Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  Sylvie looked hesitatingly toward Allison.

  “I plan to buy what I need,” Allison said quickly. “There will be peddlers up and down the aisle soon, I’m sure.”

  Sylvie seemed relieved; the can of beans was small. “I’ll have to leave the baby with you, Gerhardt, and Tina, too,” she said. “Gus can come with me.”

  Gus hopped happily from the seat to the aisle, jigging impatiently, happy for this variation in the long, boring hours. Gerhardt took the baby, but Tina, only two years old, frightened at the unaccustomed sounds and sights, screamed at her mother’s retreating back, struggling in her father’s restraining hand, trying to follow her mother and brother.

  “No, Tina! Sit down! Wait—Mama will be back soon,” the father entreated, his face growing red with effort and frustration as Tina’s screams and struggles increased and the baby, startled, set up a cry.

  Ignorant when it came to children and their needs, Allison hesitated, watching the little drama with sympathy. Tina would never come to her, a stranger, but the baby—

  While she hesitated, slow about offering to take the bawling babe from the father’s arms, a tall, dark-suited form bent over the seat, gently disengaged the infant from Gerhardt’s grip, lifted it over the heads of those in the seat, and cradled it on his broad shoulder, a shoulder showing signs of a previous child’s spit.

  “Let me help,” he said, and who, being in trouble, could refuse? And where could he go but up and down the aisle, in plain sight of all? The baby was obviously safe, the parent greatly relieved. Gerhardt turned his attention to Tina and soon had her calmed.

  Their savior was the young man Allison had watched all day. She watched again as he strolled slowly along, tottering at times as the train swayed, the baby on his shoulder perfectly happy. At the end of the car, he turned and strolled, perhaps staggered, back. This he continued to do as Sylvie, hot kettle in one hand and holding Gus with the other, came from the stove and sank into her seat, to locate spoons and feed her family. Then the baby was brought, peaceful and contented, back to its mother’s arms.

  “Thank you, oh, thank you,” Sylvie said gratefully.

  The young man, looking nothing like a nursemaid, said, “You’re welcome,” and added with a smile, “I need the exercise.”

  Allison, sitting not two feet from the face that bent over her, saw the smile up close. Saw the square jaw, the firm mouth. Saw the warmth in the eyes that were turned briefly on her, blue—deeply blue—eyes.

  This was no wishy-washy, namby-pamby male. Masculinity breathed from every part of him, showed in every movement. But it was a masculinity tempered with gentleness, concern, thoughtfulness. Iron clothed in velvet, she thought. Silly—but there it was, her impression of him.

  Beans. The simplest of fare. Allison watched the little family eat and, not having eaten adequately all day, found her mouth watering. How foolish not to have thought of bringing food along. The Barchevs cleaned out the pot with apologetic faces, but there was little enough for the two adults and two children; the baby, quiet now, nestled asleep.

  The diner! Surely her presence would be acceptable. Hastily Allison straightened her clothes and her hair, spit on a corner of her handkerchief, and swiped at her face. Then, rising on unsteady feet, she made her way down the jolting carriage, through another and yet another, not so crowded, less smelly, finally coming to the dining car.

  She had taken its opulence for granted. Designed for the wealthy, it reflected the luxury of the day. Holding her head high and her shoulders back, Allison commanded the attention and service afforded those who qualified, and she obviously qualified. Sinking into a richly padded chair, she ordered tea and—to the superciliously raised eyebrows of the waiter—toast.

  Sipping the invigorating brew, feeling herself revive, Allison was startled to note the helpful man of the second-class car making his way down the aisle. As he passed her, his gaze dropped to her lifted face, and again he smiled, obviously recognizing her.

  For a moment Allison’s attention was distracted from her teacup; at that moment a vicious jolt of the train caused her arm to jerk and the tea to spill. She gasped as the hot liquid splashed over her hand.

