The Christmas Train (3 page)

“Hi there, Regina,” the woman called down.

“Hi there, Agnes Joe,” said Regina.

Neither of them backing down, Tom and Agnes Joe engaged in an awkward tango, one foot forward, one foot back. Performed vertically on the stairs, it actually made Tom a little queasy.

Finally he said, “Agnes Joe, I’m Tom Langdon. I’m in Compartment D. If you can just step back for a sec—”

He never finished the sentence, because instead of stepping back, she gave him a little nudge. Actually it was a meaty forearm launched to the right side of his head, which sent him, already off-balance, stumbling back down the stairs, where he hit bottom and fell flat on his back.

Agnes Joe followed his plummet and was polite enough to gingerly step over his prostrate carcass. Tom very seriously doubted this was how Mark Twain had begun his cross-country railroad journey. Agnes Joe walked over to Regina, who was busy helping some other people on board and luckily hadn’t seen what had happened, for which Tom was grateful. After all, an elderly woman had just pulverized him at King of the Hill.

“Here you go, honeypie. Thanks for taking my bags.” Agnes Joe handed Regina some cash.

Tom picked himself up and headed over to Regina after glaring at the old woman as he passed her.

“I’ll get your bags, Mr. Langdon, just put them over there while I get everybody checked in.”

“Thank you. And it’s Tom,” he said, handing Regina a handful of dollars. She graced him with a cute little look. He glanced at Agnes Joe, who was slowly making her way back up the stairs.

“So have you been working on this train long?” he asked Regina.

“Four years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Shoot, we have people been on this train twenty years.”

Tom looked back at Agnes Joe, who was still on the same step. Her legs were moving, but she didn’t seem to be ascending. It was actually fascinating to watch, sort of like witnessing pokey lava.

“So you know Agnes Joe?”

“Oh, sure, she’s been riding this train for ’bout, oh, ten years, or so I hear.”

“Ten years! She must really like the ride.”

Regina laughed. “I think she has family she goes to see. She’s nice.”

Tom rubbed his head where “nice” Agnes Joe had walloped him. “Is she on this sleeper car?”

“Yep, right next to you.”

Oh, joy, joy,he thought.

He went back to the stairway where Agnes Joe was, inexplicably, still on the exact same step.

“Agnes Joe, do you need some help?”

“I’m fine, honeypie. Just give me a little time.”

“Maybe if I get in front of you and pull?”

Tom’s plan was to get in front of her, run like hell, and lock himself in his magnificent suite with Eva Marie while Cary Grant kept guard outside.

“Just give me some space, sonny!”

She finished this last retort with a heavy elbow that somehow found Tom’s left kidney. By the time the pain had ceased and he was able to straighten his torso, Agnes Joe was gone. He slowly made his way to Compartment D. Damn if he didn’t feel like a war correspondent again. chapter four

As Tom stood in the doorway of Compartment D, it occurred to him that if Cary and Eva Marie had shot the kissing scene here, North by Northwest would have been rated triple X. He wasn’t sure of the exact dimensions of this deluxe accommodation, but two normal strides later he’d bumped into the opposite wall. There was no foyer, no study, no desk, no double beds that he could see, and he was reasonably certain that the balcony/patio combo, whirlpool, and optional servant quarters were myths too.

There was a sink and a mirror and an outlet for an electric razor. The cabinet below was well stocked. He saw toilet paper, so there must be a bathroom hidden in here somewhere. There was a tiny closet in which to hang his coat, a large mirror on the far wall across from what he assumed was the bed, and what looked like an upper bunk as well. There was a chair and a fold-down table with a checkerboard engraved on it, which he could use as a desk. And the picture window was huge and gave an inviting view of the outdoors, where a few trickles of snow were starting to fall, getting him more into the Christmas spirit. The door to the compartment locked and had a heavy privacy curtain. Okay, it wasn’t bad, he decided. In truth, space-wise, it easily beat out even first class on an airplane.

