The Last Grand Adventure

by Rebecca Behrens

  Neta pulled the car to a stop directly in front of the entrance. “One benefit to being old—and there aren’t many, kiddo—is that nobody bats an eye when you make your own parking space.”

  We got out of the car, and Neta insisted on helping me lift our luggage out of the trunk. I balanced the load of my O’Nite and my knapsack, plus Pidge’s small suitcase, too. She carried her pocketbook and the valise of letters, tucked safely underneath her slim arm.

  “I guess this is good-bye,” Pidge said to Neta. She pulled a pair of sunglasses over her eyes, but not in time to hide the wistfulness.

  “We shouldn’t let it be so long before we meet up again,” Neta said, walking forward to embrace my grandmother. “Especially now that you live only a hop-skip away.”

  “We certainly shouldn’t.” Pidge let herself be wrapped in Neta’s hug, but still held tightly to the valise with one arm. I snapped a picture of them.

  “One of these days, I could take you up in the air again,” Neta added as she pulled away.

  “Flying? Snooky, at your age?”

  “Why not? I shocked people by flying as a young girl. Might as well shock them again by flying as an old broad.”

  Pidge smiled. “Well, you’ll never get me in the air again—but I’ll come to watch.”

  “It’s a deal.” Neta came for me then, squeezing me tight. She smelled like both cut grass and strong perfume. She pulled the red scarf from her neck and wrapped it around mine. “It suits you. Take good care of your grandma,” she whispered in my ear. “Wherever this adventure takes you.” I promised her I would. Even though it had been a long drive, I felt excited. We were at the start of something. An adventure, like she said.

  FIVE

  All Aboard

  Pidge and I waved to Neta as she drove away, tooting a cheery good-bye with the horn. Then Pidge hustled me into the station. “One thing about the Super Chief, darling—it’s always on schedule. That’s a blessing or a curse, depending on your own timeliness.”

  She walked fast into the station, shoulders back and striding like she owned the place. Her wide pant legs swished with purpose. She reminded me of Katherine Hepburn. But at the same time, seeing her in a place full of other adults, I was struck by her frailty relative to them. Her knuckles were white from the grip on her suitcase handle—she had taken it from me, insisting on carrying her own bag. In the crowded middle of an open concourse, she stopped, looking confused. “It’s funny. I was here only a week ago, but I don’t remember . . . Ah, yes. This way,” she said, nudging the back of my right leg with the edge of her suitcase. I scrambled to catch up with her, my bag tangling up my feet.

  “Don’t we need to get our tickets?” I asked as we hurried past a ticket window.

  “That’s all taken care of,” she said. I wondered how, though. Julie now kept the checkbook and register for Pidge’s bank account in our kitchen drawer, and my grandmother was given a cash allowance by my father for expenses not covered in regular bills. Train tickets must be costly—wouldn’t they have used up all her spare money? And when had she purchased them, because last night she’d only called to see if seats were still available—unless Pidge had made the arrangements early in morning, while I still slept. That must be it.

  A whistle blew as we hit the platform. The train was before us in all its shiny, silver, streamlined glory. The front of the engine was painted a bright red with yellow on the “nose,” the words SANTA FE emblazoned in proud black text. I tried to count how many cars long the train was, but Pidge was already pulling me toward it.

  “I wonder if anyone famous will be on board,” I said as we hurried along the platform edge. People used to call the Super Chief the “train of the stars” because so many Hollywood celebrities took it east. It had been the most glamorous way to travel, like a grand hotel on rails. A thrill zipped up my spine at the thought of seeing movie actresses like Audrey Hepburn or Julie Andrews. But many stars traveled by air now. Regular people too. My mother would be flying from San Francisco to Newark.

  “Perhaps, but don’t get starry-eyed about it. Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” I supposed Pidge would know, being Amelia’s sister and all. “They’re just people, same as you and me.” Pidge stopped suddenly. I skidded to a halt next to her, nearly taking her out with my swinging suitcase. I dropped it at my feet.

