The Hope Chest

by Karen Schwabach

  “Excuse me, ma'am,” said one of the men. “Is there a man occupying this seat?” He pointed to the place Mr. Martin had just vacated.

  “Yes,” said Miss Dexter, looking surprised. “He's just gone to get drinks.”

  “Aha,” said the man who had spoken, and the two men looked at each other and nodded.

  Then they just stood there. As Violet came up to them, she could see this made Miss Dexter nervous. They made Violet nervous too. They had an official, police-like air about them.

  “May I ask who you are?” Miss Dexter said.

  “I'm sorry, ma'am, we're not at liberty to say,” said the man who had spoken first. Then the train lurched around a bend and both men fell sprawling down the aisle, their arms and legs tangled together.

  They picked themselves up with great dignity, as if they had meant to fall down. They made their way back up the aisle to Miss Dexter, gripping the edges of the seats tightly.

  Violet didn't know who these men were, but she and Myrtle both thought Mr. Martin was running from the police. Mother and Father would probably have thought Mr. Martin was beyond the pale. But Myrtle liked him. Maybe he hadn't even really done whatever it was the police were after him for. Maybe there'd been some kind of mistake.

  Violet made up her mind. Even if there hadn't been a mistake, she wasn't going to let the police catch Mr. Martin. She liked him. He talked to her like she was a person, and he'd stuck up for Myrtle too. Whatever else he might have done … Well, she just hoped it wasn't anything too horrible.

  Violet tried to slip past the two men, heading the way Mr. Martin had gone to look for drinks. One of the men stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

  “I'm just going to use the saloon,” Violet said, with the most innocent look she could muster. The bathrooms on trains were called “saloons,” for no reason Violet could imagine.

  The man stepped aside and let Violet pass. Violet tried to walk calmly to the end of the car, gripping the backs of the seats as the train's movement threw her from one side of the aisle to the other. She opened the door with difficulty and walked nervously through the narrow vestibule. The four doors at its front, back, and sides rattled loudly.

  She opened the door to the next car and managed to squeeze through it before it slammed on her.

  A conductor stepped in front of her—not the conductor from Washington, but a different one. “Whoa, there, missy,” he said. “You don't need to be running around between train cars like that. It's dangerous. Where's your seat?”

  “There,” said Violet, nodding to the car ahead. One thing her eleven years of life had taught her was that most males considered women and girls to be simultaneously mysterious and not very bright. So it wasn't very hard to lie to them.

  The conductor looked over his shoulder. “Well, then how did you manage—”

  “Excuse me,” said Violet, and pushed past him.

  She found Mr. Martin in a vestibule after she'd passed through four more cars. He came out one door as she was coming out the other. He had a brown bottle of root beer in each hand and one sticking out of each of his trousers pockets.

  “Mr. Martin, stop,” she said, holding up a hand toward him. She was out of breath from the effort of walking in the rocking train and pushing through the heavy doors.

  Mr. Martin stopped and stood looking down at her quizzically. The train was chugging slowly up a steep grade. The jointed floor of the vestibule heaved and creaked under their feet, and they both braced their legs to keep from falling.

  “There are some men back there,” Violet said. “Looking for you. They're wearing tight collars, and they won't say their names.”

  Mr. Martin looked surprised at none of this. “Palmer agents. Did they ask for me by name?”

  Violet had to think for a moment. “No.”

  Mr. Martin nodded. “Good. Don't tell them my name, please.” He put the two bottles of root beer into Violet's hands. “Forgive my abruptness, Miss Mayhew, but I'm going to get off the train here.”

  “To what?” said Violet, not sure she'd heard him right.

  The train had reached the crest of the hill. “You can tell them where I got off,” said Mr. Martin. “In fact, you had better. Give my apologies to the ladies.”

  He opened one of the side doors of the vestibule and stepped out.

  “Mr. Martin!” Violet gasped.

  The side doors were for getting off the train—but getting off after it had stopped, of course. Violet didn't hear him hit the ground because the train was making so much noise. It was true it wasn't moving very fast, but she couldn't see what he'd stepped off into, and neither, she thought, could he. There might have been a three-hundred-foot cliff beside the tracks for all either of them knew.

