in the morning. Drinking was something men did after dark, and mostly in quiet places away from women and children. The marshal cursed at the porter and told him, “Get on away from here if you know what’s good for you!”
From where he sat, Amafo kept his back turned to the marshal. When the shouting grew louder he kept his head down. I could tell he did not want the marshal or anybody else to notice us.
Marshal Hardwicke turned to the door, slamming it so hard a piece of cedar door facing, four feet long at least, popped loose and fell to the platform.
“Time we go,” Amafo said, thinking the marshal had entered the stationhouse. He rose and stepped around the table to help me with my chair. At that moment the marshal whirled and knocked Amafo against the table. Though violent in its result, I am convinced this was an accidental act. But something about bumping against another man, a weaker man, seemed to breathe new life into the marshal.
He glared at Amafo. His eyebrows wrinkled and his mouth drew tight. He slowly stooped and picked up the door facing with both hands. Amafo huddled with the two of us behind him, holding us back with his arms.
As the marshal stood up, he swung the board in a loop, catching my grandfather on the side of his head and knocking him to the ground. Amafo’s eyeglasses scooted almost to the edge of the platform. The marshal drew back the board and slapped it hard against the building, shattering the wood and showering Jamey and me with splinters.
The marshal stood glaring over Amafo. His face was red and his eyes were bloodshot. His fists were clenched tight and shaking. I had heard Pokoni speak of the devil taking hold of somebody, and I think I was seeing the devil come alive in front of me. I looked around for help.
The platform was full of people now. The stationhouse had emptied. Men and women circled us, but no one moved to help. I cried out and the marshal looked at us, Jamey and me, trembling and cowering against the wall of the building. His face suddenly changed, as if he was seeing us for the first time. His eyes slowly moved to Amafo, who was struggling to stand up.
“Ooohh,” the marshal moaned, dropping the board to the platform. The ticket master hurried through the crowd and picked it up.
“It’s sharp as a butcher knife. He could kill somebody with this,” he whispered, shaking his head.
Amafo was too dizzy to make it to his feet. He fell back to the platform and lay on his side, breathing hard and squinting his eyes. The marshal reached for my grandfather as if he were about to help him, but he stopped himself. In that moment something unspeakable settled on the railroad platform, some new level of meanness. I was afraid, but not too afraid to look squarely at what was occurring.
The marshal stood straight up, slowly and deliberately, dusted the splinters from his shirt and turned to face the gathering crowd. For the first time in my life I saw the power that evil and fear exercise over people. The marshal stared at the crowd. Better said, he stared at each and every person there, every man and every woman, challenging anybody to say a word, to move a muscle. Everyone in their turn took a step back.
When he was satisfied no one dared confront him, the marshal tipped his hat, turned smartly and walked to his wagon.
I knelt over Amafo and realized how old and helpless he was. He looked like a stranger, a tired and fallen stranger.
“My glasses,” he said. “Please, where are my glasses?”
I turned to the platform’s edge where I had last seen his glasses. A short young man in a tan suit, an out-of-town traveler, stepped from the crowd. He took his hat off as he approached me, in a sign of respect.
“Here you are, young lady.” He handed me the glasses. The right lens was shattered, but still snug and tight in the frame. The glass was broken in the shape of a spiderweb, with a small circle in the center surrounded by jagged lines.
“Yakoke,” I said. He looked at me strangely. “I am sorry. I meant to say thank you.” The man smiled with good humor and nodded to my grandfather.
“Is he—the old man—is he alright? Will he be okay?”
“Yes, I think so. He is my grandfather, my Amafo. We need to go. Can you help me lift him?” The man nodded as Amafo tried to stand.
“Give me my glasses,” Amafo said.
I had never looked at Amafo’s glasses before. They were part of his face, nothing more. I lifted the glasses high. The frames were much heavier than I had imagined. I watched the sunlight flash against the broken lens and was suddenly overcome with the desire to see through my grandfather’s eyes.
The time to be afraid was over and I knew it. Now was the time to see, to truly see what had happened. I turned to the crowd and held the glasses in front of my eyes. Everyone appeared normal through the left lens, blurred and slightly misshapen, but normal to look at.
Through the right lens, the shattered spiderweb lens, everyone was distorted. Legs and arms were broken and people seemed ugly and freakish. I turned to look at the young man who chose to help us, expecting him to appear like the others.
At first glance he did. But then he smiled and I saw through the spiderweb lens that this was a good man. I lowered the glasses from my face and the man nodded to me, as if we shared a secret.
“Are you sure you want to help us?” I asked.
“Yes. Give the glasses to your grandfather and let’s get him to his feet.”
Each of us took an arm. We counted to three and huffed and puffed and lifted my grandfather to a standing position. Jamey appeared like a rabbit from his hiding place, brushing the dirt and dust from his britches.
“I can see you home,” the man said.
“You have a train to catch.”
“There will be other trains. Will you be safe?”
“Oh yes,” I heard myself saying. “No one would touch us now. No one wants to be part of this.”
“You have a wagon?”
“Yes. And I can drive it.” I was lying, of course. I had never driven a wagon before. But I knew that in an hour I would know how to drive it, if we were to make it home.
The man tipped his hat once more. I saw respect in his eyes. He turned away and joined the throng of people crowding around the doors of the departing train. I now had the task of getting Amafo to the wagon.
“Here, Jamey,” I told him, “come over here by Amafo. Don’t get in his way, just walk next to him. He’s gonna rest his hand on your shoulder.” I positioned Amafo’s right hand on Jamey’s shoulder, squeezing it soft to let him know I loved him, then I stepped in front of my grandfather in case he fell forward.
The three of us rambled across the platform. Excepting for the shameless and unspeakable horror of what had just happened, we might have been a medicine show act, a horse with a make-believe head and tail and two funny men under a blanket trying to walk in step.
I walked directly in front of Amafo and he rested his left hand on my shoulder. With every few steps I could feel the pressure grow lighter. I knew Amafo was beginning to move under his own power.
“Ho,” he said as we stepped to the street. His head
