by Janet Dawson
“Well, never mind,” her mother said. “It looks like a beautiful day, and we’ll be in Denver soon. You can take a nap when we get to Aunt Sarah’s house.”
“I can manage without a nap,” Helen said. “I want to go up to the mountains. It sure looks different than Iowa.”
Jill made her way through the car, asking passengers if they had any postcards or letters to mail. She was given several postcards, which she tucked into her pocket. In the middle of the car, two teenage girls were chatting. The first girl shook her head. “I like Patti Page, but that song about the dog in the window is just plain silly.”
“That’s for sure,” the other girl said. “I’d rather listen to Joni James any day. And Perry Como. He just sends me.”
At the end of the car, a man sat with a newspaper on his lap, dealing himself a hand of solitaire. Across the aisle from him, two women were deep in conversation. “Well, he told me, he wasn’t going to run for city council. Next thing I know, he’s thrown his hat in the ring.” She chuckled. “He’s stealing ‘I Like Ike’ and turning it into ‘I Like Mike.’”
Jill continued down the aisle, masking a soft chuckle. “I Like Mike” made her think about Mike Scolari, and how much she was looking forward to seeing him this coming weekend. She passed the door of the men’s washroom at the rear of the car and nodded at the Pullman porter, Mr. Mack. Then she made her way to the transcontinental sleeper, another ten-six sleeper.
The prices of the sleepers varied according to the size and capacity, the departure and arrival city of the passenger, and how many passengers occupied the space. A compartment occupied by two people from Chicago to San Francisco cost $59.15, while the same compartment from Denver to San Francisco would be $43.30. The double bedrooms were less: Chicago to San Francisco for two people would be $46.15, while the Denver-to-San Francisco run would cost $33.95. The roomettes, designed to be used by one person, were $29.40 for the entire run and $21.55 from Denver to San Francisco.
The least expensive sleepers were the sixteen-section cars like the Silver Maple. The cost for a lower berth from Chicago to San Francisco was $21.00, and an upper berth was even less, only $16.00.
Making her way through the transcontinental sleeper, Jill nodded to the Pullman porter, Mr. Jessup, who had just come out of bedroom D, which was occupied by Mr. Geddes. The porter was carrying some towels over his arm. He headed around the corner to the soiled linen locker. Then the door to bedroom C opened and the occupant of that berth stepped into the corridor. She was a woman in her forties, her short salt-and-pepper hair a match for the soft tweed of the suit that she wore. “Good morning, Miss McLeod,” the passenger said. “Splendid morning, isn’t it?”
“Good morning, Miss Brandon. Yes, it is.”
“I’m so enjoying the trip. These wide prairies, and the mountains in the distance. We simply don’t have this sort of terrain in England.”
“The climate is certainly more arid than England’s green and pleasant land,” Jill told her.
Miss Brandon’s blue eyes twinkled as she smiled. “Ah, you’ve read Blake. One of my favorite poems, and songs.”
“Yes, I’ve read Blake. We studied his poetry in college. Speaking of authors, how are you and Agatha Christie faring?” When Jill had met Miss Brandon the day before, the Englishwoman had been reading Mrs. McGinty’s Dead, an Agatha Christie novel. Discovering that they both enjoyed mysteries led to a discussion on Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple.
“Oh, I’ve quite finished that one,” Miss Brandon said now. “Started the next one, called Funerals Are Fatal. I picked it up in New York City. It’s the latest, you see. Hasn’t been published at home yet, of all things.”
“I have the new book, too,” Jill said. “I started reading it last night. But I didn’t get very far. I got sleepy. Not because of the book, of course.”
“I shouldn’t wonder you’re tired in the evenings,” Miss Brandon said. “What a schedule you must have. You certainly get your exercise, walking up and down the train. Well, I’m off to the dining car for breakfast.”
Jill watched Miss Brandon head toward the front of the train, then she continued her walk through the Silver Rapids. She paused to collect a postcard from a passenger. Then she went through to the last car on the train.
