Death Train to Boston

by Dianne Day

  Whatever the cause, I hadn’t been out of my senses for long.

  The passage of time is palpable—I know this from experience. I’d gone for almost two years after the Great Earthquake without a watch; in that disaster I’d lost a pendant watch that had been more to me than just a timepiece, as it had been a gift from my father for my twenty-first birthday. So in a sense the pendant watch was irreplaceable, but it was also true I simply hadn’t been able to afford a new one. During all that time without a watch I had learned what our ancestors must have known in the ages before watches and clocks: how to feel time and sense the rate of its passing with one’s body. How to ascertain the hour from the movement of shadows across a surface, by the angle of the sunlight falling through any opening, by the slow rotation of stars in the heavens at night—and most of all by some kind of innate built-in mechanism I could not describe. My two watchless years had proven its existence in me.

  By now I knew how a minute feels in passing, or five minutes, or ten. And so I judged I had been unconscious for no longer than five minutes, probably less.

  With probing fingers I explored my bound-up legs, though I wasn’t at all sure I’d be able to tell if I had done any damage. These poor, damaged limbs were tightly wrapped from knee to ankle, with some kind of stiff, board-like brace on either side to keep the whole arrangement immobile. Only the outermost layer of wrapping was ever changed. Thus there arose from my legs a faint, unpleasant odor of unwashed skin. At least, I hoped that was the odor’s only source.

  I squeezed and poked at my own limbs until I was satisfied there was no new injury—or at least none that signaled itself by anything other than the constant deep ache with which I had become all too familiar. It appeared, through my risky experimentation, that the sharp pain came only when I tried to force the legs to bear my whole weight. As pain is a sign that something is wrong, I deduced I was not yet able to stand and walk.

  Very clever, Holmes, I said sarcastically to myself.

  After a brief pause in which I allowed myself to feel an altogether different kind of pain, the one that came from missing my Watson—in other words, Michael—I turned my attention to the task of getting back into bed before anyone could discover me out of it.

  This proved impossible. The bed might as well have been some mountain in the Alps, and I was no mountain climber. I confess mountain climbing for sport has always seemed completely inexplicable to me. I mean, when you have climbed a mountain what is there to do but stand on the top of it? What sort of thrill is that? It’s not as if there is really anything up there except, one supposes, a lot of snow; and then when you are done with standing on top, there is nothing to do but come down again. How very tedious.

  Just as tedious as all my efforts to get myself back into that bed. There were mountains, one had heard, in India or some such outlandish place, that were unclimbable. Well, so was this bed.

  Getting myself into the chair, however, proved merely difficult, not impossible. That is, once I had crawled over there. I was greatly assisted by a fortunate happenstance: The last person to sit in the chair had left it by the window, and so I had both the chair itself and the windowsill to lean on with my hands and arms, to support my weight while I hauled myself upright. Then I plopped into the chair none too gracefully . . . and none too soon.

  I had scarcely tidied my hair and arranged the nightgown neatly around my legs and ankles when—after a brief, one might say peremptory knock at my door— Norma came in with a lunch tray.

  ‘‘Well,’’ she said a bit huffily, ‘‘how did you get out of bed? I didn’t think you could do that. Or are you a malingerer?’’

  ‘‘No, of course I’m not malingering. Mr. Pratt was here, he helped me into the chair.’’

  ‘‘That’s funny. I heard you were so sick he had to go for the doctor. That’s a long trip, Carrie. That’s asking a lot. But then, you don’t have any trouble with asking a lot, do you?’’

  ‘‘I am sick. Going for the doctor was his decision.’’ This should have been obvious, especially, I would have thought, to one of his wives: Melancthon Pratt never did anything that wasn’t his decision.

  Norma unfolded the gateleg table that had been brought into the room some days earlier as a place to set my meals, and she brought it over to the chair where I sat. Then she went back for the tray, which she had temporarily placed on the dresser.

  I decided to take a risk, to play on what I knew of Norma’s personality and see how far I might get. ‘‘I don’t mean to be offensive. In the real world, I mean the world outside this, this—’’

  ‘‘We call our community New Deseret, home of the True Saints,’’ she said, rather smugly I thought.

