by Wiley Cash
A few hours later in their sleeping berth, Claire lay on the top bunk in her nightgown and flipped through a copy of Vanity Fair. Donna sat on the bunk below, spreading cold cream over her face, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“You would’ve thought Overman could’ve shown a little more kindness to those people,” Donna said.
“What people?” Claire asked. She looked at an advertisement for the film Coquette that featured Mary Pickford in a beautiful peach chiffon party dress, a smile on her face as she gazed over her shoulder at a number of male suitors. Claire could not imagine anyone aside from Paul ever desiring her.
“Those strikers from Gastonia,” Donna said. “He treated them like trash.”
Claire studied Mary Pickford’s dress, noted the beautiful floral design that had been sewn on the front. “Well, did you see how they were dressed?” she asked.
Claire heard Donna gasp, heard the jar of cold cream land on the floor. Donna stood, and Claire saw that the two were now eye-level. “Are you serious, Claire?” Donna asked. Claire smiled but did not speak, did not take her eyes from Mary Pickford’s face. Donna put her hand over the advertisement so that Claire could not look at it. “It’s not funny. It’s not a joke.”
Claire closed the magazine and laid it on her chest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s awkward for me, that’s all. My father owns a mill. Those were millworkers. It was awkward.”
Donna shook her head, lowered herself to her bed. “Well, I’m sorry it was awkward for you, Claire.”
Claire sat up on the edge of her bunk and let her feet dangle over the side. “I told you, Donna, my father’s people aren’t like that. He treats his people better than that.”
“Are you even listening to yourself?” Donna asked. “You talk about your father’s employees as if he owns them.”
“Of course he doesn’t own them,” Claire said. “Of course not. He says they’re his people because they’re like family. Everyone lives in the village together, Donna. It’s like a big family.”
“And you and your parents live in the big house that looks down on the rest of the family,” Donna said. “Just like on Paul’s parents’ plantation. I bet they viewed their slaves as family too.”
“That’s not fair, Donna,” Claire said. “And you know it. Paul’s mother and father had nothing to do with that. That was years ago.”
“Look down at that diamond on your finger, Claire,” Donna had said. “You can thank Paul’s family for that. All of them.”
Now Claire lay in the dark berth, spinning her engagement ring on her finger. She considered what Donna had said, and she pictured Paul’s face, his family’s home in Wilmington, the portrait of his great-grandfather that hung in the sitting room. She thought of Manassas and wondered what she’d missed of it by not looking out the train’s window. Could she have seen the field across which Paul’s great-grandfather had ridden the white horse of her imagining? She pulled back the curtain and looked through the window. Out there, the blackness was barely decipherable from the black things impressed upon it. Nothing but dark shapes passed her. She inched her body closer to the window and cupped her hands and peered through the warm tunnel of her fingers: outside, a quiet town somewhere near Manassas, perhaps Manassas itself; the train passed the station without stopping; a Main Street where hours ago the shops had been closed for the night; trucks parked and waiting against the curbs outside of buildings.
She lay back on the bed, looked at her ring again. She’d met Paul three years earlier, when he was in Greensboro on business. His parents owned considerable tobacco interests in eastern North Carolina, and Paul, who’d graduated from Chapel Hill the year before, oversaw sales at his father’s direction.
Claire closed her eyes, allowed her mind to carry her back to the cool October evening in 1926 when she and Donna and two other sophomore girls from their dormitory had crossed the quadrangle at dusk on a chilly Saturday evening. They’d stood on the corner where Spring Garden and Tate streets meet, giggling, watching the red and orange and yellow leaves drift down around them and stir in the wind about their feet. The four of them had waited nervously for the streetcar that would take them downtown to the O. Henry Hotel. The young men from the local armory were holding a fall dance for the women’s college. Claire thought of the dress she’d worn, a pale blue silk gown Donna had loaned her. She thought of the boys she’d danced with that night, most of them forgettable, certainly none of them more memorable than Paul, who then was nothing more than a freckle-faced boy with a low-country drawl and homebrew on his breath who’d tried to kiss her on the dance floor in front of her friends. How they’d all laughed, howled really, at the telling and retelling of it on their way back to the dorm that night, their shoes kicking up dry and dying leaves, Donna even corralling the leaves into piles before picking them up and tossing them into the air, singing, “We’re the queens of autumn!” How Claire had lain in bed that night and pictured Paul’s face, the bodies of the dancers moving all around them, the pulse of the music pounding in her chest, her heart beating somewhere beneath it.
But the things that Donna had said before bed soured the memory, and Claire wished she could remove Donna from it. Donna knew nothing about Paul or his family. She certainly knew nothing about Claire’s parents. Claire was certain that her parents were exceptional people. Her mother was kind and gentle and openhearted. Her father was honest, worked hard, and treated his employees well. He’d joined the army during the war, even though he was wealthy and did not have to and would have never been expected to fight.
