No Job for a Lady (12 page)

“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.”

*   *   *

A
S 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.”

*   *   *

L
YING 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 characterization.

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.

If I was less sensitive about my personal bodily functions, I would wake up Roger for help. And I have another factor that is causing me pause: I didn’t bring a robe. I climbed into the upper berth and pulled the curtain closed before changing into my nightclothes, exactly what I would have done had the berth been in the public corridor.

Even though my woolen nightgown is long and thick, a proper lady should not be seen in her nightgown—no matter how shapeless it is to satisfy a woman’s modesty.

Having brought only a single piece of luggage, there wasn’t room for a robe, and I had more important items to take—my jar of face cream and writing materials. Sacrifices had to be made, but right now I am regretting it.

Well, nature calls and I must get down.

Refusing to be the one known as the girl who woke everyone up in the dead of night by calling for a porter, I peek outside the curtain to see what I am up against.

Great … it looks like a cliff for a runt like me. From my bunk looking down, it is extremely awkward and dangerous. If I were taller, it wouldn’t be so bad, but being only five feet tall, this is not looking good. Damn Roger.

I take a deep breath and roll over onto my stomach to get into position to drop off the edge. I pray I don’t land on Roger’s head or, worse, slip and go crashing down and injuring myself.

Carefully positioning my body so I can slide my legs off the thin mattress, I get my feet to land on the very edge of the armrest of Roger’s bunk. Because his curtain is drawn, I don’t know exactly where his head is, but judging from his snoring, it can’t be far from where my feet have landed. Wonderful.

If his temperament is anything like my brothers when woken from a dead sleep, I’m in trouble. They are bears when woken unexpectedly.

With my left foot on the armrest, I lower my right foot—oh no, I can’t stretch far enough to hold on to my berth above and place my foot on the floor.

“What the—” comes from Roger.

“Noooo!” I lose my balance, start to fall forward, desperately pull back, and my hand slips off the berth and I pitch forward, falling like a rock into the lower berth, landing on top of Roger, chest-to-chest.

I push back, but his arms instantly come around and pull me to him. His lips meet mine and I feel an electrifying bolt shoot through me all the way to my toes.

I surrender to the kiss, to his strong arms embracing me.

The spell breaks as he grabs a handful of my nightgown and starts to pull it up.

I jerk away, pulling myself free, and step back, getting my feet and emotions in balance.

“You have no right to do that and you will not speak of it—period!”

With that proclamation, I quickly exit into the corridor and try not to think about his lips on mine, his body pressed into me, knowing that I should hate him for seizing the opportunity to steal a kiss, but I don’t.

As expected, the public corridor is dark. The only light is a dim oil lamp on the wall at the far end, where the porter sleeps upright in a chair and the washroom is located. The door to the short open-air gangway that leads to the next car is after the washroom.

The porter’s chair is empty and there’s no sign of him. So much for my ringing for the ladder; it would have gone unanswered.

About to step into the washroom, I hear a
thump
and my attention is snapped to the dirty glass window on the gangway door.

A face is crunched up against the window.

It’s Howard, the prospector.

He’s slammed up against the door, with his face pressed against the small window. It’s hard for me to see through the window, which is fogged by years of smoky coal flumes, but his features are startled and his eyes wide.

He suddenly jerks back and I see over his shoulder a strange aberration that has appeared to have grabbed him from behind. My view through the dirty window is blurred, but it looks like a fawn-colored creature with the features of a beast is pulling him away from the window.

The hand of the creature holding Howard from behind comes around, grasping a hunting knife.

I scream and scream as a flurry of struggle takes place and they drop from sight.

I can’t see the whole gangway through the window and can’t make out what happened to them, but a couple of steps left or right on the gangway would send them falling off the train.

I grab the emergency cord that signals the engineer to stop the train by pulling it downward, but my hand is stopped by someone behind me.

19

“What’s going on?” Sundance has a grip on my arm. “Why’d you scream?”

“He was attacked!”

“Who?” He quickly scans the area, then looks back at me like I am crazy. “What are you talking about?”

“Howard! Your friend was attacked out there.” I gesture at the door to the gangway and spin around, jerking my arm out of his grip and grabbing the emergency cord. He tries to stop me again, but it’s too late, as I’ve pulled it down.

“We have to stop the train!” I shout at him. “He was thrown off.”

Sundance rushes to the door. People who have been awakened by my screaming have gathered behind me and are now yelling for answers.

“What’s going on?” a man yells.

“Is she all right?” asks a woman.

I want to answer them, but I am glued to watching Sundance. He has opened the door and is peering out. After what seems like an eternity but is only seconds, he comes back to me.