| |
HARRY CLOSED THE TRAIN window and leaned back in his seat. He’d been surprised to see Alice at the station. He knew sneaking out of town without talking to her was the coward’s way, but he wasn’t ready to face her. Betty’s attentions were nothing new, she’d always been a flirt, but couple that with Alice’s relationship with Jack, and Harry no longer knew what to think. She’d always been a good friend to his younger brother, but now something felt different.
He sensed an intimacy between them he’d never seen before. The way they looked at each other as if they were hiding a secret. The way Alice touched Jack’s arm, lingering a little too long. And especially the way Jack talked to him, hinting—threatening, even—to keep Alice as his own.
And why did she suddenly agree to sell the farm and move with him to Minneapolis? Women were notorious for changing their minds, and he did spring everything on her kind of sudden. Perhaps she only needed time to get used to the idea. Or, perhaps seeing him spend so much attention on Betty made her realize what she was losing.
Harry smiled to himself. That must be the reason. She only needed a little scare. While Alice showed more common sense than most people he knew, she was still a woman, and a woman’s ability to reason was limited by nature.
“Was she your girl back at the station?”
“Yes.” Harry turned briefly to the young man sitting across the aisle. He wasn’t interested in making conversation and didn’t want to encourage him. At the same time, he didn’t want to be rude.
“You’re lucky she stuck by you.”
“Why?” Harry’s jaw tightened.
“Well, I mean your . . .” He gestured toward Harry’s eye patch and scar. “War wound, right? My girl, now she wasn’t so understanding when I came home with this.” He knocked on his left leg. “She said watching me take this off every night, and strap it on every morning, was more than she’d signed up for. And since we weren’t married yet, it was better to end it right then.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, but your girl, she must be something really special.”
Harry smiled. “She is.” Somehow, he’d lost sight of that fact.
The train screeched to a halt. “This is my stop. Good luck to you.” The man tipped his hat, rose, and limped down the aisle. His bag in one hand and a cane in the other.
Harry closed his eye, hoping for a little sleep before arriving in Minneapolis. His head pounded from the day before. Alice might be right about his drinking.
“Let’s sit here, Mama.”
Harry opened his eye just wide enough to see a little girl pointing to the seats facing him.
“This man is trying to sleep.” Her mother attempted to guide her further down the aisle. “There are plenty of other seats open.”
Yes, pick a different one.
“No. I want to sit here.” The girl plopped down facing Harry and nearest the window. She carefully set a covered basket in her lap. Something inside moved the blanket.
“Then you need to sit quiet and let this man rest.” Her mother settled in next to her.
“Ma’am.” Harry tipped his hat in greeting, closing his eye again in the hopes of avoiding any further conversation. It worked for a while.
“What happened to your face?” The girl leaned forward, squinting.
“Anna Marie, hush.”
Harry opened his eye. Little Anna Marie’s mother was a bright shade of scarlet.
“I apologize for my daughter’s rudeness.”
“Did your cat scratch you? Sometimes my cat scratches me.” The girl opened the mystery basket on her lap and lifted out a yellow tabby. “Don’t you, Tiger?”
“I don’t have a cat.” Harry sighed. Clearly there was going to be a conversation whether he liked it or not.
“Your dog, maybe? Because something scratched you pretty bad.”
Anna Marie’s mother gathered her things and stood. “Put Tiger back in her basket and come along. Your father is going to be angry when he hears how you behaved on the train today.”
Anna Marie’s chin quivered. “Don’t tell Papa. I didn’t mean to be bad.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry, Mister.” She sniffed and hiccupped.
“Again, I apologize for my daughter. We’ll sit elsewhere now.”
“Ma’am. I’m certain your daughter meant no harm. I’d ask you not to tell her Papa.” He looked at Anna Marie. “This time.”
“Were you a soldier?” The girl’s voice was small and timid.
“No more questions.” Her mother took her hand.
“Yes, I was a soldier. Now go with your mother.”
“All right.” She looked back and smiled as her mother led her to empty seats at the far end of the train car.
Harry let the motion of the train quiet his thoughts. He drifted off to sleep.
* * *
GERMAN SHELLS BLEW craters in the earth. Choking smoke. He covered his mouth and nose. Mud and shredded tree limbs crashed around him. Blinding grit and tears.
“Fin!”
Where was he? Where was the rest of his unit?
A wild-eyed horse in a frenzied escape, blood flowing from a massive wound in its side, threw him off his feet. He landed on his back, breath exploding from his lungs. Gasping for air, he clawed his way across the torn forest floor, desperate to be clear of the beast’s dangerous hooves.
“Fin! George! Where is everyone?” His voice no more than a croak.
He felt along the ground. An arm. Then a chest. Above the chest, a neck. A head face down. He rolled the man. Another shell. Harry threw himself over the man to shield him.
He opened his eyes. The man’s face was gone. He dug the ID tags from under the man’s shirt . . .
* * *
HARRY JERKED AWAKE, gasping for breath with a strangled cry. Heads turned. Passengers stared.
“The soldier man had a bad dream, Mama,” the little girl with the cat said. Anna Marie.
Where were the bombs? Who was the dead soldier? He remembered where he was and slumped in his seat.
