The Golden Gates

by C. R. Kliewer

  “Now, Mr. Forster, you gonna eat that ham?”

  Laughing, he pushed his plate toward her and getting up, “If you’ll excuse me, I will make one last effort to get some sleep before we reach California.”

  As he walked out of the dining car a new expression crossed his features. Wait, did I just tell her I was heading for San Francisco?

  4

  The Eight-Legged Devil

  * * *

  Forster was not as successful as he wished to be in catching those few precious hours of sleep between breakfast and lunch, even though he was able to secure one of the train’s private Single-Occupancy-Sections, shortened to SOS by most travelers. He learned from previous journeys that ensured privacy was invaluable and warranted the extra expense of an SOS, even if that extra expense was covered by funds coming from his own pocket. If he had settled for the cheaper option, he would have been assigned a berth in an open section to which he compared, rightly so, to sleeping in a cast iron tub in the middle of a late night Chicago dance hall, a mere shower curtain separating you from the rest of the cats. Not only were the berths a perfect dichotomy, having the semblance of being both a confining coffin and a public stage, there was also the very likely chance that he would be sharing his open section with some random stranger who, being human, could have any number of social shortcomings in his possession. Once, he had to share his section with a Mr. Trotsky, a stout man who obviously did not adhere to the old adage that cleanliness was next to godliness. Not only was his face and hair smeared with an unknown grease, his clothes tight and crumpled, and his body odor overwhelming, he had left his luggage unpacked with so many personal belongings strewn about, it was a wonder that they all fit into his oversized suitcase in the first place, a suitcase that he insisted on keeping with him instead of installing it in the baggage car like any normal passenger. And his luggage wasn’t the only thing to encroach upon the personal space of others. He latched himself onto fellow passengers like a leech, sucking the lifeblood out of them with growlings against the government, Catholics, nature, foreigners, his boss, the brat who lived next door, and his ex-wife, Claire. And while his overstuffed personality spilled out in loud, toothless barking while awake, his guttural snoring silenced even the persistent groans and clatter of the locomotive while he was asleep. It was during that particular journey, that Forster found himself peering around corners, slipping into SOS’s that were not his own, and even hiding in the kitchen of the dining car for several hours in order to dodge the slobbering bulldog, avowing to himself all the while that next time he would spend the kale for 33 square feet of private bliss. And Forster kept that promise to himself, purchasing an SOS ticket from then on whenever possible.

  Though presently guaranteed personal space inside four walls and a sliding door to protect him from public nuisances, Forster did not lie down on the bed with the cherished hope of forty winks in peace. Fortified isolation did not change the fact that he was on a train, and as trains go, it would start, stop, screech, rattle, groan, and whistle all while making its merry little way across the continent. The raucous pitching of the locomotive, coupled with a bed several inches too short and a mattress that was as comfortable as sleeping on a pile of rocks, which given his experience he could justly attest to, ensured that his efforts to sleep were about as sure as Hoover’s economic policies. Checking his watch one last time, (14 minutes had elapsed since he had first lain down), he finally admitted defeat, got up, and started walking back to the observation car to do some thinking.

  Checking the window in the doorway before he entered (avoiding the Trotskys of the world being his chief aim), he was surprised to see that the car was empty. He took a seat near the sliding door, pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket, and placed it in his mouth leaving it unlit. He rubbed his eyes, his jaw, the crick in his neck with a heavy hand before finally settling back in the chair to reflect on the last few days as well as those to come.

