The Night Train: A Novelette (The Strange Files of Modesty Brown Book 1) (3 page)

Louise
in fact
had
been a rube from the sticks at one point in her life. The
farmhouse, the cows, the checkered apron. And there'd been a boy from town, a
vicious father, and a mother who spent most of her gray-edged days in a prayer
closet, asking Jesus for a different life. There was a plan and a suitcase and
a train ticket. And the vicious father and a couple of serious minded brothers
with baseball bats. You know. That story. The one that ends with Louise alone
on the Night Train before she fell in with Pinky and her lot.

Edith
had been born and raised in the City, like some kind of mythical creature, a
unicorn, a manticore. And Pinky was right about the rap sheet. This was
that
story: lost jobs and gambling debts, black eyes and jail time on both sides.
Edith says she doesn't know where he hides himself these days and says she
doesn't care. Any Peg, Sal or Mary can tell that the last part of this isn't
true. But Modesty and Pinky exchange a look that says they know something else.
Edith knows exactly where the bum is, she just isn't saying. But we're all
pretty much in agreement that she's made sure he's not in a position to blacken
any more eyes.

No
one really knows Dot's story and no one really asks. The way she blows that sax
can make anyone believe anything she wanted them to anyway. Besides, it's nobody's
business.

"It's
a kind of transient position, you see," says Pinky.

"What
is?"

"The
band. It's a way to be in one place, but be everywhere at the same time. It's a
way to belong somewhere, but not belong to anybody at the same time. We look
after each other, but we all know it's got an expiration date on it, like a
bottle of milk."

"What
about you?" Modesty asks. "What happens when you leave?"

"Oh,
not me. I'm no milk bottle. I'm a box of Parmalat. Shelf stable, you know.
Somebody has to take them in, after all. Anyway, what's
your
story,
Pilgrim?"

Modesty
shrugs lazily, takes a long drink from Louise's flask and winces.  It's
thick as syrup and twice as sweet with a kick like a hunting rifle and a taste
like a mouthful of incense.

"Jeez,
Louise, what's in this thing?" Modesty chokes.

Louise
reaches for it and takes a long swig, giving out a nice big "Ahhhh"
at the end, like she'd just rinsed her mouth with Listerine. "Chartreuse.
It's French."

"It's
disgusting," Pinky waves the flask away, "and you, Pilgrim are
avoiding the question."

Modesty
narrows her eyes, presses the tip of her tongue behind her teeth and regards
Pinky thoughtfully. What is her story anyhow? It could be any story, after all.
Pinky would believe anything she told her, or if she didn't believe it, she
would make like she did, because she was used to stories that weren't the real
story. But what she wouldn't go for was No Story.

"Let's
just say I didn't like my prospects in my hometown," she says.

"And
you figure that the City will give you...what? More opportunity for
advancement?"

"Something
like that."

"Tell
you what, Pilgrim. You burned some meathead with one cigarette and then gave me
the next one. I like you."

"I
like you too, Pinky."

"I
like you so much, in fact that I'm going to let you buy me a sandwich in the
club car."

"Well,
that's mighty generous of you."

"Isn't
it just? I'll be back in a while, girls. Dot, make sure they don't burn the
place down, huh?"

"You
got it, boss." Dot loosens her tie.

“C’mon,
Pinky!” Edith whines. “Why is Dot always in charge?”

“Because
any other of you knuckleheads would have the house burned down in a minute.
Don’t mope, baby. Heavy hangs the head that wears the crown and all that. Come
on, Pilgrim. Let's see what kind of hooch they keep in the barrels this time of
night."

So this is something of the kind of woman
she is going to turn out to be. The kind of woman who makes friends, the kind
of woman other women like. Or at least women like Pinky McGee. Modesty doesn't
think this is so bad of a start, anyhow.  She kicks her carpet bag deep
under the seat, picks up her big black case by the handle and follows Pinky out
of the car and down the corridor.

Pinky
pushes the connector door open,
Watch your step
, and for a heartbeat,
maybe three, Modesty is between the cars, the hulk of the machine directly
under her feet, the night air whipping her new coat behind her, like a cape,
like wings. It is only a moment, but it is thrilling, and terrifying, and that
moment between the cars, in the cold in the night, in the falling snow and
clanging train parts, she can see herself jumping, getting caught on the rails,
mangled under the wheels. She is full of the possibility of that moment of
jumping, but she is full of the moment of not jumping as well. She jumps and
she stays all at the same time. She is here and she is not, she is beneath the
tracks and standing with her new red coat flapping in the night wind. And she
is still and full in this moment of not jumping, this moment of her coat flapping
in the night, this moment of the case of her typewriter handle digging
painfully into her palm. And she follows the woman in the coat like a dressing
gown.

And
she carries the Not Jumping gleefully inside her, a just-off-the-ghost-train excitement.
She is alive, she is here, following behind this woman, essentially a stranger,
as they push their way into the almost empty Club Car. On the double push doors
of the Dining Car a carefully hand printed sign hangs from a string: THE DINING
CAR CLOSED. But Modesty Brown could swear she sees the shapes of people behind
the round porthole window. The only other person in the Club Car is a man in a
fedora hat in the next booth over, reading the newspaper.

