The Last Grand Adventure

by Rebecca Behrens

  Asking me to stop worrying was kind of like asking my heart to stop beating. It happened without my trying. And anyway, she hadn’t actually answered my question.

  Pidge paused at the door to a new car, peeking through the glass at whatever lay ahead. Then she motioned for me to follow her, and we made our way across into some kind of transitional car between the two halves of the train. “Oops!” A jolt on the tracks sent Pidge stumbling, until I grabbed her shirttail to steady her. She didn’t thank me but, once she had her footing, stiffly said, “Come along.”

  I wanted to stop her to answer my question, but she wouldn’t slow down. I followed Pidge through that car, which held all sorts of baggage, and then finally into a sleeper car. From the second we stepped over and the door slammed shut behind us, it was a whole other world. One of brushed steel and plush carpet, hushed conversations behind closed doors and above the clacking rails. Pidge handed me the valise again.

  “Hold this for a moment, please.” She went up to a door and knocked lightly. After a few seconds, it opened. A glamorous woman, with platinum blond hair and bright blue eyes, poked her head out. The Super Chief was already living up to its reputation: She looked so much like a star, I had to squint to make sure she wasn’t actually Tippi Hedren. I’d only seen a few minutes of The Birds, when it was airing on television while I was sleeping over at Barbara’s. She wanted to watch, but I got too scared and made her change the channel.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “Oh!” Pidge squinted her eyes and looked confused. “My apologies. I think I must have the wrong door.”

  The woman smiled kindly at her. “Not a problem. Have a pleasant trip,” she said, stepping back inside and softly shutting the door.

  That settled it. If we actually had booked a roomette, we wouldn’t be knocking on random doors to find an empty one. “We are stowaways!” I hissed, staying quiet in case the woman could still hear me. “I can’t believe you’ve made me do this!”

  Pidge leaned in close to whisper. “Beatrice, let me introduce you to the concept of free will. I didn’t make you do anything—I asked if you’d pack a bag. Which you gladly did! You could’ve chosen to ask for more information about the trip—I simply thought you were being admirably adventurous.”

  “I was trusting you, like you said. And I know all about free will—so maybe I will use it to get off this train at the next stop!” I dropped my luggage and crossed my arms over my chest in a protective hug. I shook side to side, from emotion and the train’s sway.

  I swallowed hard. What were my options? We were hurtling along the tracks and already far from Los Angeles. Pidge was dead set on getting back to Atchison by the twenty-fourth, so even if I bailed out at the next stop, I doubted she would. Could I leave my grandmother on the train alone? And what would I do then—hitch back home? Track down my mother and ask her to pick me up on the way to her next big story? Call and beg my father or Julie to come get me? As scary as it was to stay on the train with Pidge, none of those options were any less so.

  Pidge’s tone softened as she quietly said, “Look, Beatrice, I’m sorry. You’re right, and I should’ve been more honest with you.” I wondered whether she was actually sorry, or whether she simply didn’t want to get slowed down, or stopped, if I hopped off the train and told my father what was going on. “The truth is, I can’t let anything get in the way of my making it back to Meelie. But I could sure use your help getting there.” She gave my shoulder a tentative pat. “I was scared on a train once, as a girl. And Meelie told me, ‘Lots of times when you know what’s the matter, you don’t need to be afraid at all, do you?’ ” She paused, biting her lip. “What do you say? Are you willing to help your grandmother out, on one last grand adventure?”

  Last grand adventure. I recognized that phrase—another one from Meelie’s letters. I was supposed to look for adventures in life, right? And now that I knew the “matter” was that we were stowaways—could I stop feeling afraid? And angry?

  I took a deep breath and gave my grandmother a reluctant nod.

  “Good girl.” Pidge walked over to the next room and lightly rapped on the door. This time, no heads popped out. She nodded. “Yes, this will do.” I stood in the aisle, my heart pounding. “Beatrice, what are you waiting for?” I watched her slip in through the narrow doorway. “Come inside!” After hesitating a few seconds more, I followed her in.

