Death Train to Boston

by Dianne Day

  He had himself under control now. Her story had captured his interest. He had wiped his face with his handkerchief and was sipping the coffee, which was still warm enough to be bracing.

  ‘‘What was in the chest?’’ Michael asked.

  Meiling turned to him now, with a small, mysterious smile. ‘‘Magic. Chinese magic.’’

  If anyone had told me, at any point in the past that I can even dimly recollect, that the day would come when I should be heartily glad to have both legs broken, I would have called that person totally mad. Yet such a day had come; verily (to use a Prattish turn of phrase) it was upon me.

  I could hardly be expected to bear, much less to conceive, or God forbid to practice at the conception of, Melancthon Pratt’s children as long as my legs had not yet healed. When my legs could not take my own weight, the poor limbs certainly could not be expected to accept his as well. Or any other attentions in which the legs might possibly be kept out of the way but still might have to become involved. Oh dear, such things did not bear thinking about.

  Yet they were often thought about in this strange Mormon household. They were all, Melancthon and the five wives, completely obsessed with having children, and therefore also with the process by which one conceives them. Not to put too fine a point on it, they were obsessed with sex.

  It is redundant, surely, to call a household both Mormon and strange? Perhaps not. For the sake of most Mormons, who after all built Salt Lake City, which is quite an achievement, one must hope that Pratt and his wives were not typical of the entire breed. Isolated as we were, I had no way to judge.

  I had lain in my fever, Verla told me, for about ten days. Once I began to eat and drink again, I made rapid progress. The fourth day of my true convalescence— which I calculated must have been exactly two weeks after the train wreck—I was able to get out of bed and sit in a chair by the window. Of course I did not accomplish this feat alone. I had the help of both Norma and Tabitha, wives three and four respectively. Having shifted me from bed to chair, Norma was impatient to be on her way, but Tabitha stayed behind and began to tidy the room by remaking the bed.

  I felt as if the weight of the world were upon me. Being able to sit up in a chair was encouraging, but looking out of that window was not. The view only emphasized the extreme remoteness of our surroundings.

  Better, then, to watch Tabitha. Perhaps I could draw her into conversation. I did not want the wives to see me as a rival, but I feared they already did. Or rather three of them did. Verla’s attitude seemed completely neutral, I supposed because she was first wife; and Selene was so young that she did not seem to me anything like a wife at all, but more like a younger sister.

  Tabitha had a soothing, quiet presence. She did not bustle about, but rather her motions were both deliberate and graceful.

  Impulsively I asked, ‘‘Is dancing against your religion?’’

  She looked up, wide-eyed, as if amazed that I would speak to her. ‘‘No,’’ she replied. That was all; she did not inquire as to why I’d asked, or volunteer any information of her own, but returned to tucking the top sheet under the mattress at the foot of the bed.

  Tabitha was quite attractive in her own quiet way. She was of average height and build, with regular features, neither pretty nor plain but somewhere in between. Her hair was light brown and had a tendency to curl around her face, though she had arranged it in a figure-eight bun on the nape of her neck. She wore a brown woolen dress with buttons all down the front, to which she had added a white collar and cuffs trimmed with tatted lace. Lace, no apron—pretty fancy for a Pratt woman, I thought. Perhaps she was going into town?

  ‘‘I asked,’’ I said, venturing further, ‘‘about the dancing because you have such a graceful way of moving. I thought perhaps you might dance, yourself.’’

  ‘‘Oh, my goodness, no.’’ Surprised, Tabitha paused in the act of shaking out one of the feather pillows. A smile curved her faintly pink lips, and suddenly I saw what Melancthon must have seen when he’d chosen her to be wife number four: a gentle sweetness that was quite appealing. She gave the pillow a final shake and put it down in place, smoothing the pillowcase with her hand as she rather shyly admitted, ‘‘I do know how, though. When I was a child in town, we danced some. But, well, I suppose Father isn’t much of a one for dancing.’’

  ‘‘No, I suppose not.’’

  She went around the bed to repeat the process with the pillow on the other side, while I returned my gaze to the view out the window.

