by Janet Dawson
Chapter Five
Anniversaries. December was the second anniversary of Steve’s death. It didn’t do to dwell on the past. She was over it by now. Or was she?
Little things triggered the memories. Anniversaries, like December, or March, or the day in April when Steve proposed. Like Nat King Cole singing “Mona Lisa.” That velvety voice wrapped around the lovely melody reminded her of slow dancing, Steve’s arms wrapped around her, pillowing her cheek on his broad, comfortable shoulder.
Stop it, she told herself. Stop thinking about Steve. But that was hard to do, when little things reminded her. Like December—and Professor Kovacs.
Jill glanced at her watch. She’d been sitting here too long. She stood and lowered the small stainless steel sink from the wall of her compartment. She washed her face. Then she freshened her makeup, inspecting her face in the mirror.
Someone knocked on her door. “Miss McLeod? You in there?”
She opened the door and saw the car attendant for the Silver Palace, the second Dome chair car. “What is it?”
“A little girl on my car took a tumble coming down the stairs from the Vista-Dome. You know how the kids are. They will run up and down the aisles and play on those stairs. Anyway, the little girl scraped some skin off her knee and it’s bleeding a bit.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Jill grabbed the first-aid kit and left her compartment. When she glanced out the windows, she saw the train had left Livermore and was heading up the switchbacks that would take it over Altamont Pass. She walked forward to the Silver Palace, where the girl was sitting with her mother in their seats in the middle of the car. The scrape on the child’s right knee had stopped bleeding. Jill cleaned the wound, asking the child’s name and age just to distract her.
“My name’s Tina,” the girl said, “and I’m nine.”
“That’s a good age,” Jill said. “There’s another girl on the train who’s nine. Her name is Emily. She’s traveling in one of the sleeper cars. Now this might sting a little bit, but only for a few seconds.”
Tina winced as Jill put some Merthiolate, a topical antibiotic, on the scrape and covered the spot with a large bandage. “Now be more careful going up and down the stairs,” Jill said.
The little girl nodded. “I will.”
After Jill said good-bye to Tina and her mother, she moved to the vestibule of the car and reached into her skirt pocket. She pulled out a pencil and a small notebook, wrote down the time and a brief description of what happened. She kept notes during the run, so she could refer to them when she filled out the detailed trip report she was required to submit at the end of the run. The trip report contained information about the journey and her activities each day she was on the road, noting any complaints, accidents, medicine administered, the names of the special attention passengers or any other notable people aboard. In short, anything and everything, a picture of the train and the people on it.
She walked forward to the first Dome coach car, the Silver Pony, where she was hailed by a woman who was experiencing motion sickness. Jill always kept a remedy called soda mints in her pocket, so she gave the woman a few. Then Jill climbed the stairs to the Vista-Dome. It was a clear day, with just a few high clouds. As the train descended the east side of Altamont Pass, she looked out at the broad sweep of California’s Central Valley. Once the train was out of the hills, it picked up speed, heading through the little towns where farmers tilled the rich soil along the San Joaquin River. The whistle blew its warning near crossings, and children on the streets and in backyards waved at the Silver Lady.
The Zephyr’s next scheduled stop was just before noon in Stockton, the city at the eastern end of the vast watery delta, where the San Joaquin met the Sacramento and the two rivers mingled and flowed toward San Francisco Bay. The train slowed, moving through the town, and blew its whistle before stopping at the station. Jill checked her watch. Right on schedule. The stop was only a minute long, time enough to board a few more passengers. Sacramento, the state capital, was the next stop, about an hour away.
After the train left Stockton, Jill walked to the diner to make her second announcement. “Your attention please. No doubt you will be interested in watching the approach of the westbound California Zephyr. We’ll be meeting it soon.”
That usually happened near the small town of Kingdon, just north of Stockton. Jill walked forward to the first chair car and took the steps up to the Vista-Dome. Every seat was taken, with passengers talking about the two trains meeting. In the distance she saw number 17, the westbound train, approaching number 18, the eastbound train. Whistles blew on both trains as the gap between them narrowed. Then the trains passed each other in a blur of silver cars.
