The Day Steam Died Part 4

"But . . ." Rick searched for words that wouldn't come.

Ann pressed her finger to his lips again. "Remember all the good times. Go on now, write your stories and make me proud so I can brag about how I knew you back when."

A soft embrace sealed with a light brush of her lips on his cheek, and she was gone.

Ann ran, sobbing hysterically, and collapsed onto her bed. When she tried to wipe her tears, she discovered Rick's gift still tightly clutched in her fist. Hands shaking, she slowly opened the tiny box. Pain shot through her body with the force of lightning when she read the inscription, I will love you forever, engraved inside the silver friendship ring.

"It's not fair!" she cried out. She loved him more than anything in this world and couldn't let him know how she felt because of that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Tank Johnson.

Ann made a silent vow to herself. She'd get even with him, someday. With the box pressed against her chest, she lay across her bed, sobbing for her lost love and the life she so desperately wanted.

The 1947 Fleetline Chevrolet rolled to a stop in front of the Barnes' house and sat for hours. The aroma of burned leaves still hung heavy in the night air. Thankful everyone was already in bed, Rick sat motionless in the car. He gripped the steering wheel, trying to make his head stop spinning.

How could he explain what just happened to his mother? He wanted to unload his burden, hoping for a miracle answer.

Christmas Day 1955 had scarred his soul and would remain a confused blur in his memory that wouldn't become clear for years.

The bell echoed in Rick's ears as he trudged down the hall on the first day back at school after the holidays. He didn't speak or look at anyone for fear he would see Ann and lose what little composure he'd mustered that morning.

"Hey, little man, did your girlfriend dump you?" Tank chided from behind.

Rick whirled around to face Tank. "How would you know about that?"

"Oh, the Tank knows everything that goes on in this town, little man. Maybe you didn't know her as well as you thought, or maybe you just aren't man enough to satisfy her."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" Rick drove his fist into Tank's nose, taking him down in one quick motion. Rick pounced on top of him, punching his face before Tank could react to Rick's unexpectedly bold response.

"Get off me, you little s.h.i.t, before I hurt you!" Tank rolled them over and pinned Rick's arms with his 220-pound body straddling his chest.

Rick couldn't move.

"You bloodied my nose, a.s.shole," Tank said. "I ought to pound your face into the back of your head." Tank drew his fist back, ready to punch Rick when Princ.i.p.al Stillman grabbed his arm.

"That will do, boys. I want to see both of you in my office, right now."

The office was small with only enough room for two chairs with faded upholstery and an oscillating fan in front of the window. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the two sidewalls. On a hook on the corner of his desk hung the infamous paddle everyone called "The Enforcer," which put fear into the hearts of the elementary grade boys. Mr. Stillman's heavyset, six-foot-six size instilled respect in the high school students. He was a no-nonsense, disciplinarian princ.i.p.al. Students avoided being sent to his office for any reason.

Rick and Tank sat in the two chairs in front of Mr. Stillman's desk, which he sat on the edge facing the boys.

"Okay, what's the problem here? Who wants to go first?" Princ.i.p.al Stillman asked, staring at the two combatants over wire-rim gla.s.ses on the end of his nose.

Tank spoke first. "I don't know, sir. He just blindsided me with a cheap shot. I think he's jealous. We've had words about his poor coverage of our games this season. And his girlfriend liked hanging around, talking to me after the games. I can't help it if she liked my company better than his. But honestly, I never said a word to him."

"Is that true, Mr. Barnes? Did you start the fight?"

Rick clenched his jaw tight enough to crack his teeth. His body trembled so violently he could barely speak. "Yes sir, I hit him first."

Princ.i.p.al Stillman walked around behind his desk and leaned back in the creaky, high-back chair. "Would you like to explain why you started a fight with someone nearly twice your size?"

"No sir, I wouldn't. That's personal."

Mr. Stillman didn't intimidate Rick when he stood up and stared menacingly at the two boys.

"I see," he said. "Well, maybe you can come down to my office every day after school until you feel like telling me what this was all about. In the meantime, you will receive a zero grade for your first period cla.s.s. This won't happen again. Do you understand, gentlemen? Now get back to cla.s.s." Princ.i.p.al Stillman handed them each an excused pa.s.s for being late.

The boys responded, "Yes, sir," in unison and headed for the door.

"Don't forget, Mr. Barnes, 3:15 after sixth period. I'll be waiting on your answer. Tank, go by First Aid on your way to cla.s.s and let Mrs. Honeycutt take care of your b.l.o.o.d.y nose."

Chapter 9.

"Coastline transported more freight and pa.s.sengers up and down the East Coast and across the South than any other line in the country."

