“You know this young man, Annie?”
“Yes, Grandmama. Peter was sitting with me on the roller coaster in Omaha the night of the accident. He was so friendly and calm during that long wait for Papa to rescue us. I’ll never forget his kindness to me.”
Annie’s grandmother’s lined face softens. She gets up and glides across the aisle between the tables to shake my hand. “Thank you, Peter, for looking out for my Annie. That was an awful night. I watched with horror as that car full of young people met their tragic end and my son-in-law carried out his brave rescue.”
The waiter is seating a family at the table at the end of the car. Annie’s grandmother beckons to him and he hurries up.
“Could this young man join us?” she asks.
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll see to it immediately.” He trades my dishes and cutlery with the ones beside Annie and pulls out the chair for me. I sit down, almost wishing he’d seated me next to Annie’s grandmother. My nearness to Annie means I can smell all that lilac again and it’s making a mist around every thought in my brain. My heart has broken into a full gallop. Will I even be able to speak, or for that matter, eat? I take a deep breath.
I soon realize I won’t have to worry. Annie’s grandmother is just as talkative as Ettie, Ellie, and Eudora Schmidt were. She chatters about the weather, the time she and Annie spent in Minneapolis visiting family friends, and the convenience of train travel. Annie and I steal glances in each other’s direction as her grandmother chirps on, our eyes meeting and holding for just a second each time.
We bow our heads after the waiter fills our bowls from the soup tureen and Annie’s grandmother recites a prayer. As we pick up our spoons, Annie’s glance holds mine for just a little longer and her eyes lead me to look across the table at her grandmother, who I discover is asking me a question.
“Where are you from, Peter, and where are you going?”
“I’m from Newton, Kansas, ma’am, and I’m headed to Drake, Saskatchewan. Have you heard of it?”
Annie and her grandmother look at each other and laugh.
“We live there!” they blurt out at almost the same time.
“You do?” I’m so surprised and happy I think my heart might jump right out of my chest and land with a splash in my bean soup.
“I thought you lived in Omaha.”
“My Papa lives in Omaha and works at the amusement park,” Annie says.
Her grandmother continues, “Annie’s mother, my daughter Matilda, passed away when Annie was born. My Matilda and Annie’s father, Chester, used to live with us in Meade, Kansas, but moved to Omaha after their marriage for Chester’s work.”
“So how did you land up in Saskatchewan?” I ask.
“Annie’s grandfather and I immigrated to Saskatchewan with many other people from Kansas just a year after her parents moved to Omaha. We bought a farm in Drake, the town that’s to be your new home. We’ve done rather well, if I say so myself, and we now own a meat locker business as well as the farm. I went down to Omaha after Matilda died. Since Chester had no family in Omaha to look after Annie while he worked, the best plan was for me to take Annie home with me. She and I visit her father every fall and he comes to visit Annie in Drake every spring as well.”
“Don’t you miss him?” I wish I could take my question back because Annie’s voice sounds so sad when she replies.
“I do miss him ever so much. Papa’s thinking about moving to Drake to work with Grandfather at the meat locker, but machines like the ones at the amusement park are what he knows and loves, so it would be hard for him to leave. Maybe in a few years when I’m finished school I can move back to Omaha to live with him.”
“We’ll see about that,” Annie’s grandmother says briskly. “Let’s eat our soup before it gets cold.”
Annie’s grandmother is every bit as curious about me as Mr. Clemens was last night. Although she doesn’t have a freshly sharpened pencil in hand the way Mr. Clemens did, as I tell her and Annie about my family in Kansas and my adventure-filled trip north, she seems to be filing everything away in her head in much the same way as Mr. Clemens wrote things down in his big grey notebook.
We are eating our bread pudding when Annie asks me about Tom Sawyer, who has been sitting on the table between us during the meal.
I tell her the book is a gift from its author, Mr. Clemens, and then I get a perfectly marvellous idea. “Say, would you like to join me in my train car? I could read one of the chapters of the book aloud to you.”
“Could I, Grandmama?”
“What car are you in, Peter?”
