Where You Once Belonged Read Online Free PDF Page A

seen it all,” Foley told us. “I seen everything.”
    Then he was finished. There were others walking along the tracks toward us to look at the car: Ed Taylor and Mrs. Taylor, who had come into town to attend church; they were dressed up. Foley walked over to them and began to tell them his story.
    My dad watched him for a moment. “That’s the trouble with eyewitnesses,” he said. “They just think they’ve seen it all. And every time they tell it they think they have to improve on what they’ve already told somebody else.”
    “Didn’t you believe any of it?” I said.
    “Maybe. But George Foley likes to hear himself talk. It’s how he makes his living.”
    “I thought he was a barber.”
    “He is.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    “So now I’m going over to the depot,” my dad said, “to see if I can find the engineers. I want to hear what they have to say. Then I’ll check with the police. In the meantime you can take some more pictures.”
    He walked away toward the depot. I didn’t know what more he had in mind for me to take pictures of. But I moved around to the far side of the car and took several photographs from that angle, with the car in the foreground and the train risen up black and massive behind it. There was still snow on the ground where people had tracked it and the contrast of the snow and the train should have made a good picture, but I forgot about facing into the sun so that later when the photographs were developed it all looked washed out. There was a lot that I didn’t know yet.
    When I had finished I decided I wanted to look inside the car. I hadn’t done that yet and thought I wanted to. Afterward I was sorry I had. There was blood on the crushed dashboard and there were ragged bits of the old man’s coat stuck to the driver’s door. And hanging from one of the rags was a flap of skin which still had hair growing from it. I felt sick. I walked away from the car back along the tracks toward Main Street.
    I intended to wait for my dad in our car, where we had parked it at the curb in front of Kinsey’s Hardware. But before I got there I met Jack Burdette.
    Jack was alone. He was walking toward me along the tracks in his winter coat; his face looked pasty and he hadn’t shaved yet. I stopped when we were close to one another.
    “Did you see it?” he said.
    “Yes. But I’m sorry about your father.”
    “Everybody is,” he said.
    Then I didn’t know what to say. I thought of warning him. But I didn’t.
    He went on and I turned to watch him walk along the tracks. Beside the train he looked cold and dark and solitary. Then he reached the car and I could see that George Foley had discovered him. Foley was already beginning to talk. He put his arm around Jack, while the other people stepped back a little, but I didn’t want to watch it. I knew what Foley had to tell him. I went on and got into our car and turned the heater on and waited for my dad to come back from the depot.

• 3 •
    T hey buried Jack’s father on the following Tuesday in the Holt County Cemetery northeast of town. In the nights preceding the funeral there was a wake, then on the day of the funeral there was a Mass of the Dead in the morning at St. John’s Church. Afterward, outside, it was very cold standing at the gravesite. Old Father O’Brien said quickly what he had to over the closed casket and spoke in Latin while he scattered ashes. When it was over those of us who attended the gravesite rites filed past Jack and his mother and took off our gloves to shake their hands. Then we went home, or back to school or back to work, and they were left alone.
    Things were tight then. Don Nexey, who owned the lumberyard, gave Mrs. Burdette a check equal to two months of her husband’s salary—which was generous of him, people said; he wasn’t required to do that—but the extra money would not have gone far, probably not much beyond the cost of the funeral and the old man’s casket. As a result, in the middle