  She dropped the root beer bottles—one of them shattered—and grabbed the handrail beside the still-swinging door. She leaned out as far as she dared. She felt a warm wind on her face and smelled pine trees and coal smoke.

  “Mr. Martin!” she called.

  The train crested the mountain and started downward again, picking up speed. Violet heard a door behind her open. A heavy hand landed on her shoulder and hauled her back into the vestibule.

  The two men—Palmer agents, whatever those were— glared down at Violet. The one who had grabbed her barked, “What do you think you're doing, miss?”

  “Where's Arpadfi?” snapped the second one.

  Violet angrily jerked her shoulder free of the man's hand. “Who?”

  “Arpadfi. Where'd he go? Did he jump?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” said Violet.

  “Listen, miss, we're looking for Sandor Arpadfi. Scar on his face, one eye, missing three fingers on his right hand. Sound like anybody you know?”

  “Three fingers?” said Violet, playing dumb. She watched the remaining root beer bottle rolling around on the floor.

  “We're not going to get anywhere with this one,” said the second agent.

  “She warned him,” said the first agent, pointing to Violet. He gripped Violet's arm, hard. It hurt. “Where's Arpadfi, girl? Don't play games with us. This is a criminal investigation of the highest order.”

  “Treason,” the other agent said succinctly.

  Violet felt a twist in her stomach—treason, she'd always heard, was worse than murder. But why should she believe these two idiots? She could make her own decisions about people. Mr. Martin didn't seem like a traitor to her. She glared at the agents and said nothing.

  “He must've jumped.” The agent who had hold of Violet's arm nodded at the side door, which was still swinging, opening a few inches and then gently slamming itself shut again. “I'm going after him.”

  The agent let go of Violet and kicked the door wide open. Violet could see the light shining out the train's many windows flickering over the ground moving by below.

  The agent turned to the other agent. “Question the Suffs. See if you can get any of them to understand what ‘accessory after the fact’ means. Then get off in Roanoke and cable J. Edgar Hoover that we've spotted Arpadfi.” He stepped out through the door.

  “No!” Violet cried, horrified, as he jumped. The train was by no means moving as slowly as it had been when Mr. Martin jumped off.

  “Come on, miss,” said the other agent, grabbing her arm. “Let's see what you and the Suffs can manage to babble out.”

  “You know, I don't believe he ever told us his name,” Miss Dexter said loudly. Violet was surprised at how well she pretended to be stupid—and surprised she was willing to do it for Mr. Martin, whom Miss Dexter clearly disliked. “He joined us at Union Station and begged a spare seat in our car. But he's a complete stranger to me.”

  The agent, who had finally admitted that his name was Mr. Christopher, had sat down in Mr. Martin's empty seat and unfolded a paper on his lap—a rough pencil sketch that could have been Mr. Martin in the same vague way that pictures of Uncle Sam could have been Violet's Grandfather Mayhew. It did have a scar on it.


  Many of the other suffragists had gotten up and crowded around, clinging to the backs of the seats for balance.

  “Miss Dexter,” Mr. Christopher said, “try to get this through that female wool you call a brain.” (The suffragists hissed.) “This man is dangerous. He poses a threat to the United States of America. By helping to conceal him, you could be guilty of treason.”

  “What's he supposed to have done?” demanded a gray-haired suffragist in a purple dress.

  “I can't tell you that,” said Mr. Christopher.

  The woman in purple snorted.

  Mr. Christopher asked a number of questions, about whether anyone had heard Sandor Arpadfi mention where he had been, or where he was going, or any names of friends or relatives or associates. Nobody offered him much help.

  “Did he say anything that sounded Bolshevist?” Mr. Christopher finally demanded. “You know, anything un-American?”

  Miss Dexter shrugged delicately. “I suppose some of the things he said were a bit socialist,” she said. “But there's an enormous difference between a Bolshevist and a socialist.”

  “That's what the socialists would like you to think,” said Mr. Christopher.

