Cora didn’t see Patricia go, either.
By the first stop in Kansas, over half of the children were gone, but Cora still hadn’t been picked. She knew this was partly her fault. Some of the children sang the Jesus song on every stage, and it was true that they got more attention. But Cora was too shy. And in her young way, too suspicious. She remembered stories Sister Josephine had told, Hansel and Gretel and Little Snow White. Surely the people who showed up at the stages were as capable of disguise, of appearing good and kind as the agents looked on, only to transform into witches and child-eating goblins once they were out of sight. She wondered what would happen if she were never picked, if, stop after stop, and stage after stage, she had to keep getting back on the train, until finally—what? The train couldn’t go on forever. The agents would have to go back to New York. If she were still with them, she could go back as well.
This was what was in her head when she first saw the Kaufmanns. They were both tall people, pale-faced and lanky. Cora stared up at them more with curiosity than personal interest. The man was older than the woman, his forehead deeply lined, his lips thin and bloodless. The woman was younger, his daughter, perhaps, but she was not pretty like the woman in the green dress who had taken Mary Jane. This woman had small, pale eyes, and a pointy nose. A gingham bonnet covered her hair.
“Hello,” she said to Cora.
Both the man and the woman crouched low, their faces level with hers. Cora could not cough or pretend to be slow: one of the agents was right there, watching. The man asked her name, and she told him. He asked her age, and she said she didn’t know, but that she’d just lost her first tooth. Both the man and the woman laughed as if Cora had said something terribly funny, as if she were one of the children singing the Jesus song, trying hard to be cute. She gave them a hard look, but they continued to smile. The man looked at the woman. The woman nodded.
“We’d like you to come live with us,” the man said. “We’d like you to be our little girl.”
“We have a room all set up. Your room.” The woman smiled, showing overgrown front teeth. “With a window, and a bed. And a little dresser.”
Cora looked at them, revealing nothing. They couldn’t be her parents. They didn’t look anything like her. And they’d said nothing about a pony. Also, this was a strange place, the main street of the town dry and dusty. And windy. On the walk from the station, the wind had nearly knocked her down.
Then the agent’s hands were on her shoulders. “She’s shy. And tired, no doubt. They’ve been on the train for days.”
“Hungry, I imagine,” the woman said. She seemed distressed about this.
The agent, still behind Cora, gave her a push forward. “Go on now,” she said, with no question in her voice. “And be grateful, why don’t you. It seems to me you’re a lucky little girl.”
FIVE
At a blow of the whistle, she blinked awake, her hat crooked on her head. Louise was not in her seat. She turned, looking around the car. The fat baby across the aisle, silent but awake in its mother’s lap, looked back at her with a stern expression. Many seats were empty. She fixed her hat and rubbed her neck. No need for alarm. Louise might just be using the bathroom. She’d been considerate, slipping into the aisle without waking Cora. She would likely be back any minute.
The train rolled past a field of corn, the stalks summer high, the golden tips peeking out of the green, straining toward the sun. Cora searched her seat for her book and frowned when she saw it on the floor. She wouldn’t be able to reach for it, not in her corset. She tried to lift the book between her shoes, but her soles were too stiff, and she only managed to scoot it under Louise’s seat. She looked over at Louise’s empty seat. The Schopenhauer book lay open-faced on top of the magazines. Cora turned, glancing up and down the aisle. Seeing nosign of Louise, she leaned forward as far as she could and grabbed the Schopenhauer. She checked the aisle again, then skimmed the pages until she found something underlined in the girl’s blue-inked pen.
It would be better if there were nothing. Since there is more pain than pleasure on earth, every satisfaction is only transitory, creating new desires and new distresses, and the agony of the devoured animal is always far greater than the pleasure of the devourer.
There were blue-ink doodles along the margins. Three-dimensional arrows. Staring eyes. Spiraling vines with leaves. Another passage had stars around it.
We will gradually become indifferent to what goes on in the minds of other people when we acquire a knowledge of the superficial nature of their thoughts, the narrowness of their views and of the number of their errors. Whoever attaches a lot of value to the opinions of others pays them too much honor.
Frowning, Cora closed the book and put it back as she’d found it, on top of the magazines.
As it was just after noon, the dining cars were busy, with waiters holding trays high over their heads and sliding fast past each other in the aisles. Nearly every booth was full. But Louise, wearing no hat, was easy to spot. She was facing Cora, her crossed legs turned toward the aisle, a heeled shoe dangling off of one foot. The man who had offered to lower their window sat beside her, smoking a cigar. An electric fan sat on a corner of the table, blowing smoke over his shoulder out the window. The man’s free arm rested on the back of their seat, close to Louise’s shoulder.
A black man in a spotless white coat ducked to speak to Cora quietly. “Ma’am? Table for one?”
“No, thank you. I—”
“Cora!” Louise waved a white linen napkin. “Cora! I’m over here!”
She did not fool Cora for a moment, pretending she thought everything was fine. Myra could have raised her in a barn, and still, a girl her age knew better than to sit at a table with a man she did not know.
“Come join us!” Louise waved the napkin again. “Please help! I’ll never finish this lunch alone.”
