No Job for a Lady (7 page)

“Of course, I would be honored.”

He sits in Mr. O’Brian’s seat, so we are facing each other.

“Are you traveling with family, señorita?”

I hope he doesn’t notice my cringe at the question. “Not at the moment. I originally started with my mother as my traveling companion. But just before El Paso, she became sick from something she ate. It really put her under the weather. Poor thing couldn’t travel any farther.”

“And you didn’t want to wait for her recovery?”

“I couldn’t.” Here comes one of my famous white lies, which just slides off my silken tongue. “I’m on assignment for
The Pittsburgh Dispatch
and have limited time.”

I can’t admit the truth because he’d think me a horrid daughter, but I made sure my mother was in good hands. And he’s a man and wouldn’t understand why a woman would accept the challenge of traveling alone to a foreign country. Seize the opportunity, Mrs. Percy said, so I did.

“
The Pittsburgh Dispatch
 … a newspaper, señorita?”

“Yes, I’m their foreign correspondent.” Another half-truth. I don’t want to say the Mexico trip is self-assigned, because instead of him seeing me as a woman who has obtained a position usually reserved just for men, he’ll view me the same as my editor does: an insubordinate female putting herself into danger by foolishly trying to tackle a man’s job.

“Well, I must say it is an honor meeting you. I’ve never met a woman foreign correspondent … or even a female newspaper reporter, for that matter. I can assure you that there are no women reporting news in my own country. Your parents must be quite proud of you.”

“My father has passed, but, yes, my mother supports my efforts. Thank you.”

My father would have been proud of me, too, I’m sure, because it was he who put in my head that women are as capable as men. I slip my hand in my dress pocket and rub his gold pocket watch. He wore it every day, and now I do the same. It gives me comfort and a feeling of security, as if he is watching over me.

I find myself sitting a tad taller, besides blushing. I’m not use to a man complimenting me for being a newspaper reporter. Most men only register surprise, but some consider it a threat to their male status or an invasion of their territory. Even my brothers were mad at me. They said it wasn’t a job fit for a lady and I would disgrace the family, even pointing out that if it was a proper job for a woman, I would be allowed to use my own name.

My mother and Mrs. Percy were the only ones who stood by me. In response to my brothers’ objections, Mrs. Percy said, “Nellie, men do not know what’s best for women. They think they do, but they don’t.”

“What features of my country are you planning to write about?” Señor Castillo asks.

Coming from a Mexican official, this is a loaded question. Stories of banditry and official corruption would appeal to the tastes of Pittsburgh readers, though I’m sure I’ll gain their interest with colorful tales of the people and their food, but unless I want my dispatches to get me quickly tossed out of the country, or worse, I know better than to emphasize the negative.

“I’m open for anything that will interest my readers.”

“Really? The preference of newspaper
men
I’ve known are to report about bandidos and notions of corruption in our government.”

He must have read my mind—or my expression. And I caught his emphasis on
men
and the fact that I might attempt to imitate their negative reporting slant about Mexico. I need to defuse his concern that I will be just another reporter generating bad news about his country. It is time to be diplomatic.

“Actually, Mexico’s colorful tales about how the people live is what really interests me. I will want to focus on the beautiful area and striking people of your land and culture. I know of no one back home who has been to Mexico, so they will be very interested to learn all about your food, clothing, customs—everything about your way of life. This probably would be boring to you, but not to North Americans.”

“Yes, I quite agree. Mexico is a large country with many subcultures, ranging from people still living little different from their Aztec ancestors to those who race across the land as we are right now in what your own native people call an iron horse. As I’m sure you know, the heritage of the modern Mexican is mostly a mixture of European Spanish and indigenous Indian blood. Both bloodlines run in my veins and I am proud of them.”

“As you should be. Even though my father was an American, his heritage is Irish, and he, too, was very proud of that.”

“I can see, señorita, that you will be most evenhanded in your treatment of my people. Feel free to ask me questions if they come to your mind.”

