Strangers on a Train

by Ruth Wind

  As she picked up the coffee cups and spoons from the table, she was struck by another blazing flash of insight. Choices.

  She whirled to look at her hated living room, a strange buoyancy filling her soul. Instead of the square, solid dimensions of this room, her mind saw the relaxed, whimsical and soothing living room at Ben's house.

  The notes of her sonata rang through her mind with power as she started across the carpet. Her heart beat with a quick, sure joy as her feet moved almost of their own accord through the room to the hallway. Choices. She passed through the arch and turned right, away from her bedroom, nearly running as she passed the bathroom. Her breath came in quick, shallow gasps as she paused in front of the door of her nightmare, the last triumphant notes of the "Steel Mill Sonata" ringing out in her mind.

  She dropped her hand to the doorknob and twisted it, flinging open the door with a flourish and flicking on the light.

  It was a simple room, furnished with a desk and a bookcase and little else. In the closet were the clothes James had worn. In boxes on the floor were his things, all of them moved there three years before. A layer of dust over everything showed how little Heather had come here.

  Now she moved into the room, feeling none of the ghosts that had so haunted her. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  She spoke aloud to the empty room. "I loved you, James," she said quietly. "I'm sorry you didn't know that. I'm sorry you were such a sad man." She looked around, feeling a little prickle over her arms. Don't give him someone to blame, Helen had said about Tom's drinking. She thought of Ben's words to her the night they had spoken of his wartime experiences. I think everybody does the best they can. Most people. Good people.

  She bit her lip, her mind racing, a hundred pieces of the large puzzle suddenly aligning themselves into a recognizable picture. James, she finally understood, had faced choices, too. He'd been a good man, a sensitive man. Perhaps, she thought now, even a little weak.

  Heather had done her best—for him and with him. And she would never regret their time together. But it was time to move on.

  There was only one thing she wanted from this room. She moved to a shelf and picked up a small case. She opened it to display the Purple Heart James had been awarded when he'd been wounded. It was this story that had shocked Heather when he told it; but as she thought of it now, it stirred only pity.

  It had been night-patrol. James had been startled by a movement in the darkness and turned to see a face rising from the bushes. He'd fired, but not quite quickly enough, for the boy soldier had fired, too, sending a nearly fatal bullet through James's stomach.

  The soldier had been killed. It was a common, if terrible, occurrence in wartime. Soldiers killed one another. This soldier had been only fourteen or fifteen—a child in James's eyes.

  Worse, the unexpected volley had started a firefight that ended up wounding and killing nearly all the men in the American company. James never got over his survival guilt, in spite of the fact that the volley had also wiped out a major enemy company, as well.

  She knew that it had been the scene in his mind when he ended his misery. She'd seen it over and over and over again in her own mind. No more, she thought now, and with one last glance, turned off the light and closed the door firmly.

  Choices, she thought as she went back to the kitchen. Standing there, she realized she'd done the same thing her mother had done—made an immovable shrine of a home.

  For the first time, Heather understood her mother and her pain. Her mother had faced choices, too, and Heather had to understand that the older woman was coping as well as she could, even if her own choices were different.

  A sense of unlimited freedom beat an exhilarated dance in her chest. She licked her lips and glanced at the clock. One-fifteen. Ben would undoubtedly be sleeping. But if she waited until morning, she might lose her nerve, lose this leaping buoyancy.

  Maybe she ought to wait, then, a part of her argued. Maybe she out to sleep on it, let these sudden insights jell. They might not feel as solid by morning light.

  That was the cowardly Heather speaking, she realized. Her heart told her Ben wouldn't care if she appeared at his door in the middle of the night. She knew he would welcome her call.

  She dialed the number, her heart pounding, rehearsing the ways she could tell him how she felt.

  It was a shock when John answered the phone, and she floundered for a moment at the sleepiness in his voice. "I'm sorry I woke you," she apologized. "This is Heather Scarborough and I had something very important I needed to talk to Ben about, but maybe I should just call back in the morning."

  "Hang on," he said. In a moment, he picked up the phone again. "Sorry, Heather. I can't even talk without my glasses."

  "I'm sorry I woke you," she repeated, covering one cheek with her free hand. "I don't know what I was thinking."

  "Oh, I've been up this time of day once or twice in my life. Ben isn't here, though."

  A boulder dropped in the pit of her stomach. He's already replaced me, she thought. "Okay," she said. "I guess—"

  "It's not what you're thinking. He went to New York on the train. Left this afternoon."

  "Why did he go so suddenly?"

  "Mumbled something about a woman who was driving him crazy." There was laughter in his voice, a teasing sound Heather knew was meant to lighten her heart.

  "I've really been an idiot."

  "We all do that sometimes. He'll be calling here tomorrow or the next day, probably. Do you want me to tell him something?"

  "I don't know." She laughed. "I had to get all pumped up to call this time. I don't think I can give you the message."

  "I'll just tell him you called."

  "Okay," she agreed softly. "Thank you, John."

  She tried to accept defeat gracefully, but it didn't wash. She couldn't sit still. Her mind replayed every moment of the train trip she and Ben had shared until she wanted to scream. New York. She wondered how long he would stay.

