He would go away for his two weeks’ vacation and ride trains through the Rockies and Sierras, even the Copper Canyon in Mexico. It would be wonderful to do it all alone, as he could strike up acquaintance with all sorts of people in coach cars, dining cars, club cars, bars, restaurants, hotel lobbies. It would be a glorious two weeks. But then — after it was over, he would have to come back here, Olive would return from her mother’s, all would be again as it was now. And it was intolerable.
He decided to go away for good. He knew he had two weeks before he would be reported missing, and by that time Hamilton Stone would be gone, disappeared, vanished without a trace; he would have ceased to exist.
Fortunately, the Savings and Loan was open until late on Fridays, so he was able to withdraw all the money from Frank Johnston’s account. He ate his supper in the kitchen, where he found in the refrigerator a big bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, a loaf of Honey Krust bread, two pies — a custard and a lemon meringue — a gallon container of chocolate-chip ice cream, and a carton that had held a dozen Hershey bars, with almonds, of which three remained. When he had eaten sparingly — a few bites of everything — he turned off the refrigerator and speculated happily about what the contents would be like after two weeks.
He packed with care, taking nothing that could be identified as belonging to him. He left behind all heavy winter clothing and all strictly summer things, so there could be no speculation about whether he had gone north or south. They would not look for him in Florida, since no one with any sense would go there in July. The only thing he regretted leaving, besides Rex the dog, was his wonderful, unique railroad. It was not yet complete: He had only started to collect the small figures of the people who would give it life — engineers, conductors, maintenance workers, passengers riding in the coaches and waiting on the platforms. Olive, he supposed, would smash it all as she had threatened to do.
Early on Saturday morning, Frank Johnston put his suitcase in Hamilton Stone’s car and drove to the airport, where he parked in the long-term lot in the farthest corner, locked the car, and threw the keys into a trash bin, along with Stone’s driver’s license and the parking ticket. Then, carrying his one suitcase, he took a taxi back into town to the bus station. He boarded the first bus that left; it happened to be bound for Dallas.
Once the bus was on the road, Frank Johnston began to enjoy himself. He felt no remorse, no apprehension, no fear of being followed — only a soaring of the spirits, a sense of high adventure, of freedom. The bus had reached St. Louis before the euphoria subsided, leaving Frank cold sober, as it were, and facing reality. What now, Frank Johnston?
Olive had stubbornly stayed at her mother’s house waiting for Frank to call her to make up. No one missed him until the Monday morning following his vacation, when the hospital began calling his home telephone number to find out why he had not returned to work. There was no answer. After several days, they sent a security guard to Ham’s address; he reported no one there. It required more time to track down his wife at her mother’s house. Olive had no idea where he might be. She called the police and notified the Bureau of Missing Persons. The missing person was a forty-two-year-old man of medium build with thin, sandy hair and a receding hairline, hazel eyes, and a pale complexion because he spent all his off-duty time in the basement. No distinguishing marks, except a habit of biting his nails on the right hand only. The police advised hiring a private investigator.
It was a month before Ham’s car was found abandoned at the airport. Then several days went by while the police determined that Hamilton Stone had not been on the passenger list of any flight leaving at the time he disappeared, which time they were able to fix approximately by the condition of the refrigerator’s contents.
Olive’s anger was boundless. Her first impulse was to smash the train, but she was restrained by her mother, who pointed out that it was the only thing of value Hamilton had left behind. Olive decided she would have to sell it. Again it was Mrs. Treadle who advised against doing that. “It’s the thing he’ll come back for,” she said, “that and the dog. He’ll find he can’t live without them two things and he’ll come back.”
Meanwhile, it was necessary that Olive find employment. She had never worked and was without the simplest skills. Her mother moved in with her to help with expenses, including payments on the mortgage, and Olive found a job with a cleaning service that paid the minimum hourly wage. It wasn’t too bad; since she moved at the speed of a glacier, she could collect a day’s pay for about two hours’ actual effort.
Rex died eight years and six months after Hamilton Stone had disappeared. Cause of death was not a broken heart, as Olive believed, but old age; the dog was thirteen.
“Well, it looks like he ain’t coming back,” Olive’s mother said, referring not to Rex but to her son-in-law. “We might’s well sell the train and get shut of it.”
Back issues of a magazine, the Small-scale Railroader, were stacked on a shelf in the basement. They were full of advertisements from buyers and sellers of model trains and all their parts, including the prices. Looking through them, the two women found that Ham’s train was valuable; it might bring enough to pay off the mortgage and enable Olive to quit working, which activity — although requiring minimum effort — was becoming ever more distasteful. They entered into correspondence with the magazine, describing the railroad in detail, enclosing a spread from a local paper that had once published a piece about it. The correspondence resulted in a contract being entered into and Mrs. Treadle paying for a quarter-page advertisement. Prospective purchasers were asked to offer a reasonable price and given a box number to which inquiries were to be addressed.
Ten days after publication of the advertisement, a big Manila envelope arrived from Small-scale Railroader. It contained a dozen letters inquiring about purchasing Ham’s railroad. Olive and Mrs. Treadle sat down to read them all, spreading them out on the kitchen table after Olive had finished eating two jumbo cheeseburgers and half a coconut layer cake. (Regular work had increased her appetite.)
One of the letters offered more money than any of the rest. It was postmarked Bradenton, Florida, and the letterhead read, Dr. Frank Johnston. His address was 5020 Gulf Boulevard.
“This one seems to know more about trains,” said Olive, passing the letter across the table. “That’s about what Ham said it cost him to build the train. Quite a coincidence, the price he offers.”
Mrs. Treadle studied the letter. Struck by the sum mentioned, she said thoughtfully, “Maybe it’s not coincidence.” She gave her daughter a meaningful look.
Olive’s facial expression remained unchanged, a mask of fat through which no emotion showed. The mother regarded her child fondly, loving her for being so totally dependent. She did not see in Olive a fat person with a thin one inside trying to get out; she saw a helpless baby girl almost concealed in a feather bed, as it were, from the depths of which peered two small black eyes.
“The handwriting,” Mrs. Treadle said. “Look at the signature.”
It was true that the s-t-o-n at the end of Frank Johnston’s signature was very much like the s-t-o-n-e that was Hamilton Stone’s.
“Olive, I think we have found Ham,” said her mother. “Handwriting is something that can’t be changed. I think Ham has come back for his train at last.”