charity cases.

  Aware of these values, Joe walked with pride at his place among them. Good people, yes. Ones, who’d certainly paid their dues through years of busted knuckles, thin bank balances - and not that long ago, had made the ultimate wholesale investment, in the lives of their sons.

  Nearly every one of the front windows Joe passed had once held the small, now serving banners of red and white, proclaiming their boys to be pulling front line duty in the Second World War. Joe had watched those same banners dim and fade over the next four years. A growing number traded their original blue center stars of the living for the stark gold ones of those lost and all were kids he had personally known.

  Florian Kopeicki grew up in the place just ahead. Becoming a tank driver in Patton’s Third Army, he’d survived lethal armored campaigns all across Europe. Then a hot, Nazi, 88 round hit his gas tank at the Battle of The Bulge, incinerating his crew in a blaze of erupting fuel and ordnance.