  It was nearly morning before she heard the motivating words again. Choice. Choice. Choice. With a surge of energy, she climbed out of bed and began to pace, considering the plan that had just rolled itself out in her imagination. It had pitfalls, considering she wasn't quite sure how Ben would receive her. He might have lost patience with her entirely.

  The light from her crystal lamp on the dresser top fell on the elvish jewelry he'd so mysteriously sent to her. Heather stared at them for a moment, thinking.

  Then she picked up the ring, the bracelet and the detailed, miniature tree, and cupped their exquisite liveliness in her palms. She remembered how mysteriously they'd been delivered to her at the theater. She smiled as the last bit of her plan fell into place.

  It was time to turn the tables on the teasing Ben Shaw.

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  « ^

  Everything went according to Heather's plan. She did her shopping, made her phone calls, arranged her schedule and even managed to find a gift for her mother.

  The last leg of her errands was a stop at the bank. As she stepped out of her car, she bit her lip, and before she could gather the courage to go inside, she stared at the building of golden brick, wondering what in the world could be so terrifying about claiming money that was rightfully hers.

  Without it, however, she couldn't put her plan into action. Squaring her shoulders, she walked inside.

  Her banker was waiting for her, and although he gave her a puzzled smile when she asked to withdraw a portion of the inheritance that had passed from James's grandfather to herself and reminded her she would pay a penalty for withdrawing the money from the certificate of deposit account before it matured, he otherwise seemed cheerful enough to comply with her wishes. Her hands trembled as she signed the paper transferring the money from the special account to one she could use, but the trembling ceased when she signed the second paper.

  She gave the banker a dazzling smile. "Thank you," she said, and departed.

  At t
he post office, she registered a copy of the second paper and enclosed a note to her brother-in-law who had stubbornly resisted taking any portion of the money that should have been his long ago. Stubbornness ran in the family, she thought with a smile. Mike might never touch the account she'd just established in his name, but at least it would no longer be on her conscience.

  * * *

  When the train pulled into Kansas City, Ben was relieved to get off. The very sound of it irritated him. He couldn't find anything to eat that satisfied him, or a way to get comfortable. He was gruff with stewards, impatient with clerks.

  If the good Lord had more sense, Ben thought, he would have created a less contrary brand of human beings than women. Not since he'd quit drinking had he felt so restless.

  In the clear sunshine of Kansas City, he walked in the courtyard just outside the station and smoked. Heather was here, too. He'd stared into her eyes right by the wall and known he had to have her. He sighed.

  The truth was, he was more than restless. He was completely miserable; and he hated it. In spite of the good book he'd packed away, in spite of the good weather and the traveling, which usually cured any bad mood, he couldn't think of one reason to smile. The trip itself had been a bad idea—retracing the journey he'd shared with the woman who haunted him.

  He felt hollow with missing her. No one had ever touched him as she had. No woman had ever flowed into his arms as she had. No one had ever set his soul to singing as she had.

  No woman had ever left him hollow, either. It pricked his pride. He'd given her everything he had—and it hadn't been enough. He wasn't going to hang around Pueblo, hoping for a glimpse of her as she passed from lessons to home. And that's exactly what he would have found himself doing, had he stayed.

  He got himself a cup of coffee and a stale sweet roll at the snack counter inside, and when the train's departure was announced, carried them with him to his seat.

  A strange woman paused in the aisle. "Mr. Shaw?"

  "That's me," he answered without enthusiasm.

  "Telegram." She handed him a yellow envelope and Ben frowned.

  It was the longest telegram he'd ever seen, and as far as he was concerned, utterly incomprehensible—a long series of capital letters, separated with spaces. They were grouped together in fours, with slashes in between. He stared at it for a long time, unable to make any sense of it, then he folded it carefully and slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket.

  At the next little town, another one was delivered. It was the same thing: a series of capital letters with spaces and slashes. He took the other one out of his pocket to compare them, but there were only a few similarities—no signature or greeting.

  Intrigued now, Ben drew out a pen and small notebook. He tried making words from the letters in a dozen different ways—first using the first letters of each line, then the second. When none of those combinations worked, he tried alternating patterns. Still nothing.

  He'd received a great many odd letters in the course of his career—everything from crackpot confessions to offers of bedroom pleasures—but these were the most unusual yet. He wondered who could have sent them. Maybe it was John's way of cheering him up, or a joke from his agent. Somehow the little mystery lifted his spirits a bit, and he was grateful for the puzzle.

  To pass the time, he fiddled with the letters some, and as he did, an oddity became clear: no S no T. Strange. As he looked at them longer, he realized there was only a handful of letters, repeated over and over and over. When he realized how few letters had been used, he was even more deeply confused.

  A through G, he figured. What the heck?

  At Lee's Summit, a third message was delivered, again containing only the letters A through G. In his mind's eye Ben suddenly saw a musical score and he finally understood. The telegrams contained a series of musical notes. After all the years he'd struggled with the blasted guitar, the only surprise was that he hadn't guessed sooner.

  Heather.