“First class,” I reply. “I’m a guest of the railroad.”
Annie’s grandmother pauses for what seems like forever and a day but is really just a second or two.
“We are in first class too, right near the back of the car. I guess it would be fine for you to sit together for a time,” says Annie’s grandmother. “I will be able to keep an eye on you from my seat.”
“I’m not a little girl anymore, Grandmama,” protests Annie.
“I know that, Annie, but when a young lady who cares about her reputation is in the company of a young man it is only proper for them to be chaperoned.”
Annie blushes. Her grandmother’s words seem to change things between us a bit. I’m not exactly unhappy about that. I hope Annie doesn’t mind either.
I pick up Tom Sawyer, tuck him under my arm, and move to the other side of the table to pull out Annie’s grandmother’s chair for her. Before I can do the same for Annie, she is up and ready to go. I step back and allow both Annie and her grandmother to walk in front of me.
“Here we are,” I say when we reach my seat.
Annie sits down next to the window and I slide into the seat beside her as she gives her grandmother a little wave.
“Remember I’m watching,” her grandmother whispers before sailing down the aisle to her seat.
I am so excited to be alone with Annie again. It feels mighty fine. A goodly measure of fearful things have happened to me on this journey, hurtling down a ravine, almost drowning, escaping a fire, and nearly dying on a roller coaster, but I realize now plenty of good things have happened too. Things like making friends with Joe, learning about windmills from Mr. Schmidt, caring for a pet gopher family, seeing a hot-air balloon, and meeting Mr. Clemens. But nothing has been as good as sitting here next to Annie.
I open Tom Sawyer. I know just what part I want to read to Annie: the chapter where Tom works his way into the affections of a girl named Becky.
As I read, Annie gets so taken in by the story, I wonder if she even notices she’s placed one of her hands on my leg nearest her. Her fingers lying there so light and soft seem to press through the material of my new dungarees right to my thighbone. I wonder if I will see the outline of her fingers imprinted there later. I have to muster all my willpower to focus on the words in the book and keep my voice calm.
I’d hoped my trip would end happily with me back together with my family. I never dared to think it could end even more happily with me back together with Annie too.
Chapter 18
I EAT SUPPER WITH ANNIE and her grandmother in the dining car. Over fried trout and creamed peas, Annie tells me all about the school in my new hometown of Drake. The teacher, Miss Jantz, sounds different than my teachers back in Newton.
“Miss Jantz reads us a chapter of a book each and every day.” Annie’s eyes sparkle and her voice rises.
“Last year, she finished two books, one called White Fang, about a boy searching for gold in Alaska who befriends a wild dog. I think you would have liked it, Peter. And the other was about a girl named Dorothy, who travels to a strange land called Oz with a lion, a tin man, and a scarecrow. I’m certain Miss Jantz would lend both books to you if you’d like to read them.”
“I’d be much obliged,” I say.
“Perhaps we can ask her to read Tom Sawyer this coming year. I know the other students would love it from the parts you’v
e read to me. And you could tell everyone how you met Mr. Twain in person.”
Annie has no end of stories about her teacher.
“Miss Jantz takes us out to pick wild flowers, and we use watercolour paints to make likenesses in our notebooks. She plays the piano, and we give music concerts on the front porch of the grand home she shares with her parents. We play baseball games in the pasture next to the school. I’m a left-handed pitcher, so I can strike out almost anyone.”
As I listen to Annie go on about books and music and paints and baseball, I start hoping Mama will be able to convince Papa to let me be in school at least one more year. Papa was talking about me staying home to do Herman’s share of work on the farm, but I’d surely like to go to school instead. I’ve been finding out on this journey just how interesting the world truly is, and I’d like to learn as much about it as I can. Going to school will be a good way, too, for me to see Annie more.
After supper, when we go back to the first-class car, a miracle has taken place. Our seats have been turned into beds lined with linen sheets and covered with deep blue comforters. The stewards are plumping feather pillows for us.
I shake Annie’s grandmother’s hand. “Goodnight, ma’am,” I say, polite as ever I can.
