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Flying
Crows by Jim Lehrer Rating: •• (Mildly Recommended) |
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Birdie Jim
Lehrer’s fourteen novel, Flying
Crows, spans most of the 20th century to present the story of
two mental asylum inmates from Here’s an
excerpt that explains the title, from the beginning of Chapter 12, “Josh and Birdie Union Station
1933,” pp. 109-117: Birdie stretched his arms
out as if they were wings. “Make the sound of a crow
for me, Josh,” he said. Josh tried. No noise came
from his mouth, but he was pleased to see that Birdie was better—calmer. He
seemed almost happy. Who knows what happened to him? thought
Josh. Who knows anything about lunatics? Birdie made his own crow
music as he began a quick swooping circle around the small space at the rear
of the train. He sounded more like a croaking frog or a neighing horse than a
squawking crow. But it didn’t seem to matter to him. “Here we are,” he said,
as he stopped and lowered his arms. “Two flown crows, about to land at Union
Station on The Flying Crow. No matter what happens, no matter who finds us,
don’t you feel like a flown crow right now, Josh?” Josh said nothing. He had not spoken
since they climbed onto the back of the train fifty minutes ago. He had sat,
silent and motionless, on the platform in a corner against the open rear of
the observation car. His senses took in the motion of the moving train and
the blustering wind. He heard the clickety-clack
of the wheels on the track and the loud blares of the whistle—two longs,
a short, and a long—as the train passed over grade crossings and through tiny
Missouri towns on the way to Kansas City But he hadn’t talked—or moved. “Flown crows feel like they’ve been
flying straight,” Birdie yelled, answering his own question. “Here we are, Birdie and Josh, having just flown straight as the
crow flies. Straight from the Birdie could talk as loud as he wanted
to now, as the train crept slowly into the main yards of Union Station. In a
few moments, someone somewhere would throw a magic switch to direct it to a
particular track for its arrival below the Union Station building. Josh’s original plan for Birdie was
based on the probability that no conductor or any other person, passenger or
employee, aboard The Flying Crow would have an occasion to check the outside
observation deck at the rear of the train this time of morning, this close to
its final destination. He had been right. They had made their stolen trip
from The train’s brakes screeched. “Hey, Josh, here we are!” Birdie said, his voice going higher and higher. “Up on your feet.
Welcome to the Union Station!” Josh did not move. “I used to come here on Saturday
mornings with my cousin Paul,” Birdie said. “He was a paperboy for the
Star—the Josh couldn’t imagine loving a train
station. Loving people was hard enough. But this was Birdie. He was some
strange kid. He seemed scared to he coming here one minute, and now he was
talking like a kid at the circus, at his favorite place. “Come on, Josh, come on! We’ll have to
be careful, but let me show you around. Let me show you my Union Station, my
massacre.” So Birdie really did see something
awful at a train station? When he got no response, Birdie came
over to Josh and leaned down. “You’re a free man, Josh, free as a bird, a
crow, just like I am—thanks to you. No more rocking in those chairs, sweeping
with those brooms, eating cheese sandwiches, running around naked, sitting
in water for hours—and mostly no more ball bats to the head. Nothing could be
worse than that; that’s what I decided. Yeah, yeah, that’s what I decided.
Everything’s going to be fine now.” Josh wanted to say something about who
really decided what about leaving Josh trembled at the last long squeal
of the brakes. The train stopped. He could hear the noise of people on the
platform. The noise of regular people in the outside world was something he
had not heard in years. Birdie jerked his hat down farther on
his head and turned up the collar on his shirt. His eyes and nose were about
all of his face that could he seen. Birdie could do whatever he wanted, but
Josh figured there was no point in doing anything like trying to hide his own
face. He had to go back to Birdie grabbed Josh by his shoulders
and pulled him to his feet. Josh did not resist. “You took care of me at Josh did not answer Birdie’s question.
Ages, like last names, were things that didn’t matter at the Sunset in “You’ve got to he at least double my
age, maybe triple—forty, sixty, one hundred, who knows? Who cares? We’re
friends, Josh.” Josh, still silent, accepted Birdie’s
arm around his shoulder and his help in climbing up and over the ornate
fencing onto the station platform. If anybody in authority—a conductor, a
porter, a cop—saw them leave the train, they must not have cared because nobody
stopped them or said anything. Birdie tucked his head even farther
down into his body in an attempt it seemed
to Josh, to be invisible. Josh couldn’t figure what Birdie was so scared of.
