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RAVELLED

First published in 2020 by

BLE Publishing Group USA

978-1-9161840-3-9 (paperback)

© 2020 BLE Publishing Group

All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction.

Seph Gannon has asserted his rights under the Copyright Designs

and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in any

retrieval system (mechanical, electronic, recorded or otherwise)

without the prior consent of the publisher. The only exception is

in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and

certain other non-commercial uses permitted under U.S. Law.

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Other available formats

978-1-9161840-1-5 (hardback)

978-1-9161840-5-3 (audiobook)

978-1-9161840-4-6 (e-book)

For author releases, book signings, interviews

and other information go to

www.sephgannon.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This story is

for those who know love,

or have forgotten it;

who have faith,

or need it.

No one is ever alone.

Dear Reader,

Just a little helpful information to make discussing this story with your friends consistent and avoid spending time on how to say the names. Without further ado—

Hagen—HAH-gin, hard g. Think Häagen Dazs.

Mathilde—Mah-TIL-da, no “th” sound’.

Georg—GAY-org. Both gs are hard gs. Think

Georg Von Trapp from the Sound of Music.

Ryfka—RIF-kah.

Zelik—ZEH-leek.

Piotr—P-YOH-treh.

Krystyna—kris-TIN-nuh.

Morawski—Mor-AHF-skee.

Varsaci—Var-SAK-ee.

Eóin—OW-in. I love Irish Gaelic, don’t you?

Brobdingnagian—BROB-ding-NAG-ee-un.

From Gulliver’s Travels. It means, really, really BIG!

Enjoy the journey,

Seph

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I like trains.

I like their rhythm,

and I like the freedom of being

suspended between two places,

all anxieties of purpose taken care of:

for this moment I know

where I am going.”

—Anna Funder

Guide to Contents

Table of Contents

 

 

Lamy Train Station

A New Chapter

The Morning

Beckenbauer Farm

November 16, 1918

Love and Loss

August 1, 1919

Hagen’s Railcar, Somewhere near Illinois

Beckenbauer Farm

January 4, 1930

St. Paul Roman Catholic Church

The Courtyard

January 11, 1930

March 9, 1932

Hagen’s Railcar

March 1932

Tuesday

Wednesday

Hagen’s Railcar, Somewhere in Illinois

Beverly, New Jersey, 1937

Beverly, New Jersey, 1941

Hagen’s Railcar, Chicago

May 8, 1942

Espiritu Santo

Hagen’s Railcar, Midnight

Dachau

Hagen’s Railcar, Ohio-Pennsylvania 

Manila

November 1, 1945

November 10, 1945

11:30 AM

December 21, 1979

Hagen’s Railcar, near Harrisburg

Lamy Train Station

Lamy Train Station

New Mexico
February 16, 1998

The sun was on its descent towards the western horizon and a group of people were gathered on the platform of a tiny train depot, a little south of Santa Fe. They were motionless and silent as their lengthening shadows crept slowly eastward.

In the distance, a train horn heralded its imminent arrival. It was 3:56 p.m. and the train was eleven minutes late. No one seemed to care. No one looked at their watch. They remained still, standing in the cold New Mexico breeze as the smells of winter wafted down the tracks; aromas of cedar, mesquite, and piñon woods burning inside the kiva fireplaces of distant houses. When the train arrived, the passengers on board saw the platform and the people standing on it like statues in a wax museum. It wasn’t so much their stillness that made passengers on the train stop talking or eating or looking at the scenery. It was the composition of the gathering that held them in its thrall.

Thirty or so people stood there, finely dressed, mostly in black, very few colors. Men in dark suits and overcoats were standing side-by-side or arm-in-arm with women in finery and furs. They shared the platform with a small formation of retired servicemen, wearing WWII era, military dress uniforms. It would not have been too terrifically odd—maybe just plain odd—if they were the only ones waiting for the train. What upped the oddness was what waited on the platform between them. The centerpiece of this tableau was the Stars-and-Stripes draped casket that rested atop a metal cart, perpendicular to the tracks. It was the object of everyone’s attention, on and off the train. Of the fifty-or-so gathered that day, only two would be traveling.

The train stopped. Nobody moved. A few moments later, the train inched backward. The clack, clack, clack sound of the cars echoed from the surrounding hillside as their connections compressed together. As it reversed, it went off to the right, down a divergent spur of tracks. Most of the passengers were unaware, due to the captivating effect of the casket et al, of what sat one hundred yards up—a single railcar, itself a passenger, waited for its turn to board. It was unlike any railcar that anyone had ever seen, and it belonged to no company.

Just like rock bands have enormous RVs and tycoons have private jets and mega-yachts, someone had converted an Amtrak Superliner into a house on rails. It only resembled its stock originality in that it was long, had two levels, and had wheels. Its windows had been rearranged and replaced to suit the interior. A section in the upper level resembled an observation area, almost completely glass, looking more like a greenhouse than a room. At the end of the car, a section had been cut away to make a covered patio. Bogie skirts covered the wheels, and the whole thing was a deep midnight blue, with two gold initials, SH, monogrammed on the entrance door. People on the train stared open-mouthed, their attention diverted away from the platform, as their train snaked closer to the blue beauty.

