over the show in a booming voice that made heads turn all over the cavernous Metropolitan Lounge.
“I understand you babies are cold, tired, depressed, and ROBBED! Umm-umm. Now, we can’t have that. The good Lord won’t hold sway for long over that sorry state of affairs.” A few minutes later, blankets, pillows, snacks, and other sundry items appeared. It was much appreciated by them all, and even Eleanor appeared to be in better spirits.
Roxanne settled down in their midst as though a queen with her fawning constituency. “Lord, what a day already. I’m waiting on some important passengers coming in from New York. I’m taking charge of them, and taking charge they need.” She pointed her finger at Max. “Now, this man I know because I should have been in that last movie you did, that musical thing with that skinny little white girl? Now come on, baby, you need a new casting agent. You got to get tuned to the genuine article. A real pair of lungs with a nice kick to ’em.” In an instant she hit a note so high and with such vocal force that Tom gripped his coffee mug hard to block the vibrating sound waves from maybe cracking it wide open.
Max’s chin appeared to bounce off his chest. “I’ll certainly keep you in mind for the next one,” he said.
“Uh-huh, you do that, baby. My people will talk to your people, only I don’t have any people, except two teenage grandkids with size-thirteen feet eating me out of house and home. Bless the Lord for He will sustain me, or at least keep them boys fed.” She looked at her daughter. “Now, Regina, don’t you have a train to look after? You think the little old Cap is gonna take care of itself without your sweet touch? You think Amtrak is paying you good money to sit around listening to your mama shoot off her big mouth, daughter dear?”
“I’m going, I’m going,” Regina said, smiling. It was evident to Tom from the way Roxanne watched her daughter as she walked off that she was a very proud mother.
Roxanne turned back to them. “Regina tells me we also got us a couple getting hitched, and that old fortune-telling lady named Misty riding with us. I hear we missed out on the snake and the naked lawyer, which just distresses me to no end. I’m not talking about the naked lawyer — that sight I could do without. I mean the boa constrictor. Nothing better than a boa on a long train trip to keep your toes warm, you understand. My dearly departed husband, Junior — that man loved me, but he never kept my toes warm, ’cause men never think of that. So I guess from a woman’s point of view, you get yourself a loving man and a cute little snake, then you got yourself the whole package. Praise the Lord! Now tell me all about what happened. I’ve just got to hear it.”
Tom did, and they all had a good laugh at Gordon Merryweather’s expense. “Consider it an early Christmas present to Amtrak,” said Tom.
Roxanne said, “Thought you’d be on the New Orleans train headed home, baby.”
They all turned to see who she was talking to, and there was Misty in full prognosticator regalia, her arms lifted to the ceiling. “I just had a premonition that my destiny this holiday season lay west instead of south, isn’t that right, sweetie?” She batted her eyelashes at Max.
The director smiled and said, “I’ve never had my fortune told so well nor so energetically as last night.”
“I’m here merely as a humble servant to the mysterious forces of the stars, Max.”
Eleanor stared in perplexity at the obviously smitten director and then at Kristobal, who merely shrugged and whispered, “I’m not my mogul’s keeper.”
“How you doing, Misty?” said Roxanne. “Hey, you know that fortune you told me last time, girl?”
“The number 153 special, about the huge following of young males you’d encounter in your life?”
“That very one. Well, honey, it came true.”
“Did you have any doubt?”
“If I did, it just went away. Although, to tell you the truth, sweetie, I was hoping for something a little closer to my own age.” She pointed at the door to the lounge, where a stream of young African American boys in uniform was pouring in.
Roxanne rose. “That’s the LA Boys’ Center Choir. They performed at Carnegie Hall and now they’re heading home for Christmas, and it’s up to yours truly to make sure they get there with all their little pieces intact. Y’all excuse me for a bit.”
As she walked away, Agnes Joe came across her path. “How you doing, Agnes Joe? Got your regular compartment on the Chief all ready. Now, you know, you making me look bad. You lose any more weight, girl, I’m gonna need help finding you.”
They all watched as Roxanne went over to the milling group of youngsters, where she met the beleaguered-looking chaperones and then tried to get the attention of the boys, without much success. They looked tired, bored, and ready to do anything except listen to yet another adult.
That abruptly ended when an enormous bellow poured forth from Roxanne. The young men instantly formed two tight columns, their eyes so wide and full of fear that Tom imagined it was only the support of one slender shoulder wedged against its neighbor that kept them all from collapsing to the floor. Roxanne marched them over to one corner of the room and talked to them in a low voice.
A minute later she turned to the full lounge and asked, “Who wants to hear some singing? You folks want to hear some fine singing while you wait for your train?”
The crowd in the lounge was mostly older, and Tom wasn’t sure some of them could even hear that well, although it was pretty much impossible not to hear Roxanne. They all said that they would love to hear some singing.
Roxanne turned to her young consignees, did some vocal warmups, and then led them in a series of Christmas classics, keeping her own voice at a level that never once interfered with the beautiful falsettos of the choir.
Max said, “They’re terrific. She’s terrific.”
