No Job for a Lady

by Carol McCleary

  “How did you know I had worked in a factory?”

  “A factory girl? Ah, my comment at dinner.”

  Just as I thought—he’s stalling to conjure up a lie. I can see the wheels turning in his head. He didn’t realize he had slipped up.

  “I heard about you through a friend.”

  “A friend? I work for The Pittsburgh Dispatch, not a New York newspaper.”

  “This may amaze you, but news from the Dispatch is not limited to Pittsburgh. The paper’s read throughout much of that region. My friend happens to have family there.”

  “Really. If that’s true, why didn’t you tell me you recognized my name when I told you it?”

  He pulls a face and gives me a narrow look, almost squinting, as if he is trying to figure out who and what I am.

  “Who do you think you are? A prosecuting attorney? I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “Mr. Watkins, you can answer my questions, or I’ll have you put off this train.”

  That causes a temporary speech impediment for him.

  “What?”

  “I will tell Don Antonio that you have attempted to molest me. That will not only get you put off the train; Mexican men are so chivalrous, they will probably hang you from the nearest cactus.”

  He gapes at me for a moment, once again dumbstruck, and then shakes his head. I can’t tell if he is scared or amused.

  “You’re not a woman. You’re a devil in petticoats.”

  I give him the most charming smile I can manage at a time when I want to strangle the truth out of him.

  “Roger … dear friend … I’ve had to fight very hard in this man’s world to achieve what slight success I’ve achieved. Tonight, I found out you are hiding information about me. Whatever you have up your sleeve, I want to make sure I cut off the head of the snake now before it bites me. Comprende, amigo?”

  “Sí, señorita. Now, Nellie, dear paranoid girl, I didn’t know who you were until I put two and two together when Don Antonio said you were a newspaper reporter. I then realized you must be the girl my friend Sarah told me about. She, too, is quite an ambitious young woman, and she admires you.” He gives me a tight, sardonic smile. “She said she’d like to be just like you, but of course she would probably change her mind if she met you.”

  I don’t know if he’s putting a shine on me. There is nothing like a bit of flattery to get across a point, even if he ends it with a cut. But I’m not comfortable with the explanation, though it is possible. News that a young female had been hired at the Dispatch had been reported far and wide in the state and had stirred the ambitions of many young women, but fear of being exposed as a fraud keeps the short hairs on the back of my neck up.

  “Why do you look like a hanging judge devising punishment?” he asks.

  “I haven’t decided if you are telling the whole truth.”

  “Why would I lie? What’s the point? You’re right about one thing: Your mother must be quite an independent woman. It shows in you.”

  “I want the truth, not compliments, Mr. Watkins, but thank you. Now, next question—”

  He puts his hands up. “No more questions. You know what?” He pretends to squint at me, as if he’s trying to get a peek at my secrets. “You’re acting awfully suspicious—like you have something to hide. What did you do, Nellie? Rob a bank on your way out of Pittsburgh?”

  Boy, did he hit the mark on that one. But a good offense is the best defense. “That rope they string up mashers with is getting short. I suggest you tell me who you really are.”

  “Who I really am?” He rubs his chin as if in great thought. “Well, my mother and father, the Watkins, named me Roger, which is how by coincidence I call myself Roger Watkins.” He throws up his hands in surrender. “Look. This animosity is getting us nowhere. You’re in Mexico to do stories. I’m here to learn its history firsthand. Why don’t we be friends?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm what? I don’t understand why you’re not satisfied with this wonderful private compartment. This is paradise compared to having to sit upright for days on hard seats.”

  “The problem is that there is always a snake in paradise.”

  17

  It’s nearly bedtime, but I want to jot down some ideas for my articles. Roger goes back to reading his book and I sit across from him, making notes about what I have learned since I last recorded my reflections in the parlor car.

  Cowboys are modern knights, a bit dustier perhaps, and I suppose they bathe as infrequently as the armored men on horseback did.

  The world of the Aztec and Mayans existed mostly on one crop: corn. But they fed their gods blood in order to get a good crop.

  Most Mexicans are rather poor and eat a great deal of corn and beans, while the wealthier class prefer French cuisine and champagne.

  And you can easily buy a map leading you to a lost treasure of Aztec gold, but you will find only fool’s gold where X marks the spot.

  I like the last item best, but it is so far-fetched that I decide I will mail more serious articles to the Dispatch before venturing into the fanciful. I like the tale of the “weeping tree” Don Antonio told us just before we left dinner: After the Spanish massacred a large number of Aztecs they thought were plotting against them, Cortés, his army, and indio allies had to fight their way out of the Aztec capital. They suffered many dead and wounded men, and two-thirds of their stolen treasure ended up in the lake surrounding the city as they retreated across the causeway leading to dry land. After the battle, Cortés sat under a tree and wept—most likely for the loss of treasure rather than for his comrades, Don Antonio said.

  They called the battle Noche Trist—the sad night. And the tree is called the Weeping Tree. It now stands on the grounds of an old chapel and gets many visitors because it is said that on certain nights you can hear the tree weep and that the next morning water will be at its base—tears from the long-dead Cortés.