At a walking speed the train reversed. When the distance had closed to about fifty feet, a brakeman hopped down and walked alongside to supervise the impending mating as he communicated with the engineer via walkie-talkie. As the Amtrak train approached the waiting rail yacht, it slowed to a crawl until the couplings touched and then clasped each other in a mechanical handshake. Walkie-talkie static, the train stopped, then crept forward; clack, clack, clacking as the slack between all the cars was taken up. Then the train slowly moved forward until the private car neared the platform. One final staticky cue from the brakeman and the train stopped, positioning the railcar directly in front of the platform and its motionless occupants.

Movement on the platform began when the train stopped moving. Eight of the uniformed men broke rank and took up positions around the casket, each grasping one of its silver handles. From the remaining formation came the call to arms and the final salute began. Right arms slowly raised in unison as the eight men walked towards the railcar, the cart and casket keeping pace with them. Eight feet from it, they stopped. One of the servicemen walked to the side of the car, pressed some buttons on a keypad and a cargo door opened downward, becoming a ramp. The men began moving forward with the casket, rolling it up the ramp and inside. After securing the cart in place, they exited the cargo hold and joined the larger formation as their arms slowly came down, finishing the salute. Stillness took over again; the only things moving were the state and national flags occasionally whip-cracking in the breeze high atop the station’s flagpole and a few of the women dabbing handkerchiefs to their eyes.

“COMPANY... DISMISSED!”

Everyone on the platform moved about freely, their attention now directed at one man. He was tall, older, and distinguished and wore a long, black, camel hair overcoat that accentuated his height. His snow-white hair contrasted against his black, rabbit hair Homburg hat. His right hand gripped a platinum lion’s head that crowned a long, mahogany walking stick. The rest of the group, mingling military personnel and civilians, gathered around him. There were hugs, handshakes, and tears as they said their farewells, then peeled away from the gathering, one-by-one, two-by-two, until one man remained facing the tall man.

The other man was Navajo. He was shorter, wore a black suit, no overcoat. Silver tips on his black, leather, western boots glinted in the setting sunlight. A sterling silver Thunderbird bolo tie, intricately detailed and inlaid with red coral and blue turquoise, spread its wings at the collar of his white shirt. A single eagle feather protruded from the top of his long, grey, waist-length ponytail. A few words were spoken, they embraced, then the Navajo man backed up a step as the man with the cane turned to face the train. He pressed buttons on the side of the railcar and stared at the casket as the cargo door slowly closed. His shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. Leaning on the lion’s head, he walked to the entrance, pressed a code into another keypad and the entrance door opened. Slowly the man climbed on board, turned and pressed a button on the inside wall, and he and the Navajo nodded to each other as the door closed.

The tall man stood there for a moment, staring at the inside of the door, his heart thumping in his chest, then turned and gazed in the direction of the cargo hold. He let out another sigh, then got into the elevator and went to the upper level.

He walked to his bedroom at the rear of the railcar, hung up his overcoat and suit jacket, took off his tie and kicked off his shoes. Opening the door to the patio at the far end of his room, he walked outside, sat down on a dark brown, leather recliner and picked up a wireless remote from the side table. Pressing a button on the remote commanded the large panoramic windows to descend into the three outer walls. The cool, dry breath of New Mexico blew in as the patio exhaled stale air out into the dusk. Soothing desert air filled his lungs again. He took a deep breath, then another, then a third.

From the opposite end of the train, the engine blew its horn. The man smiled. He loved the sounds of trains; the wheels on the tracks; the puff-puff-puff of the old steam engines. Over the years he had witnessed the evolution of train engines as they progressed from steam to diesel; their voices changing from high-pitched whistles to the sonorous chords of the air horn. They were like the chimes played in a theater lobby announcing the end of intermission and the continuance of the play. A few moments later, his car jerked forward with the initial tug as it began to move, then accelerated smoothly, slowly; the tracks retreating behind him as the sun said farewell and ducked behind a hill. It had been a long and emotional day. He reclined as the wheels clicking on the tracks Morse-coded a message—RELAX-relax, RELAX-relax, RELAX-relax.

“At times the world may seem an
unfriendly and sinister place, but believe
that there is much more good in it than bad.
All you have to do is look hard enough.
And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate
events may in fact be the first
steps of a journey.”

―Lemony Snicket

A New Chapter

A New Chapter

A phone on the side table rang. At the other end of the railcar, a young woman in her twenties, dressed in an Amtrak uniform, stood at the locked entrance. She was holding the receiver of the phone mounted on the wall next to the door, staring at the push button keypad above the door handle.

The man sat upright and answered the phone. “Hello, this is Hagen Beckenbauer.”

“Good evening, Mr. Beckenbauer. This is Emily, your service attendant for your trip to Philadelphia. I apologize for interrupting you, but I’m at the entrance to your car and I don’t have the combination.”

“Oh, yes Emily, good evening. The combination is 1–4–3–0. Please do come in. I will meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He hung up the phone, got up from the recliner, went back inside, and switched on the lights in his room. He walked over to the dresser and looked in the mirror, pulled a comb from his back pocket and ran it through his thick, white hair. In the mirror, he saw the reflection of the bed behind him and the hand-woven Navajo blanket laid on top. He went over and sat down on the bed. His fingers touched the blanket, felt the weave, the fibers, the memories. Another sigh. He slid his feet into his slippers, leaned on the lion’s head to stand up, and left his room to go meet the young woman waiting for him in the kitchen.