“Thank you, I will. I appreciate your confidence. I have to tell you, I am already falling in love with your food.”

“Then perhaps you would honor me by joining me for dinner tonight? The daughter of a British friend is traveling with me. She’s about your age, and, like you, she is experiencing my country for the first time. I’m sure she will enjoy your company. While the train fare is not considered a gourmet delight, I had the larder stocked with a few special items.”

“That would be wonderful. I experienced a bit of Mexican food after we crossed the border, but it was prepared by a Chinese cook, so I’m not sure one can call that the real McCoy, even though I enjoyed it.”

After establishing that I shall join him in the dining car at seven, Señor Castillo departs.

I beam with pleasure as I look out the window. I have barely crossed the border, and tonight I will be dining with a consul general of Mexico and enjoying authentic Mexican food. Maybe I can get him to invite me to his villa or whatever they call the homes of important Mexicans.

This could be the start of a very interesting trip.

11

“So who was that Mexican guy you were talking to in the parlor car?”

Being immediately interrogated by Mr. Watkins, who is still sitting comfortably in my compartment, reading a book, when I enter, does not do my disposition any good. A credit to him, he removes his stocking feet from my seat.

I do a double take at the book he is reading—dark tales from Edgar Allan Poe. He seems the type who would be more inclined to read the Farmer’s Almanac than a tale of mystery and suspense.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but Señor Castillo is a very high-ranking Mexican government official. That we are involved in discussions of an official matter is all I am at liberty to say.”

Let him chew on that one!

“I’m impressed. You have some discussions about the official nature of manure with that cowboy you were with?”

“You’ve been spying on me!”

“Excuse me, but I had to leave the train to eat, too, and saw you with him. Just curious. From the looks of how he carries his six-shooter, I wondered if you were going to hire him to evict me.”

“Oh, would I love that. I just keep hoping that you’ll be gone when I return, but you’re always here, like a bad dream that keeps repeating itself.”

He actually grins at my insult. “You were too busy talking to see me on the street or in the train. So, what does this
high-ranking
official do for the government?”

“As I said, I am not allowed to discuss it with anyone, especially someone I know nothing about.”

“But I’m your husband … or did you forget?”

“My husband would let me have the lower berth. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to freshen up.”

“Good. Then we can have dinner together.”

“Dinner? I’m sorry, but I have accepted a previous invitation. May I have my luggage?”

He bends down and pulls my carpetbag out from under the seat. “It’s rather underfoot, isn’t it?”

“It takes up much smaller space than yours.”

“True, which makes me curious—most women take trunks and or at least three big bags. How did you manage to get everything in this little thing?”

He holds it up like it’s a strange creature and I grab it out of his hands. Even the way he holds my bag annoys me.

“I don’t like lugging around baggage and—and that includes you.”

He gives me a sardonic grin. “Now why would you say that, especially since it is only because of me that you have this sleeper.”

I start a reply but clamp my mouth shut. His statement is, unfortunately, true.

“Good,” he says. “Now we are getting somewhere. Admitting the truth is cleansing to the soul, even if it was just the look on your face. So, dare I say we have a truce at hand?”

“Yes … if you give me the lower.”

“No. What about dinner?”

“No. I already have dinner plans, and to answer your next question, which again is none of your business, yes, it is with that gentleman.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“Uh-huh.” In a pig’s eye. With carpetbag in hand, I open the door to our small washroom. It consists of a small metal sink with a hand pump for water and a mirror cabinet with enough room to store his shaving needs and an empty space for a jar of my skin lotion. The toilets are in the washrooms at the rear end of the car.

There is just enough room for me to squeeze in with my bag. I can’t close the door all the way because there is no light inside. I leave the door ajar, just enough to get some light in, but blocking his view of me, even though I only intend to freshen my face.