This impression lasted until he opened the door and saw his private bathroom. Actually, according to the sign posted inside, this was the bathroom and the shower. He was expected to pee and shampoo in the same space? In his overseas reporting days, he’d actually endured showers consisting solely of camel spit, and that definitely wasn’t by choice.

His real dilemma here was one of capacity. He looked at his girth and then eyed the bathroom/shower. He edged closer and studied the situation some more. He was reasonably certain that he could wedge himself inside this chamber. Of course, once in, it would take three or four strong men with heavy machinery to free him. And no doubt Agnes Joe would be standing there waiting to take a shot at the one good kidney he had left.

He’d read about the unfortunate woman on a transatlantic flight who’d committed the unpardonable sin of flushing the toilet in the plane lavatory while she was still sitting on it. This seemingly innocent action somehow created a mighty suction vacuum that trapped her on the toilet seat. (He’d wanted to write a note to the plane engineers inquiring why they hadn’t tested for this unfortunate possibility.) She endured the entire flight in the fully upright position until the plane landed and an elite crew armed with giant spatulas and baby oil stormed the lavatory and freed the poor hostage. If it had been Tom, he believed he would have gnawed off his legs and broken the seal himself.

Unwilling to think about it anymore, he turned back and was about to sit down, when he saw something flash by against the wall opposite the bed. At first it didn’t register, it was so fast. But then it happened again. It was Agnes Joe. How could that be? This was a very peculiar definition of private accommodations. Then he saw the problem. The walls between compartments must open, perhaps for maintenance or reconfiguration or something, but the result was that he could see into the woman’s room. He’d bivouacked with the aforesaid dirty, spitting camels, and desert nomads whose last bathing experience had been at birth, and various other unwashed persons, with mortar fire as his alarm clock. Yet he’d never slept with an Agnes Joe, and he didn’t really want to start now.

As he went over to the wall to push it back into place, he peered through the crevice between their rooms and found himself cornea to cornea with the woman.

“You best not be peeping at me, sonny boy,” she said. “Besides, you don’t want to look at my old stuff, honeypie. Find yourself some girl closer to your own age.”

Okay, Tom thought, the lady is the town eccentric, only on rails. He decided to play along.

“Your stuff looks pretty good to me.”

“Now, don’t make me call Regina.”

“You don’t want to do that. Why mess up a nice twosome with a third wheel?”

“Don’t you try to sweet-talk me—it won’t work because I’m not that sort of girl. But we could have a drink together in the lounge car after supper and get to know each other.” She actually batted her eyelashes.

“Now that’s an offer I’d be a fool to refuse.”

She gave him a playful smile. “I’m sorry about knocking you down the stairs, Tom. My hand must have slipped.”

“If it had to happen, I’m glad it was you.”

He turned and saw Regina standing there, his bags in her hand. She glanced over at the wall and shook her head. “Did that wall pop out again? I told maintenance to check it.”

“Hi, Regina,” said Agnes Joe through the opening. She pointed to Tom. “You watch that fellow, he’s slick.”

“Okay.”

Tom pushed the wall back into place.

Regina said, “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay. She seems pretty harmless.”

Regina gave him a sly look. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.” She brought his bags in and then sat down on the edge of the couch that apparently transformed into a bed at midnight and pulled out a notepad.

“I’ll take your dinner reservation now. Dining car opens at five-thirty. Or if you don’t want to eat in the dining car, you can get some food from the café. It’s in the lounge car; the one past the dining car, lower level. You’ll see the staircase about halfway through on the right. Just show your ticket to Tyrone—he’s the lounge-car attendant—and tell him you didn’t eat in the dining car. It’s all free for sleeping-car passengers.”

“I’ll eat in the dining car. How about seven?”

She wrote this down.

“While you’re eating, I’ll come in and get your bed made up. And we have soda and bottled water and coffee and fruit at the top of the stairs where you came up. I check it all the time, so everything’s fresh. Help yourself.”