The train leaned around a curve, and Cora grabbed on to a pole. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t stomp out of the dining car and leave Louise. She couldn’t grab her by the arm and drag her out as well—she would only draw attention to the indiscretion. Also, she needed to eat. If she left now, she’d just have to come back, and either bring Louise with her or leave her unattended in their section. Louise’s new friend smiled, apparently untroubled by her invitation. He’d left his bowler on a peg by the table, revealing salt-and-pepper hair that was just starting to thin at the temples. He was at least middle-aged, Cora saw now, closer to Alan’s age, and he was powerfully built, wide at the shoulders. Next to him, hatless Louise looked even smaller and younger than she was.
“Ma’am? Will you be joining them?” The waiter gestured toward the table. If he knew of Cora’s predicament, or the awfulness of the situation, he showed no interest whatsoever.
She nodded and followed him to the booth, glancing at the other diners, watching for expressions of disapproval, or worse, recognition. She intended to slink into the seat facing Louise and the man, but when she tried, still glancing around the car, she found herself, to her horror, in the lap of another man.
“Oh my goodness!” She jumped up, almost bumping into the waiter, who, instead of helping to steady her, took a quick step away, his hands behind his back.
Louise’s laugh was more of a whoop. She actually leaned back in her seat and clapped. “Oh, Cora. I thought you would see him!”
“Terribly sorry,” said the other man, who was sliding out of the booth now, trying to stand. “Terribly sorry,” he repeated, though it was clear from his voice that he was as amused as Louise. He was younger than the other man, a little younger than Cora, with high cheekbones and thick blond hair. “I didn’t realize…”
“My mistake. Please sit. Please,” Cora whispered. She needed him to sit so she could sit. Heat crept up her neck. The man obliged, and she sat beside him. He smiled politely at her, but his gaze moved back to Louise.
“Sorry I crept off without you.” Louise reached across the table to touch Cora’s arm.
“I was just famished, and you looked so peaceful. Did you have a nice nap?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Cora tilted her head so the brim of her hat would hide her face from the men, and gave Louise a steely look. Louise smiled and resumed cutting into a very large piece of chicken.
“Anyway, when I got here, all the tables were full, and these gentlemen were kind enough to offer me a seat. Cora, this is Mr. Ross, and this is his nephew, also Mr. Ross. Isn’t that nice?” She stabbed her fork into the chicken. “Twice as easy to remember.”
“Call me Joe,” the older man said, with a pleasant nod of his head.
“I’m Norman,” said the younger man.
“Mrs. Carlisle.” Cora smiled curtly. Despite the steady whirl of the electric fan, cigar smoke stung her eyes. A waiter set a glass of water by her plate, along with a menu. Cora, coughing a bit, asked for lemonade.
“Are you hungry?” Louise used her fork to point to her plate, on which remained over half of a chicken breast, and another, still untouched. “The chicken is good. But the portions are humongous. Do you just want some of mine? I can’t eat all this.”
The chicken did look good, roasted the way Cora liked it. And even with the cigar smoke wafting through the air, even with the heat, she was hungry. If she simply ate what the girl couldn’t, they would be able to leave the table that much more quickly. Both men seemed to have finished eating, their plates gone, linen napkins rumpled in front of them.
Cora looked at Louise. “Thank you. It’s too bad they couldn’t offer you something smaller, something from the children’s menu. Did you tell them that you’re only fifteen?”
Louise narrowed her eyes. Now Cora smiled, using her knife and fork to transfer the piece of chicken onto her own plate. There were rolls, too, she saw now, and she took one from the basket. She would have to pace herself. The corset only allowed her to eat a little at a time.
The older man moved his hand away from Louise’s shoulder. He crossed his arms in front of him, looking across the table at Cora. His expression seemed to beg her pardon.
“Mrs. Carlisle.” His voice was friendly. “Are you from Wichita as well?”
She nodded. The waiter walked up with her lemonade, saw the secondhand chicken on her plate, and, with the slightest of sneers, took her menu away.
Louise leaned across the table. “These two are Wichita firemen. Isn’t that something? Everybody loves firemen. And we get to sit at their table.”
Cora frowned. She’d had the men pegged as salesmen, or somehow involved in something coarse. It would be harder to be short with men who regularly risked their lives to save people from burning buildings. Then again, firemen or not, they didn’t seem entirely noble. On the older man’s left hand, which had just moved away from Louise’s shoulder, Cora spied the glint of a wedding ring.
“We’re on our way to Chicago. Fire school.” He tapped the butt of his cigar into a silver ashtray.
“Fire school.” Cora sipped her lemonade, which was perfect, not too sweet and surprisingly cold. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“Certainly. There’s a lot for us to know. We don’t just aim the hoses and spray. We have to learn about building materials. Chemistry. We’ll see all the newest tools and techniques.” He smiled at Cora. “How long have you lived in Wichita?”
“Since my marriage.”
“And before that?”
“McPherson.”
“You don’t say!” The man gestured toward his nephew. “His father and I are both from McPherson! I’m a bit older than you, I believe. But what was your maiden name?”
“Kaufmann.”
He shook his head, looking closely at her face.