Jill descended from the Vista-Dome and headed back through the chair cars to the Silver Hostel. In the coffee shop section, four people at one table were talking and eating sandwiches. At another table, a young woman in a full gray wool skirt and a red cardigan sweater dealt herself a hand of Solitaire as the steward brought her a cup of tea. She took a sip and grimaced.
“You Yanks don’t know how to make a proper cuppa,” she said, looking up.
Jill smiled. “Believe me, it’s not the first time I’ve heard one of your countrymen—or women—say that.”
“I don’t doubt it. Though this will have to do. I’m Evelyn Wolford, by the way. And you’re the Zephyrette.”
“Miss McLeod,” Jill said. “What part of England are you from?”
“London, born and bred,” Miss Wolford said.
“I read about that terrible fog in London, earlier this month,” Jill said. The killer fog, as the newspapers called it, had begun December 5th, when cold weather and a lack of wind trapped a layer of pollutants over the British capital. It lasted four days, and in the weeks since, a number of people had died of respiratory problems, according to the articles Jill had seen in the newspaper.
The young Englishwoman shook her head. “Dreadful business, that. We Londoners are used to our ‘pea-soupers,’ but this was different. It had been so cold that people were burning lots of soft coal to keep warm. My sister said she couldn’t even see to walk along the sidewalk, had to shuffle along as though blind. And it seeped indoors. Lots of fatalities from breathing the stuff. I expect the toll will go up.”
“Have you been visiting the United States for long?” Jill asked.
“Spending a year at Cal doing graduate studies in sociology.”
“My alma mater,” Jill said. “My degree is in history. There’s another young woman aboard who’s studying at Cal. Miss LeGros, traveling in one of the chair cars.”
“I’ll look for her. We can have a natter and compare notes on Berkeley. I’m off to New York City to spend the holidays with friends. Got a berth in that car, what’s it called? Ah, the Silver Rapids.”
Jill nodded. “The transcontinental sleeper. When we get to Chicago, that car gets hooked up to a train from the Pennsylvania Railroad for the trip to New York.”
“Sounds grand. Wonderful opportunity to see your country.”
“Someday I’d like to see yours. I feel as though I know it.”
“With a name like McLeod, I imagine your ancestors came over from Scotland,” Miss Wolford said.
“A long time ago,” Jill said. “What I meant, though, is that I’ve read so many books set in England that I feel I know it. I love Agatha Christie.”
“Ah, yes, Agatha. I’ve read most of hers. I’m actually quite fond of the Lord Peter Wimsey books by Dorothy L. Sayers.”
“I’ve read those, too,” Jill said. “It’s been nice talking with you, Miss Wolford.”
After leaving the coffee shop, Jill headed back to the lounge section. She peered in and saw a man and a woman seated in the corner. He was talking loudly, pounding his hand on the table for emphasis, and attracting stares from other passengers. “I’m telling you, all those Jews are Commies. They’re infiltrating the government, that’s what Senator McCarthy says.”
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br /> His wife looked up from her embroidery. “Oh, keep your voice down. Nobody wants to hear what you think. Besides, I’d just as soon you didn’t talk about politics.”
Jill passed the dormitory section at the rear of the car and made a quick stop in her compartment. Then she continued to the dining car. It was past noon now, and lunch service was in full swing. As she entered the Silver Plate she glimpsed the kitchen, where the chefs were in constant motion, preparing meals so that the waiters could deliver them to the passengers seated in the table section. A so-called “air curtain” kept cooking odors from permeating the dining section.
Jill walked down the corridor that ran alongside to the kitchen, excusing herself as she stepped past three coach passengers who were waiting in line to be seated. Although she would later make reservations for dinner, there was no reserved seating. Instead passengers were directed to tables by the dining car steward. It was a great way for people to meet their fellow passengers, the people with whom they’d share the train for the duration of their journey.
In the center of the car, Jill stepped behind the counter to let a man and a woman pass, heading up the corridor to the forward coaches. The steward was at the rear of the car, seating passengers who’d come forward from the sleeper section.
