Eating Buzzards by Gerald Thurmond Jim paced over each railroad tie, looking for the body he didn't want to find. He marched up the steep grade and turned his head left and right with each measured step from tie to tie. The ties were marking his memory, moments that passed through him like a second-hand that would not sweep, but paused on each mark of the clock dial. Gravel, tie, gravel, tie. He focused his attention between the extended rails, not knowing what was around each turn. What did a dead person look like? Did it look like a dead fish, deer, or quail? He didn't want to keep walking, but he forced his feet on and up the track. His shoes felt like they were weighed down with memories. He picked up each foot and lifted it closer to the uncertain future. The track wound up Signal Mountain and through the narrow passage between the Great Smokeys. It climbed steeply and switched back across the mountain face. He guessed that three more miles separated him from the railway crew. He wondered if he would see a state line sign. No, that's only on the highway he had taken to the mountains with his mother and neighbor. The events of that morning paced across his brain. It started when he was in the kitchen making his lunch for school. He was listening to WSB, trying to decide if he should wear his raincoat. "Good morning, it's seven o'clock. Nationally, the stock market continues its sharp decline," the metallic voice said. "President Hoover has scheduled a press conference for one o'clock today to discuss the apparent collapse of Wall Street. WSB will cover the press conference live, via telegraph. "In local news, Pullman Car No. 28 derailed between the Georgia and Tennessee line last night. It was carrying freight and passengers bound for Chattanooga. Railway officials are on the scene where bodies are being pulled from the wreckage of the overturned train. Over 100 passengers were thought to be on board. Railway officials said the derailment was most likely caused by mechanical brake failure on the switch-backs of Signal Mountain; but details of a full investigation will be released later. We will update this story as it evolves. In the weather today, rain is expected throughout metropolitan . . . " Jim wondered if he had heard the announcer right or if he were still dreaming from last night. What car did he say? No. 28? Pullman? His heart beat faster, irregularly. He stood up, fought off a mental blackout that tried to draw him into a tunnel of darkness, and pulled the printed schedule down from the refrigerator. The magnetic clip released the document, fell from the refrigerator, bounced off the floor and rolled under the sink. "Mom," he yelled upstairs, "come down here quick. There's been a railroad accident." His mother came down the stairs in her pink bathrobe and black furry slippers. Without heels she stood under five feet in height, magnifying her child-like looks. She was often thought, by strangers, to be Jim's sister--they were only sixteen years apart in age. Only the crow's feet and deep lines beneath her eyes belied her true age of thirty-one. Her glazey hazel eyes opened into slits and stared at her son. "What's going on, Jimmy?" "Car 28 derailed on Signal Mountain last night." She paused, looked at Jim as if he were lying, and tried to swallow against a dry mouth. "Where's the schedule?" she stammered. He unwrinkled the paper from his fist and handed it to her. She looked at it, then back at Jim, then returned her stare to the paper. "What did you say?" she asked, combing her fingers through her tightly curled hair. "The radio just said that Pullman car No. 28 derailed last night in Tennessee. They're searching for the bodies." Mrs. Williams sat down slowly. She rubbed her eyes, put the schedule on the kitchen table and looked at it again. A gradual, grim realization fell across her face. Her eyes widened and scanned back and forth across a field of empty space between the unraveled schedule and her contracted pupils. "Call the railroad and ask them what's going on," she said from her trance. "And put on some coffee." Jim picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect him to the Pullman information office. All lines were busy. He hung up the receiver with an unsteady hand. "Mom, the lines are all busy," Jim offered, "but the radio said they would update the news when more information came in." Jim sat down next to his mother and held her hand. They listened to the radio for an hour, waiting for news. The screen-door slammed shut and startled them both. Their neighbor Mrs. Reardon stood in the foyer that lead into the kitchen. She was in her bathrobe and curlers, and was wearing no makeup. Her countenance was severe. When she saw the railroad schedule in Mrs. William's hand and the confusion on Jim's face, Mrs. Reardon sat down in silence. They drank coffee and watched their plates of grits and bacon solidify and congeal. Jim wondered if he could build a brick