SOUTHBOUND

by David M. Sweet

Doralea looked out the window of the southbound train. Mid-October

leaves dappled the Kentucky hillsides in fiery oranges and burning reds,
dull yellows and rusty browns with a few evergreens peaking through the
canopies. Colors were made even more vivid by the morning sun and
clear, blue sky. Flaxen sedge grass along with green tangles of weeds,
brambles, and even a few autumn flowers blurred together as she shifted
her gaze downward toward the edges of fields and fence rows speeding by
next to the railroad bed. They were somewhere between Cincinnati and
London, finally going home. Her young husband, having recently returned
from the War in the Pacific a year after the Japanese surrender, slumped
next to her, snoring. He was somewhat unshaven with his Navy jumper
wrinkled and unbuttoned, his tie undone. A silver flask with the initials 'JB'
inscribed in a flourish of calligraphy peeked from the inside of the jumper
pocket. Her curiosity was piqued because those were not his initials. He
had cocked his white sailor's hat over his eyes. She huddled under his
dark, navy peacoat. She wore a plain, beige cotton dress and scuffed
matching pumps that had seen several seasons of wear. The coat
completely covered her small form. At seventeen she was still quite petite,
not even five feet tall, so she was able to curl up into a small ball under the
woolen peacoat. She had forgotten how cold autumn mornings could be.
Her breath fogged up a small section of the window. She tentatively
reached one arm from under the coat to quickly scribe a happy face and
her initials, MDJ, on the window with her index finger. Mrs. Doralea
Jackson, she thought. She quickly tucked her arm back under the coat.

She loved riding the train. She adored the mournful cry of the steam
whistle, the rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the rails, the way the cars
undulated up-and-down and side-to-side, giving the conductor, and
anyone else walking the aisles, comical movements. Unfortunately, none
of her outings on the rails had ended happily so far. She was hopeful this
one would be different.

Her first trip had been with her mama and five brothers to Indiana five
years ago to live with her dad. Richard Hood was a small man with a poor
constitution. He had not been able to find steady work in London. Almost
no deep mines operated in the county. Though many areas of the country
had started to see brighter days ahead at the end of the depression,
Eastern Kentucky still lagged behind. For the United States, war was still a
few months away. For the last ten years, her dad had left home several
times, traveling throughout Cincinnati, Hamilton, and Indianapolis to find
some factory work here and there, but layoffs were common. He finally
landed a steady job with the Hobart M. Cable Piano Company in La Porte,
Indiana. His family had remained in Kentucky. He sometimes came home
for Christmas. The family had grown to seven children, and even though
Annie, the oldest, had recently married, six children was too much for
Adeline to handle on her own. Richard tried to keep himself afloat in
Indiana, but couldn't manage himself and his family in Kentucky. The
family would have to move. Doralea, the second oldest and
twelve-years-old, would take her first train ride North.

She had grown up within sight of the L&N Railroad. It ran down Mill Street
near the old house. Her uncle owned it, and they had been fortunate to
live there, but it was time to leave it behind for now.

"Doralea! Denver wandered off again.

Go find him. Hurry up, we're going to miss the train!"

Adeline, already exhausted, wrestled two small suitcases that held all they
could take with them. The family had relied upon Richard's meager wages
for the last several months. They also depended upon the kindness of
family, but that time had now come and gone. She once lived with Richard
in Cincinnati a few years ago and hated being so far from home and family
every minute she was away. Annie and Doralea were the only children at
the time. They left the girls behind with her sister. Adeline begged Richard
to go back home, eventually taking it upon herself to return because she
didn't want to give birth to her third child away from family.
"Mama, I got him and Stanton." Doralea walked around the corner of the
house balancing the toddler on her hip and holding Stanton by the
hand."Now, Harold, hold Cliff's hand. You all stay close to me and mama.
We get to ride the big choo-choo today!"

They made their way down cold streets to the depot. February winds cut
deeply, and flurries scattered in the early morning air. Blue patches of sky
peeked through low, grey clouds. Adeline managed to herd her gaggle to
the depot and onto the northbound train.

Doralea was elated about her first train ride. Up close, the blue and vanilla
L&N passenger cars seemed almost magical. She spent many evenings
after supper watching trains pass their house in the gloaming, dull yellow
lights of the passenger cars revealing shadows through the windows. Who
were they? Where were they going? Why were they on the trains? So
many questions.

"Look, Harold, there's our house!" Doralea pointed excitedly. The boys
smashed their faces against the windows. It was an amazing experience to
see it from this side. The house looked smaller somehow. She was now one
of the shadows in the train and could finally answer some of those many
questions she had asked herself so many times. They left London behind,
and soon Kentucky. When the boys finally settled down, she watched the
icy world pass outside. Winter clouds gathered again creating a
monochromatic panorama. Patches of snow clung to frozen ground along
fields and forests, the snow nearest the tracks made dull and grey by coal
soot from many passing steam engines. Rusted leaves clung stubbornly to
oaks. The only real color in the landscape were from evergreens and
occasional mistletoe hanging high in the skeletal arms of bare trees.
Fogging up the window with her breath, she slowly traced her initials onto
the cold glass: "DH."