  San Francisco. One city he had not been to, and it was drawing nearer with every passing second. He was looking forward to getting acquainted. Getting to know her alleys and backstreets. Discovering her dark holes and smoky dens. Every city had them. Chicago. St. Paul. Miami. Boston. New York. Berlin. Each place has its dark side. Each city, its underworld. Its secrets. To know them meant survival. To live them made him good at what he did. He immersed himself in the darkness. Wallowed in it. Became part of the woodwork, stonework, mud, plaster. Part of its daily life. Well recognized by its inhabitants but never known. He would appear one day as if he had always been there. The day he left would be the last day that they would remember his face. A vivid dream that vanishes the moment you open your eyes. The last wisp of smoke from a dying cigarette. The reflection of a mirror before walking away. Burns had told him once that he was like a devilfish. “Changes color, changes shape, and in a dark cloud disappears. That’s what I love about you, J.” Those were his words. Didn’t add wet and slimy. At least not out loud. Was thinking it though. Never fully trusted me did you Burns? Well, can’t say that I blame you. The feeling was mutual. Most of his time was spent in those places. He worked there, lived there, had friends there (if you could call them that), felt reasonably comfortable. But every once in a while, he could feel himself drowning. His lungs crushed beneath the weight. In those moments, rare as they were, he would escape the city, find an open space where sunshine was abundant, buildings were few, air was pure, and things were real. Breathe. Come up for air, before diving back into the depths, because like a fish out of water, too much oxygen can be dangerous if you’re out too long.

  As far as Chicago was concerned, though he liked the city, there was nothing and no one he would miss. Likewise, no one would miss him. Well, almost no one. A dark smile crept across his features. There were no sentimental attachments to make the move difficult. No romantic entanglements. He’d made that mistake once. Nearly cost him everything. Wasn’t sure that it didn’t. But apathetic detachment from the world in general did not bar him from the sense of personal abuse stemming from the fact that he was being relocated away from Chicago for a reason that seemed, to him, about as dumb as a doctor who won’t see patients because he can’t stand the sight of blood. I do my job. Am damn good at it. Why should he be so concerned? He’s never been before. Like I can’t take care of my own. It’s not as if it makes a difference now. Snorky’s landed himself in the A. Distance doesn’t change things. Surely they know that. Damn! The job wasn’t finished. He hated to leave town until it was. But there was nothing there for him to do now but wait. His hands were tied. Perhaps it was better that he was somewhere else. In the back of his mind, he knew they were right. And it frustrated the hell out of him. At least for now there was something else for him to do. It might not be as entertaining or as challenging, but it should have enough nuances and novelties to keep his mind busy. With that final thought, he picked up a daily paper that had been left on the table in front of him by another passenger and scanned the headlines:

  GERMANY: NAZI PARTY BUILDS SUPPORT FOR UPCOMING ELECTIONS; UNEMPLOYMENT CAUSES RIOTING IN BERLIN

  CHICAGO: CAPONE OFFERS ASSISTANCE IN LINDBURGH KIDNAPPING CASE

  3rd RUM RUNNER TORCHED NEAR SAN FRANCISCO: TWO BODIES FOUND

  USS MACON UNDER CONSTRUCTION IN AKRON, OHIO

  EARHART MAKES PLANS TO CROSS THE ALTANTIC SOLO

  DUST STORMS IN TEXAS, OKLAHOMA, BAFFLE NATIONAL WEATHER BUREAU

  Although he read each story thoroughly, Forster retained no confidence in the accuracy of printed news. Today he saw two articles he knew contained misleading information, one that was unabashedly biased, and one that was pure fiction. Nonetheless, he always seemed to find something useful. And today’s paper was no exception.

  5

  Ye Old Burro

  * * *

  At six to 1:00, Forster made his way through to the dining car having made arrangements with Anna to meet him there at 1:00. He was looking forward to the company, if not the food. She was cute, whic
h was more than he would admit yesterday. And this time, he made sure to arrive before her, choosing a seat facing the door. He brought the newspaper from the observation car with him and began to reread an article that had caught his interest earlier.

  At three to 1:00, the connecting door slid open. Forster looked up to see Anna entering the car. Seeing him already seated, she sat down opposite with a demure look in her eye. “I was going to sneak up on you and pay you back for what you did this morning, but I see that the effort would have been futile against one so . . . vigilant.” He smiled as he folded the paper, and as he set it down on the table, motioned to the waiter. The waiter responded promptly, took their orders, and left quickly; probably hoping that speedy service would result in a larger tip. Forster had already shown himself to be a generous customer.

