by Janet Dawson
Mrs. Benson sighed. “Julius, yes. I believe that. But Ethel? I’m not so sure.”
“Yeah, but her brother, what he said at the trial about her typing up the notes.”
“I know,” Mrs. Benson said. “But I’m not sure he told the truth. A man will say anything to save his own skin. I just think the electric chair seems harsh. We’re not at war now.”
“Passing secrets to the Reds is treason,” Mr. Benson said. “And we were at war when it happened, even though the Russians were our allies.”
“I just think about their kids. Two little boys, just like us. Their youngest is about the same age as Billy.”
“Who’s the same age as me?” Billy came into view, followed by his younger brother, Chip. The porter had opened the wall between the two bedrooms, making the two bedrooms into one large room for the family.
“A little boy who lives back east,” his mother said. She looked up and saw Jill. “Oh, hi, Miss McLeod.”
“I’m collecting postcards to mail in Sacramento,” Jill said. “I have stamps if you need them.”
“I brought stamps with me.” Mrs. Benson reached for her handbag and took out a handful of postcards, all stamped and ready to mail. Jill took the cards and glanced at them. They were all destined for addresses in Colorado and New Mexico. “The boys wrote to all their cousins, and their grandmother.”
“I wrote my Abuela,” Billy said. “That’s Spanish for grandma.”
“I know.” Jill smiled at Mrs. Benson. “You’re from New Mexico, then.”
“That’s right. My parents live in Española. Papa was an engineer on the Chili Line, until they shut it down in ’forty-one. It ran from Antonito, Colorado, down to Santa Fe, New Mexico. The official name was the Santa Fe Branch, but everyone called it the Chili Line, because it carried a lot of chile peppers.”
“I’ve heard of that line,” Jill said.
“It’s narrow gauge,” Billy said. “Grandpa told me. That’s because of the mountains.”
Jill smiled. “Narrow gauge is the space between the insides of the rails. Sometimes the distance is as small as two feet, and other times it’s about three and a half feet.”
“My grandpa says in Colorado it’s three feet,” Billy said. “It takes up less space when they put the rails in the mountains.”
“Do you know what standard gauge is?” Jill asked.
Billy screwed up his face. “Four feet and…eight inches. And a half inch.”
“That’s right. You really know a lot about railroading.”
“I told you they were mad for trains,” Mrs. Benson said.
The younger boy, Chip, tugged on Jill’s sleeve. “Grandpa’s an engineer. He took us on a ride in the engine. I got to toot the horn.”
“It sounds like you’re quite the railroading family,” Jill said.
“We sure are,” Mrs. Benson said. “My Aunt Becky was a Harvey Girl at the station in Albuquerque. Dad’s retired now, from the Denver and Rio Grande Western. My brother Rico is a brakeman. He’s based in Alamosa, Colorado.”
“Toot, toot,” Chip said. Then he dashed around the room and out the door of bedroom F, yelling, “Toot, toot, toot.”
Billy stepped past Jill into the corridor, adding his voice to that of his brother. Ed Benson got up and followed the boys outside. “Settle down, you two.”
Just then Mrs. Clive rounded the corner, returning from the dining car. She stopped, glaring at the little boys running along the passageway. She looked as though she’d bit into a lemon, then went into bedroom D and shut the door.
“Let’s keep the noise down, boys,” Mr. Benson said. He smiled at Jill. “Don’t want to disturb the neighbors. Probably too late for that, though.”
“Let’s go up to the Dome,” Billy said.
“Good idea,” Mrs. Benson said. “We’d better let you go, Miss McLeod. I’m sure you have a lot to do before we pull into Sacramento.”
“Yes, I do.” Jill glanced at her watch. Frank Nathan and Emily appeared in the passageway, Emily holding the postcard she’d written for Stella. She handed it to Jill, who tucked all the postcards she’d gathered into her jacket pocket.
She headed for the next car, the Silver Gull, and said hello to the Gunthers, who were just returning to their compartment. She waited while Mrs. Gunther wrote out a postcard to send to her sister in Oregon.