outhouse using grits as mortar. By ten o'clock the radio reports were still vague. "Bodies are being recovered from the mountainside;" the scratchy voice said, "but no names will be released until positive identification is made and the families of the deceased are notified . . . " They called the railroad office again, finally getting connected to the information clerk. She told them what the radio had said. Bodies had been thrown from the train. A search was in progress. Details would be announced over the radio. The two women could wait no longer. They felt like they needed to do something, so they decided to drive the 110 miles to Signal Mountain. They would listen to the radio in the car. Jim sat in the back seat and wondered what was going on. Why hadn't they announced anything? Were there any survivors? Riding up to Signal Mountain, Jim thought about his father, the man who ruled his house, ordered his mother around, and expected complete compliance from them both. He did not grant an ounce of leeway. Any broken rule was punished by the sudden belt or clenched hand. Both he and his mother were punished as unruly children. They cried and prayed together after their punishments. Mom prayed for Popa's soul, but Jim prayed for discipline. Jim learned that order and discipline were good things. They made him think better. His mind stayed clear. He did better in school and through order and discipline had managed to save twenty dollars--an amount so great that for Christmas it would buy a box of Cuban cigars for Popa, a lace handkerchief for Mom, a dozen shotgun shells and new fishing flies for Jim's sportsman box. Jim knew both sides of Popa. The man of the house and the man in the woods. Popa was so different when they were hunting or fishing. He was almost kind and loving. He was the naturalist John Muir and Jim was his disciple. He was the nature lover and master-hunter; Jim was the apprentice-cleaner who had to pass countless tests before he could cast a line or load a gun. Jim was not allowed to bait a hook until he could clean a fish, gut it, scale it, and lay the fillet flat across the ice. He was not allowed to load a shotgun until he could field dress a deer, skin it, bleed it, carry it to the truck, and carve it into steaks. Those were the rules. When he had learned these basics, Jim was given a rod and reel for his birthday and a shotgun for Christmas. He wasn't allowed to touch them until he could describe each of their components, where they fit, what function they performed, and how they could hurt a man if he didn't know how to treat them with respect. Not until he was twelve was Jim allowed to fire his first shotgun or cast his first line. When he finally went out with his Popa, rod or shotgun slung over his shoulder, Jim felt like he was a man. Popa then let him go into the woods with the neighborhood men and their sons. Their first hunting season together was three years ago. Jim couldn't imagine a hunting season without Popa. He still had a lot to learn about calling ducks, flushing quail, tracking deer, tracking, tracks, railroad tracks . . . "Jimmy, why are you so quiet?" his Mom asked from the front seat of the northbound car. "I'm just thinking." "What's on your mind, son?" "I'm thinking about how much I like hunting and fishing with Popa. That's the best thing we do." "Don't you worry now, we'll find out soon enough and--God willing- -this day'll be over before you know it." Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Reardon returned their attention to the two lane highway. The new Ford droned up the graded hills and ascended toward Signal Mountain and the narrow railway pass. The whining of the differential gears lulled Jim back to thoughts of Popa. He was thinking that his favorite times with Popa were when they were up before sunlight, silently preparing for the group hunt. Each was responsible for himself. Each was treated as a man, though the sons knew they were second-class sportsmen, competing for the acceptance of their fathers. Jim Williams, Freddy Reardon, Bobby Jones, and Johnny Fulcher wanted to be men. They chewed secret tobacco at night in their bunk beds. They put a spit bucket in the center of floor and took turns spitting into it. Whoever missed the most, after five rounds, had to clean it up. After a day of hunting or fishing, the boys were sent to their bunks while the men stayed up late, making noise, shouting and carrying- on in a way that men only do when they are away from their wives. The boys stayed up too, chewing their tobacco and telling stories about the hunt, girls, and school. While the men shouted and smoked cigars, the boys talked about how they were going to set up their own still, just like the ones on the police page: a bathtub with a boiler and coils of copper pipe. Bobby knew where a bathtub was in the woods. Jim and Freddy could get copper pipe from the railroad yard. They could get corn from the market. They