  ‘‘We appear to be hemmed in by mountains on all sides,’’ I remarked.

  The reticent Tabitha did not respond.

  ‘‘Of course,’’ I went on, ‘‘the view from other parts of the house may be different. I have no frame of reference here beyond this very room. I am beginning to feel positively claustrophobic.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know that word.’’ Tabitha had finished with the bed now, and moved over to dust the dresser and the chest of drawers, picking up objects and putting them down again so carefully that she made not a single sound.

  ‘‘Claustrophobic?’’ I glanced swiftly her way, not wanting to appear too eager to involve her in conversation, for fear that she would bolt. She had that doe-like quality about her. I explained, ‘‘It means a fear of being confined in a small or tight space. It is a word of Latin origin, used by doctors of psychiatry and people of that sort, who study the workings of the mind. I’m very interested in such things,’’ I said with a shrug, a gesture I meant to imply my understanding that most people were not. And then I looked out the window again, as if I did not care a bit whether she continued talking to me.

  ‘‘You are well educated, then. I thought so. I said to the others, just last night, that I thought from the way you speak you must have spent a lot of years in school.’’

  ‘‘I did, yes, that is true.’’

  ‘‘But you were not a schoolteacher.’’ Tabitha came over to the window and leaned against the window sill. Sunlight shone behind wisps of her soft brown hair, surrounding her head in a golden halo.

  ‘‘No. How do you know that?’’

  ‘‘By the dress you were wearing when Father brought you here. It’s very fine—I mended it myself. I’ve never seen a dress like that, with such a narrow skirt, and such pencil-thin pleats and tucks on the bodice; and that high lace collar on the dickey has little, thin boning in it, to make it stand up. Teachers do not have such clothes.’’

  I smiled. ‘‘I think some teachers in San Francisco might. Though they probably would not wear them for teaching.’’

  ‘‘San Francisco!’’

  ‘‘That is where I am from.’’ And where I must return, as soon as I possibly can. I knew better than to say that aloud.

  Tabitha frowned. ‘‘Once we’re here, we’re not to talk about where we were before. Especially you.’’

  ‘‘Why is that?’’ As soon as the direct question was out of my mouth, I regretted it. All my instincts told me that the only way to learn anything about this household was by stealth and indirection.

  But Tabitha surprised me. ‘‘If I tell you, may I stay and sit with you awhile?’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ I said. ‘‘I should be glad of the company.’’

  ‘‘Father says we are not to tire you.’’ She brought over the other straight-backed chair.

  I said, ‘‘I appreciate that. But on another hand, it can be tiring in a different way to have no distractions or diversions, especially as I cannot move about and I have no books to read. Except, of course,’’ I hastened to add, ‘‘for The Book of Mormon, which Mr. Pratt gave me.’’ And which I did not intend to read; I consider it my duty to resist indoctrination of any sort. Otherwise I should be untrue to myself, and then where would I be?

  ‘‘Very well.’’ Tabitha sat at a slight angle to me, arranging her skirt so that only the tips of the toes of her leather shoes were visible. ‘‘I would like to talk with you more, but you must tell me, Carrie, if you
start to get too tired.’’

  ‘‘I will. Now, you said you would tell me why it is you’re not—we’re not—supposed to talk about where we come from? Surely one’s origins are important?’’

  ‘‘The people, our families, are certainly important. We must bring them all into the fold of the True Religion, and that can be done only in the Temple.’’

  From Pratt’s instruction I had already learned that when a Mormon said ‘‘the Temple,’’ it meant the temple in Salt Lake City. Rather in the same fashion as, to the Jews, there was only one ‘‘Temple,’’ and that was in Jerusalem. Exactly what might reside in such a sacred precinct would be most interesting to see. Though I supposed one would be struck blind after. Highly religious experiences tend to be tedious that way.

  ‘‘But,’’ Tabitha continued, folding her long-fingered hands in her lap, ‘‘the places themselves where we have lived are not so important, especially to Father. He is very devout, you know. He takes his priesthood so seriously.’’

