The Christmas Train (12 page)

“Yes, years ago. We did some reporting together.”

“I heard it was a little more than that,” said Misty.

Tom stared at her. “What do you know about it?”

“Word travels faster on a train than anywhere else except maybe church. People overhear things. You know”—she drew even closer to Tom—“such tight quarters and everything.”

“You mean people eavesdrop,” he said.

“Well, that’s a less polite way of putting it. My motto is, If you don’t have anything good to say about someone, come find Misty and tell her all about it.”

“I have to go now, ladies,” he said, gently disengaging himself from Misty.

Regina picked up Lynette’s tray. “Me too.”

As they walked off, Misty called out, “Oh, Tom?”

He turned back, and she fanned out her Tarot cards. “I just have this little premonition that we are connected somehow.”

“Misty, he has a girlfriend in LA he’s going to visit for Christmas,” said Regina. “She does the voice for Cuppy the Magic Beaver on TV.”

Tom stared at her, stunned. “How do you know that ?”

“Agnes Joe told me.”

Tom looked at the women, exasperated. “With you two, what do we need the CIA for?”

“Now, Tom,” drawled Misty, “a grown man needs a grown woman. Cartoons can’t keep you warm at night, sweetie.”

“That Misty is a piece of work,” Tom said to Regina after they had climbed the stairs.

Regina smiled. “Oh, she’s just Southern friendly is all. She doesn’t mean any of it. Well, at least not all of it. We’re good friends.”

“I take it she rides the trains a lot.”

“Oh yeah. She tells people their fortune, reads their palms, does the card thing, all for free. She usually takes the Crescent train out to D. C. right on to New Orleans. Has a little shop in the French Quarter just off Jackson Square. I’ve been there; it’s cool.”

“And Lynette? That was nice of you to take her food.”

“Well, trains aren’t easy to get around in a wheelchair. She has MS, but she never lets it get her down. We have a great time.”

“You really seem to get to know your passengers.”

“They mean a lot to me. Actually—”

“You little thief!”

They looked up, and there was Gordon Merryweather.

“Excuse me?” said Regina.

Merryweather stomped toward them. “I’ve been robbed, and I’m betting you did it. In fact, you’re the only one who could have done it. I’ll have your job, and you’ll be spending Christmas in prison,” he roared.

“Hold on,” said Regina, “I don’t appreciate your tone, or your accusation. If you’re missing something, I’ll take a report and we’ll file it with the proper authorities.”

“Don’t read me the little speech,” snapped Merryweather. “I want my things back and I want them back right now.”

“Well, since I don’t know what those things are, or who took them, that would be a little difficult, sir.”

Tom stepped between them. “Look, Gord, I’m not a big-time lawyer like you, but I do know that people are innocent until proven guilty. Now unless you have direct evidence of who took your stuff, then you’re slandering this woman in front of a witness, and that can be a costly thing, as I’m sure you know.”

Merryweather eyed him. “What do you know about slander?”

“Name’s Tom Langdon. I’m an investigative reporter. Won a Pulitzer, in fact. I wrote one story about an American lawyer in Russia who was doing some really bad things. He’s currently writing his own appellate briefs in prison. And if I’ve found one thing that’s even mightier than legal papers filed in court, it’s a story in the newspaper that the whole world can dig their teeth into.”

Merryweather took a step back and then snapped at Regina: “My Palm Pilot, two hundred in cash, and my Tag Heuer watch. I want them back before I get off this train in Chicago, or heads will roll.” He stalked off.

Both Tom and Regina let out long breaths.

“That guy is a trip,” said Tom. “Maybe he heard Max Powers is on board and he’s auditioning to play Scrooge.”

“My mother taught me to love everybody, but she never met Gordon Merryweather.”

“I take it you’ve run into him before.”

“Everybody who works on this train has.” She paused. “Thanks, Tom. Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, you would have done okay all by yourself.”

“Did you really win a Pulitzer?”

“No. Actually I won two.”

“Wow, that’s impressive.”

“Not really. All you have to do is spend your life running from one awful place to another, write about every horrible thing you see. The civilized world reads about it, then forgets it, but pats you on the head for doing it and gives you a reward as appreciation for changing nothing.”

He walked off to his compartment to get some sleep. chapter fifteen

Eleanor went directly to her compartment, closed and locked the door, and drew the privacy curtain. She sat down slowly on the bed, which Regina had made up during the mealtime. She flicked the light off and sat there in the dark. She could now look outside and watch the snow coming down even harder. It didn’t bother the Cap much; the train seemed to be going at full tilt. They flashed by clusters of modest houses and then dense woods and the occasional creek cutting through the earth. Smoke curled from the chimneys of the homes, seeming to write secrets in the tangle of snowfall, messages Eleanor couldn’t decipher. Her fingers moved across the cold glass, marking her own intricate symbols on the smooth surface. She began to softly cry, placing her head against the pillow Regina had placed in the corner, her body curling up in despair.

As she looked out the window, in her mind’s eye, the landscape changed dramatically. As Tom had earlier, she was now transported to Tel Aviv over Christmas. She’d been so happy, and yet so miserable there, that the schizophrenic quality of her existence had come close to driving her insane. And maybe it had on that Christmas morning when her future with a man she loved had disappeared. She still remembered so vividly how she’d looked back at him as she was heading up the escalator at the airport, and how he’d simply turned away and left her. At that memory, the tears started to spill, and the tight control with which she’d come to lead her life eroded to nothing. She’d thought him incapable of doing this to her ever again, and yet he had, with no more than a look and a word or two. She was helpless.

There was a knock on her door and she tensed. She wasn’t ready to see him again, not right now, possibly not ever.

“Eleanor? You’re not sleeping, are you?”