  The news about Lily Langtry and her wealthy lover being aboard is sensational news, but it is also a story I will try to add interest to by enclosing an interview with her. I have never met or interviewed anyone as famous as the great actress, and it would be such a thrill. Now I just have to figure out how. Another thing to add to my list of things to do.

  So far, the best part of this trip is that I have made a new friend, Gertrude Bell.

  I feel as if she understands me and thinks what I am doing is the right thing, unlike it being crazy or naïve, as my brothers and Mr. Madden think. It’s nice to have someone in my corner, especially since I don’t have my mother with me—she was my ally. Now I feel like I have made one with Gertrude.

  I add more rambling notations about the manners and mannerisms of the people I’ve seen only from the train so far. The indios and their clothing appear surprisingly fresh and clean, despite the lowly way so many have to live and work. Along the gutters by the railroad, they can be seen washing their few bits of apparel and bathing.

  When I asked a Mexican gentleman in the parlor car earlier about these people, who seem more primitive than many city dwellers, he said many rural people have not assimilated into modern society and that the poorer ones live rather primitively. The homes of many of them are but holes in the ground, with a straw roof. The smoke creeps out from the doorways all day and at night and the families sleep in the ashes. They seldom lie down, but sleep sitting up, like a tailor, strange to say, but they never nod or fall over.

  With that description and the one of the Mexican horsemen who charge up at every stop to guard the train, I am very satisfied. I haven’t even made it to Mexico City, and already I have quite a bit of interesting material for articles. This has to help me get a permanent position as foreign correspondent for the Dispatch when I return—it just has to, or this insane trip I’ve embarked on will be a waste of time. I can’t let that happen.

  I’m anxious to experience something sensational to report, besides Lily Langtry. I guess it would be too much to ask for some b
andidos to rob the train without hurting any of us. Crazy thought, I know, but I can’t help wondering how often the train does gets robbed as it works its way across the great arid area of northern Mexico. Towns and villages are usually few and far between, so there would be many excellent places to stop and rob the train.

  I jot down another brief notation: Roger? Was he telling the truth when he said he learned about me from a friend? I don’t see a motive for him to be secretive. However, I’m beginning to believe he’s being secretive as to who he is. Tonight at dinner, he cleverly avoided answering Castillo’s question about where the final conquistador battle took place. However, it is possible he just didn’t know and was embarrassed. I would have done the same—but I’m not a university-level scholar of history.

  Then there is Sundance. Why is he so interested in knowing what Howard said to me that night?

  Another question comes to mind because Roger seems to know each time I speak to the cowboy: Could Roger and Sundance know each other? No, that’s impossible. One is a cowboy, the other a scholar.

  “Are you about done writing in that journal of yours?” Roger gets up from the seat and stretches. “I’d like to retire.”

  “Yes.” I close my journal. “You can call the porter to make up our berths.”

  “What were you so eagerly writing about?”

  “That is—”

  “None of my business.”

  I give him a narrow look. “Are you sure you are not a reporter trying to steal my thunder?”

  He rolls his eyes. “I’m beginning to suspect that you are an egomaniac. A paranoid one, at that.”

  * * *

  AS WE STAND IN THE CORRIDOR, watching our berths being prepared, I’m surprised that the porter is not the same one who has been taking care of our needs since we boarded the train. Instead, it’s one who helped serve us in the dining car.

  I especially noticed him at dinner because he seemed to hang around, as if he was listening to our conversation. More of my egomaniacal paranoia, I guess.

  He also stands out a bit from the conductor and other porters because he is what Don Antonio and others refer to specifically as an “indio,” a designation given to Mexicans whose bloodline has not been mixed with European blood. The other train employees I’ve seen are “mestizos,” like Don Antonio, a name denoting people whose bloodline is a mixture of indigenous blood—Aztec, Mayan, and other cultures—and European blood, mostly Spanish.

  The indios in general tend to be shorter and smaller of build than mestizos, but, like their American Indian cousins, they appear strong and toned muscularly.

  “What’s bugging you?” Roger asks.

  “Why do you think something’s bugging me?”

  “You’re staring at that porter the same way you stared at me when you thought I was stealing your thunder.”

  “Have I told you what I like about you?”

  He brightens up. “No. Do tell.”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s too bad. Because I think you’re all right. Quite an impressive young woman, in fact. An inspiration for women, my friend says.”

  That gives me pause.

  “Ah,” he says, “there’s that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The ‘can it be true?’ look. You gave the same sort of look at your glass of champagne tonight before you took the first sip. Your eyebrows crinkle and your nose slightly twitches.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “If you are just shining me on.”

  “Here we go again.” He gives me his coy smile. “Imagining me as an enemy.”

  “Not an enemy. More of an annoyance.”

  “You like me, don’t you?”

  This is another remark from him that stops me in my tracks and leaves me speechless.

  “I can tell,” he continues, “by the way you rag on me. You’re basically shy with men and unsure of their motives. You hide it by taking the offense.”