  He scrambled to his feet, frightening a woman across the aisle by his haste. Apologizing vaguely, he scanned the coach with anxious eyes. The approaching Thanksgiving holiday had filled the seats with all manner of travelers. Ben saw families and old couples, students and businessmen. Although he looked at each individual face, lest he miss her, he didn't find Heather.

  He worked his way through the train, from end to end. In the café car, he questioned the man serving hamburgers, but the man shrugged, his mouth tilted down in a frown. "Nobody like that through here today," he said. "Month or two ago, I recollect a pretty gal with hair just like that. Braided on top of her head like a cap or something."

  Ben nodded. "Thanks." No chance, he figured wryly, that this man would have overlooked her.

  She wasn't on the train. Where, then? He returned to his seat, feeling his restlessness crawling through his legs like a live thing. He had both a paperback book and a magazine with him, but he knew he couldn't summon the concentration to read. Instead, he stared at the passing landscape in futile frustration. He had no idea how much noise he was making with his idle fidgeting until an older man leaned over the aisle and glaring pointedly at Ben, cleared his throat.

  Ben made an effort to still his tapping fingers and feet, but his mind raced onward. St. Louis, he thought. Maybe she would be there. It was where they had met.

  He ached to hold her. He wanted to bury his face in her sweet-smelling hair, fill his arms with her slight body, taste her lips. He wanted to hear her play her guitar and hear her laugh with that wickedly delicious sound.

  After a chilly wash of reflection, he realized he didn't know it was Heather who had sent him the notes. What if it had been John?

  In exasperation, he slid down in his seat, wishing he'd had the good sense to take the more direct route from Colorado to New York, through Chicago. Ordinarily, he liked the side jog on the day train for several reasons. St. Louis had been the last vestige of civilization for a good many years, the departure point for thousands of westering pioneers. The countryside through which he now rode had been the first leg of their long journey, and he liked to look at the terrain, that he might make it real for readers who might never have seen it.

  Too, his everyday life was a quiet one, isolated and introverted. He loved it, but when he traveled, he liked to be in the company of others, liked hearing the conversations of people from other parts of the country and engaging in light banter with other passengers similarly inclined.

  Today, he wished for his compartment—to hibernate.

  As they approached St. Louis, his nerves grew taut. He found himself sitting up straight in his seat, straining for a glimpse of the station. The familiar nineteenth-century buildings presented their red-brick backs. Beneath his feet, the click of the wheels slowed, slowed, screeched and then halted.

  His window fell short of providing a good view of the platform, but he thought he glimpsed a dazzling flash of golden hair. He couldn't be sure, for the apron was clogged with disembarking passengers hugging relatives and friends.

  The aisle grew congested, and though Ben wanted to stand up and start pushing, he willed himself to stay seated. His eyes wandered back to the platform. Now he was sure he could see her hair. In agitation, he swore softly.

  When he could finally enter the clearing passageway, he hurried forward, realizing he had completely sacrificed his long-held image of himself as a wry charmer to his passion for Heather. He might, with long practice, manage to regain some of his dignity around her, but it would take work.

  He reached the small landing between cars, the exact spot he'd been standing when he'd first glimpsed Heather. He willed the moment to repeat itself; willed her to be standing there again, her hair flowing over her shoulders like a magnificent shawl.

  The gold hair of the woman in the crowd flashed. The throng parted and Ben stepped forward.

  And halted. For the hair, though pretty, belonged to a teenage girl—not to Heather at all.

  Nor could she be found el
sewhere, once the train chugged into motion again. Feeling like a clown of the worst measure, he bad-temperedly returned to his seat. He spoke to no one, burying his face under his hat like the villain in one of his own stories.

  * * *

  By the time he reached Chicago, late that night, his mood had gone straight downhill. He growled at the woman who served his coffee, then tipped extra out of guilt, then stomped through the station to his train. His leg ached, his mind throbbed with the start of a huge headache, and his stomach churned with the acid of too many cups of coffee on top of too many cigarettes. Most of all, his heart ached and his pride burned, each chasing the other for predominance in his thoughts.

  What's so special about this woman? his pride demanded. It wasn't as if there weren't prettier women out there—pretty, willing women.

  A lot of things, his heart answered, singing out a litany of praises. He sighed in the still, carpeted silence of the corridor that led to his compartment. He hoped this little argument wasn't going to go on all night. More than anything, he wanted a good, refreshing night's sleep.

  As he approached his room, he could see light peeking from beneath the door. On his list of things to be thankful for, he put efficient, thoughtful service at the top. His bed would be turned down to display crisp white linens, and on his pillow there would be a mint. The thought of stretching out on that neatly made bed sent a rippling sigh of anticipation through him, a tonic to his deep exhaustion. Even his warring heart and wounded pride seemed to fall to silence. He opened the door.

  And there, perched on the bed as ethereally as a saffron butterfly, was Heather. Her hair flowed free over a thin muslin gown that fell in simple lines to her feet. The cast-silver jewelry he'd sent her, the trees and elves, were her only bodily adornments, and her toes peeked out bare and white beneath the hem of the gown. In her hair had been braided tiny dried flowers, white and lavender and blue, colors that picked out the deep, glowing navy of her eyes. She held her guitar in her lap.