The Peculiars

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  She didn’t want company. She had been relieved when everyone left. Why was this man—well, he was really not much older than she was—getting on the train so near the end of the line? She could hardly ask him. She smiled thinly.

  “Of course. Lena Mattacascar.” She nodded. She was not about to offer her hand to this stranger in a cheap suit. Despite being strictly middle class, Lena’s mother and Nana Crane had been very particular about the cut and quality of cloth in Lena’s few traveling garments.

  “That’s good. I walked through the cars until I found someone to sit with. It’s better than traveling alone. Did you know there are only a few stodgy sorts left in the front?” He spoke quickly, all in one breath. Lena found it annoying.

  “Not many people travel this far north.” She wanted to put her map back in her purse, but to do that she would have to remove her ungloved hands from the fabric of her skirt.

  He plopped down in the seat across from her; stretched his long legs, and carefully placed his dreadful little hat on the seat beside him. It was amazing how much a hat could tell you about someone, Lena thought. Either his taste was bad or it was the best he could afford.

  The train lurched to wakefulness, shuddered once, and let out a loud snort before resuming its lumbering gate.

  “We’re headed out to the coast now.” Jimson had his nose pressed to the window. “That’s my sister Polly. She rode with me to the station.” A pretty black-haired girl with a toddler at her side waved a handkerchief at the train. “And my nephew, Gelft.” With two fingers he stretched his mouth wide and waggled his tongue back and forth at the little boy on the platform. “He couldn’t wait to see the train. We took one of those new steam wagons to the station! Holds eight people and doesn’t need a horse at all because it has a sixteen-horsepower, two-cylinder motor. All run by steam!”

  Lena tried not to laugh. It seemed Jimson was as excited as Gelft. “I’ve never been in one,” she said. “But I’ve heard they’re very noisy.”

  “Noisy? That’s the sound of progress!” Jimson kept his face pressed to the window as he waved to his nephew.

  While Jimson was distracted, Lena quickly stuffed the map back in her purse and pulled on the constricting black gloves. “You should always wear black, dear. They will make your hands look so much smaller,” the glover had said when Lena had eyed a lavender pair with beading. She drew her feet back under the seat, making sure the hem of her skirt shielded them from view. Jimson, she noted, was traveling with a book, Mr. Darwin’s latest.

  “Where are you going?” Jimson removed an orange from his bag and began to peel it with a pocketknife. Peels fell in curls on the table, and the smell of orange filled the car. Lena’s mouth watered.

  “North.”

  “Well, of course you’re going north. That’s the only direction this train is headed, isn’t it? Let me guess, then. Cloister.” It was the next stop en route. “You’ve got a sister who is a nun and you’re going to visit her. Unless you’re planning to become a nun yourself?”

  Lena colored. It was not polite to talk about religion. “No, I—”

  “Good thing, because you would have to cut off all that hair. How long is it anyway?” He gazed admiringly at her thick black braid that disappeared behind one shoulder. Unbound, it came to her waist and in some way made up for her miserable hands and feet, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “I’m traveling to Knob Knoster.”

  “What—Knoster? On the borderlands? Me too.” When he smiled, it was with his whole face, not just his mouth.

  Lena couldn’t help herself; she could feel a real smile stretching around her faux one. He paused with a slice of orange suspended midway to his mouth. What if he offered it to her? She’d have to reveal her hands. Lena swallowed and clenched her right hand into a fist.

  “What are you going to do in Knoster?”

  Lena had rehearsed an answer to this question; it was to be expected. Still, she wound one ankle tightly around the other in the shadows under her seat where no one else could see. “My mother’s cousin lives there.”

  It just happened that her mother really did have a cousin living in the closest town to the borders of Scree. But Lena had no intention of visiting her. She had the cousin’s address written on a scrap of paper buried deep in her drawstring bag, along with the address of her real destination, a boardinghouse—Miss Brett’s. It would be temporary lodging while she made her plans and gathered supplies. The fewer people who knew about her intentions of traveling into Scree, the better. So she had never bothered to contact Miss Amelia Crane to let her know she was coming. But she kept the address just in case her plans didn’t work out.