  “Socialists are good Americans!” said the woman in purple angrily. “They believe in cooperation instead of competition. Many of the greatest and wisest people in our country are socialists.”

  Mr. Christopher sneered. “That's why women shouldn't be allowed to vote,” he said. “The female mind isn't capable of making fine distinctions of logic.”

  The woman turned as purple as her dress. “Miss Helen Keller is a socialist!” she stormed. “Miss Lillian Wald is a socialist! Miss Jane Addams is a socialist! Miss —”

  “If they kept their addled brains out of politics, maybe someone would marry them,” Mr. Christopher said nastily. He got to his feet. The train was slowing as if approaching a station, but Violet thought that wasn't the only reason he was leaving. The crowd was closing in on him. Mr. Christopher took his pencil sketch and his notebook and retreated.

  “What a horrid man,” Miss Dexter said. The other suffragists agreed heartily. They made their way back to their seats, and Violet could hear them talking— speculating, she supposed, about Mr. Martin and what he'd done to get those dreadful government agents chasing him. Violet's stomach squirmed. She hoped the ground hadn't been too far away when Mr. Martin had hit it. Where had he landed, and what would he do now?

  Violet looked over at the woman in purple. There was an empty seat next to her. Violet got up and jostled over and sat down in it. “Excuse me, Miss …”

  “Kelley,” said the woman, sticking out her hand and smiling. Fortunately, Miss Kelley didn't seem to know that children should speak only when spoken to. “Florence Kelley. Pleased to meet you.”

  Violet shook hands and introduced herself. “What are Palmer agents, Miss Kelley?”

  Miss Kelley frowned. “Is that who those clowns were? I thought that might be it. Mr. Palmer is the U.S. attorney general, and he's got a crazy assistant named J. Edgar Hoover.” Miss Kelley rolled her eyes at the ridiculous name. “Their agents track down radicals and arrest them.”

  “Arrest them for what?” said Violet.

  “Mostly for being against the War,” said Miss Kelley.

  “But the War is over,” said Violet.

  “Parts of it are,” Miss Kelley said.

  “And what are Bolshevists?” Violet asked. She had some idea, but she wanted to hear what Miss Kelley would say, especially since Miss Kelley was clearly one of those rare adults, like Chloe and Mr. Martin, who talked about things that mattered and let you ask questions.

  “The Bolsheviks are the people who overthrew the czar in Russia,” said Miss Kelley. “But people just use the word to mean anybody that wants to change the way things are—to make us sound dangerous. Some people say we suffragists are Bolsheviks.”

  Violet nodded. She had heard that.

  “How is your little friend in the Jim Crow car?” Miss Kelley asked.

  Violet looked at her, surprised.

  “She's all right,” she said. “The seats aren't so nice there, but she's—fine.” Violet didn't think it was fine at all, actually, but Miss Dexter had seemed to and she was an adult.

  “It's a national shame,” said Miss Kelley. “This Jim Crow business. My organization, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, is fighting to put an end to it. There's no reason decent people can't ride in a train car with each other.”

  Violet stared at Miss Kelley. “But you're not colored,” she said. Then she covered her mouth, shocked at her own rudeness.

  “No, I'm not, but that doesn't mean I can't fight for justice side by side with colored people.” Miss Kelley patted Violet on the shoulder. “You know it's wrong, putting your friend in another train car. When you know right from wrong, don't let anyone tell you differently.”

  They both looked over at Miss Dexter.

  “I won't, Miss Kelley,” said Violet, and meant it.

  Soon it was time to fold down and rearrange the seats into berths. A porter came in to help them with this. Violet climbed into a top berth beside Miss Dexter. She lay awake for a long time, boxed in by the train's curving metal ceiling, the wall, the thin lumpy mattress, and Miss Dexter. She thought about Myrtle in the Jim Crow car, probably sitting up all night in that rattan seat. Finally Violet drifted off to sleep and dreamt that she was running and running, trying to catch a train that had left a long time ago.