  The man in the aisle, thrown off balance momentarily, regained his footing, steadied himself, and lifted the cup from Allison’s trembling hand. Setting it down he picked up a serviette, giving it to her for the purpose of dabbing at her hand, her clothing, the tablecloth.

  “Are you burned badly?” he asked, concern showing in his voice. “Perhaps we should ask for some help; there may be balm available, or some such remedy.”

  “I think I’m all right,” Allison managed, examining her wrist and hand. The skin was red but not seriously burned. “The tea usually isn’t hot enough to suit me,” she said shakily, “and in this instance I guess that was a good thing.

  “I’m going to have the teapot refilled,” she said, noting the waiter hurrying toward her. Appreciative of the stranger’s help, she added, “Why don’t you sit still long enough to have a cup? After all,” she said, to justify her boldness, “I feel I know you, having watched you all day as you helped this one and that one with one thing and another.”

  The man hesitated, then, with a nod, sat down. “A cup of tea would be refreshing. It’s a madhouse back there, isn’t it?”

  “Bring an extra cup, please,” Allison requested, and the waiter hurried off, stepping like a dancer in a lively jig in time with the sashaying of the car.

  “Heavens! What can be the trouble?” Allison wondered, swaying in her seat.

  “I believe it’s because the track shifted through the winter’s freeze. The ground tends to swell; I suppose the rails may warp. It seems to be particularly bad along here. It’s so open, you see, no trees, no protection. I can only imagine what winters are like. Fierce, I expect.”

  “Did you wish to order?” Allison asked belatedly, lamely. She realized she had been bemused by the man whose presence seemed to work some sort of spell on her so that she wasn’t herself at all.

  “Thank you for reminding me. I’m here to see if I can get a bowl of soup . . . if they’ll accommodate me in that way. It’s for the woman in the section next to yours—”

  “Feverish. Sick. Do you mean,” Allison asked slowly, “you are looking after her?”

  “Someone needs to,” the man said with a shrug. “Obviously her elderly parents are overwhelmed—”

  “Why?” Allison asked abruptly. “Why do you do it? Are you a doctor?”

  “No, indeed. I suppose it’s because I see a need and get satisfaction out of filling it. And,” he added with a grin that made his face boyish under a thatch of sandy hair much in need of straightening at the moment, “I might as well keep on the move. You see, I haven’t got a seat.”

  “No?” Allison was incredulous. For hours this young man had been on his feet, with no break.

  “Actually,” he admitted, “I had one, but there were people standing. My mother,” he said with another grin, “taught me never to sit if ladies had to stand.”

  The grins gave him away. The sober suit branded him a serious man, perhaps a businessman, but the grin—it was that of a mischievous lad.

  The tea arrived, and Allison had just begun to relax when her companion set aside his cup, stood, asked again if she was sure she was all right, and explained that he really should be seeing about soup or some other nourishment for the sick woman.

  As he made his way down the swaying car and returned with a bowl balanced in one hand, Allison found herself disappointed that the conversation had been so brief. Passing her, he shifted his gaze only momentarily from the bowl and its sloshing contents to give her, once again, his wry grin.

  Turning her head, she watched, impolitely she was sure, as he made his way with grace and as much dignity as possible through the car, past various encumbrances including unsteady passengers, to exit the car.

  She saw him no more that day; perhaps he had found a seat after all. But the woman
in the next section seemed to perk up a bit after her nutritious meal and, when night came, managed to climb into the tray-bed, along with her aged mother. It was a painful, precarious procedure, reenacted up and down the length of the car.

  In their section, Allison and Sylvie and the baby occupied the seats for the night, curling up, sleeping fitfully, while Gerhardt and the two older children made the climb overhead.

  The makeshift sleeping arrangements were the cause of much grunting and groaning, shifting and complaining from time to time all through the night. Two children, somewhere, fell out of the overhead trays, to fill the night air with shrieks and howls. Babies wailed, women plodded to the stove or the cistern. Somewhere, muffled by its mother’s efforts to silence it, a child coughed the night hours away. In spite of it all, people slept. Worn by the day’s stressful inactivity and wearied by the anticipation of another such day ahead, they slept.