  To my relief, Pidge was right that the room was unoccupied, with no luggage or personal items already inside. Pidge plopped her suitcase onto the rack. “Put your bags down, darling. I don’t want you to hurt your back.” I shoved my O’Nite next to hers. She placed the valise on the table in between the chairs. We were in a roomette, and I wondered how we’d handle the space when the two chairs would transform into one flat bed. Would we share it? The bed was only meant for one person. I’d barely ever given my grandmother a hug, and now we’d be sharing a space the size of a sleeping bag the whole night.

  Although that assumed a couple of stowaways could hide in a roomette overnight. Turndown service from an attendant, at the very least, wasn’t likely to happen.

  Pidge sank into a chair, a smile of relief spreading across her face. I sat, facing her, in the other one, unable to relax into it. The view from our large picture window was nicer than the one back in the lounge—the outskirts of the city and the occasional citrus grove, with golden, sun-dried hills in the distance. According to the schedule I’d managed to grab inside the station, we should be arriving in Pasadena any minute. I pulled it out of my knapsack and looked closely at the timetable. After Pasadena, we’d be stopping again in only thirty-nine minutes in Pomona. Another stop a half hour after that, in San Bernardino. Somehow, I’d thought that once we climbed aboard the train, we’d be going nonstop to Kansas. But over the course of its almost forty-hour trip, the train would hit a new station every hour or two. Suddenly, it seemed like a long time to be in that small space with my grandmother.

  Pidge tried to cheer me up by rambling on about train trips she had taken when she was younger, but I kept my mouth shut. I would go along with her plan, but I wasn’t ready to forgive her quite yet. Eventually she accepted my silent treatment and pulled out a newspaper she’d grabbed from the station. I listened to my thumping heart compete with the click-clack, click-clack of the wheels on the rails. Pidge had adjusted her reading glasses on the bridge of her nose and spread the paper wide. The headlines were about an emergency UN meeting about the Middle East, and a local soldier killed in Vietnam. I sighed quietly, and reached into my knapsack for my journals. My adventure one didn’t want to stay open, because the spine hadn’t had enough practice. In shaky script, I wrote:

  We’ve left Los Angeles and are on our way. But we’re not legal passengers of this train. Pidge lied to me about the tickets so now we’re stowaways, hiding out in an empty roomette. Already, this trip is more than I bargained for.

  It sounded like I was writing in my worry journal. I paused to think of something positive to say—because an adventurer, a “voyager,” like the meaning of my name—would probably embrace all this swirling uncertainty. Meelie would. I chewed on the eraser end of my pencil, then added:

  But I like the noise the train makes. It’s like what my music teacher always talks about: syncopation. The Super Chief is pretty slick inside and the views outside are neat.

  I met a girl in the lounge car, Ruth. She was younger than me but has traveled a lot before. I like that on a train you get to talk to people who are from the same place as you but live different lives. And Ruth gave me good tips for exploring the train—I think maybe I’ll use them.

  Meelie wrote about the strength women have, especially Earhart women. They are a “capable type.” Maybe I can become like that too.

  When I opened my worry journal, I had to flip through lots of pages to get to a blank one. I wrote and wrote and wrote—about the possibility of getting arrested or being forced to peel potatoes in the train’s kitchen, or about leav
ing Pidge alone if I couldn’t be brave (or foolish?) enough to keep going on this journey. I worried about getting stranded in the middle of the desert and having to chew on cacti to survive. And, of course, about the trouble I’d be in if my father found out that we’d absconded from Sun City.

  When my hand started cramping, I closed the notebook. Pidge looked up from the newspaper. “Looks like you’re a writer too,” she said.

  “Not really.” I shoved both journals back into my bag and pulled out a library copy of The Egypt Game in exchange. I’d read it once already, but it was good enough to read again. “I just keep journals.”

  “If it’s pen to paper, you’re a writer,” Pidge said, turning back to her newsprint.

  “Do you write?” Maybe we had that in common.

  “Nothing more than correspondence. Amelia, though, she took a leather-bound diary on all her flights, to record everything she saw along the way.” I smiled—that sounded like my adventure journal. Or, what I wanted it to be. “She also wrote poetry and her own books, two of them. Well, three if you count the one her husband, George, finished up. But I don’t know how many of those words were really hers.”

