by Wendy Nikel
“Oh. Yes. That is… Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.” I bob my head, feeling awkward and off-balance about the whole thing. What do I care if I fit the mold of a Harvey Girl? Those girls are nothing like me.
Yet each click-clack of the train wheels moves us further westward, making my escape more and more costly… and more time-consuming. Maybe it’d be wiser to simply ride out the rest of the California Limited’s route and sneak away once we arrived back in Chicago. Could I last a whole week as a Harvey Girl?
“And another thing,” Mrs. Wallace says, still scrutinizing me as if I’m some strange and somewhat disgusting bug. “There’s someone in the dining car who wishes to speak to you.”
“To me?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? A Harvey Girl must be attentive and listen.” She purses her lips together. Obviously, visitors aren’t particularly welcome, but she’s allowing it this time—why? And who could it possibly be? I don’t know a single soul in this era.
“Well, go on,” Mrs. Wallace says. “When you get back, we’ll be going over the cup code. You’ll be serving coffee and tea this afternoon, and you’ll need to know who’s ordered what. Go on, and don’t lollygag.”
I spring from my seat, throwing down the last of the unfolded napkins. Mrs. Wallace’s frown deepens, and I reach over and neatly flatten it before darting out into the relative freedom of the dining car.
Compared with the prep room, the dining car feels airy and bright. The tables to my right are arranged with four place settings, while on my left, smaller tables are set for two. Bright lights stream in the large windows on either side as the long, empty miles of grasslands whip by outside. I don’t know where we are, except that I haven’t seen anything resembling a real city in hours. I wish I could pull out my PVDs and check, but I don’t dare.
The dining car is nearly empty. Dinner won’t be served for an hour yet, so only a few people linger over wine glasses and the remains of their lunch fare.
And one of those men is Oliver McIntire himself.
“Miss Argent!” he says, rising from his seat to greet me. His freckles are even more noticeable here than they’d been back in his office, and as he hurries to pull a seat out for me, I notice the tips of his ears are a bright red. “Please, have a seat.”
I glance over my shoulder. The door to the back room is ajar; any moment, Mrs. Wallace will be coming this way.
“I appreciate the offer, sir, but I’m afraid I’m not allowed to sit in front of customers.”
Oliver shakes his head. “Of course. Of course. I’m sorry. My mistake. Mrs. Wallace will be pleased to hear you’ve already grown accustomed to the Fred Harvey rules.”
For a moment, he simply stands there, his hands clasped in front of him, neither of us speaking.
I raise my brows. “Mrs. Wallace said that you wanted to talk to me?”
“Oh! Oh, yes.” He clears his throat, looking more flustered than ever. “I happen to be heading west myself, you see…”
“I see.” I also remember how, just yesterday, he’d had to look at the train schedule to see when the California Limited was leaving. From across the train car, Fanny catches my eye. Though she continues to speak with the gray-haired woman at the table before her, she smirks in my direction as if she, too, had sensed something odd about the clerk’s presence here. Surely, he hadn’t taken my flirting yesterday seriously?
“Yes. Well. Since I happened to be heading west myself, I thought I would drop by the dining car here,” he says, gesturing about. “That is, I came for lunch, but I didn’t see you, so I thought to ask Mrs. Wallace if I might have a word with you.”
“Oh? Why?”
Fanny passes, carrying a tray over her shoulder. She winks and cocks her head in Oliver’s direction, and I have to fight to keep my face blank and unaffected. Goodness knows the last thing I need right now is for the other girls to give me a hard time about Oliver’s apparent interest. No, that’s the second-last thing. The last thing I need is for him to be interested in the first place. I have too much to do here to worry about courtship.
“I… I just thought I’d check up on the newest Harvey Girl and see how you’re adjusting. To life here.” He fumbles over each word, bunching up his napkin as he speaks.
“I appreciate your concern, Mr. McIntire,” I say. “I’m doing quite well. For my first day, that is. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe Mrs. Wallace needs me. She indicated that she’d be teaching me the cup code this evening.”