“Goodnight, Peter. Sleep well. Annie and I look forward to you joining us in the dining car for breakfast tomorrow morning.” Annie gives me a wide smile and a little wave as she walks away with her grandmother.
The steward has left a drawstring pouch and a towel monogrammed with the letters “CPR” on my bed. I peek inside the pouch to find a toothbrush and tooth powder, as well as a comb and a bar of soap. I make my way to the water closet to wash up. I think of all those weeks I managed without such niceties and how I used to grumble when Mama made me comb my hair or brush my teeth. Now it feels real good to head to bed all clean and sweet smelling.
What with the train’s wheels clacking a lullaby, and the rocking to and fro of the car on the tracks, I’m asleep in a heartbeat.
I wake when the sun sneaks through a little crack in the curtains, which the steward hasn’t pulled quite shut across the window. The train has stopped, and the conductor comes through the car and sees I’m awake.
“We’re in Winnipeg, Master Schmidt,” he whispers to me so as not to wake the other passengers. We’ll be stopped here for an hour, so if you’d like to get out and stretch your legs, you go right ahead. The Winnipeg train station is brand new and it’s a sight to behold. They worked on it night and day for four years. Best not leave the station, though. You might lose track of the time. Breakfast will be served as soon as we leave for Regina.”
I make my way past Annie and her grandmother’s beds as I head out the door of the first-class car. It appears they aren’t stirring yet. But, my goodness, inside the station there are plenty of folks who are awake. The place is so full I can hardly move. I stand for a minute looking around.
The Winnipeg train station is grand, no doubt about it. Marble everywhere: on the floor, on the walls, and even on the giant columns holding up the high, high ceiling. The place looks like a palace, but it sounds like a noisy barnyard. I realize after a time that although the people around me are talking, talking, talking, not a one of them is talking English. I recognize a few words of German, but all the other languages are strange to me.
“Immigration Hall is over this way.” I finally hear an English voice. There are men in blue coats moving through the station trying to get the people to the front doors and off to someplace called the Immigration Hall.
“Immigration Hall is out the front doors and to the right. Make your way there as quickly as possible. We’ve got beds and food for you. You can stay at the Hall till we’ve helped you find a piece of land where you can settle.”
The people all look kind of scared. No wonder. If they don’t speak English, they have no idea what the men are saying. A new thought streaks like a runaway train through my head. I am immigrating to Canada, but so are all these folks. I know Canada is a big country, but will there be room for all of us if this many people are arriving every day in just one city?
The crowd starts moving forward and I get caught up with them. I’m wedged between an old woman in a black dress with a colourful shawl over her head and a boy about my size carrying a bulging burlap sack that keeps bumping against my shins.
We are getting closer to the front doors. I can see a big fountain outside with bushes and flowers all around. I know I’ve got to get away from the crowd before they move outdoors. I don’t want to go to the Immigration Hall and risk missing my train. I try to find a path to the side through the thick tangled mass of bodies.
I say, “Pardon me,” but folks either don’t understand or are too set on their own worries to care, so I have to push and elbow my way through the wall of people. Some push back and others yell harsh-sounding words at me that I don’t understand.
I have just reached the edge of the crowd when I’m grabbed by the back of my shirt collar and a voice bellows low and rough as rocks: “What do you think you are doing, boy?” The man lets go of my collar and I face him. He’s wearing one of those blue uniforms.
“Thought you’d sneak into the gentlemen’s smoking room, did you, boy? That’s just for first-class passengers.”
“I am a first-class passenger,” I say.
“Sure you are, boy,” he says, sizing me up. “You do speak English. That’s something rare in the station these days.”
“I am a passenger headed to Drake, Saskatchewan. My name is Peter Schmidt.” I pull my train ticket out of my pocket to show him. He stares at it suspiciously, but says, “Well, if that’s the case, you better head back to your train, boy.”
He looks up at the huge clock on the wall near the ceiling and I do too. I’ve never seen a clock so big. It’s made of shining steel and gleaming brass.