  “Why’d her husband finish it? Was she too busy with flying?”

  Pidge grimaced. “No—well, in a sense. It was published after she disappeared.”

  “Oh.” I looked away, out the window at the dregs of the daylight, slipping down behind the dusty hills. The sky lit up like tie-dye, swirls of colors from reddish orange all the way to periwinkle. We must’ve been getting close to the next stop, because countryside groves had led to the kinds of buildings you expect along the railroad tracks in a town: warehouses and workshops, with the occasional garage. I looked again at the timetable. Pomona was up next.

  “When does the scenery get really good?” I asked. Pidge had taken a train to get to California, so she’d seen it all before.

  “It’s beautiful out in the desert. The sandstone buttes are up to a thousand feet high, and in the most interesting shapes. Sometimes they look like tall ships on a sea of dust. Sometimes they look like animals: resting elephants and dancing bears. There are mountains and rivers and plains. We’ll have to spend a lot of time in the viewing car. There are windows on all sides, even the ceiling is glass—” Suddenly, Pidge dropped the paper into her lap. She leaned toward the closed door, straining to listen to something in the hall. It was going to be a long trip, if we were constantly afraid of a knock at the door.

  But whatever spooked her passed. “I think it’s about time we got some supper, Beatrice.” She stood up slowly, massaging one of her legs with her hand. “Put down the book. Let’s explore a bit.”

  Exploring actually sounded good—and my stomach was growling. I put my book down on the seat, using the timetable as a bookmark. Pidge struggled with the latch on our compartment’s door, so I stepped up. “Here, let me help.” When I reached for the handle, she swatted me away. But the look on her face was apologetic when she turned back around.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I’m afraid you have to be patient with your Pidge—I’m still not used to my elderly body, or these aching hands.” She stepped aside. “I need to remember there’s nothing wrong with a little help now and then.”

  I offered a half smile and reached to push open the door. The train was slowing down for its next stop, and the attendants were busy waiting by the doors to welcome fresh passengers aboard. At least they’d be distracted while we walked past.

  “Wait!” Pidge shut the door again. “Why don’t you bring the letters along? I hate to leave them here—in case someone comes by.” I found it ironic that she was wary of thieves, considering what we were. I reached over to grab the valise—almost any space in the roomette was within arm’s reach, no matter where you stood on the small patch of open floor. Even the door to the private toilet. I grabbed my knapsack in addition to the valise and handed Pidge her pocketbook.

  Pidge opened the door a crack, peeked out, and motioned for me to follow her. We slipped past the attendants who were helping a few new passengers settle on the train. She refused to make eye contact or respond to one’s “Good evening, madam.” My face flushed at her rudeness. And wouldn’t ignoring the staff make us look more suspicious?

  “Evening, sir,” I said back. He smiled and tipped his hat at me. Ruth was right—everyone on the train was nice.

  Pidge barreled forward. Eventually, we crossed over into the dining car. “Now the trick is to simply act like you’re supposed to be here, and then everyone else will think you are too,” she whispered. Aside from the picture windows framed by tan curtains, the dining room could’ve been a real restaurant somewhere. On one side were two-person tables, with four-person ones on the other. All were swathed in crisp white tablecloths, the places set with real silverware and thick linen napkins. A vase with flowers sat as a centerpiece in the middle of each. Half the plush orange chairs were empty.

  Pidge walked up to the maître d’ and flashed him a big smile. “Table for two, please.”

  “Madam, do you have a reservation?”

  “What? Oh, no.” Pidge cast her eyes downward.

  “Your attendant should have requested what time you’d like to dine,” the man said, crossing his arms. His uniform was as crisp and white as the tablecloths.

  “Well, I’m an old woman,” Pidge pouted, “and my granddaughter and I are quite peckish. You don’t think you could find a spot for us to enjoy a quick supper, do you?” Pidge nudged me, and I puckered my mouth into a matching pout. “I see several empty tables in this room.”

  That flustered him. “Madam . . . I suppose. Right this way,” he said, leading us to a table tucked in the back. Pidge gracefully lowered herself into her chair, and I plopped into mine. She unfolded her starched napkin and set it in her lap; I carefully did the same. I caught her eye across the table, and she winked.