"A
couple of club sandwiches, if you would," Pinky leans over the bar to get
a closer look at the Barman's name tag. "If you would, Bill." The
Barman wears a sharp white coat, like a chef or a scientist. "And a Gibson
Girl. What about you, Pilgrim? Whatchya drinking?"

A
drink. Normally she would have ordered a milkshake or maybe a lime rickey. But
tonight, she wants something different, something else. She admires the way
Pinky ordered the Gibson Girl – so confident, so at ease, her regular order,
her signature drink. But she doesn't want a Gibson Girl. She doesn't want to
copy, and she doesn't want to just "not" make a decision. Besides,
Gibson Girls have pickled onions. And she might not quite know yet what kind of
woman she is going to be, but it's certainly not going to have anything to do
with pickled onions.

But
nothing too sweet, either. She isn't the kind of girl who likes sweet drinks.
But something in a cocktail glass. She likes their shape – elegant, mysterious,
the kind of glasses people drink from in a novel by Fitzgerald.

"A
Sidecar, please," she says. "Not too sweet."

"Right
away, Miss."

Pinky
sweeps off her fur collar coat like a queen and drapes it over the back of the
booth they are sharing. Modesty puts her typewriter on the table, but keeps her
coat on.

"What's
that there?" Pinky asks. "Your tuba?"

Modesty
shakes her head. "My typewriter."

"Typewriter,
huh? I was hoping it was a tuba. We'd be glad to have you as a Reform School
Girl. That is, if you don't have any other plans."

"I
don't know how to play anything."

Pinky
shrugs. "Nobody does at first. We could put you on maracas, or the
triangle or something. Put a gal with pins like yours in slinky silk number and
nobody cares if you can play or not."

"Nah,"
Modesty says. "I have ... other plans."

"The
typewriter, right. You a writer?"

Modesty
shakes her head. "No. Typist."

"Oh,
like a secretary?"

"Sort
of. I guess. I don't really know, to be honest with you."

Pinky
regards her through narrowed eyes, taps her rouged lips with a pink manicured
nail. Opens her mouth like she's about to say something. Then says something
else instead.

"So
listen, sister. Would you take a little free advice? From somebody who this
ain't their first trip on the Night Train?"

"Sure."

"What's
your plan, sister?"

"That
doesn't sound like advice. That sounds like a question."

Pinky
leans back against the booth and draws a packet of Black Cat Cigarettes from
somewhere on her person. She notices Modesty noticing this, raises her
eyebrows. "I just wanted to see what kind of gal you were. Just...testing
your generosity." She smiles brightly, fits it into a black cigarette
holder and lights it, and blows a thin stream of smoke from her mouth.

"And
since you were so generous with me, I'm going to be generous with you. Look
Pilgrim. I'm a savvy kind of gal, I can see this is your first time on the
Night Train."

"Is
it that obvious?"

"Baby,
you might as well be wearing a sandwich board.  But that's not a bad
thing, and it's certainly nothing to hide, though others might tell you
different. That first-time gleam, well...it has a kind of magic to it. Protects
you. And there's no sense in trying to rub it off, because the City will do
that in hurry all by itself, and no mistake."

"Like
beginner's luck?"

Pinky
points her cigarette for emphasis. "Exactly. Use it, darling. And it can
help you. Oh, drinks, excellent! Thanks Bill, ever so."

The
crisp-coated bartender sets the stemmed glasses in front of them.

"Sandwiches
will be up in just a minute, ladies."

"Much
obliged, Bill." Pinky slips a dollar bill into the front pocket of his
white coat. "Glad to see you've got your priorities in order." She
picks up a toothpick skewered with cocktail onions and swirls it around in the
clear gin.

Modesty
runs her finger down the condensation on the outside of her glass. The drink is
pale amber in color, a perfect curl of orange peel floating on top. She takes a
sip. Sour and citrusy, and brandy that always tastes like good medicine.

 "So
there's magic in the City, is there?"

"You
bet your sweet patootie. And not that kind of
oh aren't the lights just
magical
kind of magic. Real Magic, sister. The kind that can actually Do
Things." She bites a tiny onion off its skewer. "But that's why
you're on the Night Train in the first place, I'd bet."

Modesty
smiles what she hopes is an enigmatic smile, and shrugs her shoulders, but only
barely.  "Not the only reason."

Bill
returns with sandwiches, and Modesty doesn't realize how hungry she is until
she takes her first bite. Across the booth, Pinky picks her sandwich apart with
surgical precision and puts it back together again in a completely different
configuration.

"So
what's the plan, Pilgrim?"

"Oh,
you know. The usual kind, I suppose. Find a place. I’ve got some work,
so…"

Pinky
taps a bright pink lacquered nail on the table in front of the typewriter.
"This?”

