Full Speed Ahead: My Journey with Kit

Uncle Hendrick’s neighbor makes us lock the door, leaving the suitcase and hidden key behind, then herds us down the street. People stare as we pass, as if we really are thieves. I’ve never been judged so harshly just for my clothes, and I promise myself I’ll never judge anyone that way again.

The neighbor marches us past a railroad station and rail yards to a riverside slope that drops to a bushy clearing under a trestle bridge, where a smoky fire burns. Go back down where we belong, she tells us. Don’t sneak back to where decent folk live. We should stay in the jungle, or better yet, leave town. She crosses her arms, watches us head toward the trees, then marches off.

A thin old man near the campfire asks what we’re doing. We explain that a lady thought we were hoboes and sent us here. He smiles, says he can tell we aren’t, but that we look hot, hungry, and tired, and fetches us water.

We sit in the shade of a little tree. Shacks and tattered tents dot the clearing, where people wash clothes, talk, and cook over the fire amid crying babies and a guitar. The old man’s kindness is the opposite of the neighbor’s, a reminder not to judge by appearances. Kit offers him a nickel for the water, but he shakes his head. We might need it to get home. I touch the camera, thinking I don’t need a nickel to get home, but I can’t leave Kit now. We finish our water, thank the old man, and climb back to the tracks.

Kit says we do need the nickel. The lady threatened to call the police if she saw us again, so we should call Charlie to walk us home in case we run into her. We head into the train station, like a palace out of The Arabian Nights. Kit leads me to the phone booth, a novelty since we don’t have them in the twenty-first century, and dials her next-door neighbor’s house, hoping Mrs. Lucero answers since the Kittredges no longer have a phone.

I can’t imagine life without a phone. After a few rings, someone answers, and Kit explains our situation, thanks Mrs. Lucero, and hangs up. I’m relieved but embarrassed. This whole mess is my fault for losing Uncle Hendrick’s letter, and I’d hate to look like Loony Lulu in front of Cool Cute Charlie.