Death Train to Boston

by Dianne Day

  ‘‘Um-hm.’’ He poked and patted and worked his fingers through my new crop of hair down to my scalp in a way that might have felt pleasant had his fingers not been so cold.

  ‘‘What you are describing,’’ he said, ‘‘is a certain malaise that is part of the end stage of convalescence. It will pass. I take it you have never had a serious illness?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘How old are you, Miss James?’’

  ‘‘Twenty-five.’’

  ‘‘And you are a virgin?’’

  ‘‘What has that to do with anything?’’

  I tried to remember: Had I told the wives I was a widow? Or had I merely said I had wealth in my own right? That is the trouble with lies—one must remember exactly what one has said to whom; it is such a bother. Easier by far to tell the truth, but that is not always possible. Particularly when one is in the detective business.

  ‘‘Melancthon wants to know.’’

  I narrowed my eyes. I had rather expected Pratt might have made his own inspection of my private parts during my loss of consciousness, but perhaps he did not know how to tell manually. . . .

  I did not wish to complete that thought. I said, ‘‘It is none of his business either.’’

  ‘‘The man is to be your husband—’’

  ‘‘I rather seriously doubt that.’’

  Suddenly I was seized with an almost irresistible urge not to tell any lies to this doctor. I wanted to tell him the truth and let him do with it what he would. I was sick and tired of this Carrie James masquerade, of trying to continually please, to be careful; in short, I was excessively weary of reining in my whole personality just in order to survive in this wretchedly peculiar household.

  ‘‘I am not going to marry Melancthon Pratt,’’ I said. ‘‘He has never asked me to marry him. Instead he has informed me that he will take me in marriage and get children on me because an angel told him so.’’

  ‘‘I repeat, Miss James: Are you a virgin? Perhaps that is why you were so concerned for your modesty.’’

  ‘‘Are you hard of hearing? That is nobody’s business but my own.’’

  Dr. Arnold Striker frowned at me, then made a concession: ‘‘Very well. Since you are so adamant we will come back to it. Let us remove the bandages and take a look at your legs, see how the healing is progressing. Are you ready?’’

  ‘‘Yes, and eager to see for myself.’’

  Dr. Striker did seem to be good with his patients, so perhaps his seeming coldness and severity were only a facade. I wondered if he might be basically shy. It was damn hard to tell. Tempting to think, though, that I might trust him. He pulled back the bedcovers gently, I brought the skirt of my thick white flannel nightgown up over my knees, and he began his poking and prodding routine on both my legs. Every now and then he would ask if what he was doing hurt, to which I generally replied in the negative.

  Striker told me to bend my knees, if I could, while keeping the soles of my feet flat on the bed. I was able to do this, to my own surprise. He murmured approval and then slowly pushed first one leg down and then the other. This was slightly painful but not too bad.

  ‘‘All right, let’s have a close look.’’ He began to unwrap the bandages and to remove the corset-like stiffening that had held my legs immobile for—how long had it been?

  ‘‘Dr. Striker, when were you here taking care of me before? How long ago was that, exactly?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘A little over a month, make it five weeks, give or take a day or two. I can’t tell you for certain without my book of appointments from last month, and I don’t have it with me,’’ he said without a pause in the unwrapping.

  I considered this. My sense of that time would forever be distorted by my days of un- and semiconsciousness, I supposed. I thought it had been a little less time, but no matter what, it was too, too long.

  ‘‘And what, exactly,’’ I asked, ‘‘did you find wrong with my legs?’’

  At that question he did pause, and gave me another of his severe looks. ‘‘Surely Pratt or one of his wives has told you.’’

  ‘‘Yes, but I would like to hear it from the doctor himself.’’ I forced a smile, and a coaxing tone to my voice. ‘‘You are the real authority.’’

  I do so love the male ego; it always rises to such bait, so reliable that way.

