Read Online The Train of Small Mercies by David Rowell - Free Book Online

ceiling seemed as low as the one in their apartment, and the grand columns had been replaced with stumps that held the dull glimmer of tinfoil. The fluorescent lights looked like they had been lifted from a cafeteria.
    â€œIf this is modern,” Maurice said—to his son and anyone else who was listening—“then I don’t want nothing to do with the future.”
    Lionel checked in at the Penn Central office, where he was directed to the Kennedy train. Stepping outside toward the rail yards, he had his head down, trying to fix the zipper on his bag, and when he looked up again and saw the immense crowd on the opposite track, he was startled. They were packed in together like gumballs. There were men in light business suits and straw hats, and young women in brightly colored slacks cradling cardboard signs that read: “We’ll Miss You Bobby” and “Rest in Peace” and “God Bless You RFK.” Several young mothers had children on their hips, and some of the women’s faces looked swollen from crying. There were a dozen young white men in their plaid shorts and button-down Oxford shirts, their faces pink from the body heat all around, and elderly black men and women hunched over, trying to will their knees to hold firm.
    Just below the crowd, on the tracks, was a flank of stony-faced police officers positioned twenty feet apart, soaking up the blinding sunlight and sweating through their blue short-sleeved shirts, the handles of their pistols pinned against their ribs. Their arms were crossed, when they weren’t wiping the sweat off their cheeks, and they stared straight ahead, not talking to one another or to the crowd above. Lionel couldn’t remember when he had seen so many black police officers at once.
    Several Secret Service agents were talking with crew members in front of the train, and when they broke up, Lionel approached, flashing his new badge to them for inspection, as he had been instructed to do inside the station. One of the agents removed his sunglasses and studied Lionel’s photograph. “First day on the job,” he said. “How about that?” He then indicated with a turn of his jaw that Lionel could keep walking.
    â€œI’m looking for Buster Hayes,” he said to the porter whose shoulders were as broad as a linebacker’s. “I’m assigned to his crew.”
    Buster Hayes was counting something on his clipboard. He let a little time pass before he looked up and took Lionel in. “Well, you’re in luck,” he said. Lionel nodded and jutted out his hand. Buster Hayes considered the hand first and could see that Lionel had done little manual labor in his life. Hayes nodded once and took Lionel’s hand in his, showing him the strength of his grip. “What do you say, young buck?”
    â€œFine, thank you.”
    â€œNo, my question was, What do you say?”
    â€œExcuse me?” Lionel said, his hand still being crushed by the older man.
    â€œI’m just checking to see what kind of listener you are, young buck,” Hayes said. “I said, ‘What do you say?’—which was not my way of asking you how you were, and yet you told me anyway. A porter has to listen . At all times. I ask you to go get me a crate of Cokes, I need to know you’re not going to come back with a box of M&M’s. If a man says, ‘I’ll take my coffee with sugar,’ then you need to not come back to him with cream. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œOkay, then. Welcome aboard. This is a hell of a first shift for a young buck like yourself. Do you know everything about this train today, and the important trip we’re about to take?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œOf course you don’t, young buck. I just asked if you knew everything about this train, and you just told me you did. You don’t know about the tender wheels or the poppet valve