  The morning brought great stirrings, much shifting of supplies, and dogged preparations for another meal. Allison, no doubt inspired by the selfless service of the unnamed man of the day before, offered to hold the baby while Sylvie took her turn at the stove, preparing sausages to go with the drying bread from her basket. Nothing would do but that Allison must share the simple meal, which she did with gratitude, for no peddler had made an appearance, and no stops of any account had been made.

  She was caught unawares when, without warning, her heart lurched. A lurch caused not by the rough tossing of the car but by catching sight of yesterday’s man, once again making an appearance, walking down the aisle. For a moment she thought he was heading directly to her; to her thudding heart was added a quickened breath.

  “Good morning!” he called cheerily, going past her to the ailing woman in the next section. Allison was disappointed.

  “How are you this morning?” he asked her neighbors, and he spent a few moments listening, a few more moments encouraging. Then he proceeded along the car, being greeted by numerous voices as he went, stopping occasionally to make an inquiry, to touch a hand, to ruffle a child’s head. Everywhere he was greeted with smiles, albeit some wan and all weary.

  He had made a difference. In one day he had made a difference. Into Allison’s mind flashed a thought of the remittance men and their self-absorption along with the guilty realization that she was, after all, such a one—a remittance girl. Or so she had been labeled, first by Theodora, then by Binky and his friends. Now it all seemed so useless, so selfish, so wrong.

  Later, coming from the small, crowded, odorous room allotted to women and their needs, she came face-to-face with him again. And could do no less than smile, even as others had been doing. With little to smile about, she could only smile into the face that some, less observant, would casually call handsome but that she knew was much, much more.

  There, swaying in the aisle, surrounded by confusion, they paused a moment while he inquired about her burn. Allison assured him it was fine.

  “You’re traveling alone, aren’t you?” he said. “I don’t believe you are part of the little family in your section. Will you be meeting someone? I mean—is there someone special waiting for you up the line somewhere?”

  “Friends,” Allison explained. “I’m meeting friends.” Strange, but she had a feeling that, given time and opportunity, this man, this stranger, would be a kindred spirit, perhaps knowing the Lord, for surely his actions indicated this.

  “I don’t know your name,” she said, turning to go to her seat and feeling that a rare treasure, a once-in-a-lifetime acquaintance, was slipping away from her. “I watched you all day, I had tea with you, and I don’t even know your name.”

  “You may not believe it,” he said with another of his wry grins, “but my mother actually named me Ebenezer—”

  Allison had only a moment to glimpse the startled face of the young man Ebenezer as the train’s brakes shrieked and the train did its best to grind to a halt, a moment while everyone was frozen in position. And then—as the train jerked to a stop—all fury broke loose. People were tossed into the air, into the aisle, on top of one another . . . screaming.

  Overhead, the trays disgorged their contents like a volcano spewing forth its lava. Tumbling, falling, bouncing—a wooden case fell with particular force onto Allison’s head. Fainting, falling, she heard her voice, like a distant whisper: Ebenezer . . .

  It was the church board’s final meeting before the arrival of Ben Brown.

  He couldn’t rightly be called Reverend because he wasn’t ordained, having been a student until now. Perhaps, being young, he would feel the necessity of a formal title—like “Pastor,” certainly “Mr.”—to give him a sense of his position in the community. Perhaps, being young, he would settle for the casual “Ben.” “Brother Brown” was what most people would call him.

  “Tomorrow,” Angus reminded the board unnecessarily now, “is the day of his arrival.”

  No one had forgotten; they had the date marked on their calendars—it was liberation day for them. It was a day setting them free of the onerous task of preaching. But to admit this was another matter.

  “Well, pshaw,” Brother Dinwoody said offhandedly, “I’ll have to put away the message I was working on. It was coming along well, too—”

  “What is this one about, Brother?” Herkimer asked, gravely innocent. “Now that you’ve brought down the topknots of the district.”