Emily entered the combination into the keypad, turned the handle and slid the door open. She walked in, closed the door behind her, then turned to look at the kitchen. She marveled at the room. It was a scaled-down version of what might be seen in a restaurant. There was a lot of counter space, a lot of windows, a big gas stove and a refrigerator. At the far end in the left corner was a four-person, corner banquette and in the right corner was the door leading to the rest of the car. She was taking it all in when its owner entered.

The man approached her with an extended arm. “Good evening, Emily. I am Hagen Beckenbauer.”

Wow, so polite and refined; and those eyes, so blue. She took his hand in hers and found his grip to be firmer than she’d expected as he took control of the handshake. “Good evening, Mr. Beckenbauer. My name is Emily Connolly. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He appreciated the young lady’s appearance: well-kept uniform; very little makeup or jewelry, aside from a plain Timex on her left wrist; her shoulder-length, dark brown hair in a neat ponytail.

“The pleasure is all mine, Emily.” He gestured to the banquette in the corner. “Please, have a seat. Let’s chat.”

They sat down across from each other and Mr. Beckenbauer began. “Well, my dear, you are probably wondering why you are here. I am usually quite self-sufficient. I know how to cook. I can make my own bed. I can dust and vacuum.” Sensing the tension of the initial client/employee meet and greet, he put both arms on the table and leaned forward. “But I do not do windows.” He grinned. Emily squinted confusedly. “No Emily, you are not here to clean my windows,” he said. “That was my poor attempt at jocularity. I apologize.”

Her expression went from confused, to pensive, to completely serious. She wiped her brow. “Whew! I was trying to figure out how I was going to repel off the side of the train while speeding down the tracks at a hundred miles an hour and still hold a bottle of Windex.” She looked straight into his Caribbean-blue eyes, poker-faced. He looked right back into her espresso brown eyes, just as straight-faced as she. The stare down did not last long. Smiles broke out on both sides. The ice was broken.

He continued, looking into her eyes, this time completely sincere. “Emily, this trip is different than others I have taken. I am sure you saw us on the platform in Lamy.”

“I think everyone on the train saw you, sir.”

“I can only imagine how it looked,” he said.

“It sure was a sight. I mean, it’s not every day you see something that spectacular at a train station in the middle of nowhere. And what makes it even more awesome is this,” tapping the table, “this railcar. I have never seen anything like it.” Emily winced with embarrassment. “Oh, Mr. Beckenbauer, I am so very sorry for your loss and I apologize that I didn’t greet you with condolences first before commenting on how you looked on the platform.”

“Oh, my dear, please do not apologize. I appreciate your kind words, but today has been so very serious. I have been surrounded by somber, serious people all week and it is a refreshing change to talk to someone about something not hospital- or funeral-related. Which brings us back to why you are here.”

“To be honest, Mr. Beckenbauer, I am wondering that myself.” She turned her head in the direction of the engine then back to him. “I’ve never heard of an Amtrak employee working on a private railcar. Heck, I’ve never even seen a private railcar before today.”

“Privately owned railcars are uncommon, as is hiring Amtrak personnel to work on one. You have been assigned here, at my expense of course, because I do not want to be around people right now who know me. I did not, do not, want to be coddled, and doused with sympathy. I simply want someone to be a liaison between me and Amtrak, bring me food, keep things tidy and maybe keep me company on our journey east. I do have on-call staff who accompany me when I take to the rails: a cook, a maid, a valet. But this time, I did not want to deal with multiple personalities surrounding me with their multiple sympathies, walking around on eggshells waiting for me to melt down so they can mop me up. Instead, I wanted an assistant who does not know me personally, someone who also knows their way around a train. I spoke with Warren about my situation and he was very sympathetic to my needs. He suggested that I utilize one of his employees before I could ask for one. Et, voilà, here you are. I want you to not tiptoe around me like I am going to break down at any moment. Yes, I am sad; this is a very sad time for me, but I know all things must, in their own time, end. Life goes on and I, the last time I noticed, am still breathing. So, Emily Connolly, can you do this for me? Take off the kid gloves and be yourself? I promise you that this will not be a difficult assignment.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Beckenbauer. I believe I can handle this assignment. Besides, I hadn’t put the left kid glove on yet.”

He smiled at her quick sense of humor. “Very good. Now, we must get one thing straight if we are to get along. I have one stipulation for this position. It is a requirement for you to stay on for this journey.”

Emily found no evidence of humor now in his demeanor. She sat completely upright and braced herself for his stipulation. She was generally not a pessimistic person. Her glass was always half full. But she also wasn’t the naive little girl her overprotective mother shielded from the horrors of the real world, either. She had heard about some of the weird stuff that old, rich men liked to get into. And this guy wasn’t just rich, he was uber-rich. This man had his own train and on-call chefs, maids, and valets. He was even on a first name basis with the company’s CEO!

And I am going to be all alone with him in his private railcar.

No one can hear me scream from in here.

Oh, God! Oh GODDAMMIT!! shouted her brain. All the shit she’d either seen or heard of whizzed through her mind like a giant, pornographic slide show. Is he wearing women’s underwear right now? Or, is he going to pull a French maid’s outfit out of one of the cabinets and tell me to try it on for size? He seemed so nice, so sincere. He sure knows how to make you feel at ease before knocking you over with his creepy fetish.