The dining car seated forty-eight passengers when filled to capacity. There were thirty-two seats in the main section, and at either end, semi-private nooks that could accommodate another sixteen additional people. Floral reliefs decorated the walls and ceilings. The carpet, a pale green, set off the red leather chairs. The windows had Venetian blinds as well as drapes in contrasting red, green, and cream.
The steward returned to his counter. “Are you here for lunch, Miss McLeod?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Gridley. I’ll wait a while.”
He nodded and turned to the coach passengers waiting to be seated, beckoning them to a nearby table. After they were seated, Jill walked down the central aisle between the tables. As she neared the rear of the car, she saw the Gunthers facing her, at a table on the right. Opposite Mrs. Gunther, Emily Charlton pulled crusts off the bread on her chicken sandwich. Next to the child, Mrs. Tidsdale waved her spoon as she chatted with the Gunthers, pausing now and then to dip thick green pea soup from the bowl in front of her. The waiter appeared, with a chicken salad for Mrs. Gunther and a hot roast beef sandwich for Mr. Gunther.
Jill stopped to say hello to the four at the table, then continued to the rear entrance of the dining car. At another table for four, Miss Stafford, the writer, was talking with the Perlmans, the couple traveling on the transcontinental sleeper.
“I’m spending Christmas with my brother in Chicago,” Miss Stafford said. “After that, I’m going to New York to visit friends. I really want to see this new play, The Seven-Year Itch. I’ve heard it’s good.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” Mrs. Perlman said. “We were there opening night in November. I loved it. Wonderful, so funny.”
Her husband looked up from his menu. “It was okay. Blanche liked it more than I did.”
“That was you laughing in the seat next to me,” Mrs. Perlman said, poking her husband with her elbow. “You enjoyed it more than that Mary Chase play we saw earlier in the year.”
“You’ve convinced me,” Miss Stafford said. “I’ll definitely put The Seven-Year Itch on my list of things to see. What other shows would you recommend?”
“Dial M for Murder. You definitely want to see that one.” Mrs. Perlman picked up her menu. “Now, let’s see. I think I’ll have the chicken.”
“That Shrimp Newburg looks good. In fact, that’s what I’ll have.” Miss Stafford marked her meal check and gave it to the waiter.
In the space next to a storage locker, Dr. Laszlo Kovacs waited for the steward to seat him. He smiled at Jill.
“Good afternoon, Professor Kovacs,” Jill said. “I hope you’re enjoying the trip.”
Before the professor could answer, two other people entered the dining car, a man in gray pinstripes and a woman in a green suit. They were the Coles, the newlyweds who were traveling in the Silver Gull. The professor glanced back at the new arrivals and his polite smile turned into a frown. Emotions flickered over his face.
Mrs. Cole’s full red lips turned upward in her narrow face, but the smile didn’t quite reach her hazel eyes. “Hello, Laszlo.”
Dr. Kovacs nodded, a tight formal move. “Rivka. What a surprise to see you.”
Mrs. Cole laughed, smoothing back her chestnut ponytail. “Oh, it’s Rita now. Much more American. Where are you working these days?”
“At the University of California in Berkeley,” Dr. Kovacs said.
“Who’s this, honey?” Mr. Cole put his arm around his wife’s waist.
“This is my ex-husband, darling,” Mrs. Cole said. “Laszlo Kovacs. I’ve told you about him. Laszlo, this is my husband, Clifford Cole. We just got married.”
“Oh, yeah.” Mr. Cole smiled and stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
The professor hesitated, then returned the handshake. “Congratulations on your marriage. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“Oh, I am very happy indeed.” Mrs. Cole smoothed her collar, showing off her wedding ring. “We spent our honeymoon in San Francisco and we’re on our way back to Chicago. Where are you going, Laszlo?”
“Denver, then Chicago.”
“Bet you’re going to the Institute in Chicago,” she said.
Dr. Kovacs didn’t respond to this. Instead he said, “I’m spending the holidays with the Walkers. He’s teaching at the University of Colorado in Boulder.”