  Jimson wasn’t really interested in her answer anyway, Lena decided. He just wanted to tell her about why he was traveling to Knoster, and she was happy to let him talk.

  “I’m going for a job. I’m going to be a librarian.”

  Lena looked up, past his lively blue eyes and dark brows to the top of his curly black hair. Then she looked down over the shiny knees of his gray suit to his gleaming black shoes. His feet, she noted, were much smaller than her own. Nothing in what she observed made her think of the word “librarian.” Everything about him was too wild—as if his body could barely contain all the life in it. “My mother is a librarian” was all she could think to say. “A children’s librarian.” She slipped her hands under her thighs and nodded for emphasis.

  “Is she?” Jimson was leaning forward in his seat, his elbows resting on the shiny knees of his suit. His long face was earnest and close enough that Lena noticed a faint dappling of freckles across his nose and cheeks. “What exactly does she do?”

  “Excuse me?” It was a very peculiar question, coming from this non-librarian-looking librarian.

  “As a children’s librarian, I mean. I know she must catalogue books and research things for people with questions and check out books—” Here his voice faltered. “I’m kind of new at this, see. I’ve never really been a librarian before. I’ve been working in my father’s store selling farm implements and hating it.”

  Lena tried to cover her surprise. Most librarians had training. Just two years prior, the first library school had opened in the City. “Well, she does check out books and research things, but she does much more than that. She recommends books, she orders books, and every Saturday afternoon she holds a story time for children.” Lena found that it was difficult to keep her hands still as she talked. She could feel them fluttering under her thighs as if they had a life of their own. “Didn’t you get your librarianship degree?” Her mother was always scornful of librarians who worked without a degree.

  “No, I . . . er . . . I took some classes for librarians, though.” She noticed a flush of red spreading up his neck, fanning out across his cheeks. “I’d just started taking classes and saw the advertisement. I never thought I’d get the job. But I’ve always loved books, and every summer I’ve worked in the local bookstore for a few weeks.”

  That’s pathetic, Lena thought. He has no real experience at all. She rearranged her feet under the seat and tried not to think about stretching out her legs.

  “I’m to be head librarian for the Beasley Collection.” He sat up straighter. “I was as surprised as anybody when I got the job.” The orange was mostly gone now, but Jimson held out the last two sections to her. “Please, have one.”

  The smell was wonderful. She’d have to take her gloves off to eat; no one with any manners ate an orange with gloves on. “No, no thank you. That’s wonderful that you got the job. What’s the Beasley Collection?”

  “Never heard of Mr. Beasley’s library?” Jimson popped the last two sections of the orange in his mouth at once. “It’s huge. I’ve never seen it, of course, but I’ve heard about it. He’s a collector of rare books and artifacts.”

  Why would Jimson, who seemed to know very little about being a librarian, be put in charge of a collection of rare books? Lena wrinkled her brow. “Do you know anythin
g about book conservation?”

  Jimson rubbed a hand across his face. “Well, I, er—”

  Before he could say more, the conductor stepped into their car. “Dinner will be served in the dining car in twenty minutes.”

  Outside, the October sun dipped below the Coast Range. The conductor lit the gas wall sconces before shuffling on.

  “Are you going to dinner?” she asked to cover Jimson’s embarrassment. She was right. He obviously knew nothing about book conservation either.

  “No, I’m saving my funds until my first paycheck. My sister made me sandwiches.” He gestured to the small satchel he had set on the seat beside him.

  Lena had planned on the dining car. She had never had dinner on a train before, and now that she was spending the little inheritance left to her by her father, she felt that she wanted to have the full experience of eating on a train. But she didn’t want to appear rude, either. She needn’t have worried, because Jimson was already asking his next question.

  “Story time . . . I don’t suppose I’ll be doing anything like that, since this is a private library rather than a public one. What’s it like?”