could build a shelter around it and camouflage it like a field blind. But they were just talking, all except Johnny who had little interest because his Dad secretly served homemade wine with every meal, even on the sabbath. But he feigned interest by listening with open eyes. They agreed that their fathers would whip them sober if such a thing were found out. Their fathers would severely punish them because a man could go to jail under the Volstead Act, according to what they read in the papers. The illegality and immorality of it only sweetened their cunning, planning, and deception. Each knew he would get it bad--the risks were high--so they talked it up like prisoners planning an escape that would lead either to their freedom or execution. Bobby's father was the preacher. He would get it the worst, so he was talking the most manure. They said that Jim and Johnny would get it the least, probably have it "confiscated" for medical purposes. Jim knew better. He knew from church and Popa that drinking was the devil's poison, a sin that sent you to hell unless you "moderated" and only drank when it was "appropriate," like at private weddings and bachelor parties. If anyone got caught, Jim would get it the worst. He would get the belt, not the switch. It would land on his hide with a sudden stop. The Ford and Jim's thoughts halted under a railroad overpass. Mrs. Williams reached her hand out to Mrs. Reardon, paused, then turned her head back over the bench seat to look at Jim. "Jimmy, you get up there and start walking the tracks to the mountain top," Jim's Mom said with a tremble in her voice. "Mrs. Reardon and I are going to start from the Tennessee side and meet you at the wreck. Don't touch no dead people, except if they look like Popa. And if you find Popa, run to the wreck and wait for us there. Radio said it's on the Tennessee side, third switch-back off the mountain top. Now go on, boy and be strong. Your Popa'd want you to be strong now." Mrs. Williams turned her head from Jimmy. Her hazel eyes held pools of suppressed sorrow. Mrs. Reardon reached for her hand again. "He'd want you to be strong too, Lizzie," she said. Gravel, tie, gravel, tie. Jim paced on. He felt like a steam engine, straining against the mountain, pulling the weight of passengers, freight cars, mail, coal, fire, and water. What was a baptism by fire? Jim wondered. Bobby's dad preached about that in church yesterday when he and Mom went alone. Popa couldn't come because he was hauling freight to Charleston. Jim liked looking at Popa in his Sunday clothes. Popa looked like Clark Kent on Sundays. In the church pew Mrs. Williams and Jim sat so close to the pulpit that Jim could see the breath trails coming out of Rev. Jones's nose. The combination of cold air and rising breath made Rev. Jones look like a gothic statue from a New York stone building. Jim knew about New York because Popa had taken him there last Easter break. The New York-bound train clickety clicked over each state line. Seven hundred miles north of Atlanta it was still winter. Jim didn't know about that. He sat in the back of the coal car, sweating like a hot horse and admiring Popa's command over the train. Popa stared at a point one mile down the track, ordered around the shovel boy, watched the gauges, and shouted commands at the other engineers and firemen. Jim watched the whole world race by as the train hauled crates of peaches, oranges, and grapefruit up to the city where "folk don't know what fresh food is," Popa said. Popa knew everything and traveled everywhere. To Jim he was Marco Polo on wheels. The wind was cold; but the engine was hot with steam. Jim's sweat evaporated off his face like pan water from a wood stove. By Pennsylvania he was shivering. In New Jersey he was coughing, and for three days in New York he lay ill in the railroad bunk bed, guarding Popa's grip-bag, and waiting for him to come back each night. Jim didn't care if he was stuck in bed sick, it was still the best trip ever. He didn't even mind when the Pullman nurse gave him bitter medicine and sat on his legs while taking his temperature. What made the trip so good was that each night Jim and Popa talked in the bunkhouse, like real men did. The railroad workers would reel in after a night of "seeing the sights." Popa, red-eyed and tired from "speaking-easy with the Yankees," sat at the edge of Jim's bed and told him colorful stories about the people in the big city. Popa smelled like cigars and the medicine from the Pullman nurse. "Popa did you get some medicine from the nurse?" he asked. "Why do you ask?" Popa said, cocking his head to the right and looking at Jim through his glassy left eye. "'Cause you smell like it," Jim said sleepily. "I just took some preventive medicine tonight, son," Popa said, rising from Jim's bed. "Now go to sleep. We're leaving tomorrow." Jim watched Popa stumble, undress, and fall into bed. He wondered why Popa would have taken medicine if