Modesty
nods.

“This
is smart. This is your meal ticket. But take it from me, unless you're real
hard up for cash right at first? Stay away from employment agencies and typing
pools."

"Oh
really? How's that?"

"Criminals,
the lot of them. Bunch of middle men, middle girls, middle ladies -- telling
you when you work and for how much. The whole time the only one who's making
any cabbage off the sweat of your pretty brow is them. They're taking taxis to
the chophouse, and you? You're eating chow mein in a 2 dollar a week room on a
sagging mattress. That's not the way for a gal like you to live. You got to set
up your own shingle."

"There's
really enough work that way?"

"I
see you don't get it. I'm not talking about business correspondence
alone.  See you can make magic out of just about anything anyone leaves
behind. Handwritten notes, even a list for the grocer's in the wrong hands can
turn into something else. No. Your bread and butter? Is love letters and
manuscripts." She takes a large bite of her club sandwich.

"Anyway,"
Pinky continues, "you got a place?"

Modesty
takes a long sip of her Sidecar.

"I
take it, that's a No."

"I
figured I'd find my way to a boarding house, or a women's hotel."

"Baby,
baby, baby! Boarding houses don't take in people they don't already know, and
those Women's Hotels want references. You can't just show up at the front desk
of the Barbizon with a typewriter and a new coat, you know."

"You
can't?"

"Well,
you could, but it would use up every drop of your New-In-Town magic to get a
room, and I hate to say it but you wouldn't last a month or two there."

"What's
that supposed to mean?"

"No,
no, you misunderstand...look. Can I be honest with you?"

"Why
stop now?"

"Just..."
Pinky puts down her sandwich, wipes her hands on the napkin and lays her hands
palms up on the table between them. "Just let me tell you what I see,
okay?""

She
twitches her fingers in a "come here" kind of motion. "Come on.
Won't hurt a bit."

Modesty
wipes her hands down the sides of her new Red coat and places her right hand on
top of Pinky's. Pinky turns her hand over so it's facing palm-up.  She
feels her skin prickle. Part of her doesn't want to hear what she has to say,
doesn't want to see what she sees. But it feels good, in a way. To be looked
at. To be seen. She straightens her back.

"Okay.
Go ahead."

"I
see a brand new coat over a very old dress. I see shoes that weren't well made
when they were new, and have needed repairing for some time. I see the
typewriter, and the coat. Both fresh from the shops. And I see how you haven't
taken your hand off it since the moment I laid eyes on you."

Modesty
pulls her hand away from the case, like she'd been stung.

"You've
got a little money that you've either squirreled away or... no. No, I think
you've had a little windfall, and it's enough to make a change, but not enough
to keep you at the Barbizon for more than a month or two before things get lean
again.  No, no. And those Women's Hotels are more like Women's Prisons,
and something about this whole –"

She
waves her hand in Modesty's general direction. "This whole
thing
you've got going on here, something about it tells me that what you might be a
little bit done with restrictive environments. And…”

Pinky
cocks her head to the side, like she’s working out a hard math problem. “And
there’s a man, too. But not like that. At least not right now. But he’s … I
don’t know… distant? Obscured somehow. I don’t know what the story is there, but
it definitely has something to do with yours.”

"And
where do you gals stay?"

"Nice
segue, sweetheart. Way to bat that ball around.  We're at the Marlene
Hotel. Trust me Pilgrim. That is not the place for you. Trans only. No
rez."

Modesty
raises her eyebrows.

"Transient
only. No resident stays. Besides, it’s your first day in the City, you're in no
shape for the Marlene. That’s a place you have to work up to. Or down. Guess it
depends on where you’re starting."

"Will
you gals be in town long?" She thinks about how nice it would be, to
arrive in the City with ready-made pals already at her disposal.

"Nope.
It's a short stop for us. Trans only, remember. One full day to cool our heels
and then we're down the gang plank to play a pleasure cruise. Six days, seven
nights."

Modesty
takes a long sip of her Sidecar. Something rumbles in the back of her mind.
Something she cannot name. Something to do with the thrill of the train
hurtling forward, and the Not Jumping she still holds inside her like a bright
diamond – something of these things overlapping with Pinky's glamour.

"I
certainly appreciate the help, but, if I might ask, why bother? I mean, you
don't even know me."

Pinky
downs the rest of her Gibson Girl in one gulp. "Don't I?" She taps
her nail on the typewriter. "Maybe I want you to do something for
me."

"Like
what? A typing job?"

"You
bet, Chet."

Another
typing job. Working for Wonderly was a great start, but she couldn’t say no to
a little extra on the side. Besides, she wasn’t quite sure she could say no to
Pinky. "I don't have any paper,” she says instead.

"You
don't have any paper? What kind of typist doesn't have any paper?"

"I
was going to get some when I got to the City."

"Travelling
light, I see. Well, I'm sure our pal Bill can help us out. Bill, darling. Do
you think you could rustle us up a couple sheets of paper? Maybe an
envelope?"