The Silver Crescent, the dome-observation-sleeper, contained four sleeping berths, three of them bedrooms with space for two passengers each. The first two bedrooms, A and B, were occupied by a family of four, the Hamiltons, who had boarded the train in Chicago, heading for Denver. Bedroom C was occupied by a woman, Miss Larch, who’d also gotten on the train in Chicago. She was heading for San Francisco. The last berth was the drawing room, which could accommodate three people, now occupied solely by Mr. Fontana. At a fare of $62.95 from Chicago to San Francisco, the drawing room was the most expensive berth on the train.
At the front of the car was a small compartment for the porter, opposite the electrical locker and a toilet. A passageway led past the doors to the four sleeping rooms, then two steps went down to the depressed level under the Vista-Dome. Here a glass partition separated the passageway from the buffet, where passengers could get beverages and a limited menu of food items. There was a small bar here, with a curved counter similar to that in the dining room.
Two steps led up to the main level, where another set of curving stairs led to the car’s Vista-Dome. They were edged with Lucite that glowed at night. On the other side of the stairs was a writing desk stocked with stationery and postcards for the passengers’ use. Here, too, were the Chicago newspapers that had been delivered to the train before it left the station. More newspapers would be delivered in Denver and Salt Lake City.
The back half of the dome-observation car was a lounge, with big comfortable chairs upholstered in sandalwood and brown. There were five on one side, and four on the other, leading back to the rounded end of the car, which was called a “fish tail.” The carpet was flowered, and the windows were covered with Venetian blinds and curtains. Here and there in the middle section of the lounge were round metal tables with recessed holders for glasses and ashtrays in the middle. Two settees, big enough for two people each, faced the car’s rear door. Small tables were built into the sides of the car, on either side of the door.
Several chairs in the lounge section at the rear of the car were occupied by passengers. The car’s porter, Lonnie Clark, was a short, wiry man in his thirties, his face the color of coffee with cream. At the back of the lounge, he leaned over, setting a cup of coffee on one of the tables in front of a small white-haired woman. He tilted his head to one side as the elderly passenger spoke to him, then he nodded and straightened, walking toward Jill.
Jill walked up to the Vista-Dome, where half the chairs were occupied. It was well past seven in the morning now, light enough outside to see the sweep of the eastern plains and the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains in the distance to the west. Jill chatted with a few of the passengers, then she turned and went down to the lounge section and retraced her steps, heading forward. Mr. Clark was behind the bar in the buffet now, and Jill stopped.
“How are you this morning, Mr. Clark?” she asked.
“Tolerable, Miss McLeod, tolerable. It’s been a good run so far.” Mr. Clark’s brown eyes twinkled as he smiled at her. His was also a new face, in that she hadn’t been on a run with him before. He was based in Chicago, he’d told her yesterday, unlike Frank Nathan, who lived in West Oakland.
Mr. Clark glanced to his left, and Jill turned her head in that direction. A passenger had appeared in the doorway of the buffet. It was Miss Larch, the woman traveling in bedroom C, the berth next to that of Mr. Fontana. Jill had met her late yesterday afternoon while she was making dinner reservations. And she’d seen the passenger again after dinner, having cocktails in the lounge car.
Though she’d boarded the train in Chicago, Miss Larch’s voice indicated that she was from somewhere in the South. She had pale porcelain skin and her blond hair, which had been
caught up in a French twist the day before, was loose on her shoulders. This morning she wore a crepe dress in a soft shade of green, with a V-neck and elbow-length sleeves. The six-gore skirt set off her figure. Around her slender neck was a thin gold chain.
The young woman paused in the doorway for a moment. Then she stumbled into the buffet and sat down with a thump at one of the tables. She looked up, wincing as though the light hurt her wide blue eyes.
She looks as though she has a hangover, Jill thought, examining the young woman’s face with a practiced eye. After two years of traveling on the California Zephyr, she knew enough to recognize the signs of overconsumption of alcohol.
Miss Larch pushed an errant strand of hair off her forehead and focused on Mr. Clark, speaking in a deep Southern drawl. “Get me some coffee, boy. I’m just perishing for a cup of coffee.”