Awards Day 1956 Rick kept with his normal routine the last week of school, which he'd done since Ann left. As much as he hated Tank, his soul-searching grief gave him clarity in his thoughts. He finally admitted that Tank really was a great football player and his refusal to write glowing accounts of his exploits was jealousy and poor journalism ethics, even for a small school newspaper like the Railroader.

As a concession to his guilt, Rick responded truthfully, listing all of Tank's record-breaking statistics in a questionnaire sent by Parade Magazine for its High School All-American issue. Rick was surprised and honored Parade Magazine would even consider his input. He was just the editor of a small school newspaper. Down deep, Rick hoped Tank would make the Parade All-American team. He would be the first selection ever to come from the Piedmont section of North Carolina.

At the annual awards a.s.sembly, Princ.i.p.al Stillman stood center stage behind a podium, impatiently waiting for the last students to take their seats. Faculty presenters seated behind him chatted among themselves and shifted in their chairs, anxious to get the long program started.

"All rise and give the pledge of allegiance to our flag," Princ.i.p.al Stillman instructed as he turned to face the American flag that always graced the left side of the stage. A veteran of World War II, Princ.i.p.al Stillman firmly placed his hand over his heart. He led the student body in the pledge the same way he led the singing of the Star Spangled Banner before every home football game, with pride and love for his country.

"Please be seated. The Senior Awards Day a.s.sembly always gives me great pleasure. It is an opportunity to recognize those students whose efforts have allowed them to achieve higher goals. I am proud to announce we have more graduates this year than ever before earning scholarships and going to college."

Rick's thoughts drifted away from the speech to Ann, who wouldn't receive the scholarship she worked so hard for. Where was she and what was she doing now? Was she happy? It pained him to not know, but he knew he had to forget her and move on with his life. He hadn't found the strength yet to write that experience off in his private journal as just another pothole on life's highway.

His speech finished, Mr. Stillman handed Senior Academic Advisor, Mrs. Hosecloth a stack of certificates to be given out. "Mrs. Hosecloth, if you please."

"These students are being recognized for the dedication and excellence in their pursuit of higher education," Mrs. Hosecloth said. "We are proud of all of them. Please give them the applause they so richly deserve.

"I would like to start with the Lions Club's Good Citizen scholarship of two-hundred dollars, which goes to Sally Jefferies."

The a.s.sembly dragged on and on as Mrs. Hosecloth made a lengthy speech about each of the twenty-five award recipients. It was a waste of time as far as the students were concerned. They'd all gone to school together since first grade and knew more about the winners than Mrs. Hosecloth. The parents, however, sat beaming and hung onto every word about their son or daughter. Finally, she had handed out all but one certificate.

"And last, but certainly not least . . ." Mrs. Hosecloth said. You could hear the sigh of relief and rustling of the students roll across the auditorium. "It should come as no surprise. The Bankstowne Journal scholarship this year goes to Rick Barnes." Seconds that seemed like minutes pa.s.sed. "Rick Barnes," Mrs. Hosecloth repeated emphatically.

Roger Arnold, sitting next to Rick, poked him in the ribs. "Hey, man, she's calling your name. Better get up there."

Shaking his head to chase away the memories of Ann, Rick popped up from his seat and bounced up the steps to accept his award. He scanned the audience, hoping by some miracle Ann had showed up for his scholarship award.

"Stand over here please." Mrs. Hosecloth pointed to an X marked on the floor with tape. "We have a special presenter for this award today. Please welcome Mr. Carl Billings, Editor of The Bankstowne Journal, who will present the Journalism award in person."

Mr. Billings emerged from behind the curtain on the left side of the stage with a confident stride. He was short with a shiny bald head and a protruding paunch that wouldn't let him b.u.t.ton his brown suite coat. When the scattered applause stopped, he shook Rick's hand and leaned into the microphone.

"Rick, it gives me great pleasure to award this Journalism scholarship to you. I've followed your work this year as editor of your school paper and was favorably impressed. You've shown a talent for reporting objectively. The coverage of your undefeated football team showed pride in a season that was the result of a team effort boosted by the talented Tank Johnson. Your work demonstrated what good journalism is all about."

Rick vigorously shook Mr. Billings' hand and looked straight at Tank as he accepted his award for objective reporting. He hoped that egomaniac choked on those words.

The student body applauded-all except Tank Johnson. He smirked and whispered to quarterback T.R. Queen sitting next to him, "Can you believe they gave an award to that little jerk for the lousy coverage he gave me? Billings doesn't know s.h.i.t about good football reporting or he wouldn't be working for that rag of a newspaper."

Mr. Billings reached into his coat pocket and pulled out another piece of paper and turned to Rick. "Because of your writing skills and promise of becoming a good journalist, The Bankstowne Journal is also awarding you an internship with our newspaper to go with your scholarship to Cannon College. This is the inauguration of what we hope will become an annual event. Congratulations, Rick. I look forward to working with you this fall."