Claire’s parents loved her, and they seemed to love Paul. After all, they were throwing a huge engagement party for them at the club in Gastonia in two weeks. Donna would be there and Paul’s parents would be there too. Donna would see how wrong she’d been to say the things she’d said.
Claire adjusted her pillow, listened to the train move along the track, felt it rock beneath her. She tried to clear her mind, tried to drift off to sleep, but something kept needling her—Mrs. Barnes on the steps at the Lincoln Memorial; the smell of the woman Ella’s breath on her face; the things Donna had said about the strikers and Claire’s parents; the image of a slightly younger Donna tossing oak leaves into the air; Claire’s parents’ quiet house that overlooked the mill and the lake back in Belmont; and the uncertainty of the long, silent days that stretched out before her until she could marry Paul in the fall and have the rest of her life begin.
Claire sat up in her bunk, pushed the covers down to her ankles, and slipped her feet free of the sheets. She made as little sound as possible when she climbed down, reaching her foot into the darkness for the flat of the sitting chair by the bunk instead of stepping on Donna’s mattress. Once she made it down she slid open the closet door. She pulled her gown up over her head and swapped it for the dress she’d worn that day, her own warmth still nestled in the fabric around the armpits, the scent of the city still clinging to the fabric. She stepped into a pair of slippers and opened the door, did her best to block out the light coming into the berth so that it didn’t cross Donna’s face. She stepped into the hallway.
While her eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, Claire’s fingers reached for the wall to steady herself as the train rocked beneath her. The late hour, the soft carpet under her slippered feet, the knowledge that she’d left her room fresh from bed without making up her face or hair fed something in her that she couldn’t quite put a word to. No one knew where she was right now. Not her parents, not Paul, not even Donna, who was still asleep in her bunk. She wondered if it was excitement that she felt? Danger? Was it freedom? She followed the hallway to the dining car, the lights blazing inside as if a meal service were about to begin. The breakfast plates and cutlery had already been set, and in the corner beside a tray stand, a young Negro porter in a dark vest and matching bow tie polished silverware with a white rag.
“Miss,” he said. He nodded his head, looked away from Claire as soon as his eyes met hers. He c
ould have been Paul’s age, perhaps a little older.
“Hello,” Claire said.
His seeing her in slippers and with an unmade face had embarrassed her, but his looking away from her had embarrassed her even more. She considered turning and walking back down the hallway toward her room, but she feared both offending him and appearing younger and sillier than she wanted to appear. Instead, she walked farther into the car and stopped near its middle. She gazed around her at the set tables.
“First service isn’t until six a.m.,” he said, “but I might could find you something if you’re hungry.”
“What time is it now?” Claire asked.
He reached into his pocket and looked at a watch.
“Quarter after one,” he said. “We’ll stop in Charlottesville in a few minutes.”
“Do you mind if I sit?” Claire asked.
“No,” he said, “not at all. Want a cup of coffee? I could find some coffee.”
“No,” Claire said. “But perhaps a glass of milk, if it’s not too much.”
“It’s not too much at all,” he said. “Would you like it warmed?”
“No,” she said. “Cold is fine.”
“Please, have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
“Thank you,” she said. The man nodded and left the dining car opposite the way she’d come. She sat down in a booth on the west side of the train and scooted toward the window. Lights burned outside. She wondered if it was a small town. She wondered how far they’d already come. Her eyes focused on her reflection. Her brown hair appeared darker than she knew it to be. Her face nearly glowed.
The conversation she’d just had was the longest she’d ever had with a Negro. Unlike Paul, who’d grown up on the plantation before so many of his family’s tenants had left to find work in the cities and jobs up north, she hadn’t grown up with Negroes. She had never been able to approach them with the cool, natural ease with which she’d witnessed Paul and his father move and speak among them.
The porter walked back into the dining car and set a glass of milk down in front of Claire. Beside it he placed a small plate with a cookie sitting atop a napkin. Claire looked up at him. She smiled.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he said. He stood there, his hands down by his sides. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The question surprised her. She looked up at him, considered his face. She pictured Donna sleeping in the bunk, thought of the things she’d said about Paul’s family, about her own family. What would she think to see Claire sitting here in the middle of the night talking to a Negro as if it were the most natural thing in the world?
“Donna,” she said. “My name’s Donna.”
“Donna,” he said. “My name’s Hampton.”
“Hello, Hampton,” she said.
“Hello, Donna,” he said. “Please, let me know if you need anything else.” He turned and walked back to the tray stand.
Claire took a sip of the milk, tried to keep her hand from shaking. Her heart pounded in her ears. The milk calmed her. She set it on the table, spent a moment catching her breath. She picked up the cookie, bit into it. She couldn’t tell what kind it was. A sugar cookie perhaps. She brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. She could feel Hampton’s eyes on her. She looked up at him, and he dropped his gaze to the silverware he’d been polishing.
“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Is your room comfortable?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s quite nice. I just have a lot on my mind tonight.”