OK, get ready to run, whispered her brain, while at the same time ordering her guts to speed up the churning of her late lunch. Damned fight-or-flight response. She so regretted getting off the train in Albuquerque and eating that carne adovada burrito.

She glanced at the exit. “Yes, Mr. Beckenbauer?” The words came out like someone waiting for the doctor to tell you how much time they had left to live.

“I want you to call me Hagen; no more ‘sir’ or ‘Mr. Beckenbauer’. I can tell that you are very professional. But sometimes one must be able to go against the professional grain at the behest of the employer.”

Emily was so relieved and at the same time so damned embarrassed at herself for all those vile images that had screamed through her head in the past few moments. Her face had flushed. Her palms had gotten sweaty. Her forehead glistened with perspiration. And she really needed to use a restroom. That burrito made a mad dash to the end of the trail. DAMMIT, what the hell is wrong with me!?

“Yes sir, Mr. Beckenbauer, sir. I will call you Hagen, sir.” She gave him a goofy salute as a sense of relief replaced her dread. She was trying to lighten the mood that she had weighted down with her fears. Hagen had noticed her postural change and her dilated pupils when he mentioned there was a stipulation. The big giveaway was the perspiration beading on her brow. Mr. Beckenbauer was not ignorant to the ways of the world either, and could see that Emily had been waiting for bad news.

“Are you alright, my dear? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” He smiled a smile that said, I know what you were thinking. Leaning on his cane, he rose from the table and walked over to the refrigerator, opened the door and pulled out a bottle of Evian and then ripped off a piece of paper towel from the roll on the counter. He placed them in front of her and sat back down in his seat. “Drink some water, dear, and dab your brow. You’re dehydrating right in front of me.”

“I’m fine, sir… uh, Hagen… thank you. It’s just my spicy burrito from lunch making the rounds.” She winced again with embarrassment. “That was gross, sorry.” The flush in her face returned again in full force. She opened the bottle and took a big gulp. The coolness spread out from her core, calming the meltdown in her gut.

He laughed. It felt good to laugh. And he was glad that, although it was quite evident Emily had been scared out of her wits for a moment, she could recover with a comeback about her distressed bowels, whether they were distressed or not.

“Let me put your mind at ease. I am old and I am quite harmless. I have had one hip replaced and I use a cane to help me get around. You have nothing to be afraid of.”

It was quite apparent to Emily that he had seen through her attempt to hide the high tide of anxiety that had washed over her. “Was it that obvious?”

“Like Rudolph’s nose. And if you’re wondering… no, I wasn’t offended. You have every right to be on your guard.” He held out his right hand. “Friends?”

She wiped her sweaty palm on her lap then shook his hand. “Friends.”

“Good.” He released her hand and placed both of his flat on the table.

“Now, I have a proposition for you.” He waited to see if Emily’s alarms went off again, but no; no dilating pupils, no perspiration, and no apparent gastric distress.

“I’m fine, Hagen, you don’t scare me… anymore.” A Cheshire cat grin spread across her face.

“Well, good.” He smiled, happy to see that she was feeling more at ease. “When I have members of staff with me, I procure accommodations for them on the Amtrak train as I only have one guest room. Since you are only one person, and you will be spending most of your time assisting me, I thought you might want to stay here, on my car, until we reach Philadelphia. It might save you from all the extra back-and-forth, and I am almost positive that my accommodations are a bit more comfortable than Amtrak’s.”

He could see from her expression that it wouldn’t take her long to decide.

The Cheshire cat encored.

“I… I… really? Are you sure?” Emily was hesitant and excited. What a nice change it would be; what an adventure!

“Yes.” Mr. Beckenbauer nodded once. “I am quite sure.”

“What about Amtrak? Are they going to let me stay here?”

“I had already cleared it with Warren before you got on the train in Los Angeles. He was made aware that I planned to offer the guest room to whomever was assigned to me. They also know you have the option to decline the offer and come to work every morning and go back to your cabin in the evening.”

“Wow!” Emily almost giggled. “I would love to. Thank you. Boy,” this time she did giggle. “Eddie is going to be so jealous. I accept your offer. Not because it’s going to make Eddie jealous, but because this isn’t something that happens every day.”

“Wonderful. Why don’t you retrieve your personal effects and I’ll give you the grand tour when you return?”

“Yes, SIR!” Emily stood, winked, and gave him another goofy salute.

“Just use the code to come back in. Do you remember it?”

“1–4–3–0, easy to remember.”

“Yes, it is.”

Hagen watched her leave through the door and disappear into the Amtrak car. Leaning on his cane, he stood up and went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and went through the door that led into the rest of the car. He walked through the dining room into the observation area and sat down in a leather recliner, twisted the top off the water bottle and took a long, cool drink. He pressed a switch on the table next to the chair and the entire room went dark except for three small spots illuminating a painting in the dining room. He looked out of the window into the New Mexican darkness. It was pitch black out there, a moonless night. An occasional light from a house in the distance appeared, flickered off and on from behind a rock or a tree, then disappeared altogether. He reclined the chair all the way and looked up at the night sky through the clear roof.

