The Golden Gates

by C. R. Kliewer

  The train pulled into a station somewhere in Kansas for one of the far too frequent stops that make a long trip longer. The wind had recently kicked up sweeping soil into the air, creating a haze that intermixed with the steam of the engine. As the platform emerged, an ethereal figure began to appear amidst the swirling dust. Forster watched as the form became more identifiable and earthly. A girl? No. A young woman, holding her valise tightly to her chest with one hand and shielding her eyes from the dust with the other, the pale green skirts of her dress whipping around her legs. She was standing there looking pitiful, waiting for the train to come to a stop. She had taken an old rag and tied it around her face to keep out the searching fingers of dirt and had paired it with a small straw hat to protect the rest of her head. When the train finally screeched to a halt, she boarded so quickly it was as if the wind had picked her up, tossed her through the door of the car, and slammed it shut behind her.

  Once inside, she set down her bag, took off her hat, and ran her fingers through her flattened curly hair to dislodge some of the soil that had crept in underneath the straw. Then she removed the rag revealing a small pert nose dotted with freckles, a determined chin, and cupid lips slightly chapped. Cramming the rag into her satchel, the young lady began the futile attempt to shake out the dust from the various folds of her dress. She was abruptly forced to give up the endeavor when the whistle blew, the train jerked forward, and she lost her balance. Catching herself on a nearby seat, she looked up for the first time. Quickly scanning the interior of the car, her eyes paused when they came to Forster. She smiled.

  Finally having something of interest to watch, Forster’s mind was already making the usual subconscious notes. Average height, 5’4, 5’5. Early 20’s. Pretty, in a way. If you like that type. Griggs would say she looked like a Hollywood Joan: Joan Bennett, Joan Blondell. Not much of a figure. Certainly not a Greta Garbo or Myrna Loy. Short hair. Looks like she cuts it herself. Blonde? Possibly red or light brown. Can’t tell with all that dust. Too thin. Not surprising given the current economy. Probably missed a meal or two lately, poor rat. At this point his observations were interrupted by her eyes catching his. The direct eye contact accompanied with a knowing smile was enough to catch Forster off his guard. He forced himself to smile back, cleared his throat, and turned to look back out the window.

  The eyes were both beautiful and unnerving. They had a deceptively shallow, naïve vulnerability when they were occupied with something else, but as soon as they locked on you, a flash of secret intelligence glimmered from their depths. Less than a second later, it was gone again. But in that split second, he felt as though his layers had been pulled back, his gut ripped open, and all his secret and grotesque innards laid bare, and after scrutinization, they were neatly wrapped up again as if they had never been disturbed, leaving the owner of those innards a vague and uncomfortable sense of exposure.

  He shifted in his seat and glanced back in her direction, grateful that he was now no longer the focus of her attentions. The porter had approached her from behind and apparently asked for her ticket for her eyes were now occupied with rummaging through the various pockets of her satchel and had returned to a soft and harmless naiveté. After a few moments of agitated searching, she found the small, elusive paper indicating her paid fare and handed it to the porter. Looking it over, he directed her towards one of the sleeping cars. They both disappeared through the connecting door, and Forster was now free to return to his earlier musings about the unchanging scenery before him without further interference.

  The train trolled forward, dinner came and went unattended, the sun set on the barren landscape, and several hours of darkness passed, before Forster finally made his way back to his own sleeping quarters.

  3

  Eggs Benedict and Country Ham

  * * *

  To say that Forster woke the next morning with a crick in his neck would imply that he actually slept. Since this was not the case here, it can only be said that when he did he get up from lying in his bed for the past, let’s see (looking at his watch now), five hours and thirty-two minutes, it was with a crick in his neck. Glad that this was to be his final day on board and rubbing the sore spot at the base of his skull, he made his way towards the dining car in search of what some, but not he, would call breakfast.