The most amazing moments of the trip had been crossing the long iron
bridge into Cincinnati. Doralea had imagined big cities, but this was like
something out of a storybook: paved streets everywhere with so many
cars and people! Mama had hated living here; however, Doralea could
imagine herself in a fancy dress on the arm of a handsome young man
going to the movies and out to eat in a nice restaurant. She wanted to live
here.

Reality quickly beset her. She spent most of her trip to La Porte helping
her mama wrangle the boys, especially when they changed trains. She
kept a close eye on them in bigger stations and crowded depots. The boys
wanted to constantly run up and down aisles and hang from the backs of
seats. Over the course of the more than 400-miles, Cliff threw up three
times, Stanton sang nonsense at the top of his voice, Harold randomly
pulled her hair and made stupid faces at her, and Denver cried off-and–on
the whole trip. Her mama spanked all of them at least twice, which
Doralea didn't find fair since she was trying her best to help. By the time
they reached La Porte, she noticed bruises starting to show on her mama's
legs and feet where they had stepped on her so many times. As the train
pulled into the station, the large red sandstone clock tower of the La Porte
courthouse gleamed in the late afternoon sun. The city was near The
Great Lakes and not far from Chicago. Perhaps bigger adventures awaited,
especially since it wouldn't be long until Doralea was a teenager.

Her dad met them at the depot. He was much thinner and paler than the
last time she had seen him. His light brown hair wisped in the cold breeze.
His worn woolen coat seemed to swallow him. He grabbed the suitcases
and turned toward town. His words were harsh and few as they made
their way to the tiny apartment. Most conversation was kept between her
parents. They spoke in low tones where Doralea couldn't hear. Mama
carried the baby. Doralea wrangled the rest. The apartment was tiny and
cramped, but they would make due.

Fortunately or unfortunately, they wouldn't make due long. In March, her

dad, caught in a spring rain storm on his way from work, soon became
extremely ill and missed two weeks of work. Mama tried to get a job
cleaning houses, but no one would hire someone they didn't trust from
out of town. Her dad lost his job because he missed too many shifts. They
would be taking the train back to Kentucky.
"Doralea? Doralea, honey. Are you okay?" Her husband's deep, rich voice
broke her reverie.

"Yes, just drowsy."

"We're almost home. I've been thinking. Once I get my next paycheck, we'll
be right back on the rails, and we'll take The Flamingo to Jacksonville. I
owe you a proper honeymoon."

"I would love that."

"I need to stretch my legs. You want something to eat? I need coffee."

"No. I'm okay."

Denvil Jackson straightened his uniform and made his way down the isle.
She heard a man call him "Lefty." She couldn't hear their conversation.
Obviously someone he knew from London. After speaking briefly, the two
men exited toward the dining car. Doralea stared at the countryside
drifting along as the train continued southward. She worried about the
upcoming reunion with her dad.

The few years after returning to London from La Porte, her dad worked
sparingly. They received monthly commodities. Her mama took any job
she could and was still there for the children. Once Doralea turned fifteen
she started working as a waitress at a local diner, The Hob-Nob. That's
where life really began to change just over two years ago.

Denvil strolled in one day near dinner time. Doralea had briefly dated his
brother, Charlie, but her dad put a swift end to the relationship. Richard
Hood didn't care for the Jackson family. They were rough. They didn't go
to church. Their daddy played banjo at barn dances. Denvil's grandfather,
a known gambler and rounder, had been killed by a train on Manchester
Street on his way to a poker game a few years ago. Cards weren't even
allowed in the Hood household, even if used to play Old Maid or Slapjack.
Cards were a sin, as was cussing and drinking, which the Jackson's were
also notorious for doing. In fact, Denvil seemed a little tipsy when he
entered The Hob-Nob that fateful day. He was handsome, though.

"How about a little coffee, Doralea?"

"Sure. You want anything else?"

"Just to talk to you would be fine."

Doralea covered her mouth with her right hand, hiding her smile. She was
self-conscious about her front teeth. Kids at school often made fun of her.
"Denvil, I'm workin' and my daddy don't really want me talkin' to boys,
especially you Jacksons." She couldn't agree to go out with him even if she
wanted to, and she really wanted to.

Denvil grinned. "Now listen Doralea, I ain't Charlie—"

"No, you're worse," she quipped. "I'll be right back with your coffee."

Stunned and slack-jawed, he stared at her as she defiantly walked away.

He didn't expect this. She was usually quiet and non-combative. He
wouldn't give up, putting on his best smile when she returned.

"Why don't you go out with me before I ship off to war?"

"Why, you can't run off to war. You're only sixteen."

"My mama said she doesn't remember what year I was born; it could've
been 1925 that would make me eighteen."