  Sometimes the train stopped at stations and Violet woke, sliding forward as her head bumped against the partition. Then she fell back asleep until the train started again and her feet hit the partition at the other end. The train whistle let out a long, loud moan each time the train came to a crossing. Finally Violet gave up sleeping and lay awake wondering what Mr. Martin had done to get people called Palmer agents after him and whether he had survived his leap into the dark.

  Red and Yellow Roses

  “DO YOU REALIZE THAT THE CHILD BORN IN 1920 will never know war?” Miss Dexter asked.

  It was morning, and the Suffs were cooking oatmeal over the tiny cookstove at the end of the tourist car while the car changed trains at Chattanooga. Since the Suffs had rented the whole car to go to Nashville in, they didn't have to get off and change trains at the junction points. Instead, the car itself was unhitched from one train, rolled into a siding, and hitched up to another train.

  “The Great War that ended in 1918 was mankind's last war,” Miss Dexter went on. “We have a League of Nations now. More than twenty countries have joined it already. In the future all difficulties between countries will be arbitrated by an international court of justice.”

  Outside on the platform, a newsboy called, “Extra! Russians surround Warsaw! Riots in Ireland! English impose martial law!”

  Violet wondered why Miss Dexter was able to imagine such a perfect world and not imagine a place for Myrtle in it. She got up and went over to the stove. Miss Kelley was glopping oatmeal into tin bowls. “Can I have some to take to Myrtle, please?” Violet asked.

  “Here you go.” Miss Kelley handed her a bowl of thick gray oatmeal. Then she reached into a box and heaped a liberal handful of raisins on top. “Better give her some extra; injustice makes a girl hungry.”

  Violet had to get off the train in order to find the car Myrtle was in—they were no longer connected. Everything was being rearranged so new trains could be assembled to head to Nashville and other cities from the junction point here in Chattanooga.

  She found Myrtle standing on a platform on the other side of the tracks, in a knot of colored people who were waiting to get onto the Jim Crow car to Nashville. Violet hurriedly told Myrtle about what had happened the night before, but there was no time to discuss what might have become of Mr. Martin because Violet was supposed to get back to the suffragists' car before it was moved.

  “Anyway, I'll see you in Nashville,” she said, and hurried away to eat her own br
eakfast.

  As she was crossing the tracks, she saw a woman carrying a basket stumble and fall.

  Violet hurried over to help the woman up. She was tall and angular and bony and, Violet saw with embarrassment, in an interesting condition. Violet could feel her face burn. Ladies who were about to have babies, at least as soon as this woman seemed about to have a baby, usually stayed home.

  Violet picked up the lady's basket and also a scrap of black cloth that had fallen on the tracks. “Let me carry this for you,” she suggested.

  “Thank you, child.” The woman put her hand on the small of her back and winced painfully. “I'm just going over to the platform to set down. Goodness, that hurt. Doesn't seem to have done any harm to the little one, though. He's still kicking away.”

  Embarrassed by this forthright talk, Violet carried the basket and the cloth across the tracks and up onto the platform. It was a picnic basket, but it looked to her like there were folded clothes in it.

  The woman sat down painfully on a bench, still holding her back. “Thank you, child. Just put that down right here. That's my son's uniform. They're sending him home from France. He's supposed to be shipped to Chattanooga today.”

  Violet thought that was a funny way of putting it, and then she looked at the piece of black cloth in her hand and a thought struck her.

  “Is your son … Did he …”

  “Yes,” said the woman. “Put that on my arm, would you, dear? It's supposed to be my mourning.”

  The War had ended almost two years ago, but American soldiers' bodies were still being shipped home from France. It was a slow process, apparently. Violet shook out the black cloth and folded it diagonally, then again to make an armband. She wrapped it around the woman's gray calico sleeve. She could see in the seam that the calico had once been dark blue, but it was faded and worn whisper-thin from many washings. She tied the armband neatly.

  “Thank you. Ow.” The woman winced and put her hand on her belly, and Violet looked at her, worried. The woman's face was drawn and gray, and a strand of gray hair hung damply down from under her straw hat. Violet had never understood the phrase “hatchet-faced” before, but now she did—the woman looked as though her face had been cut out of a block of wood with a hatchet. It was all sharp, hard angles.