  ‘‘Very well,’’ I agreed. ‘‘As I was saying, in the real world outside New Deseret, I am a wealthy woman. I know Mr. Pratt doesn’t like me to talk about it, but—’’

  ‘‘That’s right. He doesn’t.’’ Norma sat on the edge of my bed. ‘‘But he’s not here, and I’d like to hear what you have to say. I may as well keep you company while you eat. That way I won’t have to come back for the tray, I can just take it with me.’’

  The soup was a vegetable broth that smelled delicious. There were yeast rolls that looked light as a feather, and a fancy little pat of butter from a mold that had left an acorn shape embossed on top. And a lovely red apple that I would keep for later.

  I thought perhaps if I wove a fascinating enough story for Norma, she might not notice how much I was eating. All that climbing of mountains—or rather attempted climbing into bed—had left me starved. So I set about feeding myself while I made up for Norma a fancy tale around a core of truth. You never know whence help may come, after all.

  ‘‘As I was saying, I have wealth of my own, to dispose of as I will. My first husband was much older than I am, and he left me a lot of money when he died. I know Mr. Pratt doesn’t care about things so mundane as money—’’

  ‘‘Whatever gave you that idea?’’ Norma asked. ‘‘Money is part of life, it is a necessity. We Mormons are better at getting money than most people. Therefore the True Saints must be even better at it than your average Mormon—I mean because, because’’—she floundered—‘‘well, just because. And Father is the head of the True Saints on earth, so . . . Well, so tell me all. Everything. If you start to stray into forbidden territory, I’ll warn you. Will that be satisfactory?’’

  ‘‘Oh yes, absolutely,’’ I said with enthusiasm, particularly since during her explication of the proper Mormon attitude toward money I’d managed to eat a roll and several spoonsful of soup. I said a quick little silent prayer to whatever gods may exist, as I needed all the help I could get from any quarter, and commenced to beguile Norma.

  ‘‘It seems to me,’’ I said, pausing to consume more soup and to draw out the suspense, ‘‘that Father has quite enough wives. He doesn’t really need to add me to his number.’’

  Norma cocked her head to one side; her eyes, glistening like onyx, betrayed her avid curiosity. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, yet she said nothing. Perhaps she didn’t trust what she might say.

  I helped her out: ‘‘I imagine you would not be sorry to see me gone from here. It must be difficult to be the third wife, something like being the middle child in a family.’’

  Now she bit her bottom lip. Still she didn’t speak.

  I said, ‘‘Though it’s clear to me that even considering all the others, you, Norma, have—how shall I say this without being offensive?—something of a preferred position.’’

  Norma dipped her head in acknowledgment of this. Whether it was true or not, I had no idea, but I did know she wanted to be the favorite. Her flaming cheeks attested to the source of her interest in Pratt’s attentions, and in spite of myself I wondered. . . . But never mind.

  I pushed that thought away as unworthy of me, not to mention of Michael, and said to a second roll as I began carefully to butter it, ‘‘If I were no longer to be here, I should think
that would only be in your best interest.’’

  Some moments passed, during which I could almost feel Norma struggle within herself. Finally she said, ‘‘You can’t really want to leave! No one, no woman would want that. We five wives of Melancthon Pratt are the envy of the whole community. No’’—she tossed her head and crossed her arms over her breasts as if to protect herself—‘‘you are only trying to get me in trouble.’’

  I ignored that. I finished the roll and returned to the soup, which was truly delicious. Then I said softly, ‘‘I’ve seen much more of the world than you have, Norma, and believe me, it’s much bigger than New Deseret. I do want to leave. And you may as well admit it: You’d like to see me gone just as much as I would like to get away from here.’’

  I continued to eat without looking at her. I heard her clothes rustle as she fidgeted, and at last, unable to keep still, she got up and began to pace back and forth across the room below the foot of the bed. ‘‘What has money to do with this?’’ she asked, coming to a stop near me.

