Frings stood on the edge of the field that had overwhelmed the old railway yard. He was with Mel Washington and Betty Askins, all looking over at the four gleaming black railcars with BLACK COMET LINE inscribed in gold above the windows. A front was moving toward the City, the sky divided between a bright summer blue and the encroaching purple. Beneath the clouds, the gray haze of rain seemed to hang in the air. Wind eddies blew litter around the field. Occasionally a piece lifted high above the rest, as if making a break for the sky, before being sucked back down again.
A small group of Negroes, maybe two dozen, had gathered by the cars and were making conversation through open windows with people inside. Blackbirds hovered overhead, making a racket and drawing looks. A large mechanical noise was nearing, signaling the approach of something that was shielded by the buildings to Frings’s left.
“This is how it ends, huh?” Frings asked.
Mel Washington was wearing a suit, as though this was some kind of occasion; and it probably was for him. “In some ways.”
A train engine appeared around the edge of some buildings, moving in reverse. A little cheer came up from the group by the railroad cars.
“I can’t believe that it’ll actually work.” Frings lit a reefer. “Any idea where he’s going?”
Washington shook his head.
Betty said, “Does it matter?”
They left it like that and watched the engine approach the Black Comet Line cars. It slowed as it got closer to the cars, eventually inching until the couplings met. The engineer and two other men congregated around the coupling, making an inspection. The air pressure dropped and the wind changed direction, turning cool.
Satisfied that the coupling was adequate, the engineer returned to his post. The crowd around the cars pulled away. A window in the back came down and Frings saw Father Womé, looking out at the field. The engine rocked back, compressing the couplings between each car; then moved slowly forward, a blast of steam coming from the smokestack. Father Womé brought his hand up and held it as a kind of wave to the group he was leaving behind. As the train picked up speed, Frings kept his attention on Womé and, just for a moment, thought that their eyes met. Just as quickly, the moment passed and Frings was left watching the engine pull its short string of brilliant black pearls away from the small crowd.
“I guess that’s it,” Washington said as the train disappeared behind the buildings.
“I guess so.” Frings turned to walk back to his car.