  Entering through the connecting door, he spied the poor dust rat gazing wide-eyed out the window clutching a cup of coal black coffee. The scenery outside had changed overnight from desolate plains to rocky peaks and evergreens. She was in a dress of the same cut but different color as yesterday, a faded butter-yellow, high collared and cinched at the waist by a slender leather belt. It was also apparent she’d made an effort to wash her hair in one of the small porcelain sinks available on the train. Damp bronze and copper strands now glistened in the morning sun.

  Yesterday’s subliminal warnings regarding the little dust rat were brushed aside. He now saw her as a half-starved girl traveling alone to who knows where. Moving forward through the car, he drew near her table and noted that there were no breakfast plates, no crumbs on the white tablecloth in front of her. The one dish that did disrupt that smooth linen plane was a saucer stained by a tiny pool of dark brown liquid, evidence that a few drops of coffee had fallen from the matching cup in her hands. One more missed meal.

  It was then a small, seemingly insignificant decision was made.

  He slid into the seat opposite hers and, tapping his hat, introduced himself, “Hi, J. Forster.”

  His sudden entrance made her body jerk as her mind was instantly wrenched from the novel view outside the window, and incidentally, the half empty cup in her hands lost a bit more of their contents on her dress. Immediately regretful of pouncing on her so unexpectedly, he tried to make amends by apologizing profusely and handing her every available napkin within reach, though it was with a half-hidden smile at her expense.

  Recovering herself inadequately, she dabbed at the areas of her dress where the coffee had dripped. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she sighed. “It happens all the time.”

  “That complete strangers force themselves upon you with introductions?”

  She laughed. “No. That whatever I am drinking, or eating for that matter, usually makes its way into my lap. What did you say your name was?”

  “Forster. Yours?”

  “Anna Kelly.”

  “Have you eaten breakfast?”

  “No, but I’m not really hungry,” she replied with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. Her eyes dropped to her coffee as she raised the cup to her lips. He found that those eyes that had been so thoroughly probing yesterday did not seem so threatening now. They were quiet, distant. Peaceful? No. Tired? Maybe. Distracted? Yes. And though she stated it with a firm sincerity that would convince a jury of her peers, he couldn’t believe she was simply “not hungry.” She has to be starving. Haut und knochen. Skin and bones. As a result of this decisive conviction, he called the waiter over and despite her obvious displeasure at his initiative, ordered eggs, ham, toast, orange juice, and more coffee for the both of them. The waiter left to fill the order, and Forster met Anna’s reproving glare with a triumphant smirk while laying his hat on the table beside him.

  Seconds later, the waiter returned with a new cup and saucer in one hand and a fresh pot of coffee in the other. He set the cup and saucer down in front of Forster and proceeded to fill both cups, much to the chagrin of Anna, to the very brims before leaving them alone again to retrieve the rest of their order. Anna timidly reached for the steaming brew and raised it cautiously to her lips. After she had taken in enough of the coffee to bring the contents down to a reasonably safe level, she returned the cup to its saucer and focused all her attentions on Forster.

  “Cop?” she inquired as though it were a common question you would ask any new acquaintance.

  Her smiling eyes fixed on him. The vague, unsettling feeling of yesterday returned, but this time he was unshaken. “No,” he said calmly enough.
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  “Oh?” she said with an eyebrow raised and a note of surprise in her voice, “Not a Prohibition Agent?” Her eyes flashed while the turn of her mouth exhibited a conspiratal humor.

  “No.” An amused grin on his lips mirrored hers, the twist being on the opposite side. “No, I work for a different department. In fact, a different bureau altogether.” He casually took a drink from his cup. After a brief pause, he leaned in, elbows on table, eyeing her with interest. “What made you think I was a cop?”

  “It was a guess really. When I saw you yesterday, I noticed how you were watching me. Not necessarily the way a man usually looks at a young woman. It was more like you were ticking off some list in your head: my height, my weight, my hair color, etc. Which, by the way I take offense at. I can be very vain, and it was not very flattering to my ego.”

  “A patient of Freud’s, are you?”

  She ignored the comment. “You looked very unaffected and objective. That is until you realized I caught you. Plus, the butt of your gun was showing from underneath your overcoat.”