Having been raised with brothers whom my mother and I had to constantly pick up after, I am surprised at how neat he is. His personal possessions are not scattered around the compartment, and the few in the cubbyhole washroom are neatly displayed. He has even taken a metal cup to hold his toothbrush and a tree twig. My father also used a twig to rub his teeth with, because he complained that brushes were constantly falling apart.

If Mr. Watkins wasn’t so sarcastic, I might even be attracted to him, but there is something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. He seems rather inquisitive about me, but I guess that’s natural. I am curious about him, too. Under different circumstances, and if I wasn’t so busy looking for stories, I wouldn’t mind chatting and getting to know him a bit more in a friendly manner, instead of this inquisitional way.

I also have a feeling that he is not particularly fond of women. He is polite, no question about it, but he seems to take extra delight in refusing to abide by the rule of ladies first—especially when it comes to choosing a berth!

I wonder what happened in his life to give him such a negative slant about women.

“I’m surprised,” Roger Watkins states when I come out of the washroom.

“About what?”

“How quickly it took you to freshen up. Most women take forever with their toiletry. When they come out, they basically look the same, except that maybe their hair is more combed, and not always for the better. Some women make their faces look like a clown’s, with all that ridiculous stuff on their eyes and lips! Why do women wear such paint on their faces?”

For a moment, I am speechless. I’ve never heard a man ramble on and on about women, especially their attire. And what he just said to me, is it a compliment, or what?

“Well, I grew up with six brothers and I wasn’t allowed much time in the bathroom. Besides, my mother doesn’t believe in all that makeup. She says natural beauty is better. Unfortunately, I have neither natural beauty nor makeup.”

“You are too hard on yourself. You’re not a bad looker, except when you are jawing at me over the berths. And you have a smart mother. Shall we go?”

“Where?” is all I can say at the moment, for I am still flabbergasted at what he has just said.

“To the dining car.”

“What? No. I already told you—”

“I know you have a dinner engagement. But, I, too, must eat, so I thought I’d at least escort you there. You never know what lurks between train cars.”

“You read too many mysteries, and yes, I noticed your Poe book. And, no thank you, I do not need your protection.” I square my shoulders. “I am an American girl who can take care of herself without the aid of a man.”

“Fine. And speaking of Poe, listen to this: ‘Take this kiss upon the brow!/And, in parting from you now,/Thus much let me avow—/You are not wrong, who deem/That my days have been a dream;/Yet if hope has flown away/In a night, or in a day,/In a vision, or in none,/Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem/Is but a dream within a dream.’”

“I’m impressed. That is beautiful and very poignant. What’s the title?”

“‘A Dream Within a Dream.’ It was published the year he died.”

“How sad. Didn’t Poe have a tragic life?”

“Drank himself to death.”

“He also didn’t have very good luck with women, did he? I suppose you haven’t, either.”

What made me say this, I have not a clue, but the minute it slipped off my tongue, I wished I could retrieve it, for the look on Roger’s face made me want to crawl in a hole.

12

I leave feeling like a skunk. My wicked tongue made me say that. Unconsciously or maybe consciously, I was testing my theory that he had issues with women. Well, I guess I got my answer. Oh boy …

It is still too early for dinner, and I take a seat in a passenger car to do some more work on what will be my first news dispatch once I reach Mexico City and a post office.

The train starts to slow down and I glance out the window to see if we are going to be picking up anyone. I see no one except handsome horses doing something I haven’t seen before. They are thrusting their heads into the water of a pond, “fishing” for grass that grows at the bottom. They stick their heads in until their eyes are below the water and then pull out a mouthful of grass.

As I stare at the horses, I think about Roger. Why did I have to make that comment about women?

I’m wicked, that’s all there is to it. And I refuse to share bread with him—yes, I am being stinky. But I can’t let it ruin my evening. I’m excited about having dinner with a Mexican diplomat, and nothing is going to spoil it. Somehow, later, I’ll make up for my petty rudeness and all will be fine. I hope.

*   *   *

T
HE DINING CAR IS CLOSE
to the front of the train, so I have to make my way through other cars to reach it.