The middle-of-nowhere New Mexico is a stargazer’s delight. The Milky Way sprayed Heaven with its billions of stars; God’s graffiti. Recent events—hospitals, doctors, IVs... last breaths; they all left hot, red impressions on his soul like handprints from a hard, backhanded slap. The whispering of the wheels on the tracks and the beauty of the New Mexican night sky were healing, soothing.

Emily closed the door behind her and walked quickly to the cabin which she shared with another service attendant. The pep in her step was not so much fueled by the excitement at the thought of staying in Hagen’s railcar, as by the fallout from the bomb that had gone off in her stomach ten minutes before. She mad dashed it to the restroom in her cabin and was happy that her cabinmate was on duty in the dining car. She was comfortably alone. When she finished, she gathered her belongings and went to the dining car to get menus for Hagen, then returned to the blue beauty.

In the kitchen, only the lights over the stove were on, casting a soft glow throughout the entire room. She put the menus on the table and went through the door into the dining area. It was very dimly lit in there, the only light-source coming from three mini spotlights that were aimed at a painting which hung on the wall that separated the kitchen from this room. Under the painting, against the wall, was another corner banquette, like the one in the kitchen, but larger. It was all a rich, dark brown leather, supple and elegant. It took the booth-ness out of the booth. There were two chairs, upholstered in the same elegant leather, on the outside edge, allowing for six people to dine comfortably.

But it was the painting on the wall that stole her attention. It depicted the westward side of the Sandia Mountains as the setting sun lit up the rocky face with a pinkish-orange glow. The moon, full and enormous in a denim blue sky, hovered just above the crest. In the lower left corner were two initials—HB; and a date—1963.

From the darkness behind her came Hagen’s voice. “What do you think?” He got up from his recliner in the dark and walked into the dining room.

“Wow, Hagen, this is incredible. You painted this?” She put her bags on the floor and folded her arms as she continued admiring the painting.

“I take it you like it, and yes, that is my work.”

“It’s stunning—the colors, the detail!”

“Thank you. I like it, too. It reminds me of the first time I experienced Albuquerque. It was a brief stop on my way home after the war. I got off the train, it was late afternoon and the sun was just touching the volcanoes in the west and illuminating this enormous mountain in the east. The full moon had just cleared the crest. It was breath-taking. It moved me spiritually, and it stopped me in my tracks, no pun intended.”

“None taken. It really is beautiful.” She looked from the painting to Hagen and opened her arms wide. “Well… here I am.”

“Yes, yes you are.” He pressed a light switch on the wall nearby and the entire area, dining and living rooms, lit up with a glow from wall sconces and table lamps.

“Welcome to my home, Emily. Let me show you around. It’s not palatial, but it is my castle. The kitchen you have seen. This area is the dining room. Over here,” he walked to the lounge area, “is what I call my appreciation room. The windows are continuous from one side of the car, extending overhead to the other side, and are made of ultra-clear glass. I wanted unobstructed views of the passing world and the night sky.”

“Why do you call it the appreciation room?”

Hagen shut off the lights. The room went black.

Emily looked up at the Milky Way in all its blazing glory. “Whoa, that’s amazing!”

“I have to agree. I call it the appreciation room because I will recline, turn out the lights and look up, and appreciate what Nature has created. It helps me clear my mind and re-energize. That is what I was doing when you returned. These past few days have been somewhat… draining.”

“I can only imagine.” She tried not to sound too sympathetic. “Do you want to continue appreciating? We can finish the tour later.”

“No, no, I’m fine. Maybe after dinner.”

He turned the lights on again. “Alright, over there,” he pointed to the wall at the other end of the room, “is the elevator. I used to have an elegant spiral staircase in that corner. Unfortunately, logical necessity overrides elegance when you get old and your hips fail to perform properly. If normal stairs are unfriendly, then spiral staircases are belligerent. One of my friends had suggested that I install one of those,” he up-and-down wave-motioned with his hand, “motorized chairs that you sit in, that hummmm, glides up and down stairs along the bannister. That notion went out the window when I envisioned a zaftig, caftaned, turbaned me spiraling up and down like Dame Edna on a geriatric roller coaster.”

Emily had to laugh. “You are too funny.”

“I’m here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waiter.” He took a bow. “Anyway, so I installed an elevator, with music.”

“Elevator music?”

“Yes, elevator music. I know how ridiculous it looks to have an elevator for only two storeys. It’s totally cliché. I love it and my guests get a kick out of it.”

“I think it’s brilliant!”

“Thank you. I think so, too.” He continued the tour. “The hallway on the right leads to my room at the end. The door on the left is the master bathroom and is accessible to guests as well. The guest bedroom and bathroom are downstairs along with a small laundry room and some extra closet space. If you have any clothes you wish to launder, please feel free to use the washer and dryer.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that.”

“My pleasure. Now, if it’s alright with you, would you mind settling in after dinner? I don’t know about you, but I am famished. I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

“No, not at all. I picked up some menus from the dining car on my way back. I left them in the kitchen, I’ll go get them.”

“That was good thinking. But how do you feel about eating in tonight? I’m comfortable in my slippers. We can order from the restaurant tomorrow. Besides, my refrigerator is stuffed with food. I don’t know what it is about funerals and food, but I have a veritable buffet in there.”

“We, eat in tonight? That is nice of you to offer, but my job is to serve you and your job is to do nothing except relax and enjoy the ride, not feed the help.”