He smiled, set the piece of silverware on the tray, and picked up another. He was tall with soft brown eyes and dark skin. She watched him work, and she felt her eyes grow heavy. She felt warm, relaxed. She picked up the cookie and took another bite. She drank more of the milk.
She ran her hand along the windowsill and watched the reflection of it moving in the dark glass. She felt something catch her fingertips. When she looked closer she saw that a hair had been painted onto the metal. She wondered where it had come from. Had the painter dropped it and then covered it over? Had he known he’d left part of himself behind? She used her fingernail and scratched at the hair until it came free and disappeared into the shadows beneath the window. The place where the hair had been was shiny, the metal left exposed.
She looked up at the porter. He’d been watching her, but for how long she didn’t know.
“Do you have to stay awake all night?” she asked.
He smiled and looked down. He placed a fork on the tray and picked up another.
“Yes,” he said. “I come on in New York and work through until the breakfast service begins.”
“That’s a long time,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “It can feel like a long time.”
“Is it hard?”
“The job?”
“No,” she said. “Is it hard to stay awake all night?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “It gets easier. You get used to it.”
“I couldn’t do it,” she said.
“You’re doing it now.”
“That’s true,” she said. “I suppose I’ve been awake as long as you have.”
“You could do it easily if you were working,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, “I suppose I could.” But she wasn’t certain. She’d never had a job, and the fact embarrassed her even though there was no way he could have known this.
“It’s nice at night,” he said. “But it’s too quiet sometimes. I don’t usually get to talk with nice people like you.”
She smiled, perfectly aware that something, although she wasn’t quite sure what, was happening between them. “You’re from New York?” she asked. He looked up at her, nodded, looked back down at the tray of silverware. “What’s it like?”
“You’ve never been?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“That surprises me,” he said. “You look like someone who would enjoy the big city.”
“What’s it like?” she asked again.
“It’s busy,” he said. “And loud and dirty. It’s wonderful sometimes. Sometimes it’s awful.”
“It sounds amazing,” she said.
“Sometimes it is,” he said. He polished the silverware in silence for a moment, stared intently at his hands as they worked. “Where are you from?” he asked.
Claire watched his hands and the white rag move across the knives and forks and spoons as he polished them. She felt herself stepping from her own life back in McAdamville and into Donna’s.
“Salisbury,” she said. “My family’s from Salisbury, North Carolina, but I’m finishing school in Greensboro.”
“My family’s from the South as well,” he said.
“Where?”
“Mississippi,” he said. “But we left there a long time ago.”
The train had slowed, but she hadn’t been aware of it until she saw the lights outside her window.
“Is this Charlottesville?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. He stepped out from the behind the bar. “I have to go,” he said. “There are a few passengers boarding.”
“Okay,” she said.
He looked at the table before her. The cookie was gone, and she’d drunk half the milk.
“Do you need anything else?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay,” he said. He nodded. “Good night.”
He turned to go, but she called after him.
“I may still be here,” she said.
He stopped and faced her.
“Just so you’re not surprised,” she said. “I may still be sitting here when you come back.”
He smiled.
“Okay, Donna,” he said.
“Okay, Hampton,” Claire said.
She watched his back until he disappeared down the hall toward the other car. She sat for a few moment
s, sensed that something about the train had changed. She was somehow aware of the new people who’d just boarded, people who were awake and moving while the others slept, although she couldn’t see or hear any of them.
After a few minutes, she heard the familiar sound of the cars bunching together, and the dining car stuttered forward, and then it allowed itself to be pulled along smoothly. Claire wondered if Donna had slept through the stop, or if the sudden jolt had woken her. She wondered if Donna would whisper her name, hear nothing, and believe that Claire had slept through the stop at Charlottesville.
She tried not to look toward the door through which Hampton had exited, although she caught herself staring into the window and trying to use it as a mirror so that she wouldn’t have to look directly across the dining room. She waited, and after what seemed like a long time she made up her mind to return to the sleeping car, to sneak back into her berth, climb back into bed in her dress, and sleep for the few hours before they arrived in Greensboro.
She moved away from the window, but before she could stand she sensed that someone had come into the dining room. So she relaxed and tried to hide the fact that she’d ever considered leaving. She picked up the glass of milk and drank down what was left of it.
When she lowered the glass it revealed a white man standing in the doorway of the dining car. For a moment, Claire mistakenly believed that she still wore her sleeping gown, and she dropped the glass onto the table, where it rattled against the plate, and she pulled the collar of her dress tight around her neck. Instead of the sound startling him the same way it had startled Claire, the man simply looked toward her, and then he turned and looked behind him in the direction he’d just come.
He wore shirtsleeves and suspenders. His thick, dark hair was brushed back from his forehead. He was perhaps forty, certainly no older than fifty.
The train moved through a turn at a good clip, but the man stood as if he were outside the train and hadn’t even noticed it as it passed. He nodded at Claire.
“Good evening,” the stranger said.
“Hello,” she said.
The man walked toward Claire and stopped beside her table.