“Yes, we discussed things. And if you want, you two can get started right now.”
Tom glanced at her in confusion. “I thought—”
“When Max gets excited about something, his enthusiasm spreads rapidly and overwhelmingly,” she explained in a tight voice without meeting his gaze.
Tom said, “You sure you weren’t railroaded into this? No pun intended, of course.”
“Not at all,” said Max. “Right, Eleanor?” She nodded.
“Well, how should we begin?” Tom offered pleasantly.
Max said, “What have you discovered so far?”
Tom sat back and cradled his empty glass. “Well, ginseng is grown in Wisconsin, for starters, and it makes old guys perform like Rambo in bed. There’s a crazy woman named Agnes Joe on board whom everybody knows for some reason; she outweighs me and performed on the trapeze for Ringling Brothers.” He pointed to Steve and Julie. “Those two are getting married on board the Southwest Chief. They’re good kids, but scared. I’ve got a contact on board the Chief who can tell us plenty of great stories. The Tarot card lady over there has charmed mighty business moguls with her peeks into the future. Oh, and Elvis Presley has been resurrected as a black man named Tyrone who serves a concoction called a ‘Boiler Room’ in the lounge car, that, if it doesn’t kill you, will at least make you wish you were dead in your ecstasy. And there’s a priest on board, who might have to give me the Last Rites if we don’t get to LA on time because my girlfriend will murder me.”
Tom said this last as he stared right at Eleanor. She’d walked out on him, after all. She blinked. The lady actually blinked. He had no idea if she had something in her eye or whether it was a reaction to his statement, but it sobered him up a bit.
“Wow,” said Max, “you’ve really gotten around already.”
“Once a world-class reporter, always a world-class reporter. Just like Ellie — I mean, Eleanor.”
“She never really talked about that part of her life.”
Eleanor said quickly, “Maybe Tom and I should get to work, Max. We don’t have all that much time.”
Tom shrugged. “Actually, we have the rest of the trip to Chicago and then to LA. Hell, at the rate we’re going, we’ll be together until the spring thaw.”
“No, I meant I might have to get off in Chicago and fly to LA. It’s personal business, Max. It just came up.”
Tom put down his drink. I bet it did, in the form of me. “So, we should get going then,” he said.
Max didn’t look pleased at Eleanor’s possible change in plan, but then he eyed Steve and Julie. “You say they’re getting married on the Chief?”
Tom explained the situation with their respective families and Julie’s anxiety about the few people at the ceremony. Max, looking intrigued, asked a lot of questions.
“That poor girl,” said Eleanor with genuine sympathy. “That’s not how weddings are supposed to be.” She glanced at Tom. “You said she’s from the mountains of Virginia — what town?”
“She didn’t say. Why?”
“In case you forgot, I grew up in eastern Kentucky, just over the state line from there. I’ve probably been to her hometown.”
With all the discussions of weddings Tom took a quick peek at Eleanor’s hand. There was no wedding band, and nothing that looked remotely like an engagement ring. It was hard to believe she hadn’t found someone else. Yet, look at him.
“So what’s the angle of your screenplay?” he asked. Tom knew nothing about moviemaking, but he now attempted to take on the air of a seasoned celluloid impresario.
“Depends on what we see on board. Max wants a romantic comedy. I’m leaning toward a mystery, with a reasonably high body count.”
“Why not both? Done properly, there’s nothing funnier than a pile of stiffs on rails.”
Max pointed at Tom and looked at Eleanor. “See? I love this guy. He goes outside the box. You ever think about writing for movies, Tom?”
Tom’s gaze went to Eleanor. “Not until about two hours ago.”
“It’s not as easy as it looks,” she said.
“Hell, what is?” he shot back.
Max excused himself and walked over to Steve and Julie, followed by the puppy dog Kristobal. Max started talking animatedly to them, but Tom couldn’t hear any of it. It must have been something exciting, however, because Steve and Julie looked truly stunned at whatever the director was saying. The guy probably had that effect on a lot of people.
“Max plotting something?”
“He usually is,” replied Eleanor.
“I never would have figured you’d end up in LA.”
“We all have to end up somewhere.” She glanced up. “Look at you. From Beirut to Duncan Phyfe?”
“Covering wars is a young man’s game. I’m not that young anymore,” Tom said, then added, “Besides, how many ways can you write about people wiping each other out? I ran out of nouns, verbs, and adjectives five years ago.”
“Did you ever end up changing the world?” Though the statement itself appeared sarcastic, the way she asked it was not.
“Look around,” he said, “and there’s your answer.”
“You lasted longer than most.” Longer than you, thought Tom. She paused before asking, “How are your parents?”
“I’ve lost them both. My mom just recently.”
“I’m sorry, Tom. They were good people.”
He thought about telling Eleanor why he was on the train but finally chose not to. The feeling of intimacy just wasn’t there anymore.
They watched as Max and Kristobal rushed off, leaving the stunned couple beached in their wake.
“Where should we start?” asked Eleanor finally.
Tom rose and pointed at Julie and Steve. “That looks like a good place.”