Misty sat down on the arm of the couch he was on. “She leads the choir at one of the biggest Baptist churches in Chicago, and she’s also a lay minister there. Roxanne Jordan can sing gospel and the blues like no one I’ve ever heard, and I live in New Orleans! And any passenger with a pulse who’s ridden on a train with that woman comes out of it a better person. You don’t have to be a fortune teller to see that.”
As the singing wound down, Roxanne led the choir out in a conga line, singing and making train noises while the audience applauded loudly. Senior Amtrak management, who’d come from their offices to watch, just shook their heads, smiled, and clapped right along with everyone else.
Tom trailed Kristobal over to the coffee counter. “Thanks for your help last night with the boa,” said Tom.
“Oh, you’re so welcome,” Kristobal said sarcastically, then softened his tone. “Actually, it was kind of fun. My exgirlfriend’s father was just like that, an obnoxious jerk, and she hated him for it.”
“Well, I guess you almost missed the whole thing.”
Kristobal looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I understand you all were supposed to be on an earlier train. Ellie didn’t really know the reason for the change, only that Max’s plans changed.”
Kristobal shook his head. “No, I made the arrangements for the earlier train, only the idiot travel agent put down the wrong date. She had us on the later train. When I tried to get it switched to the earlier one, there were no more sleepers available, and Mr. Powers doesn’t do coach, believe me. So we flew in a day later. I called Eleanor to tell her of the change. I didn’t see a reason to explain why. She’d been in D.C. all week anyway.”
Disappointed, Tom said, “I thought it might have been somehow intentional, our being on the same train together, what with our past and all.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t know you two knew each other. And I make the travel arrangements, not Mr. Powers.”
“Sure, that makes sense. Well, thanks again.”
Ever the suspicious reporter and not completely convinced, Tom tracked down Regina and asked her to check on the matter, using a pretense. She went into the bowels of the station and came back a while
later. “I checked with Reservations, and they had a note that Mr. Powers’s party was supposed to be on the earlier train, but the agent got it wrong and there were no more sleepers left. So they took the later train. Is everything okay?”
Tom hid his chagrin. “Hey, you bet. Look, you were great. I’ll never take the Cap unless you’re on it. And your mother is a trip — I mean, a genuine original.”
When Tom got back to the lounge, Steve and Julie were there in a panic. The minister had arrived but the best man and maid of honor, married friends of theirs from college, had just called. They’d been in a traffic accident on a snowy road in Michigan. The best man had a broken leg and was lying in a hospital bed, and his wife, of course, wasn’t going to leave him.
“We have no best man and no maid of honor,” moaned Julie. “I knew this was not going to work.” She shook her head, then stopped and stared at Eleanor. “Would you be my maid of honor? Please? We come from the same sort of place. I know I can count on you. Please?”
Eleanor was taken aback, but then agreed, for what else could she do? Then Steve looked at Tom and said, “Well, if it weren’t for what you said to me on the train maybe there wouldn’t be a wedding at all. How about being my best man?”
Tom looked at Eleanor and finally agreed as well. On that, Eleanor rose and walked away.
Max piped in, “And I’ll give the bride away. I’ve got all boys, and not one of them has tied the knot yet. Can’t understand why.”
Probably still bitter from his pay cut, Kristobal said, “Well, sir, maybe they’ve learned some valuable lessons from their thrice-divorced father.”
Misty exclaimed, “Three times! Why, me too. I just knew we had a special connection, Max. It really is all in the numbers.”
Tom found the circumstances maddeningly ironic. He was finally going to be in a wedding with Eleanor after all these years. Only it was someone else’s wedding. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or go jump in Lake Michigan. He finally just sat back to await the Southwest Chief.
the southwest chief
Chicago to Los Angeles
chapter nineteen
The Southwest Chief was a very long train with many Superliner cars and a shining snowplow on the front engine. Tom found, to his surprise, that his deluxe accommodations had shrunk to an economy sleeper through some error that couldn’t be corrected because the train was full. This would never have happened to Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint. He wedged inside his allotted space and contemplated that he’d not only have to use the communal shower but also the communal toilet for the next two thousand-odd miles. Fighting strangers for quality time in the john over eight states — that was truly a comforting thought. He found himself growing jealous of Mark Twain, who could simply jump off the stagecoach and run behind a cactus to do his business. Two doors down and on the other side of the aisle from him was Misty. He could see the beaded doorway going up, and the smell of incense was already tickling his sinuses.
His sleeping-car attendant came by and checked in. His name was Barry, he was in his late thirties, and his impressive physique showed him to be a frequenter of the weight room. He was polite and professional, but after Regina and most certainly Roxanne, Barry seemed sort of a letdown.
Tom decided to call Lelia. There was no answer, however, for which he was very grateful. He checked his watch. It was early afternoon in LA. He left a message, saying he was sorry about Erik and the misunderstanding about the gingivitis and her poor toenails, and then hung up.