The conductor rushed toward him. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“No—no—I’m fine.” He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and stuffed it back into his pocket.
The train whistle shrieked like an incoming shell. Harry ducked and prepared for a strike. A nearby woman leaned over and whispered to a man Harry assumed was her husband. The elderly man gave his wife a sharp look, saying something in return, quieting her. He nodded at Harry and removed his hat. He was missing an ear.
“Antietam.” The man understood, and for some reason that mattered to Harry.
He ran his fingers through his hair and put his hat on.
Outside the train window, the growing city of Minneapolis rose above the shores of the Mississippi River. Water rushed below the great curved Stone Arch Bridge while people rushed about in their wagons, automobiles, and streetcars on the approaching shoreline. Harry relaxed as the train slowed in its approach into the Great Northern Depot and his future. No more dull farmers, their fingernails cracked and stained, their boots caked with God knows what.
No, here he would be among men and women of class. Alice’s charitable work would be limited to organizing teas to raise money for the poor, not rolling up her sleeves and risking her own health to treat them for whatever contagious disease they caught. He would join a gentleman’s club where he could play billiards or cards and drink fine whiskey, not the cheap slop Dooley sold. He’d smoke only the best Cuban cigars and talk finance, not who shot the biggest buck or landed the biggest fish.
Harry stood and brushed his suit clean of the soot blowing in the open windows from the train’s belching smokestack. He checked his eye patch to make certain it hadn’t shifted out of place while he slept, picked up his valise, and stepped out onto the platform.
Even the air smelled better in the city. To him it smelled of success, of money and high living. Opportunity. And to Harry, that was the best smell of all.
He wove his way between the shoppers and business people. Hennepin Avenue was a veritable beehive of activity in the middle of the day. Taverns, restaurants, and shops of all kinds threw open their doors to a steady stream of customers. Harry stopped in front of a tailor’s shop. He watched through the window as the tailor chalked and pinned a new dinner jacket to fit the customer admiring himself in the mirror. Gentlemen’s hats and gloves were prominently displayed in the front window. An ivory handled walking stick caught his attention. It was just the thing to make him less the son of a small-town banker and more a big-city financier.
A bell rang over the front door, not loud and urgent like the bell at Erikson’s, but soft, like a tap on the shoulder to get your attention. The tailor didn’t even look up from his work. He took the last pin from his mouth. “I’ll be with you presently, sir.”
Harry picked up the walking stick, felt the weight of it, and posed with it in the full-length mirror.
The tailor slid the jacket from the man’s shoulders and folded it carefully over his arm. “I can have this to you by next Wednesday, Mr. Conlon.”
“Monday would be better, Mr. Bocelli. My wife’s giving a little soiree, and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms my current jacket will not do.” He buttoned up his overcoat and placed his hat on his head. “I’ll pay extra, if I can have it by Monday afternoon.”
“Then, Monday it is. Good day, sir.”
Mr. Conlon left, and the same little bell rang its goodbye. The tailor took the jacket to his workroom and returned, his tape measure still hanging around his neck. Impeccably dressed himself, his slight frame stood perfectly straight, chin in the air.
He paused to look Harry over, nodding his approval. “That walking stick is you, sir.”
“I agree.” Harry studied the man to see how he would react to the eye patch and scars. There was no reaction. It was as if Harry was whole again. He would make certain to return whenever he needed a new suit of clothes. He paid for the walking stick and continued on.
Harry waited for the streetcar to pass before stepping out, only to be forced to jump out of the way of a delivery wagon coming from the opposite direction. Mud splattered his pant legs. He shouted and waved his new walking stick at the driver. The man answered with a few choice words of his own. Harry surveyed the damage. He didn’t have enough cash on him to go back for a new pair of trousers, and he certainly did not have the time for the tailor to adjust the fit. He’d have to wipe them clean the best he could when he got to the hotel.
The Minneapolis Arms was eight stories of granite. Harry craned his neck, one hand holding his hat firmly in place. It was marvelous. Large, curtained windows on one side of the front entrance showcased the dining room. On the other side were smaller windows, their blinds closed against the street traffic. The doorman stepped aside and held the front entry open for him.
The lobby was paneled in dark mahogany. Overstuffed wingback chairs lined-up against the wall where men in suits sat quietly reading the daily newspaper. A pair of women whispered to each other as they left the restaurant and went upstairs. Harry rang the bell on the front desk. A young man dressed in a crisp white shirt, vest and jacket, appeared from the office, quietly closing the door behind him.
“How may I help you, sir?”
“I have a reservation. Barnes. Harold.”
The young man trailed a finger down the lines of the reservation book. “Yes. Right here. Welcome, Mr. Barnes. I’ve reserved room 205 for you. It faces the street, not the alleyway. One of our finest.” He pushed the registration log toward Harry and handed him a pen. While Harry signed where indicated, the young man retrieved a folded sheet of paper from one of the cubicles behind him, handing it to Harry along with the key. “You have a telegram.”
Harry opened the paper. It was from Betty.
Congratulations on new job. Stop. Wish you all the best. Stop. Will keep eye on Alice, but don’t know when I’ll see her, now she’s back working with Doc. Stop.
Harry’s hands shook. He crumpled the paper and threw it at the wall behind the young desk clerk.