  “You’ve never been to story time?” Lena’s hands were beginning to itch in her black gloves. She rubbed them across the nap of the seat. “I used to go all the time when I was little. My mother would turn down the gaslights until the room was shadowy. We would scrunch in close on the floor.” Lena closed her eyes. “I used to close my eyes and listen to all the breathing around me while we waited. No one talked. She always cleared her throat as if she was about to say something very important, and then she opened the book.” Lena opened her eyes and looked up. For a few moments, she had been there again—a small girl in the middle of the crowd, trying to hide her long feet and hands under the puddle of her skirt.

  “It sounds like it was grand. Too bad I won’t have the chance.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out some squashed bread.

  If she was going to make it to the dining car in time for the early serving, it was time to take her leave. But how to get up gracefully without questions about her hands and feet? When she was younger, she had joked that she was still growing into them, but now, at eighteen, she wasn’t growing anymore. Besides, all the old jokes had long since worn thin. She would just brazen it out.

  She stood and smoothed her gray traveling skirt, cut extra long to cover more of her feet, and gave a tug to her tailored green jacket. “I’m going to dinner now.” She threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

  “Well, enjoy it, and I’ll see you after.”

  Lena couldn’t tell if his response was a statement or question. She didn’t look at his eyes. Sometimes it was better not to know where people were looking. Her first step caught the hem of her dress. She stumbled, throwing out a hand to steady herself. The china teacup shot across the table and thumped on the carpeted floor. Her hand was splayed in plain view on top of the table.

  Jimson leapt to his feet to retrieve the cup. “It isn’t broken, not even cracked,” he declared.

  Lena snatched her hand back to her side. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed. “It was so clumsy of me.”

  “Could’ve happened to anyone.” But he didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he was staring at her black-gloved hands, which hung like two giant spiders by her sides.

  BOWLS OF ROSES WERE SET IN THE MIDDLE OF EACH TABLE. Cut crystal glasses winked in the candlelight. Only six other passengers were enjoying the dining car. Lena, still trembling, chose a small empty table and sat with her back to the door. This way she could watch everyone else. Secretly she liked to imagine other people’s lives. The elderly couple was Jack Sprat and his wife. The words of the old nursery rhyme rang in her ears: Jack Sprat could eat no fat; his wife could eat no lean; and so betwixt the two of them they licked their platters clean. The two businessmen were bankers or financial types who took fishing holidays and long lunches. A missionary sent to convert the heathens of Scree, Lena thought, as she glanced at a thickset woman with a stern jaw and two red poppies on her hat. Then there was the reedy man with the newspaper. Now, he was interesting. Perhaps a detective watching the men in business suits from behind the raised page.

  She picked up the menu and gazed at the two choices of entrée: roast beef or lamb in a sauce she had never heard of. She sat up straighter. It was elegant, eating in a dining car with silver and crystal glasses as the day dimmed. A white-coated waiter poured water in her glass just as the train slowed, a great belch of steam fogging the window. It must be Cloister. Lena decided on lamb, closed the embossed menu, and looked out over the platform. A tall nun and her companion—a bandylegged little man—were the only ones boarding in the early dusk. The nun was broad-shouldered and a full head taller than the young man at her side. Perhaps it was her brother collecting her for a visit home. Did nuns get visits home? Lena’s knowledge of nuns was slight. The nice thing was that they were hidden away from the world. Her own family was Episcopalian. Lena had briefly considered converting and joining a convent just to escape the curious remarks about her hands and feet. But a friend once told her that underneath their habits, nuns were entirely bald, and Lena had put the idea aside.