  Tabitha broke off, biting her lower lip and looking a little troubled. ‘‘He can explain this much better than I.’’

  Although I was listening attentively, another part of my mind was equally occupied with making the kind of observations for which I had been trained as a private investigator. I had completely recovered my memory. Among other things, I knew perfectly well what Michael and I had been doing on that ill-fated train. But I’d chosen not to let the others, particularly Melancthon Pratt, know much at all about me; they believed I still suffered from some memory impairment. It was a ruse, which I intended to maintain as long as it proved useful to me.

  ‘‘Pray continue,’’ I said by way of encouragement.

  Continuing my observations, I noted that Tabitha’s hands did not appear to be so accustomed to hard work as Verla’s, or even Norma’s. How interesting.

  Tabitha said, ‘‘I really am not sure I understand it all very well myself. But you probably know that we are, well, different.’’

  ‘‘I am not familiar enough with Mormonism to make any comparisons,’’ I said, while thinking that Sarah, whom I had seldom seen, bore a physical resemblance to Tabitha. Further, I wondered if Sarah’s hands also might be less work-worn, as Tabitha’s were. I tried to mentally picture Selene’s hands, and could not, but no matter—she was so young I could not really think of her as one of Pratt’s wives. In fact, I hoped she might still be in school somewhere.

  ‘‘I didn’t mean Mormons are different—although of course that’s true, and is the whole reason Prophet Joseph Smith started our religion. What I meant was, we —that is, Father and the families in the area who follow him—are different from the rest of the Mormons. We adhere more closely to the true spirit of the teachings of Joseph Smith. Father has recovered this purity in the same manner that Joseph himself achieved it: through communication with an angel.’’

  ‘‘Um-hm,’’ I said, ‘‘fascinating.’’

  ‘‘Father says we are the True Saints.’’

  I raised my eyebrows, but could think of no way to remark upon this extraordinary notion. As I had my own suspicions about Pratt and his angel, not to mention his possible sainthood, I decided to change the subject. ‘‘Tabitha, it has just occurred to me that Sarah bears a considerable resemblance to you.’’

  Tabitha blushed. ‘‘It’s the other way around. I resemble her. We’re sisters. She is three years older than I.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I see.’’ And both married to the same man. How bizarre.

  To keep my thoughts from continuing along that line, I doggedly pursued my alternate train of thought: ‘‘May I hazard a guess? In the division of housework, you’re in charge of the sewing. And Sarah, does she do the same?’’

  ‘‘Well, yes,’’ she replied, cocking her head to one side. ‘‘How could you tell?’’

  I said, ‘‘Your hands are smooth, which suggests to me that they are not often in hot, harsh water. Therefore you do not wash clothes or dishes, or scrub floors. Or do much work outside, as in a garden, raising vegetables or flowers. Furthermore, in the bright sunlight I see tiny prick-marks on the fingers of your left hand, which I think should be from a needle. And a slight indentation at the tip of the middle finger of your right hand, as if you often wear a thimble on it.’’

  ‘‘Goodness, how clever! I must go get Sarah, she must hear this.’’ Tabitha jumped up out of the chair excitedly. ‘‘I’m sure you got so clever by spending all those years in school. We both wanted to go longer to school, you see, but then, well . . .’’ She blushed. The high color in her face was most becoming.

  I smiled and said nothing, as I could not think of anything to say.

  ‘‘I’ll be right back. And I’ll, I’ll—well, Sarah and I will have something to show you. You’ll be pleased, I think, to see how right you are.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ I said, still smiling, and now curious too.

  But as soon as Tabitha had closed the door behind her and I was completely alone, gloom descended upon me.

  I have never been very fond of mountains; given the choice of a trip to the mountains or to the seashore, I would always choose the sea. So, to have those mountains as the only view available to me was exceedingly oppressive. More oppressive still was the sense of hopelessness that continually threatened to take me over. In a way, I might have been happier if I hadn’t recovered my memory.

  ‘‘No, no,’’ I muttered aloud, ‘‘I mustn’t think like that.’’