  Striker perked right up and even managed a faint, fleeting smile himself. ‘‘A heavy object had fallen across both your legs. My examination—especially when combined with Mr. Pratt’s report that from the time of his finding you and removing the object, you appeared unable to move your legs from the knees down—suggested fractures of both your tibia bones. Fortunately for you, there was no break in the skin, so the fractures were simple, not compound. Do you know the difference?’’

  I thought I might, but he seemed to be enjoying his explanation and so I simply shook my head.

  ‘‘In a compound fracture the broken bone protrudes through the skin. It is much more serious, harder to set and to heal. A simple fracture will heal itself in time, provided the bones are aligned properly, and yours were scarcely out of alignment to begin with. They went back in place easily, which means they will knit well.’’

  He continued: ‘‘At the time, I was more concerned about that head wound. Your loss of consciousness was due more to its severity, the consequent loss of blood, and accompanying shock. I expect you also had to deal with some infection?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I had a high fever and was delirious, but I came out of it.’’

  Striker smiled, which brought just a hint of warmth to his muddy brown eyes. ‘‘You’re young and strong, I thought that would be the way of it. Though it must be extremely inconvenient to have two broken legs, I do think you will be right as rain quite soon.’’

  ‘‘Right as rain,’’ I muttered.

  A not-too-pleasant smell was emerging as the doctor unwrapped more layers of bandages from my legs. It increased in pungency as the process got down nearer to my skin. Yet I was fascinated, as if I had never seen my own legs before, and I quite forgot to be concerned about anything else.

  ‘‘An odd expression, isn’t it?’’ said Striker. ‘‘I’ve never understood it myself.’’

  I looked up, baffled. ‘‘Understood what?’’

  ‘‘Right as rain. What does that mean, do you have any idea?’’

  ‘‘I suppose it has something to do with rain making things grow. But that is a rather wild guess on my part; I really have not the slightest idea— Oh! My God!’’

  The last layer of wrapping had fallen away from my legs—he had been taking it by turns, so that both legs were simultaneously exposed to the air and light for the first time in weeks. And it was quite a shock.

  ‘‘They look like chicken legs!’’ I wailed.

  ‘‘Muscles are a bit atrophied from lack of use, that’s all. I’ll have Melancthon get you a pair of crutches; some exercise will soon take care of that. Let’s see how you do at a little bit of weight-bearing.’’

  Striker directed me to dangle my chicken legs over the side of the bed, to put both my arms on his shoulders, and to let him take my weight as I eased myself to the floor.

  Of course as I did that, my nightgown fell and neither of us could see my legs any longer, but perhaps that was unnecessary. The important thing was how my legs felt, not how they looked. Or so I thought—but a moment later I learned he didn’t like the long skirt in this situation any better than I did.

  ‘‘Lean all your weight on me,’’ Striker said, ‘‘that’s it. Feet flat on the floor. Now, straighten your knees, give me your weight, that’s it, that’s it . . . damn these long skirts, I can’t see a thing. How are you feeling?’’

  ‘‘Wobbly. And excited. I’m actually standing!’’

  ‘‘Yes, but continue to keep your weight on me. You’re not ready to stand alone yet, or to walk without support, but I think you’re definitely ready for those crutches. I’ll be staying here overnight
. Tomorrow morning Pratt and I will go into town. You’re as tall as many men, so we should be able to find crutches ready-made. I can teach you how to use them myself before I leave. Will that be satisfactory?’’

  ‘‘Oh yes!’’ Foolishly, I had tears in my eyes.

  ‘‘Ready to get back in bed?’’

  My legs were trembling, so I nodded. My mind had been completely captivated by the thought of these crutches, and the freedom of movement they would bring.

  Then in my rather perverse way—I swear sometimes I think my mind operates independent of the rest of me —I leapt ahead to the next question. ‘‘How long, then, will I have to use the crutches?’’

  ‘‘That’s hard to know precisely. Perhaps only two or three weeks; perhaps longer. You’ll be able to tell. If there’s bone pain, don’t put your weight down. Let your arms transfer the weight to the crutches, the same as they did to my shoulders, and just go easy. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you, you’ll do fine.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure I will,’’ I murmured. Of course this was not getting me as much closer to freedom as transfer to a hospital would have done, but somehow it seemed more real and therefore even better.