Mrs. Cole rolled her eyes, and her voice was tart. “Lloyd and Ella, and those endless games of canasta.” Mr. Cole looked curious, so she added. “The Walkers were our neighbors in New Mexico.”
Her husband gave an incurious shrug. “Oh, yeah? Never been to New Mexico. I hear it’s real pretty.”
The dining car steward stepped up and beckoned Dr. Kovacs. The professor followed him down the aisle. As he passed the table where Emily and Mrs. Tidsdale were sitting, Dr. Kovacs looked down, just as Mrs. Tidsdale looked up and smiled. Their eyes met and Dr. Kovacs frowned again. Then he moved away, taking a seat indicated by the steward, at a table already occupied by a man, a woman, and a teenaged girl.
Curious, Jill thought. It was as though the professor and Mrs. Tidsdale knew each other, or thought they did. But if that was the case, why hadn’t they spoken?
The steward returned and placed the Coles at a table opposite two elderly women. Mrs. Clive was sitting at a nearby table, upbraiding a waiter as she pointed at her soup. “This is cold. Take it back to the kitchen and bring me another bowl.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the waiter said, whisking the offending bowl from the table.
“Not the standard of service I’m accustomed to,” Mrs. Clive said. She waved at Jill. “How long before we get to Sacramento?”
Jill looked at her watch. “We’re due in at twelve-fifty.” And I have things to do before we get there. She left the dining car and walked back through the sleeping cars to the Silver Solarium. “We’re coming into Sacramento soon,” she told the passengers in the lounge at the rear. “We’ll have a longer stop, so I can mail letters and postcards if you want, or send telegrams from the Western Union office at the station.”
“I would like to send a wire,” Mr. Finch said. “Just a moment, I’ll write it out for you.” He stepped to the writing desk, which was supplied with California Zephyr stationery, envelopes, and postcards, and picked up a pen. As he scribbled, both his daughters came down the stairs from the Vista-Dome.
“Can we go up to the lounge?” the older girl, Nan, asked.
Mrs. Finch smiled. “That would be fine. I’m sure I can count on both of you to behave, and not get in the way of the train crew. Miss McLeod is going to send a wire for your father when we get to Sacramento. She can mail postcards, too, if you want to write out a few.”
Cathy, the younger girl, said, “I
want to send postcards. One to Grandma, and one to my friend Margaret. But I don’t have any stamps.”
“I do.” Jill reached in her pocket for the stamps she carried, two cents for postcards and three for letters. “Just let me know how many stamps you’ll need.”
Nan and Cathy both took postcards from the writing desk and wrote notes on three cards each. Jill counted out the stamps and the girls affixed them to the postcards. Mr. Finch handed her his wire and took out his wallet, removing several bills. “That should take care of the wire and the stamps,” he said.
“Thank you. I’ll bring your change once we’re out of Sacramento.” Jill left the Silver Solarium and walked through the sleeper cars, collecting postcards and letters to be mailed. When she reached the Silver Palisade, she stopped at bedroom A. Emily and Mrs. Tidsdale had returned from the diner. “Do you want to send a postcard?” Jill asked the little girl.
Emily hugged her teddy bear. “Who would I write to?”
“What about Stella?” Jill asked. “You could tell her all about your train trip.”
“That’s right,” Mrs. Tidsdale said, lighting a cigarette as she leaned back in the seat. “Go ahead and write out a card, sweetie, and Miss McLeod will mail it when we get to Sacramento.”
“Stella lives on Taylor Street,” Emily said, “but I don’t know the number of the house.”
“I do.” Frank Nathan appeared, holding a postcard and a pen. “I can write out Mama’s address, and you can write the rest.”
Emily nodded and took the card. While she was writing out her message, Jill knocked on the doors of the other bedrooms. There was no answer in B or D, and bedroom C was empty. The door to bedroom E was open. Inside, Jill saw Mr. and Mrs. Benson together on the bench seat, a copy of that morning’s San Francisco Chronicle open to an inside page. He was pointing at the article Jill had seen earlier, about the Rosenberg supporters marching near Sing Sing.
“Well, I think they’re guilty,” Mr. Benson said. “Always have, from the start.”