Storm's Thunder (17 page)

Our eyes widen—a secret transferring, its power too great—we recoil in unison. The spout of the coffeepot snags the lip of overflowing cup, pulling it off the saucer and upending it. My free hand shoots up, snaring the cup, but the hot liquid has no patience for my grasp and splashes through my fingers, down my suit front and into my lap. Still more coffee tumbles from the spout as she rears the pot back. My instinct, as the heat finds its way through the fabric to my skin, is to act as if nothing at all is the matter, sparing her—and the eyes surely upon us—any hint of my discomfort, which would further her embarrassment. A chorus of gasps from the others at the table undermines my subterfuge and sends the poor girl into near panic.

She slams the pitcher down hard with a clank, and producing a wash cloth from her apron, begins to blot at the wetness in my lap. I become a statue. She touches the cloth to my thigh, and then, as if struck by a bolt of lighting at the inappropriateness of what she has done—rips her hands away. The cloth flops in my lap. Her hands flutter to her face, trembling.

“I'm terribly sorry, sir,” her voice sick with worry.

“I messed you up. You had it in hand and I messed you up. I'm the one ought be apologizing.” I hold her gaze and can see a jackrabbit of an idea bouncing back and forth behind those busy green marbles.

Then her brows furrow and she says, “Come with me.” She grabs my hand and is already turning away when I feel myself rising, the cloth pressed against the wettest part with my other hand. She lets go of my hand and marches a good clip to the nearest curtain and ducks through. I have to double-time my stride to cut the distance. I slap through the curtain and she grabs my hand again and leads me down a dark corridor with curtains on all sides. Harvey Girls whiz past, this way and that, balancing trays and chirping orders—not a one giving more than a quick look at a fellow sister half-dragging a coffee-soaked dude through the inner workings of their domain.

The girl pushes through a swinging double at the end of the hall and we come into a laundry room with piles of clean, folded towels. She snatches one up and hands it to me.

“I got you all down the front of your nice suit. I am so sorry.”

“I told you the error is mine. I have no cause to be interfering in your profession.”

The sharp smell of lye rises from steaming tubs behind her. Adobe walls drip with moisture and I feel the heat building beneath my jacket.

“It's hardly a profession. Your jacket seems all right. It's the trousers and shirt that are the problem. Take them off.”

“What?”

“Please. We'll get them cleaned straight away. But if Packer sees that mess, I'll get sacked for sure.”

“Ain't no way in tarnation that's going to happen.” I peel off my jacket and she steps forward to take it from me. A patch of her skin brushes my hand. She hangs the jacket on a nail behind me. I snap off my tie and start to unbutton my shirt.

A round-faced young woman, a few years older than the green eyes in front of me, appears like a floating head above the swinging door and gawks at the sight of us.

“Hannah, what are you doing? Your table's nearly done with second course.”

“I'll be right there. Cover me, will you? Start clearing plates.”

“All right. And I'll get your desserts out. But hurry, girl. Packer's roaming the floor.”

“Thanks, Gertie.” The one called Gertie ducks out and Hannah—my girl's name is Hannah—says, “My cousin, Gertrude. We came out together. Missus Packer has it in for both of us.”

“Packer. She that hefty crone out front.”

“That's the one. Has a grudge against Presbyterians, says we're all just 'Baptists who can read.'”

I undo the last of my shirt buttons and hitch a pause as I touch my belt. The girl blushes, then turns around to face the wall.

“So it's Hannah.” I unbuckle the belt and all at once remember the pistol in my trousers.

“Yes, that's right.” I palm the pistol free and, turning backward, slip it into the inner pocket of the jacket hanging behind me. “Hannah Clinkscale. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“Name's Harlan.” There I stand in my union suit, with my trousers down to my knees and the shirt slung over my shoulder.

Then a biting voice snaps from the corridor. “Hannah? What's going on back here?”

“It's Packer,” Hannah's whisper rife with panic. I see the matron's oversized bonnet bounding toward the swinging doors. Combing the room, my eyes fall upon an ash can. I grab it and, turning away from the door, bend over the can and commence to retching into it like my guts are seizing up on me. The door squeaks behind me.