By the time she reached the Silver Pony, Jill’s pockets bulged with cards and letters, and she had more telegrams to send. Sacramento loomed in the distance. The Zephyr slowed as it moved through the outskirts of the city, blowing its horn at each crossing. Jill glimpsed the domed capitol building. Then the train pulled into the Western Pacific Depot at Nineteenth and J Streets. As soon as the train stopped, Jill stepped down to the platform and hurried toward the one-story Mission Revival-style building. She dropped envelopes and postcards into a nearby mailbox.
Teresa Brewer’s perky voice sang out from a radio in the Western Union office, urging everyone within range to put another nickel in the nickelodeon. The man behind the counter was unwrapping a piece of Juicy Fruit gum when Jill walked in. He stuck the gum in his mouth, reached for the pencil tucked behind his ear, and scanned the wires she handed to him, tallying up the cost. On the radio, the music changed. Rosemary Clooney sang her hit, “Tenderly.” Jill paid the man behind the telegraph office counter and left the building, walking toward the train.
At the vestibule of the Silver Palisade, Frank Nathan was stowing a suitcase and a worn carpetbag in the vestibule. A woman waited near the step box. She wore a dove gray dress with a blue shawl around her shoulders. Silver threads mingled with dark in her hair, worn in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She held a white cane in her right hand.
“I’ve got your case in the vestibule, ma’am,” the porter said. “You’re in bedroom C. Now, if you’ll take my arm, I’ll help you up the steps.”
With her left hand, the woman grasped Mr. Nathan’s arm. The tip of her cane flicked over the step box. The shawl slipped from her shoulders and fell to the platform. Jill stooped to pick it up. “I’m right behind you, ma’am,” she said. “I have your shawl. I’ll give it to you when we get aboard.”
“Thank you.” With Mr. Nathan’s assistance, the woman carefully climbed the steps into the vestibule. She turned, her head erect and her sightless eyes a clear light blue. “Are you traveling on this car?” she asked as Jill draped the shawl around her shoulders.
“I’m Miss McLeod, the Zephyrette. If there’s anything I can do to help you during the trip, please let me know.”
“I appreciate your assistance, both you and this young man. I’m Mrs. Tatum, by the way, Alberta Tatum. Bound for Grand Junction, Colorado.” She nodded her head. “And what is your name, Porter?”
“Frank Nathan, ma’am. I’ll be with you all the way to Colorado. Now, if you’ll come with me, your bedroom is this way.” He escorted Mrs. Tatum to bedroom C, then went back to the vestibule for her luggage. He set the suitcase and carpetbag inside, telling her where they were. She took a change purse from the pocket of her gray skirt and tipped the porter. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“They’re still serving lunch in the diner,” Jill said. “Would you like me to take you there?”
“I’d like to get settled in first,” Mrs. Tatum said, leaning her white cane against the wall. “I’ll find my way to the dining car in a little while.”
Jill followed the porter back to the vestibule, where a burly, balding man in a brown suit was boarding the train. He had a ticket in his right hand and a battered brown valise in his left. He flashed the ticket at the porter.
“You’re in roomette number ten, sir,” Frank Nathan said. “Right this way.”
The man shoved his valise at the porter. “Put the bag in the roomette, boy,” he barked in a gruff bass. “I’ll be in the lounge.”
“Yes, sir.” Frank Nathan took the bag. The man turned, jostling Jill as he left the vestibule. The conductor walked by, calling, “All aboard.”
Frank Nathan set the valise on the floor of the vestibule. He closed and locked the doors. Then the engineer blew the horn and the California Zephyr pulled out of the Sacramento station.
Chapter Six
Jill walked through the cars, giving change and receipts to the people who’d asked her to send telegrams. The last of these was Mr. Finch, in the Silver Solarium. The Finches were just returning to the observation car after having lunch in the diner.
“Excellent meal,” Mr. Finch said. “I’m always pleased with the food on the Zephyr. Thank you for sending the wire, Miss McLeod.”
“When do we get to the Feather River Canyon?” Mrs. Finch asked.
Jill consulted her watch. “We’ll be in Marysville at one thirty-eight, and Oroville at two-eleven. I’ll make an announcement when we start up the canyon.”
“We went through there two years ago, during the summer. It was so beautiful. I’m looking forward to seeing it during the winter.”