Wasn’t it too soon for anyone
to have gotten the word from They started walking forward with the
train on their left like any other two arriving passengers. “I love this place,” said Birdie, keeping
his head down, his voice soft. “I always loved coming here with Paul, being
here—except for that awful morning. I didn’t love that.” The jumble of noise and commotion on
the platform was suddenly too much for Josh. It overwhelmed him and he
stopped. Birdie grabbed him around the shoulders again and propelled him
forward. “It’s OK, Josh. It’s OK. Stick with
inc. I won’t let anybody catch us, either of us.” Passengers were still getting off the
train, scurrying ahead of Josh and Birdie toward some distant stairs. Men
wearing red caps were calling for customers who needed help with their
luggage. Men in dark blue uniforms with billed caps, starched white shirts,
and black bow ties were hawking items from shops on wheels with signs over
them that said TRAVELERS’ NEEDS. One sold magazines, cigarettes, apples, and
candies; another offered hot coffee and slices of coffee cakes and cinnamon
rolls. “We’re
at Track Three, but it doesn’t matter because they’re all the same,” Birdie
said. “Track Twelve was where it started,
where the train came in from Side by side. Josh and Birdie continued
down the concrete platform, passing the first and then the second movable
shop. They could hear the engine of The Flying Crow, its bell at the front
still ringing, steam hissing out from underneath the wheels. Words continued to tumble out of
Birdie, but nobody except Josh could possibly have heard what he was
saying—and Josh barely could. “There’s no Star boy here.
Somebody’s missing a big bet; somebody ought to he meeting this train with
the Kansas City Star Passengers on these early trains haven’t had a
chance yet to pick one up. Somebody ought to he here with the first paper
they’ll have had a chance to buy anywhere since they woke up on the train.
Paul knew that. I’d come with him on Saturdays. Smart, huh, Josh?” Josh nodded. None of what Birdie was
saying made sense to him. Maybe this kid had a lot more mental problems than
not being able to close his eyes without screaming. Birdie suddenly stopped and looked hack
toward the rear of the train. “I thought I saw a policeman back there. Did
you see a policeman, Josh?” There was alarm in his voice. Birdie motioned for Josh to look, too.
There were only a few slow-moving passengers behind them, coming their way. After letting out a long breath of
relief and turning completely around to look in all directions, Birdie said,
“I was down here that morning to meet the Missouri Pacific’s Southerner,
Josh. Most of the trains have names—you know, like people do, like The Flying
Crow does. Josh couldn’t remember. It wasn’t
something that stuck in his mind one way or another. This was the kind of
crazy train talk Birdie should have had with Streamliner. Josh wondered about
himself. Words wouldn’t come. What had come over him? Was he having a relapse
of some kind? He was afraid for himself: He had to get back to Again, Birdie went on without an
answer. “Could he that telling you and showing you what happened to me here
at Union Station makes me crazier. Can you stay with me and help me forever?” Josh ached to speak but still couldn’t.
He wanted to say, Had you stayed any longer at “Hey, Josh,” Birdie said, “don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re not talking. I don’t
know what’s come over you, hut that’s OK. Like I said a while ago, we’re
going to help each other.” Josh didn’t want or need any help.
Right now he just wanted to do what he could for Birdie and then get back to Birdie said, “You never did really
return to your train station in Josh shook his head and then touched
his temple with the index finger of his right hand. “Got it, yeah, yeah, your thing on the stage in the auditorium. You
went back in your mind. That must be quite a bloody story you tell. Sorry I
never saw your big performance. My story’s got some blood, too. Mostly from
one guy in the car. . .” Birdie started to close his eyes and
then suddenly opened them wide— as if remembering something. His body shook. Josh patted Birdie on the back. But,
still, no words would come. After a couple of seconds, however,
like a short breeze, whatever was happening to Birdie passed on. And his low
babble continued. “The Southerner was due in at
seven-fifteen AM., and the men in the stationmaster’s office said it was going to be about fifteen
minutes late. Think what that means. That train left New Orleans at something
like ten o’clock at night on June fifteenth, 1 933, went all night and day on
June sixteenth up through Louisiana and Arkansas, and then went all night a
second night before getting to Kansas City in the morning on June seventeenth
only fifteen minutes late. They all did that, those Santa Fes.
I love those big Santa Fes; they go to Josh
nodded agreement. Why is Birdie going on and on like this? But, come to think
of it, Josh couldn’t even imagine having the ability to make a train arrive
at a place exactly when it was
supposed to, at the right time or even the right day. He knew there were
people born into this world
who could do such things hut he wasn’t one of them. He was an approximate
man, not an exact man. As
they walked down the platform, Josh noticed that Birdie, most of his face
still hidden by his hat and his collar, was keeping a constant nervous
lookout. But he never stopped talking. “I
was running by the time I got right about here, because I could see and hear
time Missouri Pacific train coining in. I remember thinking the stationmaster
was wrong; it wasn’t quite seven-thirty yet. But there it was. I stood right
here as the engine went by, blowing steam and clanging its hell, and the
fireman on the right side waved at me, and then came the baggage car and a
chair car or two, and then came the sleeping cars. Those were the ones I was
keen on because I figured they carried the passengers
rich enough and interested enough in the news to buy a newspaper. Yeah, yeah.
