I WOKE UP ENERGIZED. I dreamed about the girl. I dreamed of searching for her. And I have to admit Uncle Max was right—I have a habit of chasing a girl or two—but this is different, and the dream seals it. Now I’m on a mission. I thought I was doing better than expected when I went to the kitchen early to get the doctor and his fine daughter breakfast. I piled the delivery cart with fresh cantaloupe, orange juice, those powdered ginger cookies they only set out for important people, hot coffee, tea, bacon, eggs, and two toasted New York bagels that somebody had tucked away in the larder where they thought nobody would find them. I draped the cart in linen and had a hell of a time moving from one train car to the next. The walkways are slim and you have to push the cart through the dining car, which is jam-packed with two-seater tables, then between the cars, opening the door from the one you’re leaving and into the one you’re getting on so you can lift the cart into the new car without spilling anything or waking anyone up.
More than one early riser in the berths asked how much breakfast in bed cost, and even tried to bribe me. I told them to take it up with their conductor after I lied about special services reserved for VIP passengers only.
I barely got any sleep, and my muscles ached something terrible when I rolled out of bed, still in my uniform. Thank God I was thinking ahead and paid the telegrapher at the Philly station to get a wire to New York and ask for the Clearing House numbers before we even left the station. I know I promised Uncle Max I was done with all that, but only a fool leaves himself with just one pot of gold. I should be able to pick up the numbers right after ten in Arlington. As long as no more than two people hit, and most likely nobody will, I’m good.
The cart rattles as I wheel it into the doctor’s private car. I’m afraid that I’ll ruin the effect of it all if I wake them up before I get the table set, but I don’t have to worry too long, ’cause I see them both, fully dressed at not even six fifteen in the morning like a couple of seabirds looking for an early catch. The girl’s eyes are red and puffy, and I can see the tracks of salty tears down her dark cheeks as she gazes out the window. Bright green fields stretch out like an ocean on the other side of the glass, and the sun lights up her face like that’s its only job. Her father sits opposite her, head pressed forward, hands busy writing letters. He’s already got a few addressed and stacked on the end of the table. She blinks wet eyelashes up at me and my heart nearly stops.
“Don’t just stand there—the food is getting cold,” the doctor complains.
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
I get to work and fumble with the items on the cart now that it’s not an empty table, but rather one already set with people. The girl pulls the book into her lap, and I have to work hard to catch the title etched into the top margin of the pages. Cane by Jean Toomer. I haven’t read it, but the name sounds familiar—maybe W. E. B Du Bois mentioned him in The Crisis. I’ll have to dig through the copies in my suitcase to find out. The only other option is to ask Uncle Max, who’s read everything, but that might tip him off.
“I didn’t order all of this. I won’t be paying anything additional,” he says gruffly.
“Yes, sir.”
She doesn’t look up once as I set the table; her eyes travel across the lines of the novel like nothing else is going on around her. It takes all I have not to pray that the soft lift and fall of her bosom in her yellow dress will falter just enough for her to glance up and say thank you. I’d even take a snide remark, but I may as well be a part of the furniture as far as she’s concerned.
“Are you enjoying your trip so far?” I ask.
The doctor rustles his newspaper but doesn’t answer.
“I see you’re traveling to Atlanta. Visiting family? Vacation?”
This time the doctor folds his paper and places it in his lap. He gives me a pointed look. “No.”
“No?” It sounds more like a reprimand than an answer to my question, and I stop myself from placing the tin of sugar cubes on the table.
“No, we are not visiting family. We are not on vacation to the Deep South. Are you quite done?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“Are you new?” he adds.
“As a matter of fact, sir, this is my second day on the job,” I say as brightly as possible. He slaps his hand on the table and points a stubby finger at the girl.
“I knew it! We’ve been pawned off to the least of them. They have no intention of making this right. As soon as we get to Atlanta, I’ll wire Graham Perry. He’s just received his juris doctorate from Northwestern. I intend to sue.”
“Uh, well, please let me know if I can be of any assistance,” I say.
A sound escapes his throat, as if he is trying to hold back a laugh. “With the suit?” he asks with a small smile.
“Uh, no, sir, with the rest of your stay.”
The smile is replaced with a scowl as he clears his throat and begins buttering the top half of a bagel. The girl sits motionless, save her eyes, which continue to flit left to right as she reads.
“Would you like me to bring something more to your liking, miss?” I ask.
The girl looks up as if to reply, but before she can say a word the doctor says, “This will do us just fine. She’ll have a bit of fruit.”
Like a puppet, she closes her book and places the bowl of fruit in front of herself. She stabs a large cube of cantaloupe with a fork and stuffs it into her mouth, all the while staring at her father as she strains to chew it without spitting it all over the tablecloth. Despite her efforts, her cheeks bulge and juice drips down her chin. One delicious drop slips down her neck and into her cleavage. I have to turn my head to keep myself from doing something dangerous. I’ve never wanted to transform into fruit before.
The directive is so quiet and icy I barely register his voice. “Go to your room.”
She picks up a cloth napkin and spits the fruit into her palm before dropping it onto the table.
“Gladly,” she purrs, and squeezes by me to get to her door. She’s a big girl, and we’re nearly chest to chest as she makes her way past. I can smell the fruit on her breath as she breezes by.
It’s not until I hear the click of her thin compartment door that I think to move again. At least I know this. She likes books. She doesn’t like cantaloupe.