She’d been holding her breath, and she let it out in relief. It was Max, not Tom.

“Just a minute.”

She put on the lights, wiped her face with a wet towel, and reached for her brush to swipe at her hair; however, her brush wasn’t where she had left it. She ran her fingers through her hair instead and opened the door.

Max quickly stepped in and closed the door behind him.

“You okay? You don’t look very good.”

“Probably just tired.”

“Well, it’s all set up, the wedding stuff. I talked with the Amtrak folks, they had no problem with it.”

“That’s wonderful,” Eleanor said quietly.

“So how’s it going with Tom? You guys getting some good stuff?”

“Great material. I’ll be putting some notes together soon.”

“It’s that pioneer spirit. You don’t take a train because you want to get somewhere fast. You take it for the journey itself. To be surprised.”

“Well, I’ve certainly been surprised on this trip.”

He looked at her tenderly. “Life is full of funny coincidences. I went to get some lunch at Paulo’s once—you know, that really expensive Italian place over near Rodeo Drive? Well, I walk in and who’s there? Not one, not two, but all three of my exwives.”

“That’s amazing. They were all there separately?”

“Oh no. Apparently they meet every Tuesday and talk about how awful I was to be married to. Sort of like a book club, only its purpose is to crucify yours truly. Of course, they never mention that the alimony I pay each of them allows them to sit on their fashionably dressed derrières in a five-star restaurant for four hours and complain about me.” He looked at her. “You want to tell me about this Langdon fellow? If you ask me, it seems you two were a lot more than reporting colleagues.”

Eleanor nervously played with her hands. “Do you remember when we first started working together, you asked me what made me want to write, what power drove me?”

“Sure I remember. I ask all my writers that.”

“Well, Tom Langdon is the answer to that question.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I loved him, Max. Loved him with everything I had to give. When it ended there was this void, this hole in me as large as a dead star. The only outlet I had was the written word.”

“Lucky for me, not so good for you,” Max said quietly. “So you loved him, he clearly still cares for you, what happened?”

She stood up and paced in the small area while he watched.

She finally said, “Two people can care for each other but not want the same things. Then it doesn’t work, no matter how much you love each other.”

“So what does Tom want?”

“I’m not sure he even knows. I know what he doesn’t want: to be tied down anywhere, or by anyone.”

“And do you know what you want?”

“Who knows, Max? Who really knows what they want?”

“Well, I guess I’m not the best person to ask—my interests keep changing. But I guess that’s part of life. Maybe to be happy, maybe that’s what we’re all looking for. And we find it in lots of different ways.”

“ Ifyou find it. Many people never do, and maybe I’m one of them.”

“Eleanor, you’re a smart, talented, successful, beautiful woman in the prime of your life.”

“And maybe that woman doesn’t need a man in her life to be complete,” she said.

He shrugged. “Maybe not. I’m not saying everybody has to be married to be happy.”

“So what are you saying?”

The director rose. “I’m just saying, Don’t assume you don’t need someone in your life to be happy either.”

Max left and went to Kristobal’s compartment, where he observed his assistant tearing his room apart.

“What are you doing?” asked Max.

“Looking for my sunglasses.”

“Sunglasses! Look out the window, it’s nighttime.”

“I mean they’re missing.”

“So buy another pair.”

“These cost four hundred dollars!”

Max looked at him intently. “Exactly how much do I pay you, Kristobal?”

The young man swallowed hard and eyed his boss nervously. “I saved up for a whole year to buy them.”

“Uh-huh. Look, the wedding is a go.”

“Terrific, sir. You’re a genius.”

“So you keep telling me. Now you’ve got your assignments. I don’t want any screwups.”

“When have I ever let you down, Mr. Powers?”

“I know, but see, nobody’s that good, and I just don’t want the first time you do fail to be this time. Okay?”

“I understand, sir.”

“You’re a good kid, but when we get to LA I’m cutting your pay.”

“Why, sir?” asked an astonished Kristobal.

“Because even I don’t spend four hundred bucks on sunglasses, that’s why.”

Tom lay on his bed and studied the underside of the bunk above him. He’d fallen asleep for a while but was now wide awake. He got up and took out his notebook, but couldn’t find his pen. He searched everywhere, but it wasn’t in his compartment. The pen had significant meaning to him. Eleanor had given it to him when they’d first gone overseas together. He finally gave up and, hearing music, stepped into the corridor. The song was coming from Agnes Joe’s compartment. The door was open and the light on. He moved to the threshold and cautiously peeked in. Agnes Joe was seated fully dressed, and on the fold-down table next to her was an old phonograph she’d plugged into the outlet. He recognized the song. It was “Silent Night.” Agnes Joe looked up, saw him, and seemed a little embarrassed at being discovered.

“I hope the music isn’t disturbing you.”

“Hey, what better than Christmas carols during Christmas week?”

“Singing with Tyrone puts me in the mood. I bring this little phonograph with me everywhere I go. It belonged to my mother. You’re welcome to come on in and listen.”

He hesitated for just a moment but then sat down on the couch. The woman looked like she could use some company.

She eyed him keenly. “Regina told me how you helped her out with the nasty lawyer. You did a good deed tonight, Tom. Played guardian angel.”

“Well, they say there are more guardian angels during the Christmas season than at any other time.”

“I’ve never heard that. Did you just make that up?”

“Actually, I did, I think.”

“It’s a nice thought, though.”

They sat and listened to several more uplifting carols. The compartment smelled of lilac soap and was very neat. Tom noted a very full duffel bag wedged in between the chair and the wall, with a blanket partially covering it. When he looked up, Agnes Joe was staring intently at him, a look of sadness on her face. Just then a family of four—mom, dad, and two children—passed down the corridor. They were laughing, and the boy did a little jig and almost fell down.