There was no one on the sidewalks, no one in sight, but despite that, he had the sense that the place was bustling, busy. A powerful, impatient humming noise contributed to that impression, and then he heard a steam whistle ring out loud above it and he knew that a train was near. He turned back again, into the wind and the dust, and now he could see the train coming right down the sidewalk toward him. He stepped back as the locomotive roared up and went by in a blur that lifted more dust into his eyes and flapped his clothes against his body. The huge metal wheels were going right over the sidewalk, no rails beneath them, grinding off a fine layer of concrete, and Josiah knew then where all the dust was coming from.
He had his hands up, shielding his face, when he heard the locomotive slow, and the cars that had been flying by began to take shape, corrugated doors and iron ladders and couplers like clasped fists of steel. All a dirty gray; nothing in this world had color. Then he turned to his left, looked down at the long snake of train cars yet to come, and saw a splash of red on white. The red was in the shape of a devil, with pointed tail and pitchfork in hand, the word Pluto written above it, all this on the side of a clean white boxcar. As this car approached, he could see there was a man leaning from it, hanging out of the open door of the boxcar with just one hand to support him and waving with the other. Waving at Josiah. The man wasn’t familiar but Josiah knew him all the same, knew him well.
The train was at a crawl now, and Josiah stepped closer to it as the Pluto boxcar approached. The man hanging from it wore a rumpled brown suit with frayed cuffs above scuffed shoes, a bowler hat tilted up on his head, thick dark hair showing underneath. He smiled at Josiah as the steam whistle cut loose with another shriek and the train shuddered to a halt.
“Time to be getting on,” the man said. He was hanging out of the boxcar right above Josiah now, almost close enough to touch.
Josiah asked what he was talking about.
“Time to be getting on,” the man said again, and then he removed his hat and waved it at the locomotive. “Won’t be stopped here forever. You best hurry.”
Josiah inquired where they were bound.
“South,” the man told him. “Home.”
Josiah admitted that he wouldn’t mind heading home, didn’t know this place, didn’t like much about it. How was he to be sure the train was heading home, though? Home was a place called French Lick, he said, home was Indiana.
“This is the Monon line,” the man said. “The Indiana line. ’Course we’re going to French Lick. West Baden, too. Best be getting on now.”
Josiah said, As he recollected the Monon hadn’t carried a car in upwards of forty years. That got the man smiling as he set his hat back on his head and the whistle blew.
“Could be so,” he said. “But if there’s another way of getting home, I don’t know it.”
He shifted then, stepped back into the boxcar. Something splashed and Josiah looked down and saw the man was standing in water now, had soaked his shoes and those frayed pant cuffs.
“Best be getting on,” the man said again, and the train began to move, water sloshing out of the boxcar and splattering the sidewalk. “I told you, we don’t stop here forever.”
Josiah asked whether the man was certain they’d be headed in his direction.
“Of course,” the man said. “We’re going home to take what’s yours, Josiah.”
The train was pulling away, and Josiah started walking after it and then broke into a jog and still wasn’t fast enough, and then he was running all out, his breath coming in jerking gasps. He got too close to the train, though, and the force of the cars thundering by spun him and he stumbled, and then that dream was gone and he was into another.
Out in a field this time, a field of golden wheat turned blood red by sunset and bent double from a stiff wind. Shadows lay at the opposite end of the field, a row of trees there, and above them the dome of the West Baden Springs Hotel rose mighty and shining into the sky. It was time to head over there and get to work; Josiah knew that and knew he’d have to hustle because this was a mighty long field and that wind was pushing hard against him, making the walk difficult.
He leaned into it, walking hard, but the sun was sliding away fast and the moon was rising beside it at the exact same tempo, like someone pulling a clock chain that was attached to both. The dark fell fast and heavy and the hotel dome gleamed under the moon and the wind was colder now, so cold, and yet Josiah didn’t appear to have gotten anywhere at all, had just as much of the wheat field ahead as he’d always had. As the dark gathered, he could make out a man at the tree line, the same man from the train, wearing his bowler hat and with hands jammed into his pants pockets. He was shaking his head at Josiah. Looked disgusted with him. Disgusted and angry.