  ‘‘Now’’—Striker rubbed his hands together in a satisfied gesture—‘‘I’d like to call Verla back to bathe your legs. Then we’ll give you new bandages and braces, not so heavy this time.’’

  ‘‘More good news!’’ I said fervently, bestowing on the doctor a genuine smile.

  I was beginning to feel quite fond of him, but not so fond as to start thinking again of asking for his help. Exactly how, that was the question.

  ‘‘Doctor,’’ I ventured, ‘‘are you a member of the New Deseret community?’’

  ‘‘No, I am not. The Mormons of New Deseret do not have a doctor among them. They need one, though. I’m too far away to serve this community effectively, yet I am the closest physician available.’’

  ‘‘And where do you live and have your practice?’’

  ‘‘Little town called Thistle. Other side of Soldier Summit, right on the railroad.’’

  Neither of these names meant a thing to me. I felt panic when I thought how far I had to go, what an ordeal I had before me in order to escape.

  ‘‘Now,’’ said Striker, ‘‘before I bring in Father Pratt and his wife, I ask you again. Are you a virgin?’’

  I remained silent for a moment. Finally I said, ‘‘Do you really want to see me married to Melancthon Pratt, who already has five wives? A man who is ignoring the laws of this country, the United States of America?’’

  ‘‘In Utah it is not all that uncommon. For us, Washington, D.C., seems so far away as to be another world, irrelevant to ours. The practice of polygamy has been officially outlawed since statehood, that’s true, but, well’’—Arnold Striker shrugged eloquently—‘‘I myself have three.’’

  ‘‘Three?’’

  ‘‘Wives, that is.’’

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, I thought. It was all I could do to restrain myself from rolling my eyes.

  But then I had a brilliant idea, which immediately translated into an equally brilliant lie, and I heard it come out of my mouth: ‘‘All right, I’ll tell you. I am not a virgin, of course not. And I can’t marry Melancthon Pratt, because I’m not a widow. That’s only what I tell people when I travel alone, as I was doing when the train I was on got blown up. I further use the widowhood ruse in order to do all manner of other things alone without censure. My husband, however, is very much alive. He lives in Boston, which is why I must return there every so often. I was on my way to Boston via Chicago when the train wreck occurred, as anyone who checks the passenger list will tell you.

  ‘‘So you see,’’ I concluded, somewhat triumphantly, ‘‘I cannot marry Pratt, or anyone!’’

  ‘‘What’s wrong with him?’’

  ‘‘With whom?’’

  ‘‘Your husband.’’

  ‘‘Oh. I see what you mean. There’s nothing much wrong with him. He just doesn’t like to travel and I do. I’m sure by now he must be frantic to know what’s happened to me.’’ I leaned forward, pleading with all my heart, putting all the emotional intensity I could muster into my next question.

  ‘‘Might you be willing, Dr. Striker, to send my husband a telegram for me? Just to let him know I’m all right?’’

  ‘‘I don’t know. I might.’’

  ‘‘Please.’’

  ‘‘I’ll think on it.’’

  ‘‘It would have to be done without Melancthon’s knowledge.’’

  ‘‘I said I’ll think on it.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps—’’ I did not want to push this too far, but I’d committed myself now, so I went ahead. ‘‘Perhaps you might even, in your telegram, tell him exactly where I am and ask him to come for me.’’

  That produced a very big frown. Yet still he said, a third time, ‘‘I’ll think on it. What is your husband’s name and where can I reach him?’’

  ‘‘Jones, not James. Pratt, er, he misunderstood what I said the first time he asked, and I decided just to let them all call me James, because by the time I was conscious again they were all thinking of me as Carrie James. My husband’s full name is Leonard Pembroke Jones, and he lives on Beacon Street in Boston.’’

