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.