“Emily, I don’t think of you, or anyone who has ever worked for me, as the help. I appreciate your dedication to your profession. But, if you remember, I did say during our initial meet and greet that all I require from ‘the help’ is for them to feed me, clean up a bit, and maybe keep this old man company. There was nothing specifically said about where the food comes from. And, I believe that dining with me falls under the umbrella of keeping me company.”

Emily looked him right in the eye. Her expression went from a squinting, thinking-of-a-comeback-but-can’t-find-the-words-to-say look to a relaxed, smiling, I give in look.

Emily conceded. “Checkmate, Hagen, you win.”

“I usually do, my dear, I usually do. Now, let’s go into the kitchen and raid the fridge.”

“Okey-dokey, boss.”

They went into the kitchen and Hagen walked over to the booth in the corner and sat down. “I hope you don’t mind too terribly if I let you raid while I watch. My other hip, the remaining original one, is moody tonight.”

“Absolutely not, I don’t mind at all. It falls under the umbrella of feeding you.”

“Touché!”

She smiled a wide gotcha smile. “OK, let’s see what I have to work with here.” She pulled open the refrigerator door. “Well, you weren’t kidding. You could feed the whole train.”

“I told you. And more will be stuffed in there when I get to New Jersey, so we need to make room.”

Emily looked at him quizzically. “New Jersey? I thought you were going to Philadelphia?”

“My family’s farm is in New Jersey, across the Delaware River, and a little north of Philadelphia. The railroad tracks run conveniently alongside the western border of our property, and I built a spur that runs through the farm to an area near the house.”

“Talk about door to door service!”

He laughed. “It does seem that way. OK, let’s talk food. What gastronomical goodies are you finding in there? I know that Lydia Dominguez’ enchilada casserole is in there. And Carol Riccardi’s ten-pound lasagna; tossed salad; a bowl of cut-up fresh fruit. Oh, and Vera Kirk’s fried chicken. I have no idea what else got stuffed in there. It was like Chefs on Parade in and out of my kitchen the past couple of days.”

“What sounds good to you?” Emily’s head was deep in the fridge.

“You choose. I’ll eat whatever you feel like having. I’m not making any decisions tonight.”

Enchiladas sounded good to Emily, but after today’s carne adovada encounter she thought Mexican this soon might not be the best course to take. She pulled out the lasagna and put it on the counter next to the refrigerator. This is twenty pounds if it’s an ounce. She took out the bowl of tossed salad and put it next to the lasagna. With some verbal guidance from Hagen, she located plates, bowls, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, a chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano, and a cheese grater. Two nice chunks of lasagna went onto a plate and into the microwave. The salad was tossed in the oil and vinegar. She set the table: salad and salad bowls, napkins, silverware and drinking glasses.

Hagen watched her. She seemed quite at ease as she assembled their meal. There was also something familiar and soothing about someone moving around in his kitchen.

“Alright, dinner is served.” She set a plate of the lasagna down in front of Hagen and one at her place. “Ooh, hold on a sec.” She went back to the refrigerator and got a large bottle of Evian, opened it and filled their glasses.

“Thank you, Emily. This looks delicious. What would you like to drink?”

“Um, water? Unless you replaced the Evian with vodka.”

“Very funny. I meant besides the water. How about some wine to go with the lasagna?”

“For you, sure, but I’m on the clock, remember?” She looked him dead in the eyes.

“Have you forgotten that I always win?”

“Uh-huh. But this pushes the professional borders a bit much, don’tcha think?”

Hagen gave her a look that said I’m not budging on this one, either. “You might be an employee. But technically, you’re my employee and I just clocked you out.”

“I’m just never going to win with you, am I?”

“Oh, you are just too easy.” He scrunched his nose and squinted.

Emily huffed a sigh and folded her arms. “OK, what do we want?”

“You’ll see. Go into the dining room. Against the wall, to the right of the booth, there is a rectangular, wooden box standing on its end, about three feet tall. On the wall above it is a keypad like on a telephone. Punch in 9–1–2, then the “Enter” button. You will hear some movement, then two doors will open as a bottle of wine emerges from the top.”

“You’re joking?”

He gently shook his head no.

“OK, I’ll be right back from the Starship Enterprise.”

She went into the dining room, found the box, entered the numbers on the keypad and laughed as a bottle of wine magically rose up in front of her.

“This is too wild!” he heard her say from the other room. She came back into the kitchen holding a bottle of wine. “You have a wine machine? Next thing I know you’re going to beam us up to the mother ship.”

“I haven’t quite perfected that technology… yet.” He smirked. “And if I had, why would I need the train?”

“Hmm, you’ve got a point.”

“You’ll find wine glasses hanging in the cabinet to the left of the sink and a wine opener in the drawer below.”

Emily retrieved two Bordeaux glasses and the wine opener and went back to the table.

“I haven’t heard of this wine before.” She held up the bottle and looked over the label. “Sah-si… Sah-suh….”

“Sassicaia. It is a luscious wine from Tuscany. 1985 was an excellent year. Probably my favorite Italian.”

Favorite Italian.

Hagen’s thoughts drifted to the casket below.

Emily opened the bottle and poured a little wine into Hagen’s glass. She held the bottle like a sommelier as she waited for him to taste it.

“I know what it tastes like.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, humor me and let me at least pretend to work for my supper.”