  He looked down quickly at where his not-necessarily-standard issue pistol was concealed and laughed. “Apparently, I am not the only one who is observant.” How did I let that happen?

  Thankfully, the waiter returned just then to deposit hot breakfast plates on the table in front of them. Anna, forgetting her earlier avowals against being hungry, showed no hesitation in plunging her knife and fork into the country ham and with her first bite, all conversation came to an abrupt halt. Satisfied that he had done his good deed for the day, Forster looked down at his own plate and poked around at the less than appetizing bits of protein and grain. Neglecting the ham completely, he broke the yolks of his eggs, dipping the ends of his toast into their golden centers. Needs more salt, he thought as he cast a glance at the empty shaker set at the end of the table and then at Anna. At least someone appreciates it.

  Anna cleaned the plate of the ham and then turned to the eggs herself. Not slowing the fluid repetitive motion of her fork and knife until halfway through her third bite, she stopped short, egg white dangling from her fork in midair, as if something obvious had just occurred to her.

  “Is J. short for anything? Or is it J-A-Y, Jay?”

  Forster, who had long since pushed his plate aside and had let his mind drift, was swiftly brought back to the present by the sudden question. He looked down at the coffee in his hand and raised the cup to his lips before answering, “J. is short for Julius, but no one calls me that.”

  Her eyes did narrow slightly, but without any traceable hesitation she continued, “I had an uncle named Julian. Died in the war. I was named after my grandma . . . well both grandmas actually. They were both named Anna, but my mother’s mother goes by Catherin. She felt there were too many Annas in her village when she was growing up, so she made everyone call her Catherin after Catherine the Great of Russia. She couldn’t convince anyone to add ‘the Great.’ The funny thing is when her family moved to America, there were far more Catherins than Annas in their new town.” She prattled on while he set his coffee cup down and rested his eyes on her, preparing for a lengthy oration. What followed was a brief family history lesson detailing the perilous journey the grandparents on her mother’s side made across the Atlantic Ocean on the steam ship, Pomerania, and how they ended up in Oklahoma, the so-called Promised Land in a small town full of Catherins.

  She was easy to listen to. The low melody of her voice was almost soothing. Almost. An image of Homer’s Sirens, lulling unsuspecting sailors to their doom kept playing at the back of Forster’s mind. He waited in silent preparation for the next jagged rock of inquiry set to split open his hull. It just took a little longer that he expected.

  Several minutes passed, and Forster was just beginning to relax when Anna turned the conversation back onto him. “So where are you headed Mr. Forster?” she asked, finally bringing the forkful of now cold egg the other half way to her mouth. It was an innocent enough question, and could be touted a natural one as well.

  “California.” He smiled, giving her the vague answer.

  “Really? Why are you going there?”

  “Change of scenery. My boss thinks it would be good for me.” Not being one to answer questions, innocent or not, he quickly headed her off by asking one of his own. “And what about you Miss Kelly? What takes you west?”