Rick waved the internship award in the air like he was swatting flies in response to the heartfelt applause his cla.s.smates gave him.

Tank made gagging noises that got Rick's attention. "I think I'm going to throw up," Tank said to T.R. He could hardly contain himself putting his hand over his mouth faking like he was going to vomit.

Rick ignored the taunt and left the stage, still scanning the audience for Ann. Instead, he spotted his mother in the back of the auditorium. Her face beamed through tears as she clapped. A big grin broke across his face, and he acknowledged her with a nod to the scholarship and intern award clutched in his hand.

Coach Marshal approached the microphone and raised his arms to cut the applause short. Rick rolled his eyes and returned to his seat.

"And now for the award we've all been waiting for, the Best Athlete award. I don't think there's any mystery who we're talking about here, so Tank, why don't you come on up."

Coach reached under the podium to retrieve a trophy that could pa.s.s as a double for the Heisman. Tank waved his index finger, signaling the number one sign as he bounded onto the stage.

"Congratulations, son, you earned it," Coach Marshal said. Tank shook hands with Coach and waved the trophy over his head with his other hand. The student body broke out in thunderous applause for their record-setting, triple-threat running back. He was the pride of Bankstowne.

Coach Marshal raised his arms again to quiet the students. "Settle down. That's not all. I received a telegram this morning from New York announcing Tank Johnson has been selected first team halfback on the Parade Magazine High School All-American team. And not ten minutes later, Coach Jim Turner called from the University of North Carolina to inform me he also wanted Tank to be an All-American on his team."

The student response rattled the auditorium windows as Tank hugged Coach Marshal and danced around the stage waving his trophy. The rest of the school's first undefeated football team in Bankstowne's history came up on stage and joined in the celebration. Coach Marshal pulled a powder blue and white North Carolina jersey with Tank's number thirty four on it from under the podium and presented it to him.

"Good luck, wear it with pride, and make us all proud," Coach Marshal said. "Your old black and gold number thirty-four jersey will be hung in the trophy case in the main entrance to the school. It's been a pleasure coaching you. You're now officially a North Carolina Tar Heel."

The team swarmed around Coach Marshal and Tank at center stage, chanting, "Two, four, six, eight, who do we appreciate? Tank, Tank, Tank!"

Rick forced himself to politely applaud the one person in the world he hated the most. It was hard to admit that Tank was a great football player, as a person, however, Rick could honestly say he was the biggest jerk he'd ever known.

Dismissed from the awards ceremony, Rick quickly made his way to the back of the auditorium for a congratulatory hug from Mary Beth. Her eyes were still red from her tears of joy.

"I'm so proud of you, and your father is too. You know he would have been here if he could have gotten off work."

"It's okay, Momma. I know he doesn't think much of my being a writer. But he'll understand one day that it's an important profession."

"Give him time," Mary Beth said. "He'll come around. Come on, let's go home and I'll fix your favorite supper to celebrate. How does meatloaf, mashed potatoes, English peas, and banana pudding for desert sound?"

Wil worked his way through the crowd and gave Rick a big slap on the back. "Way to go, big brother. You almost upstaged that jerk Tank. Now let's go home. I'm starving for some of that banana pudding."

Chapter 10.

"The railroad became the lifeline to both North and South during the Civil War, moving troops and supplies quickly to the battlefields."

A new start Ann dropped out of school because Sam Johnson insisted she and her family leave Bankstowne before the Spring semester started. She didn't enroll in high school in Winston-Salem, because she was pregnant. School policy didn't allow pregnant girls who were showing to remain in school. She and Red were to go to work immediately at the Sam's S & T Distributing Company in Winston-Salem.

Red had reconciled Ann's pregnancy in his alcohol-crippled brain and accepted the move without resistance. They told no one where they were moving to; it was part of the deal Red had accepted in exchange for not filing rape charges against Tank. Sam wanted them hidden away where they couldn't cause any trouble.

There were many perks in addition to the jobs and house. Financial support during Ann's pregnancy and hospital expenses were taken care of by Sam when the baby came. He could afford to be generous and took no chances.

Sam never questioned whether it was Tanks baby. He knew how reckless his son was; he'd cleaned up Tank's messes all his life. Nothing was going to stand in the way of his new enterprise and scheme to put Tank in the General a.s.sembly and eventually into the governor's mansion.

Ann had no work experience but was a bright student and learned quickly. Red kept his promise to stop drinking when they moved. Even he was aware of the toll it had taken on him. His memory was faulty and pushing a broom was all he was capable of doing. Without his liquor, he withdrew from the family, smoked too much, and watched TV every day after work until bedtime. Since Red never owned a car, a company car picked him and Ann up every morning. They never spoke more than to say good morning to each other.