  ‘‘Money is always useful,’’ I said, looking her straight in the eyes.

  ‘‘Father will never let you go,’’ she said desperately, ‘‘because you are Chosen. You mean more to him than money.’’

  ‘‘Chosen?’’ I knew what she meant, but wanted to hear Norma’s interpretation.

  ‘‘The angel chose you. The angel who prophesies and interprets, who mediates between Father and the Heavens where Joseph Smith dwells and where we will join him at the Rapture.’’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘‘No, I don’t think so.’’

  ‘‘Blasphemy!’’ said Norma. Her cheeks flamed, she was hot with desperation. I hadn’t miscalculated how badly this woman would like to see me removed from the Pratt household. Yet again she protested: ‘‘You are only trying to get me in trouble! If I say the wrong thing, you will report me to Father, and then I will be the one who is cast aside!’’

  ‘‘No, no, no!’’ I pushed away the gateleg table as best I could and leaned forward with my hands outstretched, wanting to bring Norma to me. If I’d been capable of standing, I would have gone to her and put my arms around her, because I hadn’t meant to upset her quite so much. ‘‘Norma, please’’—I gestured with my fingers—‘‘listen to me. I haven’t the slightest desire to get you into trouble. I know it is usual for women to regard each other as rivals, especially where a man is concerned, but really, we women would do better to stick together. We should work in one another’s best interests, that way we can accomplish things. Divided among ourselves, we have no chance of making improvements.’’

  ‘‘The angel cannot be wrong,’’ she said stubbornly. But she sank down on the floor next to me, in a pretty puddle of skirts.

  ‘‘No, but even a holy man can be misguided sometimes.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘Norma, this angel has supposedly told Father that I will bear him children, isn’t that right?’’

  She nodded. ‘‘That is why he’ll never let you go. We must have children in this family, we MUST! We must release the souls of those who otherwise will never get to be with God—it is our bounden duty.’’

  ‘‘All right, I won’t argue that, it’s part of your faith. But you are a practical woman, Norma, so think on this: There are five of you wives, but only one husband. It takes the healthy seed of both husband and wife to make a child. If a man mates with one woman and no child results, the problem could be with either one of them, it is impossible to tell which. But when the same man mates with five different women, and still no child results, the chances that the problem is with the man are greatly increased.’’

  Norma frowned; indeed she positively glowered. ‘‘Are you saying Father’s seed is unhealthy?’’

  ‘‘No, not exactly,’’ I said hastily. Egad, but I was putting my foot in it. I began to regret having taken this tack but it was too late now to pull out. ‘‘What I’m saying is, Father may have no seed.’’

  ‘‘But he does!’’ Norma’s shapely chin came up indignantly. ‘‘I know he does, for I, I have seen it, and felt it, and therefore it exists, absolutely, for a fact!’’

  ‘‘I must take your word for it,’’ I said dryly, giving up. Melancthon Pratt would remain perfection in his middle wife’s eyes. Clearly I would get nowhere going that route. ‘‘Nevertheless, I do not want to stay here and become Wife Number Six, the mother of his children. You realize, I presume, that I’m taking a risk by telling you this. I wouldn’t tell you if I were trying to get you in trouble. I’m doing it because I want your help, and I’m willing to pay.’’

  ‘‘You are not to be sixth wife,’’ Norma said, squirming, hating every word, ‘‘you’re to be first, elevated over all of us, even Verla, who has been with him since he was very young and first elevated to the priesthood. She will become second, and so on, down the line.’’

  ‘‘But that’s not fair!’’ I exclaimed.

  She shrugged. ‘‘We don’t think so either, but the angel has said it. Because you alone are to be the mother, you see.’’

  ‘‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’’ Completely disgusted, I stared blindly out the window. Never in my entire life had I been more frustrated, felt more as if I wanted to get up and run screaming into the distance, as far as I could go, and not even caring if I got lost or not.

  ‘‘Carrie . . .’’ Norma’s hand touched my knee, drawing my attention back to her when the unfamiliar name did not engage me. ‘‘What exactly did you have in mind?’’