  Anna looked at Forster’s dark hair, askew, sticking up and out in random places. “No sleep, huh?”

  Noticing her glance, he reached up subconsciously and tried to smooth out the rebellious locks. His hand traveled down and scratched his jaw, feeling the rough stubble. How long has it been since the last shave? Riding on a train causes one to lose track of the hours that pass, not to mention the days. “No, was never good at sleeping on trains.”

  “You ride them often?”

  “Yeah. My job takes me all over the place, and I’m often shipped by train. Never get used to it, though.”

  “Interesting way to see yourself. A human package. What’s inside?”

  “Not much, anymore.” he laughed a bit too sarcastically.

  In record time the waiter returned, setting their plates on the starched cloth in front of them. Forster had ordered turkey on rye, slaw, and a “near beer” while Anna had chosen a plain cheese sandwich to go with her water; the cheapest thing on the menu he observed.

  “Can I ask you about your work, or is that strictly confidential?” she asked, a bright flash emanating from her eyes.

  Green, “Depends on the questions you ask, I thought you were so observant you knew everything already.”

  “Who says I don’t? Well then, don’t tell me anything. I will tell you all.”

  “I think I should be worried.”

  She peered at him closely, placing her elbows on the table and leaning in a little closer. “But you’re not, . . . interesting.”

  “I’m not worried, or I’m not interesting?”

  “Oh bosh, you know what I mean,” she retorted. He watched her study him with half-closed lids. He could almost hear the slow clicking of cogs and wheels turning in her head. “You say you are coming from Chicago, but I think you have spent some time in warmer climates lately. Your skin is tanner than one would think if you had spent the entire winter up north. The South?”

  “Florida,” he confirmed, playing the game, curious to see what she would come up with.

  “Shh! I am telling you,” she scolded. “You carry your gun well concealed, most of the time. And though you are not vain, you are conscious of your appearance, that is when you are not sleep deprived.” There was that green spark again.

  “So, I’m careful except when I’m careless. Singular deduction Sherlock.”

  “No wife.”

  “You sure?” he asked with an underhanded grin, wondering if this was a deduction or a clever form of interrogation.

  “Yes,” she said decisively.

  Refusing to satisfy her with a confirmation, he sat back in his seat with the grin still smeared all over his face. Unfazed, she continued her appraisal under heavy lashes for a few more silent seconds. Beneath her steady gaze, he began to feel the same uncomfortable sensation that he felt when he first saw her, or more literally, when she first saw him. But again, he did not look away. Instead he met her intent gaze with steady coolness, the grin a remaining shadow on his lips at odds with the emptiness behind his eyes.

  Her eyes narrowed further, lashes lowered, then lifted slightly. A hint of question mixed with uncertain knowledge crept into her voice. “Your gun is not the only thing you hide. You have a lot of secrets, Mr. Forster.”

  “Yes, I do,” Forster responded firmly but without explanation.

  The sun passed behind a cloud. The train lurched forward and rattled a little louder. The whistle blew. The man in the opposite booth turned the page of his newspaper. She continued to look at him for a few more infinite seconds.

  “Well, that’s all I got,” Anna stated flippantly, suddenly shaking off the tension that had begun to form in the air between them. The innocent smile playing at her lips and the laughter in those emerald eyes charmed the situation back to its former lightness. As if by her command, the sun came out from its hiding place, the clatter of the train’s wheels became a rhythmic melody, and the man in the opposite booth all but disappeared from notice.