They settled down with them after Tom had introduced Eleanor. Steve and Julie took turns explaining, in awed tones, what Max Powers had proposed.
“He’s going to cater the whole event, with decorations, and even have some sort of music too,” said Julie.
“And he’s paying for everything,” added a relieved-sounding Steve. “He said he’d work it out with Amtrak. I don’t know what they’ll say to all that though.”
“Max usually gets his way,” opined Eleanor.
“Is he really the famous movie director?” asked Julie.
“He is,” answered Eleanor. “And his heart is almost as big as his ego,” she added.
“I feel like we just won the lottery,” said Steve, as he gripped his bride-to-be’s hand.
“Well, it sounds like you did,” Tom commented.
“Where in Virginia are you from?” Eleanor asked Julie.
“You probably never heard of it, Dickenson County.”
“My dad went to Clintwood High. Two of my aunts live in Grundy, Virginia.”
“Oh my gosh!” said Julie. “I’ve never met anybody who even knew where it was.”
“I grew up on a little farm in eastern Kentucky that would make Clintwood seem like a metropolis.” Eleanor looked at them both. “I think it’s very brave what you’re doing.”
“We don’t feel very brave,” said Steve, laughing nervously and glancing at Julie.
“If you really love each other, you’d be surprised what you can accomplish.”
Julie gripped Eleanor’s hand. “You came from where I did, and look how you turned out. It drives me crazy that his parents can’t see that it doesn’t matter where you’re from, it’s where you’re going.”
Eleanor said, “You’re not marrying Steve’s parents. And it may be that they think no one is good enough for their son. Moms tend to be that way especially. But give them time, and you may see them come around. If they don’t it’s their loss, and it’s your life together.”
“Growing up there made me so strong. I feel I can do anything,” said Julie.
“Having to depend on yourself for just about all you have, it does make you strong, especially when people never bother
to get to know you, just label you dumb country.” Eleanor added, “But that just makes it all the sweeter when you prove them wrong.”
Julie looked very determined. “You got that right. And I’ve got a long list of people who’ll be getting that comeuppance.”
Tom nudged Steve. “Have you been practicing your ‘Yes, Dear’ and ‘No, Dear’ lines? I think you’re going to need bunches of them with this woman.”
Father Kelly walked in and inquired as to their availability in the lounge downstairs, where a high-stakes poker game was taking place. They adjourned from further talk of nuptials and repaired to the adult section of the bar car.
chapter thirteen
Tom had walked into many poker war zones in his life; these places were usually inhabited by cagey, stone-faced, underpaid journalists looking to supplement their income as they hunkered in their paper-lined foxholes. While a beat reporter for the Territorial Enterprise, Sam Clemens had also engaged in many gentlemanly games of cards. He routinely carried his old Navy revolver with him during these “friendly” matches, presumably in case a participant drew the wrong conclusion from a high card placed in error in one’s boot or sleeve.
On the surface, the group in the lounge car looked fairly innocent, but these were the types one had to watch out for, Tom knew. The most money he’d ever lost in a game of cards was at a dear little convent in a foreign location he absolutely refused to disclose out of sheer embarrassment. The Mother Superior had drawn to four consecutive inside straights, a record surely unmatched in poker history. Tom drew some comfort from the fact that no cardplayer, however exalted, could hope to best an opponent who had the Almighty behind her.
Since the “chips” being used in the game were actually potato chips, they bought several bags of Doritos, and on a dare from Tom, Eleanor even purchased one of Tyrone’s Boiler Room concoctions. The ebony Elvis and the journalist shared a triumphant look until the woman downed it in one swig, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and sat down to play some cards.
“That just ain’t human. You telling me you know that lady?” Tyrone whispered.
“I’m not sure,” Tom replied.
They raced through poker, blackjack, hearts, spades, gin rummy, euchre, and other assorted family entertainment, and finished with about as many Doritos as they’d started with, plus lots of material for both Tom’s story and Eleanor’s movie. There was one gent with six fingers who won far more than he lost. Tom was guessing it had something to do with that extra digit and perhaps an ace or two secreted there somehow, though he couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, which was the prevailing legal standard on board, he was informed. There was also an obnoxious type who snorted every time he took a pot, belittled his neighbors’ cardplaying errors, and generally made himself a nuisance. Eleanor leaned over at one point and whispered into Tom’s ear, “That guy gets butchered in the film’s first act.”
As they rose to leave, Tom pulled out his Havanas and pointed at Father Kelly, who’d proved himself a nimble cardplayer as well; his explanation was: “Too much free time in the rectory during my formative years in the priesthood.”
“The smoking lounge beckons, Father.”
Eleanor followed them, though Tom knew she didn’t smoke, at least she hadn’t when he’d known her. He glanced at her with a questioning expression.
She shrugged. “Max is the boss. In for a dime, in for a dollar.”
There were ventilation fans inside the lounge that were theoretically supposed to rid the atmosphere of any smoke within a short period of time. However, judging from the thickened atmosphere, the machines had given up the fight and gone home with their blades between their legs.