“We lived far out. We had a farm.”
“Ah, a country girl.” He smiled at her in a way that seemed too familiar. Louise looked at Cora and flexed her brows.
Cora held up her finger as she was chewing, and even after she swallowed, she made a point of not returning the smile. “Not so much anymore,” she said. “My husband and I have been in Wichita for a while now.” She felt more at ease, mentioning Alan.
“Are your people still in McPherson?”
“No. It was just me and my parents. They both died some time ago.”
“I see.” His gaze moved over her face. “Well. Your young friend tells us you’re on your way to New York.” The uncle puffed out a ring of smoke. “I’ve been there a few times. That’s a whole different level of city. Two women alone in New York? That sounds worrisome to me. Have you ever been there?”
Cora shook her head. She didn’t like his tone. Two women alone. She was glad he and his nephew would be getting off in Chicago. She chewed quickly and swallowed.
“It can be a rough place,” he continued, “especially these days. Kansas is used to liquor laws, but New York is still getting used to them.” He looked at his water glass and frowned. “I think the temperance movement may have overreached. New York won’t put up with Prohibition for long.”
“Good,” Louise said, her elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. “I think Prohibition is stupid.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” the nephew said, trying to lean into her line of vision. He appeared incapable of even glancing at anyone or anything but her.
“That’s because you don’t know anything different.” Cora used her napkin to dab at her lips. She, too, looked at Louise. “I know it’s fashionable for young people to think nothing could be more fun than legalized alcohol, but you’ve grown up in a dry state, dear. You’ve never seen the effects of rampant abuse. You’ve never seen men drink up their wages and forget about their families, their children.” Now she turned her gaze to the older man. “I suspect there are more than a few married women in New York who will be grateful to live as Kansas wives have for years.”
Louise scoffed. “Unless they like a good drink.” The younger man shook his head and laughed, but again failed to catch her gaze.
The uncle looked at Cora thoughtfully, taking another puff of his cigar. “Forgive me,” he said politely, “but you said you grew up in Kansas, which has been dry for forty years. You don’t look old enough to know anything but Prohibition, either.” He shrugged. “Perhaps the troubles you’re recalling simply prove liquor laws don’t mean people won’t drink.”
Louise smiled and nudged his arm, as if their team had just scored a point.
“No,” Cora said, unruffled. “That’s not it at all. I’ve simply known older women who do remember the bad days. When I was a girl, I heard Carry Nation speak. If you grew up in Kansas, I’m sure you did as well. And as I recall, she had plenty to say about her first husband drinking himself to death. From what I understand, she was hardly alone in that experience.”
The older man raised his water glass. “Now we’ll all be punished together.”
“That’s one way to look at it.” Cora fixed her knife and fork on the side of her plate, nodding at the waiter. She’d eaten all the corset would permit, enough to hold her over until dinner. “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
“I’ll drink to that!” the man said. He winced and smiled, tapping his head. “Damn. I’m not allowed.”
Louise clicked her glass against his. “Unless you can be sneaky about it.”
Cora put her napkin on the table. “Louise. I think we’re both done eating. Nice meeting you, gentlemen. We should get back to our seats.” She rose and undid the clasp of her purse.
“Please.” The older man waved his hand. “Please! Don’t think of paying. We asked the young lady to sit with us. And your company was a pleasure as well.”
“Thank you, but I insist.” She put a dollar on the table, fixing him with a look that ensured no further argument. She wished he would quit smiling at her like that. They were old enemies—the drinking man and the voting woman. She didn’t need his esteem.
“Thanks for trying,” Louise told them. As she stood, she glanced at the younger man and smiled at his uncle. Cora waited until Louise wa
s in front of her, her tall heels moving fast and assured down the aisle, before she turned back, ever so briefly, to wish the men good day.
She wanted to take Louise to task as soon as they got back to their seats. But first she had to ask her to retrieve The Age of Innocence, which she hoped was still on the floor.
“I have a bad back,” she explained. They were both still standing in the aisle.
Louise looked up at her skeptically. “Bet your corset doesn’t help much, either.” Thankfully, she’d lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t deny it. I’ve been picking things up for Mother my whole life.”
Cora watched as Louise crouched down and searched under the seat. She moved so easily, so lightly. Cora knew many girls didn’t wear corsets these days. They wore just brassieres that actually flattened their breasts—it was the new fashion, apparently, to try to look like a child, a young girl or even a boy. Cora couldn’t tell if Louise’s breasts were bound or if she was naturally small-chested. But everything about her seemed girlish—her haircut, her big eyes, her small stature. Yet with wise eyes and full lips.
Louise jumped up with a triumphant smile, and handed her the book.
“Thank you.” Cora lowered her voice as well. “And now I’d like a word with you. I think you know about what.”
Louise sank into her seat with a sigh. Instead of returning to the facing seat, Cora sat directly beside her. She needed to keep the imminent conversation as private, and as quiet, as possible. Louise, clearly unappreciative of Cora’s discretion, crossed her legs and leaned toward the window. They were going over a brown, slow-moving river. Two boys wearing overalls stood on a rowboat, waving at the train with their caps.