Mr. Clark’s face, which had been open and friendly while he was talking with Jill, got that closed-up look. She had it seen before during her travels aboard the train. The porters and the dining car crew were Negroes. Many times the white passengers were thoughtless, rude, or downright abusive. They called the porters “boy,” or “George,” the latter appellation after George Pullman, the founder of the company they worked for. Sometimes they called them worse things, using words that Jill had heard before, words that jarred her. She was used to the formality among the crew, where even the porters, cooks and waiters were addressed as “Mister,” and it bothered her to hear her coworkers addressed that way.
But she was in a service industry, one where the customer was king—or queen. She figured it was tough on the crew to deal with being called names, but she knew that being a porter was considered an excellent job among the Negro community. Many of the porters owned their own homes in West Oakland, which was the terminus of the route.
The look lasted just a second before Mr. Clark smoothed it away, all politeness as he addressed Miss Larch. “Yes, miss, coffee coming right up.” He turned to the counter behind him, reaching for cup, saucer and coffeepot.
“Have a good morning, Mr. Clark,” Jill told him as she left the buffet. It was twenty minutes till eight and she had an announcement to make before the train got to Denver.
She retraced her steps through the sleeper cars, collecting another postcard to mail at the Denver station. Then she headed for the dining car, where she reached for the microphone on the train’s public address system. She thumbed the key that turned on the mike and began to speak.
“Good morning, this is your Zephyrette, Miss McLeod. I hope you all rested well. As we approach Denver, we get our first glimpse of the towering and irregular profile of the Rockies. Later on this morning we will be right among them.”
Chapter Three
The Mile High City—Denver—loomed in the distance. The Rocky Mountains rose to the west, a dark blue-green. Snow sparkled on the higher peaks. A few white clouds dotted the blue sky. The California Zephyr moved through the city, bisecting streets as the engineer blew frequent crossing warnings. The train slowed, entering the Denver & Rio Grande Western rail yard, moving past buildings and freight cars on the sidings.
Jill watched the train’s progress from the vestibule of the Silver Scout, the first coach car, where she stood with the car porter and three passengers who were getting off the train in Denver. The train backed into Union Station, positioned so that it would move forward when it departed.
Jill checked her watch. It was 8:20 a.m., and this was an on-time arrival, as the conductor had predicted. The platform was crowded with people. Some of them were there to meet arriving passengers, while others waited to board the train. Others were Red Caps, the railroad station porters who were called that for their red hats. They waited, too, with passengers’ baggage to load on the train, ready to take suitcases from passengers getting off the train.
The train stopped and the car porter opened the vestibule doors. Steps unfolded from the floor. Then the porter picked up his metal step box and placed it at the foot of the vestibule steps.
“Welcome to Denver,” he said.
Jill stepped down to the platform, followed by the porter, who then reached up to assist a gray-haired woman carrying a carpetbag. Once she was on the platform, a younger woman rushed toward her and enveloped her in a hug. “Aunt Lillie, it’s so good to see you. Did you have a nice trip?”
The two women moved off in the direction of the station. Next off the train was a family with a small child. Jill took an overnight case from the mother and told the father where he could collect the rest of the family’s baggage.
Up ahead, the baggage car, the Silver Buffalo, was being unloaded, with suitcases piled on a cart for delivery to the station baggage claim, while another cart held suitcases to be loaded aboard.
The yard crew had uncoupled the three Chicago, Burlington & Quincy locomotives as soon as the train had stopped. The engines had pulled forward, routed onto another track. Now, backing slowly into place, came the five Denver & Rio Grande Western diesels that would pull the Silver Lady over those snow-covered peaks in the Rockies. A group of people stood at the far end of the platform, watching the engines being switched out. Among them Jill saw Timothy Shelton and his mother.
Jill turned and walked along the platform, toward Union Station. It was a beautiful Beaux-Arts building constructed of Colorado Yule marble, located at Wynkoop and Seventeenth streets. She quickly walked into the waiting room. It was filled with people, their voices echoing around the high ceiling. All the wooden benches were occupied. Jill took the postcards from her pocket. She checked each of them for stamps and then dropped the cards into a mailbox. At a stand, a radio played while the shoeshine boy polished a man’s shoes. The song was called “Night Train,” one of her brother Drew’s favorites, reminding her of her worry about him. The music segued into a commercial, then Jill recognized the voice of Dinah Washington.