  Michael burst through the connecting door and stood upon the metal linkage platform between the two railroad cars, feeling the thrum of the wheels on the silver rails beneath his feet. The car ahead was coach class, rows and rows of high-backed seats on either side of a long aisle. Michael peered through the glass window in the top half of the door, and caught sight of his quarry just as he sat down. He was all too obvious: the one person in the whole car whose chest rose and fell too rapidly, the one who was breathing too hard because he had been running.

  A big man. Both tall and broad. Gray hair, very distinguished, yet with a ruggedness about him. He’d taken a seat with his back to Michael. Did he know he had been followed? Probably not.

  It was not Hilliard Ramsey.

  The man seemed very familiar, but Michael could not come up with a name. Or, for the moment, even the time and the place where he had known the man.

  12

  MEILING, PETULANT? If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, Michael would never have believed it.

  ‘‘You eat a second breakfast, if one of us must,’’ she said, tossing her long hair back over her shoulder and refusing to meet his eyes. ‘‘I have already told you more than once, I am not hungry. You may order coffee for me, that is all.’’

  Michael had insisted Meiling go along to the dining car and take a table, while he detoured by his own compartment before joining her. During that brief stop he’d armed himself with his revolver, but he did not intend to tell her that. He felt it was enough of an explanation to say he believed they had best seek safety in numbers, at least for a while.

  He gave their order to the dining steward—cinnamon toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice for himself, a pot of coffee for Meiling—and then leaned back in his chair, doing his best to relax. Continual tension can drive a man mad. At the moment he felt he was not far from it.

  Still, he must make an effort, and so, when he had regained his equilibrium he asked, ‘‘What is it that has you so uncharacteristically peevish, Meiling? Are you just venting on me your feelings about the train’s policy of allowing women in the club car only at the dinner hour?’’

  She regarded him sidewise out of her almond-shaped obsidian eyes, and somehow her reply came out sounding a bit like a hiss: ‘‘It is a senseless custom made up by men for the advantage of other men. It is unfair to allow only the males all the time access to this—what is it called—clubs car, for the reason that it is the only place where one can go on this train when one is simply bored with one’s own company. Or with the company of one’s traveling companion. Certainly I do not like it. How could I like it? But there is nothing I can do about it. I prefer not to waste my time allowing my feelings to be consumed by matters I
can do nothing about.’’

  This speech, certainly the most direct and lengthy one Michael had ever heard from any Chinese woman, got his full attention. Not that he hadn’t been learning by bits and pieces how much she had changed; or if not exactly changed, for she’d always had a strong personality, how much she had grown up. But this attitude and way of speaking were both new and powerfully adult.

  Somehow, when he hadn’t been paying enough attention, the little girl he’d known from birth had become not just a beautiful woman but a force to be reckoned with. Michael felt a prickle of respect, almost a thrill, for the extent of her transformation.

  But never mind that. The question was: How the devil was he going to leave the train? Goddammit, he couldn’t look after her safety and also do the job he had to do.

  Meiling, apparently having said what she had to say, calmly stared out the window at the passing scenery.

  The cinnamon toast came, a golden pile of it, sweetly fragrant upon a flowered plate. The steward, immaculate in his stiff white tunic, served Michael’s orange juice in a crystal glass nestled in shaved ice within a silver bowl. Meiling’s coffee came in a silver pot; her cup and saucer were fine china, flowered like the toast plate but in a different pattern. Everything so elegant, and so . . . wasted. So impossible, under the circumstances, to enjoy.

  It was late in the morning; they had arrived at the tail end of the last seating for breakfast and now had the dining car almost to themselves. One other couple sat several tables away on the opposite side of the train; much nearer a man sat all alone at a table for four. Michael watched him, suspicious of everyone now, until he felt reasonably certain the man was fully occupied with eating and reading the newspaper, and had no interest in eavesdropping on their conversation.

  ‘‘Come, Meiling,’’ he said, ‘‘your coffee will get cold.’’

  She gave him another disgusted look. ‘‘No, it will not. The metal of the pot will keep it warm for at least an hour. I will talk when you are ready to be sensible, instead of—I cannot think of the right word for what you are being, either in English or Mandarin.’’