  “Here. Climb aboard.” She gave me a push in the direction of the train steps. An attendant wearing a red cap stood beside the stairs, one who probably should’ve been helping us, but he was turned the other way and focused on herding a group of passengers. Pidge shoved me again. “Hurry up, buttercup!”

  I scrambled up the slippery metal steps and onto the train. Pidge tossed me my suitcase, the valise, then her suitcase, and finally hoisted herself up behind me. “Follow me.” She snaked down the cramped hallway. We were in a chair car, so we must’ve boarded the El Capitan half of the train—the coach part, where instead of fancy sleeping cars there were neat and comfortable seats on the high level and luggage shelves below.

  “I thought we were taking the Super Chief  ?” I wanted to make sure we were in the right place, and this didn’t seem like it.

  “Hush,” Pidge said. “And hurry.”

  “But this is the coach—”

  She turned around and shot me a withering look. “Just trust, Beatrice.” I zipped my lips and followed her. The single-minded way in which she dragged me around the train convinced me Pidge knew what she was doing. We climbed up to the high level to get to the end doors connecting cars. At least the other passengers were mostly settled in their seats, so the aisle was clear as we raced down it. I hoped we’d be in our right spot before the train pulled out of the station, because I wanted to sit at the window and take pictures of Los Angeles rolling away from me.

  We stopped in a lounge car. Pidge handed me the valise with the instructions, “Don’t let this out of your sight. I have to run to the ladies’ and powder my nose—you take a seat there.” She pointed to one of the tables. I stacked our luggage onto the opposite bench and set the valise carefully on the tabletop, then slid myself right next to the window.

  Pidge took a moment to consider me sitting alone in an empty lounge car. “If anyone comes in, tell him or her your grandmother will be right back, and that I have our tickets.” I nodded, relieved she was keeping track of them. Pidge walked over to the lavatory door, struggled for a few seconds with the handle, then disappeared inside.

  A few minutes after she shut the door, the train let out a loud wheeze. Seconds later, with a rumble and a toot of the whistle, we started moving with halting jerks. I pressed my nose to the window, even though there still wasn’t much to see other than the platform and the underbelly of Union Station: all the tracks and wires and mechanical thingamajigs that make the trains come and go. Slowly, we pulled out from the station and into the sunlight, and the red-tiled building faded into the past. Grungy industrial Los Angeles surrounded us—it wasn’t quite the picturesque train-pulling-out-of-a-station scene I had hoped for. But it was still exciting. I pulled my Brownie out of my knapsack for a picture. The train’s movement was starting to build up to the rolling speed I expected, but it was slow enough that a photo might turn out.

  “Excuse me, miss.” I pulled back from the window. A train attendant clicked a puncher three times fast in his hand. “Ticket, please?” He looked around the lounge car, seeming to realize that I was in there by myself with two suitcases, a knapsack, and a battered valise—but no adult. His eyes narrowed. “Are you here all alone? This lounge car isn’t open yet.”

  My face flushed. It felt like being called on by the teacher and not having an answer, or being shushed in the halls. Not that I had much experience being reprimanded at school—I was one of the good girls who answered promptly, always turned assignments in on time, and never harmed a library book. The sense of wrongdoing was unfamiliar, and I didn’t like it. My heart thrummed in my chest. “No—well, not at the moment, but my gra
ndmother will be right back. We were heading to our spot when she suddenly—urgently—had to use the ladies’ room.” I scrunched up my face in an embarrassed sort of way. “You know, perhaps she had a bit too much prune juice this morning.” I was shocked by my little white lie. Pidge wouldn’t touch prune juice—from what I could tell, she drank water and coffee, black. The milk, juice, and orange drink in the refrigerator were just for me.

  Now it was the ticket collector’s turn to look embarrassed—but also concerned. “Do you think she’s all right in there? Should I knock and see—”

  “No,” I quickly interrupted. “It’s fine. She’s slow—because she’s an old lady, after all. Arthritis.”