Feigning an aristocratic, snobbish air, Hagen picked up the glass, swirled the wine around, took a sip and swished it around in his mouth. He put the glass down. “Swill, I tell you. Send it back!”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t know how to send it back if you were serious.”

“Touché again, Emily. Touché.”

She poured more into his glass and then some into hers and sat down.

“Bon appétit, monsieur.”

“Merçi, mademoiselle.”

She sipped the wine. Hagen watched as her eyes lit up. “This is delicious!”

“Only the best for my guest… and Carol’s lasagna.”

Emily raised her glass. “To the chef.”

Hagen raised his glass and touched it to hers. “And her lasagna.”

And my favorite Italian.

They began to eat, both commenting on the deliciousness of the lasagna. After a few moments of quiet, Hagen broke the silence.

“Tell me, Emily, how long have you been working for Amtrak?”

“Just over two years now.”

“Do you like it?”

“I do, for the most part. It has its ups and downs.”

He washed a bite of the lasagna down with a sip of wine and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “OK, tell me what the ups are, if you don’t mind.”

“I like the traveling. I like seeing the country and meeting new people. I love photography. Sometimes I get lucky and get in some good shots.”

“Is photography just a hobby or do you aspire to become a professional photographer?”

“I would love to do it professionally. I wanted to be a photojournalist. I have always envied those National Geographic photographers. They get to go all over the world, taking pictures of exotic places and people. Maybe one day. For now, I’ll work for Amtrak Geographic and make the best of it.”

“If that is your passion, then you should pursue it. Life is too short to waste time second-guessing, saying maybe one day. Never doubt yourself. Follow your gut instincts.”

“I want to, I really do. I know I’m a pretty good photographer. I’m just sort of… in limbo with life right now.”

“I certainly can understand that. I’m feeling a little limbo-ish myself.”

More silence, slightly awkward for Emily. Of course, he’s feeling limbo-ish; someone died. Hagen sensed the elephant in the room and resumed his inquiry about her work.

“You said, ups and downs. Tell me what about working on the train does not suit you?”

Emily swallowed another mouthful of salad, then sipped her water. She pondered. There really were more pros than cons—only one con, actually. “Probably, the lack of privacy. You live at work and everyone knows your business. That’s probably why I jumped at the chance to stay here with you until Philadelphia. I’ll still be living at work, but I’ll sleep alone for the next two nights and I’ll have a bathroom to myself.”

“I completely understand wanting some privacy. I was in the military and there is no such thing as modesty in the Army. When I returned to civilian life, I had some privacy for a while, but as our careers grew and our work became more public, our lives became less private. Everyone wants to know everything about you once you are in the spotlight. They feel they deserve to know all the intimate details about you in exchange for their admiration.”

She shook her head. “Nothing is sacred.” She was very curious to know more about him but did not want to pry. She thought about the casket in the cargo area. If Hagen wished to talk about his life, then it would be on his terms.

“No, nothing is sacred. It is not as bad now as it was when I was younger and more active with my artwork. I couldn’t even go to the barber sometimes without someone following me with a camera or tape recorder. After a while, they get enough of you and when you stop giving them fodder, they eventually move on to the next victim.”

“I’m sorry I’m not too familiar with your work.” Feeling more comfortable around him, Emily got a bit bolder. “What did you do that earned you your fame and fortune?”

“I don’t expect everyone to know who I am. It is not like I am a movie star or politician. I am an artist and an inventor. I have acquired most of my wealth from several patents which I hold. And, over the years, several galleries have shown and sold our artwork as well.”

“Very nice. When I came back to your car, you said ‘welcome to my home.’ Do you live here, or just stay on it when you travel?”

“I live here full time. When I decided to purchase my own railcar, I built a spur of track connecting my land to the main rail system. You saw it when I joined on at Lamy Station. If you ride a few miles up the tracks, you will arrive at where I park my home. When I want to travel, I push out to the end of my tracks, close to the main line, and wait for the pickup.”

“It seemed pretty secluded and very peaceful. Do you live all alone out there?” She paused, realizing that she may have sounded a bit nosy. “Sorry, I’m not trying to paparazzi you.”

“That’s alright, my dear, it is a valid question. I did not live alone until...”

He paused to find words.

“…until quite recently.” His expression and tone of voice waxed melancholy.

Emily understood the reference to the casket resting just below them. The way he said it spoke volumes about how much the deceased meant to him.

“I really am sorry for your loss.” She reached across the table and put a hand on his; her kind touch triggering an emotional response in him, almost. He didn’t want to cry in front of her; not now, anyway. “And I didn’t mean it when I said all you had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride. I know this isn’t a pleasure trip.”

“I knew what you meant. And please stop worrying yourself over possibly saying the wrong thing. Remember, I said no eggshells.”

“Alright, no eggshells.” She sat back and forked another piece of lasagna.

Hagen didn’t want to think about it right now. He had the remainder of his life to think about it. He needed a distraction. “But, enough about me. Tell me something about you. Entertain me with a story about Emily Connolly.”

“Me? I don’t think I have anything to say that could even come close to what you’ve accomplished.”

“It has nothing to do with accomplishments, or accolades. Experiences make the person. Certainly, you must have had some experiences worth retelling, at least one.” He looked at her over his glass of wine. She just shrugged and made an I got nothin’ face. Then Hagen asked, “how old are you?”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“I cannot think that you spent the last twenty-five years under a rock.”

