NIGHT TRAIN
Chapter One
Monday of Thanksgiving Week, 1948
The rhythmic clattering sound of the wheels
started to change and he could feel the train beginning to slow. Jack Dawson
turned off the reading lamp and switched on the blue night light. As he slowly
lifted the shade, some lights came into view. The flashing fluorescent signs of
a tavern, the headlights of cars waiting at a crossing, some shadows against
the windows of the houses near the track all showed that another small
Midwestern station was near. He consulted the timetable and looked at his
watch. 10:03 P.M. They were due in Marion, Iowa, the Milwaukee Road station
stop for Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Right on time. Well, it was only 4 hours since
they had left Chicago. Not long enough to get too far behind schedule.
He had decided to go out to California to
visit his only child, Jean, for Thanksgiving. All any holiday did for him was
dredge up memories of the past and he hated to be alone. He'd been by himself
for so many years now, that it was hard to remember what it was like to share
anything with another person. Jean had moved out to California seven years ago
when she went off to college.
After what he had endured in 1912, nothing
much had mattered to him, at least until his daughter was born. The ordeal that
had nearly taken his life had robbed him of the woman he loved and almost
broken his spirit. When his body recovered from that terrifying experience, he
took up a few odd jobs, slowly at first. It was one of those that led him to
the life he had now. He had started out cleaning up at night in an art gallery
in Greenwich Village. The owner had seen his drawings lying around one day and
wanted to see more of his work. One thing had led to another, and when the old
man was ready to retire, he just gave Jack the business, happy to know it was
in good hands.
Jack put his heart and soul into the art
gallery business, learning everything he could about it and after only a few
years, his had become one of the most successful galleries in the village. It
was his personal life that was not a success. After what had happened to his
first love, Jack's heart had felt hollow for a long time. He had failed
repeatedly in trying to form a real relationship with someone else. It was 8
years before another woman had become a part of his life: Martha. She too had
been part of his life for such a short time. They had met in an art history
class. She was small, blond, absentminded and sweet. So different from...he
couldn't even speak her name. No, Martha was different in her own way and she
got under his skin. Oh, they had been in love. But it was not the same. Never
the same as the first woman he had loved.
They married in 1922. And almost right away
she became pregnant. He should have known even then, that something would go
wrong. She'd had a terrible pregnancy, sometimes she said things that made him
feel that he was responsible for her discomfort. When she died after childbirth
from a hemorrhage, he felt guilt, remorse, fear and sadness. But he couldn't
give up. He had a child to raise.
Jack vowed then never to get involved with
another woman. It was too risky. Everyone he loved died. His parents, Martha
and someone else. Instead, he put all of his energy into raising Jean, his
little girl. They'd had some good times, when she was growing up. She was
bright and funny, more like him than the mother she had never known. Now she
was an artist in her own right with a gallery next to the pier in Santa Monica.
Jeannie, as he preferred to call her, was engaged to a doctor who was with the
Navy down in Long Beach. It would be good to see her and meet her young man, to
feel like a family again.
Jack smoothed his short blond hair and put
his book down. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His hair
was only slightly streaked with gray. Outwardly he looked full of energy. Only
his eyes gave away the sadness that he carried within.
"Not too bad for a fifty-six year old
codger," he thought to himself.
The train had stopped and he could make out
the signs on the end of the depot that read MARION, IOWA. There were quite a
few people getting on here.
"Lots of people traveling for the
holiday. Glad I booked this little bedroom early."
The car was so far about half full. By the
morning, more travelers would board, most of them going all the way to Los
Angeles.
He'd had the porter make up the berth and as
soon as the train started up again, he planned to turn in. He closed his book
and looked out the window once more. A woman on the platform caught his
attention. There was something familiar about her, and if he hadn't know she
was dead, he could have sworn it was she.
"Say it, Jack," he told himself.
"Stop holding it in and say it."
But he could only think her name. Rose. As
lovely and as beautiful as the flower for which she was named.
He studied her as she struggled to find
something in her purse. Then without lifting her head, she started walking,
carrying her suitcase, moving toward the door of the car he occupied. Even
though he knew it couldn't be her, he watched with fascination. She walked with
such regal carriage.
"Just like Rose," he sighed sadly
and pulled down the shade.
Why did that woman have to be the last thing
he saw before he went to sleep? Surely this was likely to bring on the
nightmares that he still had even after thirty-six years.