“Oh. Yes.” Oliver tosses the napkin onto the table. “Very good. Well, I’d hate to keep you from that. Carry on. That is…” He waves a hand before him awkwardly and then ducks away, leaving his untouched coffee at the table.
CHAPTER SIX
“He’s not traditionally handsome, but not pug-ugly either,” Alice is saying as I enter our sleeping berth, dead on my feet.
It’s obvious who she’s talking about, but I’m too tired to care. My ankles are throbbing, and I’m desperate to get those awful, itchy stockings off as quickly as possible. I’d spent my childhood and adolescence studying this era, but it didn’t prepare me for the physical toil. Every muscle aches. It’s only taken me one day here to understand that my 22nd century life was incredibly comfortable. There, I’d never had to worry about money: with our technological advances, food and water and shelter were so economical that those basic needs were easily met. Yet here, I was doing all this for a mere $17.50 a month?
“What do you think, Cass?” Fanny asks slyly. “That Mr. McIntire from the Fred Harvey offices is keen, isn’t he? You think they’ve sent him along to test us?”
“Test us?” I yank the enormous ribbon from my head and shake out my hair. “What do you mean?”
“Test our resolve,” Fanny says emphatically. “Harvey Girls aren’t supposed to fraternize with gentlemen, you know.”
“Although if anyone truly kept to that blather, we wouldn’t have nearly so many leaving to marry.” Alice giggles. “Maybe that’s their plan: to lure us away so that their company doesn’t have to pay us as much.”
Fanny rolls her eyes. “I hardly think that’s a profitable business plan, having to replace brides all the time. Cass, you haven’t answered the question.”
“Hm?” I’ve already slouched out of my dress and am tearing the horrific stockings from my feet. I run my hands up and down my legs and shake out my toes, sighing in relief at finally being free of them.
“Itchy?” Fanny reaches beneath her bunk and pulls out a bottle of lotion. “Try this next time before you put them on.”
“Thanks.”
Fanny shrugs. “You keep that one. My mother sends more than I can use myself. She seems to think that having properly moisturized skin is the way to snag a husband out here. Every single letter, that’s the first thing she asks: Have you found a husband yet?”
It shouldn’t surprise me—I’ve read enough about women’s rights (or lack thereof) in this era—but I just can’t picture my own mother writing anything of the sort. It’s still difficult to imagine her being raised in such a society.
“At least you’ve got a mother who cares,” Alice says. She’s sitting in her bunk, her legs dangling off the sides as she combs out her dark hair. “Mine’s been dead nearly a decade, leaving me to cook and clean for Pop and eight brothers. Eight, and all of ’em slobs. I got out as fast as I could. At least as a Harvey Girl I get paid to wipe up after folks.”
“I can’t imagine,” I say truthfully.
“Oh, that’s nothing compared with Mary’s story,” Alice says, waving me off. “Both her parents died, leaving her a dozen younger siblings and a farm to keep up all on her own.”
“It wasn’t all that bad,” Mary says from the corner where she’s had her head buried in a book. “We had a few rough years, but at least now my brothers are old enough to run the farm themselves, so I can work here and earn some extra to send home to them. What about you, Cass? What’s your story?”
I run my fi
ngers along the hem of my skirt, thinking of the sleek and efficient apartment I grew up in, the parents and brother who did so much to care for me, and the shiny, glass box that brought me to this strange place. I think of the backstory Dodge fed Oliver McIntire, about how he’s going out west to put down roots before he sends for me.
“Yeah,” Fanny says, looping her arm around mine. “What’s your story?”
She gestures to Alice, who pulls something from a hidden pocket of her nightgown and tosses it to her. Fanny catches it and unbends the sides, placing the silvery spectacles on her face and pushing them up with one finger, just barely missing the tiny button that would jolt it to life.
My Personal Vision Device.
“Give those back,” I say. My voice shakes as Fanny wrinkles her nose and tries to adjust the glasses on her face.
“They’re rather strange-shaped,” she comments. “And the lenses are clear; I can see out of them just fine.”
