The Christmas Train Read online

  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.”

  “If you 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.

  “Trains are nice over Christmas. People are in good moods. It’s really a great way for families to travel together,” said Agnes Joe.

  “So how come you’re not spending Christmas with your family?”

  “A girl has to be asked to the party, doesn’t she?”

  “So you and your daughter don’t get along?”

  “I get along fine with her. She seems to have a problem with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Agnes Joe. I really am.”

  “I’ve got lots of friends on the train though.”

  “Like that lady in the lounge car said, friends are friends, but family is family.”

  She smiled. “Pauline the knitter? What does she know about anything? And that was the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen.” She paused and said, “I say that your family is where you find it. You just have to look. Like you.”

  “What do you mean, like me?”

  “That film lady, Eleanor. She’s the El
eanor from your past, isn’t she? The one love of your life?”

  “We’re not even friends now.”

  “But you could be. And a lot more.”

  He shook his head. “No. Too late.”

  “You’re wrong there.” Ignoring his puzzled look, she said, “I’ve seen enough in this world to know that two people who can make each other that miserable must love each other a lot.”

  He thanked her for the musical interlude and went back to his compartment. However, he didn’t intend to waste his time on something that clearly would never happen. He’d lost Ellie once and it had devastated him; the aftershocks still pounded him all these years later. He was never going to chance being that hurt again. The past was dead, resurrection out of the question. He had reconciled himself to this fate when Father Kelly popped his head in.

  “You haven’t seen a silver cross lying around, have you?”

  “Why, did you lose one?”

  “Well, I can’t seem to find it.”

  “That’s strange. I’m missing a pen.”

  The priest shrugged and walked off as Tom’s cell phone rang. He checked his watch and saw it was after midnight. He clicked the phone’s answer button.

  “Hello?” he said.

  It was Lelia calling from LA.

  “I’ve been tracking you on the Internet. According to the schedule you’re in Pittsburgh. Right?”

  Tom looked out the window. The train was slowing and he was trying to see a station sign. A few moments later, he saw it: Connellsville, PA. They were far from Pittsburgh. They must have stopped again while he’d been asleep.

  “So you’re in Pittsburgh, right?” she asked again.

  “Yep, you can see the stadium from here. Remember those great Steeler teams of the seventies?”

  “I don’t follow baseball. I just know you’re supposed to be in Pittsburgh.”

  “The Steelers are a football team. And do you realize it’s after midnight my time?”

  “You can’t possibly be sleeping on the train — isn’t it far too noisy and bumpy?”

  “Actually it’s a very nice ride, and I was sleeping,” he lied.

  “You can set up right over there, Erik,” Lelia said to someone.

  “Erik, who’s Erik?” asked Tom.

  “He’s my FBTT.”

  “FBTT? Sounds like a disease.”

  “Full-body therapeutic technician. It’s all the rage out here now.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is. So what is old Erik going to do for you in the privacy of your own home?”

  “My lower back, hamstrings, and he’s going to give me a pedicure too.”

  “Lower back and hamstrings. Anything in between those points?”

  “What?”

  “Are you clothed during this process?”

  “Don’t be silly. I have a towel on.”

  “Oh, gee, that’s a relief. Look, why do you need this guy to come to your house to do all this? I thought you belonged to that fancy spa.”

  “My back was hurting, and my toenails really needed some emergency work: I’m wearing open-toed high heels tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, I guess that does qualify as a crisis. So why not try a hot-water bottle and nail clippers? That seems to work for the rest of America.”

  “I’m not the rest of America.”

  “How do you know this Erik?”

  “He’s my kickboxing instructor. He’s an FBTT on the side.”

  While there were many legitimate kickboxing enthusiasts, when Tom had gone to one of her kickboxing sessions in LA he had found it inhabited mostly by accountants, lawyers, actors, and chefs who paraded around in designer spandex, flailing at rubber bad guys with their feet and fists. Two or three modestly rowdy kindergartners could have vanquished the whole lot of them.

  “The six-foot-four-inch blond-haired, blue-eyed Adonis guy from Sweden, that’s Erik? That guy is in your house right now while you’re in a tiny towel?”

  “Jealousy: I like that, it’s healthy for a relationship. And Erik is Norwegian.”

  “Fine, could you put Norway Erik on, please?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d like to make an appointment with him for when I’m out there. I think my back is going to need some work after this train ride. I’m assuming he does both women and men?”

  “Yes, he does. But you have to promise you won’t be mean. I know how you can get sometimes. Promise?”

  “Absolutely. Hey, my back is hurting and I like a little FBTT as much as the next person.” He heard her passing the phone over with some words of explanation.

  “Ja, this is Erik, may I help you?” came the voice of the Norwegian Adonis.

  “Erik? Tom Langdon. Before I make an appointment I was just wondering if you have an infectious disease disclosure policy.”

  “Excuse me? This thing I do not know.”

  “Infectious disease disclosure policy. It’s all the rage everywhere, except possibly where you are. Let me explain it in really simple terms. Since you work with people’s bodies — like Lelia in the towel there — and you come in contact with human skin, you run the risk of being infected with some serious and contagious diseases, which you could then potentially pass on to other clients, like me. So I wanted to know what safety precautions you take and also what disclosure procedures you have. For example, I’m sure Lelia has informed you about her hepatitis Z condition and the serious risks associated with it. I was wondering how you disclose that to your other clients.”

  “Hepatitis!”

  “Not to worry. Although there are, of course, no cures, the new drug therapies work wonders, and the side effects are fairly limited: nausea, loss of hair, bloating, impotency, that sort of thing. In fact, death only occurs about half the time, if it’s caught early enough.”

  Tom heard the phone drop and then feet running away on Lelia’s highly polished hardwood floors. Then he listened as Lelia frantically called out, “Erik, Erik, where are you going? Erik, come back!”

  After a door had slammed, Tom heard the phone being picked up. He could almost envision smoke pouring forth from the woman who had made Cuppy the Magic Beaver and Sassy the Super Squirrel the favorites of millions.

  “What exactly did you say to him? And I mean exactly!”

  “We were just talking about my appointment and what I was expecting and then he was gone.”

  “I distinctly heard him say hepatitis!”

  “Hepatitis? Lelia, I said gingivitis. I asked him if he had gingivitis, because my old masseuse did, and I have to tell you, it was really not enjoyable, you know, breathing that really bad breath for an hour. I guess Erik’s English isn’t that good.”

  “I don’t believe you, not for an instant, Tom Langdon. Do you realize what you’ve done? My back is killing me, and what about my