he wasn't sick yet. He hadn't seen the nurse give him anything; and Popa sure smelled strong. Jim listened to him snore, matched his breathing to Popa's, and was soon asleep. The next morning, after a phone call from Atlanta, Jim's Mom made Popa get him a passenger ticket for the ride back to Georgia. Jim felt important sitting in the Pullman coach car. He told his fellow passengers that HIS Popa was driving the train and they'd sure get there safe and on time. That was true. Mr. Williams had the best safety record in the Southeast Region and Jim was proud of it, at least until that morning. Gravel, tie, gravel, tie. Left, right, look with the eyes of a buzzard sweeping a valley. At the mountain top Jim descended carefully and looked for the switch-backs that were hidden by rows of pine trees. On the second turn he saw the first body lying on the gravel. Actually all he could see were the shoes and pant legs sticking out of the brush. The guy must have landed head first, Jim thought. The pants were old and ratty and the shoes, exposed from the brush, had holes in the bottom and tape over the toes. Jim guessed that it was a hobo who was free riding. He had seen one arrested in Baltimore on his trip to New York. The conductor and caboose-man swept the train at each major city and threw the bums off, arresting them if cops were around. Jim thought that this bum didn't escape being kicked-off by the railroad men. Pullman mechanics who didn't keep the brakes fixed had caused him to be thrown from the train, had caused his un-natural death. Curiosity drew Jim closer. He pulled back the pine tree branch that covered the upper body. The body was stomach down; but the head was turned around so that the man looked like he was wearing a clerical collar. Jim knew that after shooting birds, you grabbed them by the neck and spun their bodies around like a ferris wheel, breaking the neck and quickly killing the wounded bird. Popa said it was merciful to break their necks if they were still alive after you shot them. Popa said that it was a sin not to eat what you killed, even if it was by accident. Jim looked on the body again. He had never seen a dead man before, but figured that the bum's neck was broken, so he died with mercy, quickly and suddenly. Jim felt creepy. He didn't want to but he couldn't help wondering who would eat the man and absolve the accidental sin of the railroad killers. Buzzards? Jim started thinking about two years ago when he had to pay for his murdering sins. He had killed a buzzard while hunting with Popa and his railroad buddies. "Son, don't you know the difference between a buzzard and a black duck?" "Yessir, but I thought it was a duck, coming into the field to eat." "Boy, it may have been an accident, but you have to be responsible for your actions, you have to eat everything you kill. That's the law of nature," Popa said. He looked down at Jim, switched his cigar from one side of the mouth to the other, and spit on the ground. He towered over Jim at six feet three inches. His black hair curled out from under his hunting hat. His face twisted up and looked on Jim with scorn, then pity. "Son, you might get sick from eating this buzzard," he said, "but if you cook it all night it will taste less like crap." Jim learned a valuable lesson in mercy. Killing for fun, no reason, or accident was a sin. Killing for food was not a sin; but the buzzard still tasted like crap. Buzzards tasted like crap because they ate crap, dead flesh, trash. Black ducks tasted the best because they only ate plants. Mallards tasted fishy because they ate fish. While Jim tended to the buzzard all night, the railroad men and Popa played cards and drank hot cider. Jim wondered why they carried on so much. They drank a lot of cider and Jim was only allowed to drink cocoa. Coffee and cider were only for the fathers. Coffee was nasty anyway, Jim thought. And it was bad for your aim. Jim didn't understand why the fathers told the boys that coffee was bad for their aim, but necessary for the men. Jim guessed it had something to do with staying up late and needing to wake up. It couldn't be anything else. Gravel, tie, gravel, tie. On the second turn Jim found more bodies, some in really gross conditions. They were cold and swollen up, like flesh balloons. He wasn't looking at faces any more, just the clothing. He knew Popa's uniform of black and white stripes, almost like the convicts in the picture shows. On the third switchback he saw some railroad men carrying stretchers down the track. He smelled smoldering coal and burnt pine. A tall, skinny cloud of smoke was rising from down the mountain. Jim figured it was the engine coal, still burning against the brush. "Hey boy, get down from that track," one of the skinny men shouted. "This is an accident scene. You get on down the mountain, heah?" "I'm looking for my Popa," Jim said, trying to choke back a crack in his voice. "Come on down, boy," the man