  “Alrighty then. But do head to your car as soon as she’s done.” He tipped his hat to me and hurried on his way, surely relieved to no longer be discussing the aftereffects of prune juice on an elderly woman’s digestive system.

  I stared out of the window, feeling flushed from my lie. I wondered what was taking Pidge so long, and why she’d left me to deal with the train attendants. It was almost like she was avoiding them. I chewed at a fingernail and stared out the window. I wished she’d hurry up already. I didn’t like sitting there alone. I wanted to be settled somewhere. I pulled out my worry journal from my knapsack and started flipping to a fresh page.

  The door at the end of the car opened and clattered shut. I looked up to see a girl, about my age, walking toward me. The train jerked and she wobbled, her braids bouncing up in the air. She braced herself against the wall and I grimaced, overtaken with sympathetic embarrassment for her stumble. “You’re brave to walk while it’s moving,” I called over. “That’s why I’m staying safely in this seat.”

  But she didn’t seem very embarrassed. “Right? I feel like they should give you training wheels to walk in here!” She giggled as she straightened her checked skirt and then stopped at my table. “I hope you’re not planning to sit down for the whole trip. Half the fun of being on a train is exploring. I always walk end-to-end, check out every car. I mean, it’s a long ride otherwise.”

  I’d never really thought of a train as something to explore, just a way to get somewhere. “This is my first time on a train.” That was the thing about living in California—the car was king.

  “Really?” She plopped down across from me. I was impressed. If I ever tripped or something, I hurried away from whomever had seen. “I’ve ridden them lots of times. My dad’s a minister, so he travels around. My name’s Ruth, by the way.”

  “I’m Bea.” I smiled. “Nice to meet you.” Now that we were next to each other, I could tell Ruth was younger, but closer to my age than to Sally’s.

  “Likewise!” Ruth glanced around the empty car and at the pile of luggage surrounding me. “Are you all by yourself? That’s a lot of stuff. Nobody helped you stow it?”

  I shook my head. “I’m with my grandmother, but she’s powdering her nose.” I pointed to the bathroom. “Where’s your dad?”

  “I dunno, he was right behind me . . .” As soon as she said it, the door clattered and a man walked into the car. He was handsome—a look-alike for Sidney Poitier. She waved him over. “Dad, this is Bea. Bea, this is my dad.”

  He smiled. “Pleasure to meet you, Bea.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mister—” I realized I didn’t know their last name.

  “Reverend Vaughan.” I blushed, already having forgotten that he was a minister. I didn’t know many, other than the one from Julie’s church who married her and my dad.

  “He was talking to a porter and I got impatient, so I went on ahead,” Ruth said. “Dad, can I catch up with you later? We’re having a nice time chatting.”

  “Sure, sweetie. You have your ticket?” he asked, and Ruth nodded. “I’ve got your bag. And you’re not traveling all alone, Bea, right?”

  “Her grandmother is in the ladies’ room,” Ruth piped up.

  “Very well.” He tipped his hat to us. “Nice to meet you, Bea.”

  “Same to you, Reverend Vaughan!” We watched him head down the car.

  Ruth turned back to me. “So where are you and your grandma headed?”

  “Kansas. Some town called Atchison. I’ve never been there before.” Truthfully, I’d never been much of anywhere.

  “I went to Kansas City once, and it was nice. We’re headed to Chicago for a week. My father’s going to hear another reverend speak there, at a big meeting they have on Saturdays. But we’ve also got family to visit.” Ruth grinned and bounced in the seat a little. “I can’t wait to see my cousins.”

  “We’re meeting up with family too.” Hopefully, that would be true. “My great-aunt. But I’ve never met her before.”

  “So this trip is full of never-befores for you, huh? Let me think of what advice I have for the train . . .” Ruth drummed her fingers on the table, gazing out the window. She turned back to me. “The viewing cars can get kind of crowded during the day, so the best time to visit them is after sunset, when everybody’s eating dinner. If you pick up a soda pop, open it after you get to your seat so you don’t slosh it all over yourself when the train wiggles. Oh, and keep a couple of napkins or a handkerchief on you, just in case you get rattled while taking a sip. And don’t be embarrassed to ask if you need help or anything. The train crew is always nice.”