“Maybe you’re half-blind, too,” Alice giggles. “They are yours, aren’t they?”
“Just give them to me, please,” I say.
Fanny frowns at me for a moment, then removes them. “We were only playing. It seemed a peculiar thing to hide, a pair of spectacles. There’s got to be a story. Tell me, are they yours? Did you steal them? Or were they a gift from some scholarly lover?”
Fanny’s about to hand me the PVDs when suddenly, her thumb bumps the ON button. The tinny voice of Professor Child emanates through the earpiece. Startled, Fanny holds it up to her face again.
“What is this? Why, I can hear someone speaking!”
“Speaking? Let me see,” Alice says, hopping down from her bunk and reaching for the glasses. As Fanny hands them over, she inadvertently depresses the button, turning the video off. Professor Child’s voice falls silent. Alice frowns as she perches the glasses on her ears. “What do you mean, speaking? I don’t hear anything.”
“It was just a moment ago! I swear it! How did it do that, Cass?”
“You probably just overheard someone walking by the hall. Now give those to me.” I reach for them, but she pulls them away.
“Tell me what it is, and you can have it back. I swear.”
I grit my teeth. What can I tell her? What lie would she believe?
But, then again, why should I lie? What difference would it make if these women knew the truth? It’s not like they’re going to go and tattle on me to Dodge or my parents or Dr. Wells.
“I’m a time traveler,” I say. The words sound strange on my tongue. Strange, but also powerful. They’re a testimony that I’ve done something important, something that few people can claim. It’s part of who I am now—part of my heritage. “Those glasses contain highly advanced technology, as well as a database outlining the most important historical events of the last two centuries. The next two centuries, to you.”
For a moment, all three women are still, staring at me silently as the train rattles onward through the dark. Footsteps pass our berth, and muffled chatter reaches us from the adjoining rooms.
Then Fanny scoffs and tosses me the glasses. Alice crosses her arms, and even Mary looks up from her book long enough to shake her head at my story. To the others, Fanny says, “Come on, girls. Let’s get to bed.”
“But—” I begin.
Fanny holds up a hand. “We understand. You don’t have to make up some fairy tale story and insult our intelligence. I’m sorry we pushed the issue; it obviously isn’t something you feel like sharing. It’s just… We’ll be living together for some time, and it will certainly make things easier if you don’t outright lie to us.”
“I didn’t!”
Fanny raises her eyebrows, shakes her head, and turns to the others. “Lights out, ladies. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”
Then, without waiting for me to don my nightgown or slip into my bunk, she leans over and extinguishes the lamp, leaving me alone in unsettled darkness.
CHAPTER SEVEN: April 17, 1914
The next morning, I wake to the door of the berth sliding shut and find that I’m alone. I scramble to dress, knowing as I struggle with the stockings that I’ll have no time for breakfast before Mrs. Wallace puts us to work.
The girls must have been particularly quiet as they prepared for the day; either that, or my poor sleep that night had left me far more tired than usual. I’d been up half the night, wondering how the conversation with the other Harvey Girls had gone so wrong and what I could do to fix it.
As I suspected, Mrs. Wallace puts me right to work laying out place settings in the dining room while the others tend to the passengers’ orders. It’s tedious, but I don’t mind; it gives me time to try to sort out my thoughts and watch as the scenery rushes past the window. Mountain peaks rise in the distance, and the train’s stops must be fewer and farther between, because even as morning passes toward noon, we still haven’t made a single stop.
The other Harvey Girls are either purposefully ignoring me, or they’re simply too busy to pay me any mind, for which I’m somewhat relieved, as I still haven’t decided how to approach that situation. All I know is that the sooner this train gets back to Chicago, the better. In the meantime, I’d be happy with a ten-minute break to rest my aching feet.
“Mrs. Wallace,” I say, setting down the forks when I see the house mother enter the car. (Goodness, who needs that many forks?) “I need to… relieve myself.”
The older woman frowns, as if she knows that it’s just an excuse. “Back there, by the kitchen. Make it snappy. When you get back, we’ll need to correct this place setting; it’s atrocious.”