"My daddy was right, all you boys do is lie. I don't think you should go, I
hear it won't last much longer."

"Too late. I've already joined the Navy."

"Lord, why? You ain't never even seen the ocean."

"Old Man Buckhart told me all about the ocean. I want to see it. I've even
dreamed about it. I'd rather do that than be a ground-pounder."

"Well, here's your coffee. I'll ask my daddy to see if I can go out with you."

"Don't do that! He'll never let you. Just meet me at The Reda for a matinee
on Saturday."

"I'll think about it. Besides, I can't stand here and talk to you. I'll get in
trouble."

Doralea stepped to another table, her heart pounding. She couldn't turn
around to show him just how happy she was.

That day began their lives together. She didn't ask her dad; she met Denvil
at The Reda that Saturday. The secret of dating Denvil was difficult to keep
from her dad, but she managed it. Denvil joined the Navy, and when he
returned from basic training, they snuck off to Jellico, Tennessee to get
married. He left two days later. She continued to work at The Hob-Nob,
and his brother Charlie would sometimes bring her money from Denvil's
paycheck. The rest went to his family. Because her dad had been so sick,
the money she made helped her family. This was the arrangement until
Denvil wanted her to join him in Philadelphia. He was coming home in a
few weeks, and they would need an apartment there while he looked for
work. He didn't want to return to Kentucky. Her next train journey would
be to Philadelphia.

That summer had been eventful with the war ending, but agonizing
because she couldn't allow her dad to know her secret. While she
managed to keep it from him, her mama knew but didn't say anything
because Richard's health worsened. Doralea postponed the inevitable until
the night before leaving.

"Daddy, I know I should've told you about me and Denvil Jackson, but I
knew how it would be. If it wasn't for him we wouldn't have had extra
money this summer."

Richard narrowed his eyes. "And I guess we'll have even less now."

"Harold just started a job. That'll help."

"You just go on and stay at Annie's tonight. Go on. Don't come back."

And with those words he walked into his bedroom and closed the door.

During that Golden Hour of the next morning, Doralea stood alone on the
depot platform. The world seemed so bright. Lustrous green leaves
glowed in windless trees. Jarflies released their energy in vibrato to the
rising sun. She stared into the bold sky, its blue saturation gradually fading
to white along the horizons. Staring soon became too painful. She prayed.
Her prayers seemed reflected rather than penetrating that vast depth.
Suddenly remembering her dad's eyes, also impenetrable, she closed her
eyes against it all and stepped onto the northbound train. When the train
passed their house on Mill Street she saw her dad sitting in his chair on
the porch. Stanton sat on the porch edge swinging his feet and petting his
little brown dog. When her dad saw the passenger cars, he stood up and
walked unsteadily inside the house. Warm tears wet her cheeks.

That happened over a year ago. A recent letter from her mama explained
that her dad now struggled with tuberculosis. She managed to talk Denvil
into this trip home. It had been a tough year. The tears returned. She knew
no one when she moved to Philadelphia. Denvil had given her the name of
a friend's wife who had neither been helpful nor friendly. She waitressed
in a small restaurant, and when she wasn't at work, she was home. Alone.
She even felt that way after her husband returned from overseas. Denvil's
drinking worsened. There would be times she wouldn't see him for two or
three days until he drunkenly stumbled into their apartment. She issued
an ultimatum: she was going home with or without him. He relented.

She began recognizing landmarks. They were near Mount Vernon. London
would be the next stop. Denvil returned from the dining car. He had been
drinking.
"Don't talk to me." She pulled the peacoat tighter around her.

She watched the last few miles of autumnal landscape unfold. When the
train passed the house on Mill Street, no one was outside. She and Denvil
would be staying with his family until they could leave for Florida on The
Flamingo, which she felt guilty about now. She must see her dad first.

Entering the family's small house, her brothers, so happy to see Doralea,
crowded around. Denver hugged her longest. Her mama had supper on
the table. Her dad was in his bedroom. She could hear the strangling
coughs.

"He wants to talk to Denvil," Adeline said, her face expressionless.

Denvil entered the bedroom and closed the door. Doralea sat at the table,
but couldn't eat. Her brothers had a million questions, which she tried to
answer but the only voice she longed to hear was her dad's.

After a while, Denvil exited the bedroom. He was not happy. "Get your
things. Let's go."

Doralea warily approached the bedroom. Her dad stood there in faded
pajamas with a Bible in one hand and a bloody handkerchief in the other.
His eyes were sunken, his face ghostly. He suddenly unleashed wracking
coughs. She waited for him to finish.
"I love you, Daddy–"

"Don't call me 'Daddy.' You ain't no daughter of mine."

He slowly closed the door in her face. She listened to his coughing as he
climbed back into bed, bedsprings straining as he attempted to make
himself comfortable.

They left in the gathering dusk. Denvil carried his duffle bag and her
suitcase. As the young couple made their way across town, they heard
mournful cries of a steam train continuing its trek southbound toward
sunnier shores.