Smart, huh?” Josh
didn’t respond. he so wanted Birdie to shut up. He
knew telling his story was helpful to Birdie, hut the noise of the telling
was getting to be too much for Josh. “The first sleeping car—there were two
sleepers on that train—stopped right in front of me. I sure admire the way
train engineers~ not only on the Missouri Pacific hut all of them, like the
one on The Flying Crow just now, can stop those trains on a dime, right where
they’re supposed to he on the track. “I could see a man, a passenger,
leaning out from the first sleeping car like he was looking for somebody. He
waved at a couple of men standing next to me. They were both in suits and
hats. I hadn’t noticed before, but they were both carrying pistols. One had
his in his belt, the other in his right hand. “People started coming from the rest of
the train, and then I saw the waving man get off the train with four other
men, all carrying guns, big ones—shotguns is what they looked like. The men
were in suits and ties and felt hats and looked tough, like crooks or cops.
Right behind them came a guy with his hands together
in front of him, fastened by a pair of shiny silver handcuffs. Some more guys
with guns got off the train next, and with the two men already waiting on the
platform they formed a little V formation, with the guy in handcuffs in the
middle down in the point of the V and the others with suits and guns fanning
out a little forward on each side. I couldn’t believe it. I knew—no, I knew nothing; I figured, I guessed—he was some
crook and the cops were taking him somewhere, most likely to prison, but I
was just guessing. You believe mc. don’t you, Josh?” Josh nodded. Why would he not believe
the kid? Why was he asking these questions? “I found out later—along with everyone
else in the world—that the guy was named Frank Nash: Jelly Nash, they called
him. They said he had escaped from Josh wasn’t sure how much more of this
he could take. He wanted to help Birdie, but he really had to start figuring
out how he was going to get himself back to Birdie moved hack to what happened to
Jelly Nash. “They finally caught Nash in Those words came out as if Birdie were
pleading with somebody, not just telling a story. Josh didn’t know what to
think. “All I knew was here was something
pretty special coining right at me in V formation down
the train platform. This was big, this was exciting. Coming right at me,
walking toward me down a platform like this one, came
a crook with his hands cuffed and cops with shotguns all around him. The
other people scattered to both sides like pigeons, leaving a big hole for the
men in the V to walk through. Birdie grabbed something out of his
coat pocket and put it up to his nose. It was pink, a woman’s kerchief
“Sister Hilda gave this to me. I may look her up. She said she liked to stay
with a sister who lived on Josh wanted to yell. You really are
crazy! Fooling around with her already almost got you killed amid it could again, and it could get her in even more
trouble than she is probably in already. Leave the poor lady alone! Birdie stuck the kerchief around his neck
and tied it loosely. It covered tip even more of what was left of his face to
see. Then he turned and started walking away
from the tracks, and so did Josh. They were headed toward a flight of stairs
marked with an overhead sign: TO STATION.. “My cousin Paul told me there are
forty-four steps to climb up to the walkway that’ll take us into the
station,” Birdie said. Forty—four steps? Who in their right mind
goes around counting the number of steps in a train station? thought Josh. Maybe Birdie’s cousin was crazy too. He had
heard that a lot of lunacy was inherited. Birdie, not slowing his pace or moving
his head, said to Josh, “Once we get upstairs in the station with all the
people, don’t look anybody in the eye. Keep your head down. There could he
cops and maybe some other people strolling around looking for us. Just in
ease, keep walking like we’re ordinary passengers just of The Flying Crow, two
honest, simple, harmless flown crows. Don’t look at anybody. Crows don’t look
at live people walking anyhow. They only pay attention to dead things in the
middle of the road. Isn’t that right. Josh?” Josh didn’t answer. He was really
worried about Birdie. The kid was walking almost in a crouch,
trying to make himself even smaller, trying to act
invisible. Josh wondered if ordinary people in a train station—not cops or
doctors or bushwhackers—could pick out people who have just escaped from a
lunatic asylum. Escaped: is that what we did? We just left on the train. Yes,
we escaped. Is somebody already looking for us? Maybe, sure. Somebody could
have told somebody who told somebody else who told the police here at the
Kansas City Union Station that we were on The Flying Crow. Two escaped
lunatics, one of them accused of having copulated with the wife of a bank
vice president, are on The Flying Crow! Streamliner
didn’t see anything. Only Lawrence of Sedalia really knew what happened and
he wouldn’t tell anyone. Birdie aside, But
that’s not going to help us at thus train station, thought Josh. Do lunatics look
different from other people? That’s the question. I’m tall. skinny big—nosed, very white. My eyes are blue, my hands
are huge, my hair is brown and long. Birdie looks like
the black—haired kid that he is. Are we dressed OK? Most of the other men
here are wearing suit coats amid ties. Our blue shirts and pants say we could
he construction workers. Is there something in our
eyes that’s different? Can they tell our heads have been hit by baseball bats
and our bodies have been immersed for hours in tubs of water like
hippopotamuses and we have rocked in chairs and pushed brooms for hour after hour
after hour? They can see all of my face but only a tiny hit of Birdie’s. Birdie
said to Josh, “Ever wonder why the Lehrer
has written better novels than Flying
Crows, so those readers who will enjoy fine description and drams should
give this book a try, while those who like better plot management, should
look elsewhere. Steve
Hopkins, November 26, 2004 |
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ã 2004 Hopkins and Company, LLC The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the December 2004
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Flying
Crows.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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