The Finches’ two daughters climbed the stairs up to the Vista-Dome. In the lounge at the rear of the car, Mrs. Constanza was knitting while her husband read The Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler. He set his book aside and glanced up at Mr. Finch. “Tell me, do you and your wife play bridge?”
“Oh, we’re rabid players,” Mrs. Finch said with a smile. “Shall we have a few rubbers? Do you have cards, Porter?”
“Sure do, ma’am,” Mr. Parsons said. “If you would care to move to the buffet, there is a booth for four.”
As Jill left the car, her stomach growled. It was past time for lunch. She walked forward through the sleeper cars, pausing to answer questions from passengers. In the Silver Palisade, Dr. Kovacs was in his roomette, amid his books and papers. He looked up and smiled as she passed.
When Jill reached the bedrooms, Mrs. Tatum stepped out into the corridor, tapping her surroundings with her white cane.
“Hello, Mrs. Tatum, it’s Miss McLeod. Are you going to the dining car? I’m headed that way myself, because I haven’t had lunch yet.”
Mrs. Tatum smiled. “In that case, let’s away to the diner.”
When they reached the dining car, Mr. Gridley, the dining car steward, beckoned to them. “Ready for lunch now, Miss McLeod?”
“I certainly am, thanks.”
He directed them to a table that had just been cleared and reset with a clean white linen tablecloth. Each place setting had heavy silverware and Western Pacific china decorated with a rim of feathers denoting the railroad’s Feather River Route. Completing the table setting were folded napkins, the bud vase with its holly and carnation, and a menu in an upright silver holder.
When she and Mrs. Tatum were seated, Jill poured water for both of them from the bottle on the table. Then she pulled the luncheon menu from its stand and opened it.
“The soup today is split pea,” Jill said. “That’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine, too,” Mrs. Tatum said. “I’ll have a cup of that. What are the entrées and sandwiches?”
Jill read through the items and prices on the menu and they both decided to have the chicken salad sandwich. Jill noted their selections on the table checks and handed them to the waiter. In a moment, he returned with two cups of soup. They picked up their spoons and ate in companionable silence. When Mrs. Tatum finished her soup, she took a sip of water, careful not to spill any as she raised the glass to her lips.
“How long have you been a Zephyrette?”
“Nearly two years.” Jill smiled at the waiter as he delivered their sandwiches and whisked away their empty soup cups.
“You must be on your feet all day,” Mrs. Tatum said.
Jill laughed. “Yes, from the time we leave Oakland. I’m constantly walking through the train. It’s good exercise. I do get some breaks, though. Mealtimes, like now. I go off duty at night, about ten, and I’m up before seven. And I’m on call at night, if anything should happen.”
“How often do you make the journey?”
“I average three round trips a month.”
“It seems like an interesting job for a young woman. I gather you enjoy it.”
“I do,” Jill said. “I’ve met all sorts of people. And I’ve traveled, not just on the Zephyr. I have passes from all three railroads, and I’ve used them to go other places.”
“Are you based in Chicago or the Bay Area?”
“I live in Alameda with my family.”
A boy and a girl, unaccompanied by an adult, rushed past their table, giggling and chattering. They nearly collided with the waiter who was approaching the table where Mrs. Tatum and Jill sat. He deftly sidestepped the children. “We sure do have a lot of young ones on the train this run,” he said.
“We certainly do.” Jill had already noted that for her trip report. “It’s the holidays, folks traveling to be with their families for Christmas. The children roam through the train, looking for vacant seats in the Vista-Domes.”
“Don’t their parents keep track of them?” Mrs. Tatum asked. “I always did with my children.”
“Some do and some don’t,” Jill said. “I think the parents sometimes view being on the train as their own holiday as well. We keep an eye on the children, make sure they don’t get into mischief, or get hurt. I’m planning a Christmas party tomorrow afternoon, right here in the diner.”
“That’s right,” the waiter said. “The chefs are baking a Christmas cake for the little ones. Now, are you ladies ready for dessert? We have pumpkin pie. I know that’s one of your favorites, Miss McLeod.”
“Thank you. Pumpkin pie sounds great, with whipped cream on top. And I would like coffee.”