  He was amazed at her ability to just shut it off. No doubt she could have continued her special form of interrogation if she had wanted to, and it was possible that she would eventually catch him at some point if he wasn’t, how did she put it, vigilant. It was her decision to stop the probing, of that he was certain. He could recall a few times when she subtly turned the conversation if he wouldn’t immediately answer a question she had asked. Most people wouldn’t have suspected any purposeful hesitation. He usually put them off by some minor action, a pretense of distraction, a sudden occurrence of another thought. They would wait for him to finish whatever it was that occupied him for that infinitesimal span of time, then when he was ready, he would give them an answer that may or may not resemble the truth. Whatever served his purposes at the time. They would have been satisfied with his answer either way and think no more about it. He suspected with her, though she may have dropped a particular line of questioning for the moment, Anna was by no means satisfied. He was not off the hook . . . yet.

  “Okay,” his grin took a slightly sardonic but not unpleasant twist, “my turn.”

  “Uh-Oh,” she replied with mock concern. She was evidently pleased that the game would continue, but the look in her eye made it clear that she was unsure she liked the idea of being the one under scrutiny.

  “To start off, you ordered the cheapest thing off the menu even though you are now spending your own money. Hard times have taught you to be frugal, and you are most likely thinking about how much you can keep back to send home. A noble idea and I honor you for it. However, you’re too proud to accept charity as I nearly had to force feed it to you this morning.”

  She nodded the affirmative, slightly affronted at the second part of his appraisal.

  “You have already told me you are traveling to your aunt’s, who not only lives thousands of miles away, but who is also estranged. That shows you are not put off by the unknown. You also made sure that it was your decision to make. You were not swayed by your aunt’s persistence, or even the idea of your parents’ disapproval or pain. You were convinced that it would ease a burden. Were maybe even drawn to a sense of adventure. But that was secondary. You carry a strong sense of responsibility, especially where others are concerned. Another honorable trait, but it can lead a person to be a little . . . defensive, especially when your judgment is questioned. People have probably called you stubborn, or even worse.”

  Again, she gave a single tilted nod signaling the affirmative. She added with unapparent offence, “I have been compared to a certain four-legged pack animal.”

  “No doubt by past boyfriends.”

  Feigned apathy vanished under a hot blush and bitter glare. He laughed.

  Resuming his study of her, his eyes, which up till now had logged calculated observations, had shown cold indifference, and just now had laughed at her expense, softened. “You have hidden strength. Strength that I think has been forged through a serious amount of pain. You’ve lost someone close to you. A younger sibling perhaps?”

  Her skin paled. Her bottom lip drooped slightly then snapped shut. Her eyes momentarily veered out the window, then looked back, steel flecks replacing emotion. She nodded again. Forcing a smile
, “So far you’ve been correct on all accounts. Are you a seer, Mr. Forster? I don’t see your crystal ball.”

  Fearing he had gone a little too far, “Maybe we shouldn’t continue.” He reached for his drink.

  “No, I want to know. What else can you tell about me?”

  Setting down the bottle, he studied her face. The darkness had passed. Her brow had softened, and her eyes were slowly regaining their color. It was then that he noticed something about those eyes that he had somehow missed before and it made him smile. “You are often mistaken for being younger than you are. People often look at you as if you are naïve, innocent, and easily directed. That is, until they get to know you of course. I think you have learned to use that to your advantage.” The blush returned to her cheeks.

  “Again, you are being unflattering Mr. Forster, not to mention unfair,” she said with a bitter smirk.

  He sat back smug in his seat and concluded his assessment. “Your mother wears dresses that are perfectly pressed, you have a younger brother who gives her a run for her money, and your father’s name is Daniel.”

  If she was guarded before, her eyes did not hide their astonishment now. Her mouth dropped open without check.

  Laughing, he picked up the paper he had laid aside earlier and flipped it to the back page. There she was in black and white, standing with her black and white parents, along with other black and white people standing outside a black church in a white landscape. It was just after the dust storm hit, and the sides of the wood-slatted building were buried under deep mounds of dust. Her brother, oblivious to the havoc the storm had wreaked around him, was elbows deep in the sand intent on digging a hole to China. The caption below read “A Land Suit For No Man.” What followed was an article about the town of Shattuck and several of the inhabitants pictured, one being a local farmer, Daniel Kelly, shown with his family, Margaretta, Anna, and Heinrich.