  Brother Dinwoody spluttered but refused to be baited. Rather, with a fine and unusual dignity and a rare flash of wisdom, he counterattacked, “I’m thinking about ‘Be ye kind one to another.’”

  “Good choice,” Angus interjected quickly, calming the troubled waters.

  Brother Dinwoody, poor man, would never live down his one and only sermon. Although his wife seemed to have forgiven him and allowed him back into her good graces, she seemed devoted to the new hairdo. It was like a burr under a saddle blanket to her husband, who was thus constantly reminded of his inglorious attempt at preaching, an attempt that had given him the exact opposite results of those he had hoped for.

  “Perhaps this Ben Brown fella will be sick some Sunday and need a fill-in,” Herkimer, the rascal, who loved to tease, offered. “If I was you, Brother, I’d go ahead and get the sermon ready.”

  “Brethren,” Angus broke in, “we are here to see if there are any last-minute details to be taken care of before the new man’s arrival.”

  “The parsonage is finished—”

  “But did the linoleum get laid?”

  “Yep. Linoleum laid, firewood stacked—”

  “But is there an axe?”

  “In the shed.”

  “Food?”

  “The ladies are set to stock the cupboards in the morning—fresh milk, bread, butter, and so on.”

  And thus it went, until someone asked, “Who’s going to meet the train? You, Angus?”

  “I thought I would,” Angus said.

  “Aren’t you too busy for that?” Bly Condon asked.

  And Brother Dinwoody saw his chance. “We’re all too busy,” he interjected firmly. “All us men, anyway. But,” this is where he got devious, “how about one of the women doing it? They could easily take the day to go to P.A. to meet the train. Say!”—an amazing solution seemed to present itself—“I’ll bet Eliza would do it!”

  Eliza Dinwoody, Brother Dinwoody’s oldest daughter, was turning seventeen, a marriageable age. She was a pretty girl, and the young swains of the district were gathering around like mosquitoes to an exposed ankle. Brother Dinwoody, desperate at the invasion, was of a mind to solve the problem himself. And who better, more trustworthy, than a man of God?

  Angus, Bly, Herkimer—all turned reproachful eyes on Brother Dinwoody. After all, their gazes said, this is the Lord’s work and serious business.

  Brother Dinwoody, with a sigh, gave in and gave up, and proceedings went on as though they had not heard his solution. Eliza Dinwoody indeed! A minx if there ever was one, as they all knew. She’d find a husband, they were c
onvinced, without the help of anyone, her father in particular.

  But it showed how certain members of the district, fathers included, were scheming, planning, working—a new, single man was a challenge. The supply of bachelors far exceeded the demand, and unmarried females could afford to be choosy. It was rather like the bees’ courtship, some thought: A vast number of suitors for the queen bee’s attention were disdained, rejected, refused, and her favors were granted to one and one only, but the one of her choice. The women of the Territories—widows and singles alike—often had numerous proposals before making up their mind, before settling on the one of their choice.

  “I need some parts for the mower,” Angus said now, “and so I don’t mind taking the time off. It may take most of the day, for who knows whether the train will be on time or not. Probably not.” “You’ll be lucky just to have it come in on the right day, if you ask me,” Bly said, knowing well how undependable the train could be and usually was. But they all remembered the days not too long ago before the railroad reached them and the isolation they had felt. The train track was a slim thread of contact with another world. Schedules were kept much better in summer than in winter, when sometimes for days, even weeks, trains couldn’t get through. Still, even in summer anything could happen—a log across the tracks, collision with wild animals, torn-up tracks, surprising snowstorms.

  “What’s the word from Parker and Molly?” someone asked, having discussed Ben Brown “until the cows come home,” as Herkimer put it, weary of the subject and having “milked” (Hahahaha—Herkimer again) it to death. Angus reported that things were going well for his daughter and her new husband; they had settled in with Parker’s mother and sister and were getting certain things accomplished.

  “Parker is having opportunities to preach from time to time,” he said, “and that pleases him.”