“Of course.” The waiter turned to Mrs. Tatum. “What about you, ma’am? We also have apple pie, and I can put some ice cream on that, or a bit of cheese, if you prefer.”
“Apple,” Mrs. Tatum said. “With ice cream.”
“What about you?” Jill asked Mrs. Tatum as the waiter stepped away. “Are you from Sacramento?”
“I’ve lived there nearly twenty-five years. My husband was an engineer for the California Department of Transportation. I taught grade school, until I started losing my sight. So I retired. Mr. Tatum died a few years ago, but my son and his wife are in Sacramento. He owns a business downtown. This year I’m spending Christmas with my daughter and her family in Grand Junction. I’m originally from Colorado. The town of Gunnison. Do you know where that is?”
“Oh, yes. My mother’s hometown is Denver. We lived there with my grandmother, during the war, while my father was in the Navy. My cousin David went to school in Gunnison, at Western State College.”
Mrs. Tatum smiled. “They didn’t call it that until the ’twenties. Back in my day it was called the Colorado State Normal School for Children. That’s where I learned how to be a teacher. What did your father do in the Navy?”
“He’s a doctor. He was in the Pacific during the war. Then he worked at the Navy hospital in Oakland. He’s in private practice now.”
The Zephyr’s horn blew as the train approached a grade crossing. They were coming into Marysville now. The train slowed, then stopped briefly. Jill and Mrs. Tatum finished their pie and paid their checks. Jill escorted Mrs. Tatum back to her compartment in the Silver Palisade. Then she walked back through the diner to the Silver Hostel. Past the door to the crew’s dormitory were the stairs that led up to the Vista-Dome. Just then a middle-aged man with a receding hairline stepped out of the lounge. It was Mr. Washburn, the man who’d removed his wedding ring before boarding the train. She hadn’t seen him since his attempt to flirt with her at the Oakland Mole.
Jill backed against the corridor wall, to let Mr. Washburn pass. But he didn’t. Instead he leaned forward, putting his left hand against the wall, just above her right shoulder, blocking her from moving in that direction. She smelled liquor on his breath.
“Well, well, if it isn’t that pretty Zephyrette. C’mon, honey. Have a drink with me.”
There’s one on every trip, Jill thought.
Jill
moved to her left, away from his encroaching arm, and glanced to her right, over his shoulder, hoping one of the stewards or another passenger would appear.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Jill said. “I’m not supposed to drink while I’m on duty.”
“I can wait,” Mr. Washburn said, a leer spreading across his face. “Tonight would be even better. What time do you get off duty, honey? I’ve got some fine old bourbon. We can have a party in my compartment.”
“I’m on duty until we get to Chicago,” Jill said. That was the truth but she didn’t think it would deter this would-be playboy.
“Chicago?” The man looked befuddled, then his voice took on a wheedling tone. “What the hell. That doesn’t work. I’m getting off the train in Omaha. C’mon, honey, have a drink with me. What’s the harm in having just one little drink?”
He reached for her arm and she quickly moved farther to her left, putting some distance between them. “You wouldn’t want me to lose my job, sir.”
“She doesn’t want to have a drink with you.”
Jill turned to see who had spoken. It was Mrs. Tidsdale, one hand on her hip in her bright red dress, a steely look in her blue eyes.
Mr. Washburn screwed up his face, looking like a petulant kid who’d been thwarted. “But I wanna have another drink.”
“I’ll have a drink with you,” Mrs. Tidsdale said. She stepped past Jill and took the drunk’s arm. “My name’s Tidsy. What’s yours?”
As Tidsy led the man into the lounge, Jill turned and went back through the diner and the Silver Gull to the Silver Palisade. She tapped on the door of bedroom A. “Emily? It’s Miss McLeod.” There was no answer. Jill opened the door a crack and saw Emily stretched out on the bench seat, arm around her teddy bear. The little girl was asleep.
Jill shut the door, just as Frank Nathan rounded the corner. “Just checking on Emily. She’s napping.”
“I saw Mrs. Tidsdale leave a few minutes ago,” he said.
“She’s in the lounge, having a drink.”
Billy Benson came barreling out of bedroom E, followed by his younger brother, Chip. They ran down the passageway and stopped, looking up at Jill and the porter.