The GMC van bounced over a railroad crossing next to the warehouse at exactly eight o'clock. A squat metal building with no windows sat in the middle of a ring of trees with a loading dock on the west side. A spur line off the main track lay beside the loading dock. Located in an unpopulated wooded section in the south edge of town, they were isolated with only one road in and out.

A scruffy, tobacco chewing man emerged from the front door and walked out to meet their chauffeured car. Ronnie Gaines, a no-nonsense, rough-around-the-edges former tobacco farm worker was the warehouse foreman.

He slipped and fell from one of the high beams and broke his shoulder while hanging sticks of strung tobacco in the top of a curing barn. The accident disabled him from the strenuous work of pulling, stringing, and hanging tobacco leaves. When Sam Johnson gave him a chance to work in his S & T warehouse, he became a loyal employee. Gaines made sure cases of cigarettes were removed from the delivery trucks to the warehouse without being damaged. He cast the same eagle eye over the forklift and loading crews when the cases were moved from the warehouse into boxcars quickly without damages.

The loading crew was all illegal Hispanic immigrants that stayed in a back room in the warehouse when not loading or unloading cases of cigarettes. A dark-skinned man dressed in a silk pin-striped suit with oily black, slicked-back hair watched every move inside and outside of the warehouse.

The front office was small and stuffy from a gas heater in the corner of the room. Ann entered cautiously, not knowing how she would be received or if the other workers knew why she was there. She was determined to work hard and keep her mouth shut, waiting for the right opportunity to make Tank Johnson pay for what he did to her.

Gaines escorted Ann and Red inside without introducing himself. He led them over to the office manager's desk where a plain woman in her late fifties with graying cropped hair was smoking a cigarette.

"This here is Marie Wilson. Mr. Johnson said you can help her with filing, fixing coffee, or whatever she wants you to do. She runs the office and I run the warehouse. We come to work at eight, take a thirty-minute dinner break, and go home at 4:30. I guess that's about all you need to know from me. If you have any questions, ask Marie. She can fill you in. I'll be checking on you." Gaines winked at Ann then motioned to Red. "You come with me. I'll have to figure out something for you to do."

The gangly foreman gave Ann a slow once over from head to toe, smiled, and then shuffled out of the office dragging his run-over-at-the-heel brogans with Red one step behind him.

"His name's Ronnie," Marie said. "Don't pay no attention to him. He thinks he's G.o.d's gift to women. When he finds out you're pregnant, he won't come sniffing around no more. By the way, when's the baby due?" Marie asked. "You don't look very far along."

Stunned by such a rude and personal question, Ann shot back angrily. "How did you know I'm pregnant?"

"Oh honey, calm down. There ain't nothing goes on round here I don't know about. Everybody Mr. Johnson sends here has a story or owes him a big favor. He pays better than anybody in Winston-Salem, and n.o.body gives a d.a.m.n about what kind of business he's running here," Marie said, taking one last deep drag on the Pall Mall stub she could barely pinch between her thumb and index finger.

"That young buck son of his knock you up?" she said. "You ain't the first one that h.e.l.lion son of his knocked up. I heard the last one moved back to New York with a pocket full of hush money."

Speechless at her first encounter with her new boss, Ann struggled with a response. It wasn't any of her business if she was pregnant or who the father was. Better judgment told Ann to play along, to make friends with this person. She could be helpful in finding out about Sam's secretive business.

"July fourth," Ann said.

"What?" Marie lit a new cigarette from the stub of her old one before snuffing it out in the overflowing ashtray on her desk.

"July fourth. That's when I'm due. Some Independence Day, huh?" Ann said. She paused for a few seconds then asked, "What did you mean about the kind of business Mr. Johnson was running here?"

"Pretty simple really. Not very legal, though. North Carolina don't tax cigarettes but a couple of cents a pack. He has somebody paid off over at the Reynolds plant to lump his orders in with the legal wholesalers. The law don't watch too close when he buys cigarettes by the truckload from Reynolds and ships 'em on that railroad where he's some kind of big shot.

"My guess is those Mexicans Joey keeps hidden are illegal. They don't speak English, so they ain't going to talk to n.o.body. They live in the shadows, afraid of getting deported. They a.s.semble the big boxes and pack them with small boxes containing cartons of cigarettes. An a.s.sembly line seals and labels the boxes headed to their destination. Most of them are sent to somebody up in New York where their taxes are ten times higher than ours. Some go to the Midwest. Anywhere he can make a profit. Honey, you're looking at a tobacco goldmine here." Marie looked Ann straight in her eyes. "You didn't hear a thing I just said, okay?"

"Right. Not a word."