Paul:

Paul: An American Story ©

Chapter One: Homecoming

The train lurched to a halt.

The side door on the boxcar slid open, slowly, quietly, at least as quiet as Paul could make it.

Open only about two feet, he slipped out and jumped onto the ballast, the crushed stone that supports the railway tracks. The tracks what the Hobos call the Permanent Way.

Hesitating for a moment, listening, he could hear the slow, methodical footsteps crunching on the ballast, approaching him in the darkness.

Paul knew it was a Bull, the Hobos’ name for a railroad cop, a hired mercenary, and Paul was pretty sure he knew which Bull it was. Four stops back; he saw a new Bull board the train, so he climbed down from his Penthouse Suite and slipped into the Empty, what the Hobos call a boxcar with no freight in it.

Standing dead still for a moment longer, then jumping into the ditch below the ballast, he rolled and landed upright. Paul could hear the crunch of boots on the ballast coming from behind him.

His bindlestiff, or pack, which contained everything Paul owned, was still in the Empty, but no time to go back for it now.

He needed to bolt and bolt fast.

Coming up the bank from the railroad ditch, Paul took to a gallop.

The lights of Centralia were not far off to his south.

Suddenly, a bright flash of light hit in his brain, then there was nothing.

“Paul?”

“Paul Thompson?”

“Paul?” the deputy repeated.

“Paul?” the deputy repeated.

Not all of a sudden, but in short, pulsating intervals of dim light, like through a piece of glass smeared with Vaseline, Paul began to focus on his immediate surroundings. Through the pounding pain in his head from the Bull’s blow, he realized he was in a jail cell.

The deputy was standing in the open doorway to his cell.

“What in tarnation happened to you, Paul Thompson?” he said. “And where the heck have you been for the last five years? We last heard you was in Ohio, and then nothing more.”

Paul sat up on the wooden cot. He rubbed his neck on the right side below his skull. Looking up at the deputy, he said, “Should I know you?”

“Know me? I’m your brother Jacob!” said the deputy. “You’re home! Nemaha! Centralia! We had all but figured you were dead.”

“Jacob? I don’t remember nothing, what happened? Why am I in jail?” Paul asked.

“You got clobbered pretty good. There’s a new Bull on the MoPac,” said Jacob.

The MoPac, what Midwesterners called the Missouri Pacific Railroad.

Jacob continued, “And he has cut himself quite a reputation. Killed a Bo in Kay See. Judge let him off, Self-defense. Yes sir, he is a devil. More than likely, he got you with his axe handle.” answered Jacob.

“I tell you, I don’t remember nothing,” repeated Paul.

“Well, we had the Doc up to look at you when you first came in. He says you took a pretty bad blow; surprised you’re still breathing. That Bull probably knocked the sense clean out of you.” Jacob exclaimed.

“That Bull wanted you charged. Says the MoPac has a new zero-tolerance for Hobos. I say that bonk on your head is all the zero-tolerance you need. Besides, the train left hours ago. I’m just keeping you here for your own health and safety.

Lots of Hobos get tossed out, down along the banks of the Black Vermillion, and left for dead, which is how we usually find them.”

“I tell you, I don’t know nothing,” said Paul as he abruptly vomited.

“Oh Lord, Paul! Let me get you a wet towel. You’re in a bad way,” Jacob said as he stepped from the cell to a wash basin and dipped a ripped piece of cloth into the water.

“Here,” he said, handing the wet cloth to Paul.

Paul just looked at Jacob with a blank stare. Then he vomited again.

Jacob gently, quietly shut the cell door and took off out of the jail to find the Doc.

He ran down the main street back towards Doc’s house. It was just becoming light, and the sun was just about to break the horizon. He knocked at Doc’s door and waited. After a short time, he knocked again, then again.

“Alright, alright! I’m coming!” he could hear the Doc say from inside.

The year was 1934, and in small town rural Kansas, a town Doctor worked mostly out of his black bag, making calls. The Depression prohibited the luxury of formal offices. One would have to travel to a bigger city to find a doctor’s office or hospital.