She headed for the door, returning to the platform, where she weaved through the crowd of departing and arriving passengers, Red Caps, and baggage carts. She walked alongside the Silver Crescent, the dome-observation car, and saw the Hamilton family climbing down from the vestibule. On the platform, Mr. Clark, the porter, handed the family’s luggage to a waiting Red Cap. Mr. Hamilton handed a tip to Mr. Clark, then the family walked toward the station, with the Red Cap bringing up the rear.
“Oh, miss. Can you help us find our car?”
Jill turned. The frazzled-looking woman wore a bulky green wool coat and carried a large purse slung over her left arm. She carried a small suitcase, and held several train tickets. A small wool hat perched on her curly brown hair. Standing next to her, bundled into a warm coat and carrying a large suitcase, was a boy of about thirteen. A girl who looked to be nine or ten wore a wool jacket and carried a train case. Her hair was curly as well, what Jill could see of it beneath her knitted cap. Waiting a few steps behind her mother was a teenage girl, perhaps sixteen years old. She had dark brown hair worn in a short flip, the ends brushing the collar of her red-and-green plaid coat. Her eyes were dark and her lips pulled down in a bored, sulky expression. Then her face brightened as she saw a young man in a Marine Corps uniform standing nearby.
Jill looked at the tickets the woman held, passage for four people from Denver to Winnemucca, Nevada. “That’s the Silver Maple, the sixteen-section sleeper. It’s the third car up. I can show you the way.”
But the woman was already moving off. “C’mon, kids. Don’t drop that case, Patty. And keep up with the suitcase, Robby.”
“Why didn’t we check the suitcases?” the boy asked.
“Because we get to Winnemucca at four o’clock in the morning. Aunt Darlene will be waiting and I just want to grab our stuff and go.”
“I’m hungry,” the boy said. “Can we get breakfast on the train?”
“Me, too,” the girl echoed.
“You had breakfast at home.” His mother looked exasperated as she shook her head and sighed. “Oh, I suppose we can get something in the co
ffee shop.” She handed him the smaller suitcase. “Now get going. Third car. Get the porter to help you with the bags.” The boy grumbled under his breath as he added the second suitcase to his burden. He and his younger sister headed up the platform.
The oldest girl hung back, smiling at the Marine, who lit a cigarette and grinned at her. “Lois!” Her mother snapped. “Quit dawdling and get a move on.”
The girl stamped her foot. “Oh, for God’s sake, Mother. Quit yelling at me.”
The woman rounded on her daughter, herding her like a sheepdog after a recalcitrant ewe. “Don’t swear. I’ve told you a million times to watch your language.” She skewered the Marine with a look and he ducked his head, moving farther down the platform. “And don’t think I didn’t see you flirting with that guy.”
Lois gave a gusty, put-upon sigh and allowed herself to be herded.
Jill watched them go, suppressing a smile, then she turned to assist another passenger. The dark-haired man’s wool coat was buttoned up against the cold and he wore gloves, carrying the family’s tickets in his left hand. His wife was bundled into a coat, a hat covering her blond curls. She carried a small bag and held the hand of a little girl, who was about four. The child’s red-and-blue knitted cap matched the mittens she wore. The girl smiled shyly at Jill.
The husband showed the tickets to Jill. “We’re traveling coach.”
Jill glanced at the tickets, seeing that the family was traveling from Denver to Grand Junction. “Yes, you’ll be riding in the second chair car. It’s called the Silver Mustang. It’s this way. Follow me.”
She led the way forward, walking alongside the sleeper cars. She passed Mr. and Mrs. Mays, who had just left the Silver Falls. They walked arm-in-arm toward the station, accompanied by a Red Cap who carried the luggage they’d had in their bedroom. Jill knew that as soon as they’d departed, the porter had quickly cleaned the room, getting ready for the passengers who had booked the space from Denver.
A chef in a white jacket was visible at a small window in the kitchen section of the dining car. Once the train was on its way, and breakfast service was over, the dining car crew would take a break before preparing for lunch service.