  I exhaled a long breath. At last!

  Eagerly I explained: ‘‘I’d be willing to buy my way to freedom, like a straightforward business transaction. But I don’t suppose that would interest Father if everything you say is true, and he sets more store by what he believes the angel has said than by money. So what about this: You and I make an agreement, just between the two of us, that you will help me get away from here just as soon as these infernal bandages come off my legs.’’

  Again that little pink tongue darted out to moisten Norma’s lips. ‘‘I might be able to do that.’’

  ‘‘When I’m well away, I’ll get in touch with the bank in San Francisco where my money is. And I’ll set up a bank account for you, in your name, wherever you say.’’

  ‘‘Provo!’’ Norma blurted. Oh, I’d beguiled her, all right, with the oldest substance of all, money.

  ‘‘Provo it shall be. You’ll have your own money, Norma, to spend however you wish. But only if I get away free and clear. Let us shake hands on it.’’

  Norma’s hand, when I took it, was rougher to the touch than its paleness would suggest, and cool. She whispered, ‘‘You’ll never tell, you won’t betray me?’’

  I said, ‘‘Of course not. I just want to go home.’’

  ‘‘Carrie, there are tears in your eyes.’’

  I wiped them away with the back of my hand. ‘‘That’s how much I want to go.’’

  Michael used his hour for breakfast in the dining car. But the luxury of coffee in individual silver pots, creamy eggs, perfect toast, and grilled bacon with its inimitably delicious smell, all set against a background of snowy linen, was wasted on him that morning. He simply put his head down and ate.

  From time to time he cast quick, sideways glances at the other diners. All his considerable will power was required not to look up whenever the door to the dining car opened, but he kept his head down and identified the newcomers by their feet alone. None of the feet belonged to Hill Ramsey; that was all he cared about.

  After he’d eaten, with still more time to kill before he could return to Meiling’s compartment, he wandered back to the club car for a smoke, tried to read a Collier's magazine he found lying on a table, but couldn’t concentrate worth a damn and gave it up for a lost cause. The damn clickety-clack of the wheels over the track was beginning to get on his nerves, it was so incessant, so relentless, so, so . . .

  Michael drew in a deep breath; his fine nostrils flar
ed and his eyes looked daggers at no one in particular. He was thinking malevolent but unfocused thoughts. His fingers grasped and released, grasped and released, as if working on the throat of the dastardly, subhuman creature who’d blown up the tracks and taken Fremont from him.

  Then he realized what he was doing. He wiped his fingers on his trousers although they were dry already, as if he could wipe away the bad thoughts. Then he stood, adjusted his jacket until it sat as perfectly as possible on his one good and one bandaged shoulder, checked the knot in his tie, and looked around to see if he had forgotten anything.

  He had. He’d left a thin brown cigarillo burning in the ashtray. He ground it out, nodded at a white-haired man whose glance met his over the open newspaper the man was holding, and sallied forth to once again confront the inscrutable Meiling Li.

  10

  SHE WAS BUTTONED up to her chin again. Michael had to admit he was, if not exactly sorry, then a bit disappointed. He held the opinion that when a man ceases to enjoy looking at women, he must either have grown very old or be in some big trouble.

  Meiling looked elegant, if buttoned up, in a dress of black brocaded silk. The top half of the dress was Chinese in style, with narrow black braid around all its edges; but the skirt was full, so that she could move more freely than in the traditionally narrow skirts of Chinese women. The fabric was rich and splendid, but its gleaming black depths made him think of crows, and of mourning.

  ‘‘Come in, Michael,’’ Meiling said, moving back from her compartment’s door.

  He did, and slid the door shut behind him.

  Now that this moment had come, oddly enough he wanted to postpone hearing what she had to say. Mysticism or any form of mumbo-jumbo made him uncomfortable, all the more so because he’d had enough strange experiences to make him believe at least some of it could be possible. So he delayed.

  ‘‘Meiling,’’ Michael said, ‘‘please forgive me for not having thought to ask if you’ve had breakfast. Shall we go along to the dining car so that you may eat while we talk?’’