  She peeled off her gloves and laid them beside her on the tufted seat. Then she buttered and bit into a flaky white roll. The nun and the wiry, red-haired man came through a door that opened straight into the dining car. Trying not to stare, Lena watched them from the corner of her eye. Nuns must get tired of people staring at them in their long black habits. She knew exactly how they felt. The red-haired man talked animatedly to the conductor while the nun stood silently holding her valise. The nun’s head was bent, her face obscured by the shadow of her wimple. What would it be like to believe in something so strongly that you gave your life to it? That was something Lena couldn’t imagine. Her eyes lingered on the nun. Something was wrong. The nun stood as if she was tense enough to spring. Her empty hand at her side was balled into a fist. Lena’s own shoulders tensed. The back of the nun’s hand was covered with thick dark hair. The nun was a man—she was sure of it.

  As if her thought had been spoken out loud, the nun suddenly dropped the valise. From the depths of her habit, the nun drew out something that gleamed in the gaslight. A gun! Lena had only seen pictures of them in books. Her hands grew moist. The gun was pointed straight at the conductor.

  The red-haired man spoke. “Give us the prisoner, or we shoot the passengers.” His voice was high and reedy as he drew out his own revolver with one hand. With the other, he jerked the emergency brake, preventing the train from leaving the station. The two businessmen gawked with their cheeks bulging. The lone man dropped his newspaper, pages drifting to the floor, while a low moan escaped from the lady with her husband. Only the woman with poppies on her hat looked unperturbed and raised a curious eyebrow.

  “Now. And I mean it. One of ’em will go first.” He swung the revolver in the direction of the low moan, pointing it at the elderly couple.

  Meanwhile, the nun kept a gun pointed at the conductor, whose mouth opened and closed like that of a fish. Lena could see a film of sweat shining on the conductor’s brow. He inched slowly toward the door to the next car, with the nun following, gun cocked.

  “That’s right. Lead the way, old man.”

  “Now, see here—” But before the conductor could complete his sentence, the red-haired man lunged toward the elderly couple.

  Lena braced for a shot. Instead, the man slammed the butt of the revolver against the elderly man’s head. A sharp crack of metal against flesh and bone.

  His wife screamed.

  At that precise moment, the engineer swung through the door. “Who stopped this train?” Bellowing, he crashed straight into the conductor and the nun. They staggered. The gun went off. The wild shot sent a bullet through the paneled wall, leaving a hole to the outdoors. People shouted and the woman continued to scream.

  Lena found herself under the table, peeking out from beneath the hem of the white
tablecloth. She could see the black edge of the nun’s habit just a few feet away. If she could grab an ankle, she might tip the man off balance. Creeping forward as far as she dared, Lena grabbed for the black-socked ankle just below the hem of the habit. From another car Lena heard a second shot. And then everything was chaos. Her fingers closed on empty air. She could hear feet running, muffled cries, and someone quite nearby swearing a steady stream. The black edge of the habit was gone. Then all was quiet.

  Lena inched forward on her knees. The gray fabric of her skirt balled up and caught underneath her. She tugged it free. Her armpits felt damp, and a trickle of sweat ran between her shoulder blades. Moving the tablecloth just a fraction of an inch, she peered out. The car looked deserted except for the woman stroking her husband’s head. A trickle of blood ran from his ear. Were the other passengers hiding under tables the way she was?

  The door swung open. Drawing back, Lena smacked her head on the edge of the table. Pain flared.

  “The criminals have left the train.” In his blue uniform with polished brass buttons, the conductor stood wide-legged in the middle of the aisle. “A doctor is coming to examine your husband, madam.”

  Amid rustles and grunts, diners appeared from under tables.

  “I am sorry to report that the pretenders have escaped with a prisoner we were transporting to Scree. There will be a short delay, and then we will be able to resume our journey. I am most terribly sorry for the inconvenience.” But his last words were lost in a jumble of voices and the arrival of a short, stout man with a medical bag.

  “What prisoner? Why didn’t we know a prisoner was on board?” A voice rang out above the others. It belonged to the lady with the flowered hat.

  The conductor turned. “Trains to Knob Knoster sometimes carry prisoners bound for Scree. A federal marshal and deputies are on these trains.”

  “Obviously incompetent. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” One of the businessmen was brushing himself off. His face was a pasty gray, his breathing ragged.