  Silently I recited; I am Fremont Jones. I live in San Francisco. Michael Kossoff is my partner, in life and in work. We are the J&K Agency, private investigators. Our telephone number is 3263.

  The Pratts had no telephone. I had inquired, of course, on the second day after regaining my senses. I’d asked Verla, who had frowned at me and said, ‘‘What a notion!’’

  Being unwilling to give up so easily, I’d approached Norma, who came in later that day to sit with me for a while. I had asked her if she would send a telegram for me the next time she was in town. I needed to let my business partner know that I was all right, I said. She had replied, ‘‘You don’t have any business anywhere anymore except right here, so I reckon there won’t be any telegrams sent. If God wants you here, who are you to argue that? And we know God wants you here, because Father says so.’’

  Hm, I’d thought, God may want me here, but you do not. That was as plain to me as the nose on her saucy face. Then I’d filed that observation away in my mind, along with all the others I was accumulating.

  Someday, surely, all these observations would be of use.

  I sighed. What was taking Tabitha so long to return with Sarah? Why couldn’t I hear footsteps in the hallway outside my door when people came and went? Surely there was a hallway outside the door, and in a simple farmhouse, no more than a cabin really, it would not be carpeted. . . .

  Suddenly I could not get my breath, my heart began to pound, and my hands dripped cold sweat. Down to the very marrow of my bones I understood the origin of the phrase ‘‘scared to death,’’ because I was. Surely one could not live long and feel this way?

  Oh, dear God, I was trapped in this one room! Trapped, without knowing where I really was, knowing nothing of the layout of the house, in or near what town it was situated, knowing nothing at all except these four walls and the view from this one window. I could not bear it! My heart fluttered like a bird in the cage of my ribs.

  When I was a child in Boston, one of my mother’s friends had kept canaries in her house around the corner from us, in Louisburg Square. She had a whole room full of the tiny little yellow birds, each in its single, separate cage. I couldn’t say how many cages, because I’d been too young to count them, but the day had come when I couldn’t stand anymore to see those caged birds singing their pretty little hearts out. I had opened the doors of all the cages; and then I’d run away myself. I hadn’t stayed to watch and see if they would fly away or not, but I knew what I would have done if I had been a bird.
. . .

  I shifted in the chair to get my legs right under me. The chair had no arms, but I braced my hands against the seat. Did I dare to let my legs take my weight? Were they really broken and mending? I had only Pratt’s word for it. I didn’t remember the doctor’s visit. What if my broken legs were as much a construction of Pratt’s grandiose imagination as his angelic visions? What if my injuries were far less severe than he’d led me to believe?

  Oh please, I thought, I must get away. . . .

  I slowly lifted myself from the chair, keeping most of my weight on my hands. I felt pain; beads of moisture popped out on my forehead. My breath came in shallow bursts and I was dizzy, but the cold dread of absolute terror passed, because now I was doing something. The pain was not so bad . . . until I tried to straighten my knees.

  So early in the morning that the sky was still dark, Michael waited on the platform of San Francisco’s train station for Meiling to arrive from Palo Alto. He had engaged an auto-taxi for the trip from the station to the Ferry Building; there they would cross the Bay to Oakland, and from Oakland their main journey eastward would begin.

  He was alone on the platform. Two porters in their red-capped uniforms leaned against the walls, perhaps catching forty winks. If they had been on duty all night, and they probably had, Michael did not begrudge the hard-working men their sleep. He preferred to be alone anyway.

  Michael’s footsteps clicked on the cement platform as he walked back and forth, back and forth. He took off his bowler hat and ran his hand through his hair once, twice; then put the hat back on again. He didn’t like to admit it, but Edna Stephenson had shaken his confidence. Was he doing the right thing by involving Meiling?

  She’d changed. Well, people do that, especially when they’re young, they change, he thought. The thing was, though: Meiling had changed so much, and in ways that Michael did not understand. Ways that would have been mysterious to most Chinese, and were incomprehensible to him. Her grandmother’s magic, she’d said, had changed her.