  “You’re catching on,” she whispered. Blushing, I stared out the window. We’d rolled out of the station at Pomona and were back on our way east, the twilight outside world passing in a blur of power lines and the occasional lit-up building.

  A waiter came by and handed us menus. On the top left corner was a recommendation for the fancy “Super Chief Champagne Dinner.” A lot of other food was listed a la carte. I started scanning. No fluffernutters, but there was a “De Luxe Sandwich Dinner.” There was also steak, London mixed grill, a roast chicken, and options for chiffonade salad and shrimp cocktail. And plenty of desserts: a chocolate sundae, layer cake, and strawberry shortcake with fresh whipped cream. My mouth began to water.

  “I think I might enjoy the champagne dinner,” Pidge said, looking up from the menu.

  “Really?” That was an expensive $7.50, and it featured a 16-ounce steak.

  “I believe in treating yourself while traveling.” Pidge carefully wrote it down; there were instructions at the top of the menu that waiters would only take orders written on a meal check. “Now, did you want the children’s menu number one, or number two?”

  I stared at her, aghast. She was going to order a champagne dinner, and I had to get a hamburger and milk? I was nearly thirteen, and whenever I went out to dinner with my father, Julie, and Sally, I ordered off the real menu. Even if Dad and Julie wouldn’t let me order anything but chicken. My mother never splurged on restaurant meals when I stayed with her, but she also didn’t cook me a child’s dinner—I ate whatever strange health concoction she was eating.

  “Well, I want a champagne dinner too,” I said, closing my menu. Pidge and I stared each other down for a few seconds. I spotted a hint of approval in her eyes. But I still didn’t think she’d actually order it for me.

  “Very well. Two champagne dinners,” she said, carefully changing the mark on her meal check. She scrawled a note next to it, but I couldn’t read what it said.

  I sat a little straighter in my chair. I’d never had champagne before—not even at my father’s wedding to Julie. There I’d been slumped in a seat next to Sally, wh
o was the most charming, adorable flower girl, all curls and smiles and ruffles. A junior bridesmaid, I was much less adorable because of the hairdo the woman at the beauty parlor had given me that morning: a misshapen beehive, with all my tangles piled on top of my head and shellacked into obedience with almost a full can of Aqua Net. It looked like a style a Dr. Seuss character would wear. Worse, the dress I was wearing—tulle in seafoam green—looked like something you’d see on a baby doll.

  Mostly at that wedding, I wanted to be alone, because no amount of deep breaths could quell my nerves. Celebrations are a hard place to be when you feel unsure or lonely—and I felt both. I didn’t want to smile for the cameras or help the happy couple cut the cake. I wanted to find an empty bathroom with a stall I could hide in and wait for the night to be over. Or run outside and see if the Santa Ana winds were a match for my Seussical hair hive. But Sally nervously clung to me the whole evening, and I couldn’t even get a minute to splash cold water on my face (although I’m sure that wouldn’t have gone over so well, as Julie had let me apply a touch of makeup).

  I kept thinking that I saw my mom in the crowd of people smiling, dancing, and clinking glasses. Every time a woman with long, dark hair crossed the room, my heart would jolt. It was crazy that I kept imagining her being there, considering the occasion. Her phantom presence made me wonder how my dad could be so happy—grinning as he danced to romantic songs. Didn’t he know what a joke all the talk of “forever” was? Even the people who love you sometimes leave. I was only twelve and it had already happened to me.

  When Dad and Julie had their champagne toast, a waiter was poised to offer me a quarter-filled flute to drink. But then he saw Sally next to me, in a matching tulle skirt, and he got us two glasses of sparkling grape juice instead. Sally glugged hers down, but I tossed mine into the dirt of a planter. I felt a little bad that I wasn’t toasting my dad—but he had everybody else’s well wishes.

  So I had never had a sip of champagne before, and that fact made me very excited about my dinner on the Super Chief. More well-heeled passengers were filing into the dining car—women in fashionable skirts and shoes, men in spiffy suits. Soft music played, and the waiters bustled between the tables.