“Looky there, young fellow. It’s nearly seven o’ clock. If you really are on that train, it’s leaving right soon. Head up these steps here and follow the hallway to the end. Then go back down the far stairway and you’ll be at the door to the tracks.”
“Thank you, sir,” I yell as I race away. Without all those people jamming up my path, I fly down the long hallway and bolt down the stairs and through the doors to the tracks. I spy my train right away but the first-class car is away down near the front.
Just then, the train begins to move. Ahead, I can see the conductor leaning out the door of my car waving madly at me. I start to run. My heart is pounding. I can’t miss this train! Just as the first-class car is set to pass the last section of the platform I reach it.
The conductor is bending over, leaning down, and I grab his outstretched arm. I dangle for a bit as the train passes the end of the platform, but the conductor hangs on as tight as that copperhead’s fangs hung onto that little baby gopher my first day on the train. With a sudden jerk, the conductor hoists me up onto the stair beside him, yanks me inside, and quickly draws the door shut with a clang.
“You gave me a fair scare, Master Schmidt,” the conductor says, his moustache aquiver. “I’d have been in big trouble if you were left behind again.”
I’m panting like a hunting dog when I get inside the railcar. The beds have all been turned back into seats, and Annie and her grandmother have gone to breakfast. I stop at the water closet to wash my hands and comb my hair before heading into the dining car to join them.
WE REACH THE CITY OF Regina mid-afternoon, and the conductor says we will be in Humboldt, the nearest station to Drake, by nightfall. The day passes pleasantly enough. We read more of Tom Sawyer. Annie and her grandmother love to play board games and have brought one along called Toboggans and Stairs. They tell me it is the Canadian version of Snakes and Ladders, but both games are new to me. We play it at our table after lunch.
Later, when we are back in the first-class car, Annie comes up to my seat with a chessboard and pieces. Now there’s a game I know. My brother Herman taught me to play. We put the board on th
e seat between us. Annie’s awful clever at chess and she easily beats me. I have a hard time keeping my wits about me while we play.
I am thinking about seeing my family again. I’ve missed them so much. I’ve never really been away from them before, and now we’ve been apart for nigh unto a month. I wonder if they will all come to the station. I wonder if I will look very different to them. I wonder if Mama will cry when she sees me.
The conductor tells us we will arrive in Humboldt around six. Well before that, Annie’s grandmother comes to tell her to return to their seat.
“We need to get our things tidied for our arrival,” she says. “Say goodbye to Peter now.”
Annie turns to me and takes my hand. It feels all warm and soft in mine. “I’m so glad we found each other again, Peter.” I nod, suddenly unable to think of a word to say. “I’m looking forward to seeing you in school and church and meeting your family.” I nod again. “Goodbye, Peter.”
“Goodbye,” I whisper as Annie slowly withdraws her hand from mine and glides down the aisle towards her grandmother.
I CAN SEE EVERYONE FROM the window the minute the train comes to a stop in Humboldt. There’s Mama and Papa and Sylvester and Levi and even little Alvin on Levi’s shoulders so he can see over the crowd that’s come to meet the train. I put Tom Sawyer in my carpetbag along with my new clothes and make my way to the door.
As I step off the train I hear Mama shout, “There he is! Thanks be! There he is!”
The whole family comes running towards me. Mama hugs me hard, Papa shakes my hand, and my brothers are smiling so wide you can see every single one of their teeth.
And then the questions start to tumble.
“Where you been, Peter?”
“How did you get lost?”
“Are you hurt?”
“How many inches have you grown?”
“How did they find you?”
“What was the first-class car like?”
Papa takes the carpetbag from my hand and says, firm and strong, “Now everyone, let’s give Peter a chance to catch his breath. The wagon is just over to the other side of the station, Peter. Your mama’s made you a fine supper and our new sod house just got the roof on yesterday, so we’ll all be able to sleep indoors tonight. Be plenty of time to hear all about our Peter’s adventures when we get home.” Papa puts his hand sure and steady on my shoulder to guide me to the wagon.
Lost on the Prairie Page 9