  The porter interrupts whatever cruel and cutting retort my wicked tongue is forming.

  He gestures at the ladder he has set up so I can climb up to the top bunk. “La escalera.”

  “He’s letting us know he will be back for the ladder later,” Roger says.

  The Pullman car doesn’t have ladders for every upper berth because they would take up too much space in compartments and corridors, not to mention having to store them all day. Which means anyone in an upper is stuck until the porter makes his rounds in the morning, unless they are in physical shape to climb down or ring for a porter to come with a ladder.

  “Don’t you think he’s a strange little man?” I ask as we go back into the compartment.

  Yes, I am avoiding answering the question as to whether I like him, because I can’t think of a response.

  “Who?”

  “Our porter. Well, he’s not our porter, to speak of.”

  “I never really took notice of him. Didn’t know we had a specific one. Besides, what difference does it make?”

  “None. Just that he was also one of the waiters who served us at dinner.”

  “And?” Roger rolls his hands as if to say, what does this mean?

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t appear to speak English, but I would swear that in the dining car he was trying to listen to what we were saying in English.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to learn the language.”

  “Maybe.” Still, I’m not convinced. “Any chance you’ve changed your mind and will be a true gentleman and give me the lower berth?”

  “No.”

  “How about drawing cards? High card gets the lower.”

  “No. You told me you grew up with six brothers.”

  “So?”

  “No doubt you learned a lot about cards from them.” He jerks his thumb at the upper. “Good night, Nellie.”

  * * *

  LYING AWAKE, I QUESTION MY FEELINGS about Roger. Is he right? Do I like him? No, that’s not possible. However, I have to admit he raises two emotions in me; annoyance at his often superior male attitude, making me wonder if, in fact, he had a relationship with a woman that went sour; then, in contrast, I do find him rather attractive physically. Not that I would ever think of doing anything about it. I have to save myself for marriage, because a sexual encounter would most likely bring pregnancy.

  Which makes me wonder how women like Lily Langtry manage to keep from getting pregnant when they have so many sexual relationships. I’ve heard other young women talking about the methods they’ve used, ranging from putting a vinegar-soaked cotton pad in their private parts to the man using a sheath of rubber tubing managed by Mr. Goodyear. And I’ve heard of the many times it didn’t work and an unwanted pregnancy occurred, destroying a young woman’s life and that of a child because the man couldn’t or wouldn’t marry the unfortunate girl.

  With a sigh, I close my eyes and listen to the sound and feel of the train’s steel wheels rolling on the rails. I’ve heard people complain about how this keeps them up, but it doesn’t bother me. Instead, I thank my lucky stars that I’ve had the good fortune to make this trip. There has always been a bit of travel fever in my blood and now I’m finally doing it.

  I’ve never had the opportunity to see the world, and this trip to Mexico, commenced with little planning and even less money, is my first real “travel” experience. Up to now, a trip from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia to see the Liberty Bell has been the extent of my traveling experience, and always with a companion.

  Now I am alone and in a few days I will be able to climb pyramids and trample through jungles.

  Mrs. Percy will be so happy for me.

  18

  Oh Lord, Lord, I wish my head would stop spinning.

  Lying in the upper berth, I’m being punished for enjoying Don Antonio’s champagne too much. Or, as my mother would say, for imbibing demon rum. The fact that it was snooty French champagne would not affect her characterizati
on.

  Never have I felt like this. My poor head has been spinning ever since I lay down. And I must admit the creaks and groans of the train as it gets its second wind going up a grade haven’t helped. So much for thinking my mind is stronger than the champagne.

  It finally stops swirling and I’m starting to feel like my head and body are one again, which is good. But now I need to relieve myself, which is bad—the washroom with the toilet is at the fear end of the train.

  Why couldn’t they have squeezed in a toilet in our little washroom?

  Still, it makes no difference where the toilet is, because I am encased in the upper berth of a moving train. Up a creek without a boat or a paddle, or whatever it’s supposed to be. In my case, it’s without a ladder.

  There’s a cord that when pulled rings a bell at the porter’s night station at the other end the car, but if I do this, it will wake people up and down the car, who will greet me with their grumbles as I hurry, red-faced and embarrassed, to the toilet.

  Would wake up Roger, too, though his snoring is quite loud, and if that’s any indication of how soundly he’s sleeping, he’s dead to the world. Still, I don’t want to chance it, for I would be humiliated, having him know that I have to get up to relieve myself. It’s a private matter, although there seems to be no shame involved when a man gets up in the middle of the night to do his business.

  This leaves me with a very big problem: getting down. It’s going to take some agility to manage it without stepping on Roger’s face. And I will have to leave a warm blanket for the cold. The coals in the stove that heat the whole car have died down and won’t be replenished and fired again until its wake-up time, leaving the night air very crisp and chilly.

  As I lie in my tiny sleeper, debating what to do, a news article I read about the great actress Sarah Bernhardt comes to mind—she sometimes sleeps in a coffin. Right now, I feel like I’m lying in one, and it’s a creepy feeling.