“Doc! You gotta come now! Paul is in a bad way!” Jacob said through the door, just as it opened.

Doc appeared in a long nightshirt and pants, holding an oil lamp. “What is all this commotion, Jacob? What are you telling me?”

“Paul! He doesn’t know who I am! Says he can’t remember nothing,” replied Jacob.

“Let me get my boots and a coat,” said Doc. And the two of them walked swiftly back to the jailhouse.

By now, the sun was bright on the horizon, and the small town was coming to life. They could hear the roosters crowing, and several dogs began to bark.

Jacob ran several paces ahead and, reaching the jailhouse, threw open the door and skidded to a stop. Standing just inside the doorway, he turned, putting his hands on the jambs, and slumped over. Looking up to face Doc, he said, “He’s gone. He’s gone, Doc. He tricked me! Paul tricked me!”

Just then, a middle-aged woman wearing a full nightgown and sleeping bonnet came rapidly around the corner, “Jacob! Jacob!” she shouted. “Oh, and Doc! Come quick, there’s a fella laying out back of the house! It doesn’t look good, Doc!”

Jacob, with Doc in tow, followed the woman back around the corner and up the side ally. There was Paul. Face down in the dirt. Motionless.

The woman gasped.

Doc knelt over Paul and checked for a pulse. Looking up at Jacob, he said, “He’s gone, Jacob, I’m sorry.”

Jacob, tears running down his cheeks, wiped his face with his shirt sleeve and said, “Paul’s finally caught the West Bound.”

Hobo parlance for death.

The three stood in bowed silence for several minutes.

It was late October. The summer had faded, but the chill of the dawn had gone, and the air was dead still. A hint of warmth appeared as the sun began its ascent.

“Oh, God… Doc, he’s face-down in the dirt. We need to clean Paul up. This is no way for him to end up. Please turn him over, and I’ll go get something to clean his face. Mrs. Neilson, do you have a blanket to cover him?” said Jacob.

Jacob took off on a run back down the alley towards the jail.

Doc knelt and slowly, respectfully turned Paul onto his back. Paul’s mouth was open, and there was vomit on his face, all caked with Kansas dirt.

Mrs. Nielson let out a cry, “Paul Thompson?! Oh, Doc, I didn’t know this poor soul was Paul. When did he get back to town?”

“Just last evening, Mary. Last night actually… late,” said Doc. “Can you get something to cover him with?” he continued.

“Oh, my goodness! Of course, Doc,” said Mary as she turned and went up the back steps and into her house.

Jacob came running back up the alley with the wet cloth he had handed to Paul back in the jail. “Look at him, Doc. Oh, God, Paul. What happened to you?” he said, kneeling down and wiping the dirt and vomit from Paul’s face.

Mary returned down from the back porch of her house with a newspaper in her hand. “Mr. Neilson is still in his bed. He’s in a real bad way, too, Doc. I just couldn’t take his blanket. I’m sorry, Jacob, but this will cover Paul until the undertaker comes.” She said and gently and with reverence,

placed a sheet of opened newspaper over Paul’s face and shoulders, then placed more over his torso and waist.

Jacob stood, Mary stepped back, and along with Doc, the three just stood in silence over Paul’s body.

Jacob was crying softly, and Doc put his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “I’m so terribly sorry, son. Paul was always a hardworking, honest young man. This Great Depression has gone on too long and has taken too many bright young men like Paul. Sometimes, I wish I’d have been killed in France.”

“What?” Jacob said, looking over to Doc. “What? Look at him with his Hoover blanket. That’s all he has, a goddamn Hoover blanket.”

Then Jacob looked at Mary, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Nielson. I shouldn’t have cursed like that. Thank you. I mean, Paul needed a cover, and if a Hoover blanket is all there is, then that’s what he gets.”

Mary, without saying a word, conveyed her sympathy and forgiveness to Jacob.

The three stood there in silence as some early morning passers-by noticed the scene and approached.

“What’s going on here?” one young man said.

“Looks like another Bo caught the West Bound, Charles.” his companion replied.

With a nod of his head, Doc looked at the new arrivals and suggested they remain quiet. Respectful.