“What's the meaning of this—”

“Can a man have some privacy!” the words come out of me like whip crack. I hear the large woman hold up at the doorway. I bury my face in the can and let loose another long retch, pausing only to shout out, “That hen was rancid! I think I'm dyin'.”

“Rancid?” Packer aghast. “No one else has complained—”

“It's true, ma'am.” Hannah running to my aid. She falls in next to me and holds my forehead, just like a dutiful nurse.

“Why are his pants down?”

“'Cause I puked myself.”

“Hannah, better let me tend to him—” Packer says.

“Get the hell out of here,” my viciousness halting her. “Fetch the doctor. The
train
doctor. And be quick 'fore I tear my lungs out.”

Packer hesitates, unsure of it. Then Hannah says, “It's spraying everywhere, ma'am. Best stay back.”

“I'll collect the doctor. Hannah, you stay with the gentleman.” Packer's girth sends the doors clambering against each other as she hustles out. We hold over the can until her steps fade and the two of us bust apart laughing.

“How did you know to do that?” Her smile beaming like the moon.

“I ain't got the foggiest. I seen enough fellas puke for real, I figure can't be much trick pretending.”

The door to the outside opens and a negro woman, round as a berry, steps in from the harsh sunlight, carrying an armload of tablecloths, fresh from the line. She squints to adjust her eyes and then, seeing me there half-dressed, throws down her load and lays into Hannah something awful.

“Girl, what trouble you getting into? I don't need no carrying on in here!”

“It's all right, Livonia. This gentleman—”

“Spilled all over himself like a palsy case,” I say, Livonia's eyes not yet satisfied with the explanation.

“We sure could use some help getting him laundered straight away.”

“Before his train pull out? Miss Hannah, I can't be working no miracles, not with all the washing I got piled up already. Ya'll girls can't hardly keep your own selves presentable, what for I gotta be scrubbing up the customers?”

“It's just the shirt and trousers. They won't take but a plunge or two,” Hannah countering.

“You an expert now?” Livonia's hands planted firm on hips.

“No, I would never assume—”

“That train pulling outta here in fifteen minutes. And how you expect this nice gentleman get back on that fancy train with soaking wet shirt and trousers? Ain't Miss Hannah gonna get in trouble for that. It's Livonia. And Livonia ain't having no trouble.”

“Perhaps, ma'am, we could hang them by the kitchen chimney,” I say, pulling off my trousers entirely. Livona's mouth hangs open, her eyes wide as saucers. I extract all the money from the pocket and transfer it to the coat, save for a shiny quarter-eagle that I present to her. She looks at the coin, then back at me, her face unchanged. “As for the washing, perhaps you could let me do that myself, if I promise not to get in your way.” Livonia takes the coin. I move past her and drop my trousers into the steaming tub.

“Them nice clothes gonna smell all smoky,” Livonia frowning.

“They'll catch the air in time. Don't reckon I have much choice. Besides, that train's so smoky, a little mesquite ought be an improvement.” I ball up my shirt and throw that in on top of the trousers.

“What you gonna put on in the meantime?” Livonia vanquishing the coin to some hidden fold. “Because I can't be in here with no white man in his union suit. Mister Harvey himself would comb them hills looking for a tree limb sturdy enough to string up Livonia.” Hannah springs to life and bounds to the far wall, where she plucks a workman's biball from a hook.

“Put these on,” flashing a smile of well-kept teeth. I feel something stir and step into the biball. Then I turn for the basin, but Livonia waves me off.

“Oh, I ain't having you mess yourself up any more than you done already. Miss Hannah, you take him, find elsewhere to be.”

“I ain't fit to sit at table, piecemeal as I am,” I say, taking my jacket from the nail and sliding it on over the biball.

“I know just the place,” Hannah collecting my hand as she strides for the door that leads outside.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Hannah guides me out the side door and into the smothering gold of afternoon sun. Her small hand squeezes mine, every tiny bone in perfect union beneath the silk of her skin. She banks a hard right and we slink along the rear of the building, hugging close to the adobe wall. We come up on a spot where the two sloping roofs that divide the house east and west converge in a low dip, just a few feet off the ground.