  “Boy, you’re an expert.” Those were good tips. Even though my worry journal was open, and Ruth’s pointers were not worries, I scribbled them down. I could always tear out the page later. “Thanks so much.”

  “I like to write too,” Ruth said, pointing to my journal. “Stories. What are you working on?”

  I was too embarrassed to tell her the truth—that this journal was full of my fears and failings. So I pretended it was the other, emptier one in my bag. “This is my . . . adventure journal. I’m writing down everything that happens on this trip.”

  Ruth nodded approvingly. “That’s a good idea.” I wanted to ask how many times she’d ridden this train—which were her favorite stops, and when we might pass places good for photographs—but another door clattered. I glanced up to see Pidge finally slink out of the bathroom. Seeing Ruth next to me, her mouth pursed with surprise.

  “Bea! I see you’ve made a friend.” She walked slowly toward us, balancing her steps with the train’s sway.

  “Pidge, this is Ruth. Ruth, this is my grandmother, Pidge.”

  Pidge smiled warmly. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Ruth. That’s a lovely name.” She checked her wristwatch. “Girls, I hate to interrupt your chat, but I think Bea and I ought to find our accommodations.”

  Ruth nodded, standing up. “I should catch up with my dad. Hope to see you again. But if not, have a good rest of your trip, Bea.”

  “I hope so too—and thanks for the advice!” I waved as Ruth walked away. To run into her again, I would have to muster up the courage to go exploring. I shoved my worry journal back in my bag and pressed my hand to the like-new cover of my other one. Yes, maybe I would do a little exploring on my own.

  Compared to when Pidge had left me at that table, I felt much better about the trip ahead. Almost excited. I slung my knapsack back over my shoulder and started gathering our luggage, when Pidge leaned to whisper to me. “Are we in the clear?”

  I frowned. What did she mean, asking are we in the clear? “Of what?”

  She paused, and for a few seconds the internal debate of whether to tell me something played across her face. I hugged my arms to my chest. Something’s not right. “To get on our way, without being bothered. I don’t want to tip a red cap for lugging a bag I can carry well enough on my own,” she replied. “Let’s go find our compartment.”

  I grabbed my half of our things. “What kind of room are we in?”

  “I was hoping for a double bedroom,” Pidge said. “But we’ll see soon enough.”

  Surely the ticket would tell what kind of accommodations we had, so why was she hoping? I ran through the mental list of things about this train trip that seemed off to
me. A double bedroom on the Super Chief must’ve cost a small fortune—and based on what I’d seen in her cupboards and kitchen drawers, Pidge saved aluminum foil and washed out sandwich bags for reuse. Whether it was because she was short on spending money or held memories of the Depression, Pidge was frugal. Why wouldn’t she have purchased tickets for a cheaper sleeping compartment, or even coach seats? And hadn’t someone on the phone told her that only roomettes were left? My heart started to beat faster, like it was keeping time with the hastening sounds of the wheels on the tracks.

  We’d boarded the train all on our own, with no help from the crew, and then Pidge had hid out in the bathroom until we started moving. Nobody had actually checked our tickets yet. Didn’t a porter usually help you settle in your room? It was too early for turndown service, but in the movies and on TV someone always carried in your bags and showed you how things like the shades and sink worked.

  I couldn’t ignore the possibility that had been nipping at my mind since we boarded. Maybe we weren’t supposed to be on the train at all. I thought about Pidge’s phone call the night before. Perhaps she hadn’t been calling to find out if there were tickets to buy, but to see if there were vacancies—to know if there was a roomette we could sneak into.

  Are we stowaways?

  SIX

  Champagne Dinner

  I sucked in a deep breath. It wasn’t enough to trust. I had to know. “Are we supposed to be on this train, Pidge?”

  “What kind of question is that? My father worked for the railroad. Of course we’re supposed to be on a train.” She turned to check that I was still following her. “Please stop worrying already, Beatrice.”