Most of the seats were taken, but they found three near the back. Some of the smokers had placed a piece of plywood on top of one of the ashtray stands and were playing checkers on this makeshift table. Another group was discussing the upcoming football playoffs. Although the sign on the door had said no food or drink allowed, everyone had something they were munching or sipping. One man said that it was okay unless the conductor came by, and then everyone with contraband should hide it post haste. Tom looked at the beer bottles, superlarge ice-cream sandwiches, and big jugs of homemade concoctions that didn’t quite look like Kool-Aid and wondered exactly how those items were to be effectively concealed.
They sat and attempted to soak it all in without too much damage to their lungs. Father Kelly and Tom coaxed their cigars to life while Eleanor sat back and closed her eyes.
“Tired?” Tom asked between puffs. “You must still be on West Coast time.”
“Actually, I spent a week in D.C. before we started.”
“What’s in Washington?”
She never opened her eyes. “Somebody.”
Tom lowered his Havana and let his gaze idly wander over the people in the smoking lounge. Somebody. Eleanor had somebody. Well, why shouldn’t she have somebody? She was still young and smart and beautiful and probably rich with all her movie work. And he had somebody, sort of. What was her name again? Linda? No, Lelia. He didn’t take that memory lapse as a good sign.
Tom’s pursuit of Eleanor had commenced the moment he saw her. As she’d walked by that first time on campus it seemed everything slowed, and that it was just the two of them in the whole world. It wasn’t just her beauty, it was all of the usual suspects: how she carried herself, how she spoke, how she looked you in the eye and really listened to what you had to say. Yet it was more than that even. As Agnes Joe had said, Tom didn’t care if he ate, slept, or even breathed so long as Eleanor was around. And her temper — and she had a well-nourished one — exerted its own attraction. Her opinions were uniquely her own, and she would draw and fire them off with deadly accuracy and unwavering impunity. Almost always an eruption was followed by the gentle touch of her hand and eventually her lips against his, for he’d at last won her heart over the strenuous attacks and counterattacks of several serious rivals.
Tom’s musings were suddenly interrupted by the man’s appearance at the doorway. He was six-feet-four, and slender, about twenty-five or so, and appraised them all with a very smug look. He had chic beard stubble, faded jeans, and a tattered belt. Yet his silk shirt was an expensive designer production and his hair had the appearance of being professionally tousled and his jeans seemed expertly if prematurely aged. A fake slob, Tom deduced, who obviously thought way too much of himself.
Under one arm the man was carrying a chessboard and box of chesspieces. Tom watched as he methodically set up shop. Eleanor’s eyes were now open, and she studied the intruder as well. Over the next hour he vanquished all comers. As Father Kelly explained it, lots of amateur chessplayers rode the rails. “There’s something about a train that brings them out, particularly in the smoking car,” he said. “I’ve even heard that chess grand masters ride the train incognito and play anyone who wants to, just to stay sharp. And they occasionally lose too.”
Why would chess grand masters have to travel incognito? wondered Tom. Yet he kept his mouth shut and watched. The guy was good, really good. The average match time was only ten minutes. With each defeat, as his foe stalked off in disgrace, he’d laugh. Laugh! And then call out in a loud, condescending voice, “Next victim!” If Tom had had any chance of beating the guy, he’d have gone for it, but even checkers taxed him too much.
After a while Father Kelly left. Tom didn’t expect to see him back because the priest had imbibed quite a bit, and the smoke chaser had apparently finished him off. “If I had to conduct Mass right now, I’m not sure I could. I’m not even sure I could tell you how many components there are to the Holy Trinity, even with a clue or two.”
Tom bid him goodnight and then watched as Eleanor rose and challenged the chess king, whose name, they’d learned, was Slade. She was the only woman in the smoking car, and thus all eyes turned toward her as she sat down across from the hated one. As she made the first move, Slade’s expression was so confident that Tom wanted to make him e
at a couple of rooks as penance. He hadn’t even known that Eleanor played chess, and then it came back to him. When they’d lived in Israel, they’d become friends with a rabbi who was an exceptional chessplayer. He’d taught Eleanor one strategy — only one — yet it was almost foolproof. You’d be able to tell in about three moves if your opponent had bitten on it. And it seemed to work best against the most talented players, particularly if they were overconfident.
Three moves later, Tom saw just the tiniest hint of a smile from Eleanor and he found himself smiling conspiratorially in return. Four moves after that the mighty Slade and his tousled hair was staring in disbelief. Eleanor had his black king in check with nowhere to flee except into the embrace of her white queen or bishop. A hoarse cheer rang through the black-lunged smokers and they even gave her a standing ovation. Spurred on by drink and a confluence of emotions, Tom clapped until his hands were blood red. Slade grabbed his chessboard and pieces and stalked out, muttering something about beginner’s luck. If Eleanor hadn’t had somebody in Washington, Tom probably would have kissed her.
As he stared at her, all sorts of possibilities raced through his mind. He was twenty-five again, and he and Eleanor were taking on the world, one cover story at a time. Nothing was beyond them.
He’d hold this wonderful feeling for about four more minutes,
The Christmas Train Page 8