“What are you up to?” But she doesn't answer, quieting me with a finger to her lips. I am struggling to determine her plan when all at once a flash of mischief fires behind those eyes. She plants one foot on an upturned bucket and, rising upward, her other upon the lip of a rain barrel. She falters a moment—wavering—and quickly regains her balance, but I have already stepped in and lifted her up onto the lowest point of the roof. She accepts my help without looking back and launches into a series of carefully orchestrated maneuvers that carry her up past the first gabled window. She ascends in silence, that concentration from earlier returning in full effect, but the rote precision of her motions conveys a high familiarity with not only this particular gauntlet, but the complexities of climbing in general. Every feline has its hiding places and a mastery of how to get to them. She pauses, her head turning toward me with a baffled frown. I feel the dagger of her disappointment pierce my heart. She wants me to follow, of course, and in all of three movements I forgo the barrel entirely and swing myself up onto the roof. Her eyes go wide with fear that I will crash in a thunderous clang, but when my feet find their lightness and deposit me upright upon the undulating red tiles with hardly more than a soft tap, her smile reappears, broad as ever.

I follow her up the roof, the clay roof tiles baking beneath our feet. She wears strapped, blockish work shoes—another indignity of Harvey's required dress code—but travels light, served by practice and slight frame. She reaches the apex of the roof and stops, peering over the edge toward the front of the building. The Santa Fe stretches out before us on an endless ribbon of road, and beyond that, a snow-covered peak that I figure to be Mount Powell, but can't say for sure, on account of now having ventured beyond the boundary of my lifelong travels. The foreground behind shows the clotheslines and work sheds of the kitchen, leading out to gardens of tended crops, a corral for sheep, and a gleaming new barn. A green valley meanders back for miles, around some unseen water source, but is soon swallowed up by the towering rock slabs of the Malpais.

“That Bluewater Lake out yonder?”

“I couldn't say.”

“Heck of a view up here.”

“I know, but we can't stay. All somebody has to do is look up and I'm cooked. Don't worry, we can see plenty where we're headed.” She sits her backside on the roof's spine and spins her legs onto the opposing downslope, unaware that she flashes a square of bare ankle. “We have to be quick about this bit, but I think we're good. Come on.” She scampers down the roof on the building's front side. I swing over the top and go traipsing after her, both of us running down the roof like a couple of squirrels. We are halfway to the edge when I see a gap up ahead behind the ornate façade that faces out toward the road. She slows as she reaches the opening and slides down onto a stone-laid floor a few feet below. I jump down next to her and watch her grin curl with the slyness of a house cat. We stand on a false patio, unserviced by any door or window. Our view stretches clear to the mountains and offers superior surveillance of the immediate vicinity, both rail and restaurant.

“Pretty keen, huh?”

“Reckon so. And no one can see us?”

“They can't see me, I know that much. But you're tall. Your head sticks over the top of the wall.” I hunch my shoulders as she says it, keeping a flex in my knees till my head sits level with the top of the façade. “But like I said, folks would have to look up to see you. And my experience, most folks don't think to look up.”

“No, they don't.”

“I'll show you the best part.” She walks to her right, to the side edge of the building and peeks over. The drop to the ground is no more than ten feet. A nearby door opens below and one of the train porters steps out from the building, buttoning his fly in what he thinks is a private moment. Hannah slinks back from the edge, her voice in a whisper. “That's the WC for the help and the railroad boys. Door stays pretty busy, but it's the fastest way out of here.”

“Fastest way up, I reckon too. Better than climbing over the roof.”

“It's too steep. I've tried, believe me. That's why we gotta come the long way around.”

“What for's a girl like you need with a hideout?”

Hannah sits down on the floor and pulls out a cigarette. I have my answer. She fumbles for a match, but I beat her to it and figure why not light one of my own.