  “I have an aunt in Sausalito who runs a temporary help agency. Never met her, but she wrote to me earlier this year while I was attending college in Kansas. She heard from Ma that I was learning clerical skills, which, by the way, includes the typewriter and the stenograph. She mentioned that I might find it difficult to find a job at the end of term, but if I was willing to come out to California, she could find work for me while offering me a place to stay for cheap.” She paused briefly and with a sigh continued, “At the time, I didn’t know how bad the situation was at home. I declined the offer thinking that I would try my luck in Oklahoma or Kansas, or possibly northern Texas so that I could be nearer to my family, not that she isn’t family, but, you know . . . Anyway, while I was gone, I had heard that the price of wheat had fallen (most of my father’s crop is wheat) and that much of the Midwest was facing drought, but Ma would not let on in her letters how much they had to cut back. You see, they were supporting me while I was at school and wanted to see me finish. Always felt education was important. If I’d only known just how far prices had fallen, how heat had dried the land to dust. If I’d known how our local bank had failed, how my father lost his entire life’s savings. I would have quit school immediately and started looking for a job, any job. I could’ve helped and not been an added burden on their finances. They knew that, I guess. When my training ended, I returned to my parents’ house expecting some cutbacks but no serious change. After all, it wasn’t as if I had been gone for that long. But, the changes were so drastic, not only to the land, but . . .” her voice trailed off, and her eyes clouded over losing both depth and color. Seconds passed. Then giving her head a slight shake, she brought herself back from the distant picture that had drawn her mind from the present one. “Anyway, I knew I needed to find a job straightaway. I thought if I found work near home, I could help out on the farm as much as possible while bringing in some extra cash. And I did find odd jobs around town, at first. But as time went on, the price of wheat fell further, and jobs in town became fewer, shorter, and cheaper. It was obvious that something drastic needed to be done. Then I received another letter from Aunt Jane and in it an offer of free room and board. It would be foolish to pass it up things being what they were. I wrote to her, and while waiting for her response, I began putting money aside from the work that I could find to put towards a train ticket. I didn’t tell my family about it until I received her confirmation. I knew they wouldn’t like the idea. California is so far away. It was hard enough when I was living in Kansas. To tell the truth, I didn’t like the idea of leaving them either.”

  “What did they say when you finally told them?”

  “Oh, I was prepared for a lengthy debate. Dad would lay out the pros of staying and the cons of going. Mom would agree with him and add her own rationales in support. It was not going to be an easy task to convince them. You would think the idea of me staying with family would be a strong case in my favor, but relying on the good reputation of Aunt Jane as a viable argument could not be depended on. My parents never discussed what happened, but I heard plenty enough about it from Mrs. Brandt and her Quilting Quacks.” A sarcastic sneer trailed across Anna’s lips. “Anyway, turns out I didn’t need to bother preparing a defense. The night I was going to broach the subject, a black blizzard hit. It didn’t last more than a minute, but it blew in the front windows and covered everything inside with several inches of dust. When it was over we went outside to check the fields. The crops had already suffered in the drought, but the storm stripped them bare.

  “Now, my pa’s a tough man. There is only one time I can remember when I saw him actually tear up,
but that night he nearly broke. He and Ma were up half the night talking in the kitchen. I could hear them through the floorboards of my room upstairs. It was awful. The next morning when we sat down at the table together, I laid Aunt Jane’s letter in front of them. Pa picked it up and they both read it silently to themselves, Ma reading over Papa’s shoulder. When they finished, they looked at each other, then up at me. Pa only nodded. Without a word, it was settled. Ma went with me that afternoon to buy a ticket.”

  “When was that?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “Not a very long time to get prepared.”

  She shrugged. “Arrangements had already been made with Aunt Jane, and I knew the longer I waited the harder it would be to go.”

  “I’m guessing that time was becoming an expensive luxury as well.”

  She nodded in response and slumped back against her seat. A heavy lull in the conversation settled in until Forster broke it. “Tell me, were you going to eat at all on this train or is coffee your idea of sustenance?” A touch of amusement returned to the left corner of his mouth.

  Her blush answered his question. “When the cause is noble, one can survive a day without food very easily.” she answered coolly.

  “A day?” he mused. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” But how many days have you told yourself that lately, Miss Kelly? Continuing to smile inwardly at her stubborn pride and very aware that any more charity from him would not be welcome, he proposed a deal, “Tell you what, you said you knew how to use the typewriter. I need some papers typed up when I get to San Francisco. If you can spare some hours to do this for me, I can pay you in advance, that way we’ll both get what we need: you something to eat and me someone to eat with.” He held out his hand.

  He saw her eyes lighten not only at the idea of work, but with something a little more elusive. She was laughing at him. He was sure of it. A secret joke? She straightened her shoulders with dignity and smiled warmly. “Deal, Mr. Forster.” She grasped his large rough hand in her small one with strength that belied her delicate fingers. Deal done, both sat back with smug expressions that suggested each was pleased with his or her own self. After a brief pause, Anna leaned forward.