To get his mind off his troubles he started thinking about the thefts. Pretty much all the first-class compartments had been hit, which made sense. And yet there was an exception: Agnes Joe. She hadn’t come forward when the police had taken their report, so presumably the thief had skipped her. But why — unless Agnes Joe were the thief? Pretty stupid, though, to steal from everyone except yourself.
Then he took another tack. Perhaps not stupid but brilliant? Because most people, including the police, would come to the conclusion he just did. And he’d seen the duffel in her room that was stuffed to the gills. She hadn’t unpacked it at all.
As he was thinking this, the Chief pulled away from the station. He looked at his watch: 3:15 P.M., right on time. Of course, so was the Cap initially.
Just then Kristobal came by with a camcorder. “Mr. Powers asked me to take some shots of the train and people and such. He said we can look at it later, and maybe it’ll give us some interesting story angles.”
“And you can always film the wedding,” suggested Tom.
Kristobal sighed. “He actually told me to do that. This is what I went to film school for, to be a wedding videographer? If I were a big star and had my own trailer, this is the point I’d be stalking to it, calling my agent and never coming out.” He added, “Oh, Eleanor asked me to ask you what you were wearing to the wedding.”
“Asked you to ask me? Okay, great, tell her I’m wearing Armani. I always wear Armani to train weddings. She knows that.”
Kristobal brightened. “Cool. I’m wearing Armani too.” He swung his camera around and walked off.
The Chief roared along in a leisurely southwest direction, making four quick stops in Illinois before passing over the mighty Mississippi on a long, double-decked swing-span bridge dating from 1927. They were now in Iowa. The only stop in that state was at Fort Madison, which they made at about half past seven. As they headed on toward Missouri, Tom made his way to the dining car, where he shared a meal with Father Kelly and Misty. Steve and Julie were seated at the table behind them, and they talked back and forth about the upcoming wedding.
Eleanor, Max, and Kristobal were missing in action. Tom hadn’t seen Agnes Joe at all.
Tom glanced at Misty. “You and Max seem to be hitting it off. Although he seems like a guy who has lots of lady friends.”
“Oh, honey, I know it’s just temporary. Trains have a way of bringing very different people together, but once the trip is over, so is the attraction. And I’m way past getting my heart broken over a man, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It is, and I’m glad to hear it.”
Misty said, “The stories I could tell of the faithless male species.” She glanced at the priest. “And I would tell them if you weren’t here.” She pinched Father Kelly’s cheeks, and he seemed delighted by the attention.
“I have to tell you,” the priest confessed to Steve and Julie, “I’ve never attended a wedding on a train before. I think it must be a first or something.”
“Actually, it’s not.”
They all looked across the aisle, where Herrick Higgins was eating his dinner.
“It’s happened before, back in 1987, on the Texas Eagle. That runs from Chicago to LA too, but by way of Texas. They called it the Love Train. Its route is actually longer than the Chief’s.”
“The Love Train?” said Julie. “Why did they call it that?”
Higgins swung his legs out into the aisle and sipped his coffee as he spoke.
“There was a legendary conductor on the Eagle by the name of Zeb Love. That man was something. He had a heart of gold and the showmanship of a world-class entertainer. Dressed up as Santa Claus for the kids, gave them gifts bought with his own money. He went into schools to promote train travel and was probably one of the best natural spokesmen Amtrak ever had. His specialty, though, was making people happy while they were on the train. He encouraged people to talk to each other, find out what made their fellow humans tick. Charles Kuralt even did a piece on Zeb. Well, on July 4, 1987, on the Texas Eagle, a couple got married and Zeb Love was right there in the middle of it. He even went celebrating with the wedding party when they got to Fort Worth. Zeb was a special one, all right.”
“Well,” said Julie, “I hope our wedding is half as nice.”
“Oh, it will be,” said Higgins. “Roxanne Jordan, I understand, is taking charge of the musical entertainment. With that woman involved, good things will happen. Trust me.”
Up in the
Pacific Northwest a significant meteorological event was taking place. Competing highs and lows, butting cold and warm fronts, soaring moisture content from off the coast, and upper-level winds that were increasing to enormous speeds were all mixing and spinning and beginning to move in an easterly direction. A similar confluence of weather elements had formed in nearly the same place during one of Mark Twain’s trips across the Nevada Territory over 140 years before. The result had been a rip-roaring icy flood and then a blizzard the likes of which most folks had never encountered even in those wild frontier climates. If the story was to be believed — and, in that regard, one was always on dangerous ground with Mr. Twain — the episode very nearly cost the esteemed author his life.
Though still largely undetected by the national weather forecasters, the current storm turned in a southern direction when it slammed into the hard wall of the northern Rockies and slid down the spine of that mountain range like a water leak following an electrical line inside a house. Though no one could yet determine where the forming storm would hit with all its ferocious winter power, its destination seemed to lie right along the path of the Southwest Chief, and at a very interesting spot. It was a very remote, foreboding place in southeastern Colorado, called the Raton Pass, the highest elevation on the entire Southwest Chief route and the toughest passenger-rail grade in the country. Not easy for a train to climb on good weather days, it would tax the Southwest Chief almost to its limit when the weather turned really bad.