“You be careful now,” I say, shaking out the match. “Plenty good hideouts been undid by the sight of smoke.”

“I blow it out slow,” she says, exhaling a stream of blue vapor. “The wind takes care of me.”

“Me too.”

“Getting caught with one of these in my hand is what landed me here.”

“That's a might strict. There's worse things than a girl twisting up a smoke.”

“Not when it's behind the church.” I shrug it off. Then she adds, “. . . and your dad is the minister.”

“Heh. I reckon that could do it then. My mamma smoked a pipe.”

“You get out of here, Mister Harlan,” her voice brightening.

“Every night. When she couldn't find a good cigar.” I set down next to her in the cool shadow and ask her how she got here.

“Cousin Gerty had already been accepted as a Harvey Girl, and when daddy found out, he said, “It's a sign from God. A year under Fred Harvey's care will make a proper woman out of you.”

“Did he?”

“Who, Mister Harvey?” She scoffs through a plume of smoke. “Never set foot in the place, not in the month I've been here. Mister Duquesne runs the day-to-day. He's the manager. Best if he never learns your name. Otherwise, it's just Packer and a bunch of crones like her. The girls are all right, though. We look out for each other.”

“But they don't know about this place, do they?”

“A couple do. But they're all too scared to make the climb. Mother always says I'm a bit of a rambler.”

“You're a natural scout, what you are.” That earns another smile and then she stubs out the smoke and rises, brushing her dress.

“I better run back, check on your clothes and what not. Packer'll be roaming the halls.” She eyeballs over the façade and grimaces at the sight of a portly man in black suit and bowtie, standing out by the engine. “Oh, shoot, there's Duquesne now.” The manager listens as the head brakeman explains something, pointing down at the wheels and then up at the steam pipe. Some of the engine crew gathers off to the side, hands on hips. “What's he facing this way for? Turn around, you old coot.”

“Hang on a sec.” I peek over the side and see the coast clear around the door to the WC. “I'll lower you down. Hurry, while no one's looking.” I half expect a protest or even a hint of hesitation. Instead that devil fires again in her eyes and she jumps into my arms. I lift her, turning—her full weight no heavier than a dog—and hang her over the edge. I lock my arms stiff and she shimmies down them of her own power until her hands grasp mine. Then I hold them tight and bend from the waist, lowering her down until her feet dangle no more than two feet from the pavement. She hooks her eyes to mine and nods, her trust in me assured.

“Okay,” she says. I let go and she drops with hardly a ruffle. Another smoothing of the dress and she disappears into the door. I barely have a moment to consider the last five minutes when I see Burke marching up from the train, and with him is a gray-haired man with a doctor's bag.

“Burke, up here.” Both men fix their gaze upward, the surprise at finding me there apparent on their faces.

“Mister Harlan, I was told to fetch Dr. Ward, here. Everything all right?”

“Whatever I ate passed through already. Sorry to trouble you, doc.” I find a gold piece from the coat pocket and flip it out to him, grateful that wall between us blocks their view of the biball. The coin spins high in the air and just as it begins its decent the side door opens and out steps a wiry infantry soldier. The doc misses the coin and it pings off the ground, rolling to a stop at the feet of the young private. The soldier pushes his kepi back and plucks up the coin. Then he looks up at me and then to Burke and the doc and deduces that it must belong to one of the men in front of him. He takes all of a second to figure the suited white man is the likely owner.

“Here you are, sir,” The soldier extending the coin to the doctor, who takes it.

“Much obliged, son.”

Then the soldier gazes upward, spreading a grin of brown teeth and says, “but if you're throwing it down, I'll take the next one.”

His humor gets a laugh from the doc and a smile from Burke, but something about it rings off. Then the lad tips his kepi and shuffles off toward the train. I make him for one of the guards from the expressman's detail, but as the private trudges off, I notice the tattered coat and flopping leather of his worn-out shoes. I somehow doubt the hard-nosed Pinkerton man would tolerate a sloppy uniform in his outfit and figure the boy is more likely a third-class passenger, on leave to visit kin or a sweetheart.