“Is there a dress code or anything in the dining car?”

Regina looked amused. “Well, I’ve seen people wear just about anything a person can wear on this train.” Was it Tom’s imagination, or did her gaze flick in Agnes Joe’s direction? “But most people are pretty casual. Lot of families on this train, with little kids. What you’re wearing is fine.”

“That’s what I needed to know.”

He questioned her about the small size of his shower/bath, and she told him that larger facilities complete with changing room were available on the lower level on a first-come, first-serve basis. “Most of the physically enhanced people opt for that,” she added diplomatically.

As she rose to leave, Tom said, “I’m a journalist. I’m writing a story about my train trip across the country.”

She looked very interested. “Are you taking the Empire Builder to Seattle, the California Zephyr to San Fran, or the Southwest Chief to LA?”

“Southwest Chief to LA.”

“That’s a great train. The Chief has a cool history. And they’re wonderful people on board; you’ll have fun. Most people who work the Chief never want to leave.”

Tom pulled out his notepad and started jotting things down. “The way you describe it, the train almost seems like a person.”

“Well, they sort of are. I mean, you spend so much time on them, you learn their quirks, their strengths and weaknesses. Some are more temperamental than others, some more forgiving. It’s sort of like having a relationship. I know that sounds strange, but that’s just the way it is.”

“Hmmm, with some of the relationships I’ve had, dating a hundred-ton diesel might be a welcome change.”

Regina laughed. “My mother, Roxanne, works on the Southwest Chief, as the chief of on-board services. That’s the big boss. I’m going to see her when we get into Chicago. I’ll let her know you’ll be on. Now she can tell you some stories.”

“Is that common? I mean, do lots of family members work for Amtrak?”

“Well, I’ve got my mom, and I don’t know how many uncles and aunts and cousins and such spread all over. That’s how I found out about working on the trains. And my son works for Amtrak too. He’s a coach cleaner.”

Tom stared at her. “Your son? You look like you just got out of high school.”

“Agnes Joe was right: You are slick.” She smiled shyly. “But thanks for the compliment. And you get some really famous people as passengers. Singers, athletes, movie stars—and they’re all nice, for the most part.” Her expression grew more serious. “Where I come from, working on the train, that’s something special. People look up to you. It’s cool, you know?”

Tom nodded. This element really intrigued him. He’d have to work it into his story. “You think some of the other people on the train will talk to me?”

“Oh, sure, I’ll spread the word. Everybody who works on a train has stories to tell.”

“I bet they do.”

As she left, Tom felt the train start to move. Diesel electric trains have no need of a transmission, so there were no obstinate gears to shift. The resulting acceleration was smoother than the finest automobile on the road. Tom checked his watch. It was 4:05P . M. exactly. The legendary Capitol Limited, carrying Tom Langdon on a mission, was on its way. chapter five

Cleared for takeoff by rail traffic control, the Capitol Limited soared down the metal- and wood-ribbed runway, lifting off cleanly. It dipped its stainless-steel sheathed wings in salute to a passing band of birds, flushed out a nest of lobbyists plotting near the Capitol, and headed west, as Mark Twain had in his relative puberty. The young Sam Clemens had made the trek from Missouri to the Nevada Territory on a bouncy overland stagecoach, sleeping on mailbags at night and riding on top of the stage in his underwear by day. While he encountered much that was beautiful and rare, he also fought alkali deserts, desperadoes, ornery Mexican pugs, bad food, and boredom, while Tom Langdon was pulled along by a thousand tons of raging horsepower and enjoyed a comfy bed, toilet, and Agnes Joe in the next room. Tom wasn’t yet certain whether he or Mark Twain had gotten the better travel deal.

He called Lelia on his cell phone. He hadn’t told her about the train trip because he wanted to surprise her. She was certainly surprised, but not exactly the way he intended. Her reaction made him thrilled that there were currently about three thousand miles separating them.