repeated, grabbing a stretcher and turning around. "Go ask the foreman near the wreck." The man shouted those last words with his back turned to Jim. Jim acted like he didn't hear the man and kept on looking for his Popa. He looked at every body he could see. Some were thrown clear over the tree tops and down onto the mountain face. Jim wondered if any had survived. Some had to have, he guessed. Maybe some people only got a broken leg or something. Not everyone could have been crushed or killed. After looking at another ten bodies, Jim made it to the wreck: a hideous vision of twisted track and torn metal. The freight cars had jumped track first and had cleared the mountain face like a forest fire or team of lumberjacks with chainsaws. No plants, trees or anything was left where the freight trains had scraped the earth. Cargo was spilled everywhere--torn boxes of machine parts, crushed equipment, and punctured, leaky barrels of oil. About a hundred feet further, at the sharp turn of the third switchback, Jim looked in awe at the scene of destruction. The track was wrenched from the ground. Passenger cars and the steam engine were lying on their sides fifty feet down the mountain face. The mountain was so steep that the cars and engine were almost upside down. Up on the track Jim could see about twenty men pulling up stretchers of bodies and loading them onto a passenger car that had become a hospital on wheels. Among the rescue vehicles there were three hospital cars and one engine. Jim saw his mother walking from the other side of the wreckage. She was arriving at the scene the same time Jim was. Mrs. Reardon walked with her, but they didn't make good time. They were wearing heels and carrying umbrellas. Jim just then realized that it had been raining. He hadn't noticed before. The rain was beaded and dripping from his Popa's hunting jacket and the Yankees hat he bought at Penn Station. Jim felt like he was watching the world though the eyes of a bird flying overhead. He was sweeping around, looking at the wreck and wondering what it was all meant. "Jimmy, come down here son," his mother called. "Did you find Popa?" "Nome," Jim said blankly. "Let's go ask the foreman." They held hands with Mrs. Reardon and walked toward the tall man in the dark suit, overcoat, and hat. He had a clipboard with papers that he was checking off with a pencil. He put the pencil behind his ear and turned to look at the two women. "Ladies, what are you doing up here?" "Her husband was on this train," Mrs. Reardon said. "He was the chief engineer. Where is he?" "I'm sorry to tell you this ma'am," the foreman said, lowering his eyes and looking at the piece of railroad track in front of Mrs. Williams and Jim. "The chief engineer is dead. He was crushed by the train when it overturned." The foreman raised his eyes from the railroad track and looked into Mrs. Williams's face. "When we found the wreck, his hand was still on the brake, ma'am, so he died trying to save others. He didn't jump the train like the other crew did. Arthur Bennett will be considered a hero for his bravery." Mrs. Williams gasped and dropped to her knees, grabbing for Jim as she fell. Jim reflexively reached out for her arm, but he missed; and she fell on gravel, between two ties. Jim watched his mother fall to the ground. He hovered over her like a bird circling an inlet cove. He fought off the sensations of distance and estrangement and reached down to her, picking her up and regaining his own conscious awareness, like Proteus changing from a flying bird to a grounded man. "Sir," Jim said with a strained voice. "Did you say the chief engineer was Arthur Bennett?" "Yes, son," the foreman repeated, looking down at Jim's wet boots. "I'm awfully sorry, son." "But my Popa is James Williams," Jim said. The foreman's face changed. Color returned to his cheeks and he began to smile broadly. His eyes lit with the single pleasure he had felt that day. "Your Popa's James Williams? Son, it's your luckiest day. Your Popa called in sick yesterday. Boys say he's down at the speakeasy, drinking it big and gambling hard," the foreman proudly said, looking around in a half circle. His voice suddenly hushed and as he regained his somber composure. "Your Popa must be the luckiest man in the world today." Jim looked desperately into the foreman's face. "But that can't be my Popa. He doesn't drink or gamble." "Son," the foreman said, "calling in sick saved your Popa's life. Now count your blessings." Jim was stupefied. He started feeling like a buzzard again, soaring in circles over the wreckage. He looked down at his Mom, who was now supported by Mrs. Reardon. She swooned again. "Thank God he's alive!" she said and fell across the gravel, tie, gravel, and tie. Jim felt dizzy. His head was spinning and spiraling upward, lifting him to the hovering heights of a preying buzzard. He wondered what the body of a dead hero tasted like. He wondered who would have to eat it.