I nod sharply and press my way through the back of the dining car toward the kitchen, eager for a moment’s rest, even if it is on the cold porcelain of an early 20th century toilet. Like everywhere else on the train, the kitchen is a tiny, cramped space, but it’s full of delicious aromas and scalding pans of ham and gravy and whatever else the California Limited is serving for lunch today.
The cook—a thin woman with gray hair pulled back in a net—frowns at me.
“What are you doing back here? Your house mother know you’re here?”
“I…” Over her shoulder, a door stands ajar, and I can feel the cool breeze wafting from it. The fresh air feels wonderful after the stuffiness of the dining car. “I was just going to step outside for—”
“Oh, no, you aren’t.” The woman shoves a plate into my hands, and I yelp at the heat of the steam on my face. “You’re going to get back out to the dining car there and finish your shift. You’re new, so I won’t report you to Mrs. Wallace this time, but just know that there will be no popping off the train for a cigarette in the middle of your break.”
“A cigarette?” I’d forgotten that people in this time still smoke. “I wouldn’t—”
“Of course you wouldn’t. That sort of behavior won’t be tolerated. You’re a Harvey Girl now, missy. Best you act like it, or you won’t have this job for long. Now back to the dining car with you. That plate goes to table four.”
With my mouth still gaping and the plate of food still balanced in my hand, I’m unceremoniously shooed back to the dining area. There, I nearly bump right into Fanny.
“You were trying to sneak out, weren’t you? To meet Mr. McIntire?”
“No, I—”
“Never mind. I don’t know why I asked.” Fanny shakes her head in obvious irritation and turns to walk away. Suddenly, she hesitates and turns. “Look. It’s none of my business if you want to keep to yourself, but you ought to know… Things out here aren’t always so easy for a young working woman. That’s why we stick together, us Harvey Girls. But you’ve got to trust us. And you’ve got to be honest with us.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I simply nod and watch as she disappears into the kitchen.
“Miss Argent,” Mrs. Wallace hisses, suddenly appearing at my side out of nowhere. “What are you doing carrying that plate?”
What am I doing carrying this?
“It’s f
or table four,” I say, as if that explains everything.
The house mother shakes her head. “Well, go deliver it. Quickly, before it gets cold.”
I brush past her and try to get my bearings. Table one is empty. At table two, a couple is deep in conversation, and at table three, a woman in a pressed suit and pearls is sipping her soup. Finally, there, at table four, are two men in business suits and ties. One has a briefcase on the seat next to him.
“Your lunch, sir,” I say, trying to imitate Fanny’s “Harvey Girl” smile as I set the plate down in front of the man on my left—a slim man who looks to be about fifty-something, with thinning hair and prominent features.
“We’d better eat quickly, Governor Ammons,” the younger man sitting across from him says. “We’ve nearly reached Colorado.”
Governor? My hand wavers and, in my surprise, I knock over a glass of water.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” I exclaim. From across the dining car, Mrs. Wallace glares at me as the water spreads across the table and dribbles to the floor. I reach for a hand towel. “I’ll get this.”
The governor frowns but pays me little mind as I try to sop up the water.
A governor. It’s not on the same level as a president or cabinet member, but he’s got to have connections. If I can convince him of what I know, he may be able to get me access to those higher-up who can prevent the archduke’s assassination.
As I’m kneeling on the dining car floor, I slip my PVDs from their hiding place down the front of my blouse and position them on my face. Working quickly, I turn them on and begin searching for information about Governor Ammons, cross-referenced with information about April 1914.
Across my vision is displayed news article after news article, documenting what’s referred to as the Ludlow Massacre—when on April 20, 1914, members of the National Guard attacked a group of coal miners who were staging a strike in Ludlow, Colorado to protest low wages and dangerous working conditions. My heart skips as I access information about the tragic event which resulted in the deaths of about twenty people, including at least two women and eleven children, and kicked off what was later referred to as the Colorado Coalfield War.