The Railway to Santa Land

By Joseph J Lanuto

This story takes place in the 1950's when most men went to work, and wives stayed home as homemakers. When child abuse was not reported, and wives dare not question their husbands. This story is about two boys that are mentally and physically abused by their father and decide to runaway not realizing the dangers that lied ahead for them. The author's intention is to bring to light the plight of children everywhere who are mistreated by the very people they depend on for their survival. All descriptions of abuse in this novella are based on fact.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098391973

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Copyright © 2021 by Joseph J Lanuto

February 19, 2021

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known

or invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written

for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

Print ISBN: 978-1-09839-196-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09839-197-3

Printed in the United States of America

In Loving Memory

of

My Mother, Sarah Lanuto

June 4, 1993

&

My Brother, Santo Lanuto

June 24, 2005

Special thanks

to my wife,

Veronica Lanuto

for her help and patience

with my endeavor writing

this book.

Table of Contents

Part 1

The beginning

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part 2

The Runaways

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Epilogue

A Note from the Author

Part 1

The beginning

Chapter 1

Chicago, Illinois, Early Fall, 1956

As I’m sitting in front of the frozen, cracked window in our bedroom, upstairs, wrapped in a blanket too short to cover my feet, on which I’m wearing socks with holes in them, I try to warm up by getting as close as I can to the radiator. I’m looking out at the train yard, three blocks away from our two-story home, wondering where all the freight trains are going. Wherever the trains are headed, it has to be a better place than here.

Suddenly, I hear a loud bang behind me! Thinking it was my father entering our bedroom, I jump nervously, afraid of what was about to come! I turn around and see it’s only my little brother, Tommy, killing a roach that was crawling on the wall with his shoe, not my father. We share the same small bedroom and an old five-drawer dresser. At least we have our own beds. In a low whisper, I say to my brother, Hey! Quiet! You’ll wake Dad up!

He replies, Is Dad back home?

Yeah, be quiet!

Peter, where does he go when he’s gone?

Mom says he goes to work.

Well, what does he do? Tommy asked.

I don’t know. Now, go to sleep.

He can’t make much money because we are always out of food and only sometimes, we have lights and heat. Again, I tell him to just go to sleep, and I turn back to look out of the broken window, knowing at six years old he is too young to put the pieces together. Being twelve, I’m able to understand much more than Tommy. We have holes in our socks, the sole of one of my shoes flaps when I walk. I try to slide my foot so the kids at school don’t notice my shoe and make fun of me.

As for my father, he drives a really nice car; I think it’s a Lincoln. I always thought he worked for a clothing store or shoe store because he had a lot of nice suits and shoes. He wears a big gold nugget diamond ring. Sometimes, he turns the ring around to the inside of his hand so the gold nuggets make contact with my head as he slaps me there with his open palm. As tears roll down my face, he tells me he hits me there so nobody will see the lumps.

It’s time for bed and tomorrow is Saturday. I wish I had school tomorrow so I can get out of the house while he is home. He’s back and I will have to sit at the table with him in the morning. I just hope he will be in a good mood.

Morning comes too soon. My brother wakes up wet as usual. He is still wetting the bed. I don’t know why because he’s a little too old for that. Maybe he does it because it’s always cold in the house. As I’m leaving the bedroom, my mother comes in and looks at Tommy. Afraid that Tommy will get a beating from my father for wetting the bed again, she pulls the wet sheets off the bed as fast as she can. She looks at us with her finger over her mouth, telling us to be