The five stood several minutes longer in motionless silence. Then, a strange sound was heard. A whirl, then a slight whistle. A dust devil appeared and skirted along the dirt lane behind Mary’s house. It turned and headed directly towards the group of mourners.

It arrived and hovered, but for a brief moment, lifting the newspaper, the Hoover blanket, from Paul and upwards into its vortex. Upward and upward, the paper spun as the dust devil moved along, raising the paper higher and higher until it was barely visible.

The group, silent, somewhat shaken, coughed and sneezed and slapped the dust from their clothes. All five looked skyward at the paper dancing in the sky, now silhouetted against the early morning sun.

Then, there was total silence again. Total silence until it was broken by a deep moan. A moan that sounded so primal the group felt a collective shiver.

Mary screamed and ran back up the steps and into her house, repeating, “It’s the Lord. It’s the Lord!”

Charles and his companion looked at each other in confusion.

Doc looked to Jacob, and another primal moan came from Paul’s body.

“He’s alive, Doc! Paul’s alive!” Jacob said as he dropped to his knees, hands clasped together tightly in prayer.

“Jacob? Boy? That’s what we call a death rattle, son.” Doc said sadly.

Then another moan, and Paul’s body began to convulse.

“No, Doc! Paul’s alive!” Jacob screamed. “What should we do? Look at him!”

Being as surprised as anyone, Doc immediately took off his belt and slipped a doubled-up section into Paul’s mouth between his teeth.

“Get water and get more rags. And somebody go to O’Brien’s and get some real blankets. Tell O’Brien to put them on my bill. Hurry! Hurry, boys.”

“And tell O’Brien to come himself!” Doc shouted after Charles and the other boy. “And tell him we’ll need whiskey!”

“Oh, Doc… oh, Doc… what do I do? I don’t know what… what should I do?!” rambled Jacob.

“First off, take some big breaths and calm yourself down. I’m going to need you to listen to me. Go to the jail and get a bucket of water and more rags. Clean rags, Jacob.” Doc implored.

Jacob ran off, taking only several steps, stopping, and turning to Doc, “Is he going to make it? Paul is alive! Jesus, God has saved him! Oh, Doc. what should we do?”

“Just do what I told you. Just calm down, boy. Go get a bucket of water and some clean rags. Go, boy!” Doc shouted.

Paul’s convulsions lessened, and then his head and shoulders moved as he attempted to sit up. His eyes opened wide just as Mary came back down the steps of her porch. She looked at Paul, and his eyes looked at her. Then she crumpled to the ground, passed out with either fear or reverence for what she had just witnessed.

Jacob came running back, bucket sloshing water in one hand and rags raised above his head in the other. “I got ‘em, Doc!” he shouted. Then he saw Mary on the ground. “What happened? What happened to Mrs. Nielson, Doc?”

“She fainted, Jacobs. Probably just the vapors. Most likely, she was so moved by the Holy Spirit that she just fainted.” said Doc, now with a newfound calmness in his voice. “Give me the bucket and rags and attend to her. Sit her up and wipe her forehead with a damp rag.”

Charles and his friend came running back up the alley with proper blankets and O’Brien following behind. They approached the scene of the Miracle and stopped. “What happened to Mrs. Nielson?” Charles asked in astonishment.

“She just had an attack of the vapors; help Jacob set her up and use one of the blankets to get her off the dirt. You.” Doc continued. “What’s your name, son?” Doc said to Charles’ friend.

“Lester, Lester Banks, sir, I mean Doc, sir.” The young man replied.

“Lester, boy, help me lay down a blanket and get Paul off the dirt,” Doc said.

O’Brien arrived, panting and gasping for air. “Doc! What is going on this morning? What is… Paul Thompson? When did he come home? What’s wrong with Paul? Looking over at Jacob, “Jacob? What happened to Paul?” Then he looked back at Doc, whose outstretched arm and open palm spoke for themselves.

O’Brien uncorked his bottle of whiskey and handed it towards Doc. Hesitating, he pulled back and took a long gulp for himself, then handed it to Doc.