Chapter 6: Hot Axle

The mail on Thursday came on time, and so did everything else.

By Saturday I had nothing left to be right about except a train.

We were at the Cutler crossing by half past seven.

I had two folding chairs, a thermos, a cooler, and the binder.

The crossing is where Mill Road meets the tracks on the east edge of town.

It has a gate arm, two red lights and a feed store.

Lucy looked at the empty rails and then at me.

"What time did I say the clinic was?" she asked.

"You said you were late for it," I said.

"It's at four, Dad."

"Four in the morning?" I said.

"Four in the afternoon," said Lucy. "It's a Saturday."

I had assumed the clinic was in the morning, because that is when I would have scheduled it.

"The freight will come early," I said.

"It might come at four."

"It might come early."

Lucy set her chair beside mine and sat down.

"Then we're early," she said. "Rest stop."

She meant it kindly.

I had put a rest stop on the itinerary every ninety minutes, and Lucy had started calling them out in a flat bus-driver voice.

We stood up, walked once around the van, and sat down again.

That was Rest Stop One.

By the third rest stop a man in a pickup truck had slowed to look at us.

He was local, with a feed-store cap, and he rolled his window down.

"Everything all right?" he said.

"We're waiting for a train," said Lucy.

"It's a Saturday."

"We know."

"There's no train till Tuesday," said the man. "I come through here every morning."

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