“Well, if your troubles return, Burke knows where to find me,” the sawbones doffing his hat. He heads back toward the train, but Burke lingers.

“Anything I can bring you from your bag, Mister Harlan? Maybe some trousers,” his gaze unwavering from me, though not so as to come off prying. Smart man, Burke.

“I reckon it's nothing I can't see to on my own.”

“You know you's on a roof, ain't ya?”

“Better than down there, everybody fussing over me. I got it on good authority I'll be on board with the trousers I come with, but I can't promise they won't be a tad damp.”

“Well, you can rest easy on that.” Burke nodding toward the engine. “We on a bit of delay.”

“I figured all the brakemen bunched up together probably weren't good medicine.”

“She's leaking steam is all. The fire crew get that tightened up no time. Shouldn't be more than half hour. I'm fixing to head in, tell the others they ain't got to rush through dessert.” Burke's eyes fix on something moving behind me and I don't turn around. Hannah's descent down the roof needs no further attention than what it receives on its own. “All right, Mister Harlan. I'll trust you not to alter my headcount in either direction. Anything other than what I come with cause me a mess of paperwork.”

“I ain't partial to scribbling myself. I'll make sure I don't cause you none.” Burke takes me enough at my word to nod and excuse himself into the building, well before Hannah drops in next to me—having retraced the path that brought us here originally.

“That porter saw me slinking over the roof.”

“He's looking to avoid trouble more than you and me put together.” I turn to face her and see my hat cradled under her arm.

“Thought you might feel more yourself beneath your own brim.”

“That's fine thinking.” She uncorks a grin that reminds me of the beauty I was hoping would peter out on second viewing. A blasted fool I am for thinking that. She hands me the hat and I see that underneath it she has a plate from the dining room with another plate turned upside down on top.

“What is that?” Squaring the hat to my head and feeling better about myself already.

“You didn't get your supper. And as that was all you asked of this establishment upon arrival, I took it upon myself to fix you a plate.” She pulls off the top dish, showing off a fresh-made sandwich of barbequed beef and a layer of shredded cabbage.

“That weren't on the menu,” I say, picking up the warm bread and bringing it to my mouth.

“No, it's tomorrow's supper, but cook likes to get a test of which way his sauce is going ahead of time.” I chew in silence, the smoky sauce working with the beef and the vinegary snap of cabbage. “I know,” Hannah reading my face. She offers me a napkin. “Cook barbeques up a ferocious brisket.” Two more bites go down before I stop to dab at the corner of my mouth.

“Miss Hannah, you ain't got to wait here and watch me eat.”

“I'm a waitress. Waiting is in the name.”

“Never thought of that. But you must have chores need seeing to. I ain't looking to get you in any more trouble.”

“Gerty's got me covered downstairs. I'll be doing her side duties for a week, but I don't mind.”

A man's voice rings from the main entrance of the Harvey House, and I peek over the wall to see Skip jogging side-step out across the front lawn. His eyes stay fixed on the front door, until rising upward, tracking the white ball as it flies out over the grass in a long, gentle arc that gets Skip's arms churning and lolls the tongue from his mouth in concentration. He picks up speed—sprinting now—and with a boyish grin reels in George's throw over his shoulder, arms outstretched to full extension. Then he let's his momentum carry him outward into a dive. He tucks into a summersault over the manicured lawn and comes up beaming, the ball raised in victory, much to the delight of female voices. He shouts something to George and then drops the ball on the ground before bounding up the steps of the train.

A pack of bodies, young and old, filters out the front door, George at the lead and three Harvey Girls close behind. He pulls a billed cap from his back pocket and smushes it onto his head. Owens lights a cigar and collects his wife's hand as they stroll out onto the grass, the little ones chasing each another in wonderment at the wide, roaming lawn. Some young men from third class—Irish by the red in their whiskers—fall in beside George. A quick discussion ensues with George pointing out to a spot near the lightpost. The men start to fan out in that direction, but then Spooner, slow-moving down the center path, barks a suggestion that gets the men altering their alignment and reconfiguring it to his eventual satisfaction.