“I don’t think there really is much about me that’s exciting.”

“That is a shame, Emily.” He wanted to hear something, anything, to take his mind off the casket right underneath them. Emily stared blankly at a place somewhere in the middle of the table while she tried to dig up something worth telling, to give him something. She was never all that comfortable talking about herself.

“Maybe… maybe if I just tell you things as they come to mind it might spark something of interest. But I doubt it.”

“That’s fine, don’t doubt yourself. I have spent my life listening to people’s stories. Remember, ‘Art Imitates Life’ and some of my better works were inspired by listening to someone talk. Oftentimes, something wonderful emerges in the telling of a life event; something you may have forgotten about. I would like to know a little bit about you. But, if it makes you feel uncomfortable, please, don’t force it on my account. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

“It’s OK. I don’t feel pressured.”

“You never know what might come up.” He sipped some wine. “Remember, we are our own worst critics. What might seem banal to you may spark interest in the listener.”

Emily thought a little more. “OK, I’ll start from the beginning, I guess. I was born January 23, 1973 in San Diego, California. My mom was a stay-at-home mom. My dad was in the army. He was a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. I don’t have any real memories of my dad. I never met him. He died when his chopper was shot down in 1975, just a few months before the ceasefire. I was two years old. What I know of him are things my mom told me. She showed me photos of him with her before I was born, even a few while she was pregnant with me.”

“What is your earliest memory?”

“Hmm, let me think...”

Hagen ate slowly as he listened to Emily, paying close attention to her facial expressions for emotions that might surface. Other than the occasional looking down at his plate, he gave her his undivided attention, never interrupting.

“My earliest memory of anything is… is opening a package that arrived in the mail for me a week before my second birthday. I remember… I was in my room, on my bed, playing with something, but I can’t remember what it was. My mom came into the room holding this big box,” Emily held her arms out, spread widely, “all wrapped in brown paper and tape and covered in stamps. It was from my dad; a birthday present. He was still over in Vietnam. She put the box in front of me on the bed and we ripped it open together. We lifted the lid and inside was a doll; a geisha doll. She was so pretty. I picked her up and hugged her, but she was very stiff. Her arms and legs didn’t move. Her face and hands were made of porcelain. She wore a long, black, silk dress with embroidered flowers and she held a paper fan in one hand and a drum in the other... and she had a piece of wood, a stand, stuck to her feet. I tried to play with her, she didn’t play back, so I gave up. I went back to playing with… what the heck was it? Oh, I remember what it was; a See ‘n Say with farm animals, you know, the cow goes moooo?”

Hagen simply nodded and smiled, completely caught up in her story.

“I never played with the geisha doll again. My mom put her on the dresser in her room, where she stood for years.” Emily stopped there, picked up her wine glass and took a big gulp.

Hagen waited a moment to make sure she was finished. “That is an important memory, a beautiful memory. Thank you for sharing it with me. Tell me, does your mom still have the doll?”

“She did have it, for many years. The doll was my present, but mom kept it safe with her. Years later, when I was old enough to understand, she told me how much it had meant to her, and why. Five days after my second birthday my father’s chopper was shot down. The entire crew was killed. That doll was one of the last things he ever touched. My mom said it was my mine but asked if it was alright to still keep it in her room. I couldn’t refuse her request. I knew what that doll meant to her. It was the last thing we ever got from my dad.” She paused to collect her words. “Every morning when she got up and every night before she went to bed, she would touch that doll. It was her tactile link to my dad.” She paused again and closed her eyes, trying to clench back the tears. “My mom died two and a half years ago, and now the doll sits on my dresser.”

“That is a wonderful story. You might want to write that one down. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. I miss her very much. She was my best friend.”

Hagen could feel Emily’s melancholia bubbling up to the surface. “Do you have friends, someone to rely upon, talk to?”

“I have some acquaintances. No best friends. I applied for this job after mom died. I just wanted to get away from everything; not be stuck in one place. After selling mom’s house and paying off the mortgage, I took what was left, rented a little apartment, bought a Nikon and hit the railroad. I stay at work as much as they will let me, then I go home and touch the doll.”

Hagen was moved by how much Emily was opening up to him. “May I ask, have you any other family?”

“No, it’s just me now. My mom’s parents died in a plane crash before I was born. I barely remember my dad’s parents, but, they’re gone, too.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I have never known what it is like to be alone, without family, or friends. I still have my brother and sisters. I look forward to seeing them again, even though the circumstances are not festive. Family sticks together and we need each other in good times and in not so good times. They are all gathering at the farm in New Jersey for the service.”

Emily finished her last bite of lasagna, followed by the last sip of her second glass of wine. She was not a heavy drinker; a six pack could last three weeks in her refrigerator, if she stayed home for three weeks, which she never did. She was feeling the effect of the wine. Her face flushed, radiated heat. She was more talkative about her past than she would normally have been, especially around a stranger, doubly so with someone like Hagen. They had only just met that day. He was technically her boss. She opened up to him more than she wanted, but he had a way of making it easy to feel comfortable in his presence.

“Well it’s obvious from your stuffed refrigerator that you have good friends,” she tapped the empty plate with her fork, “who sure can cook.”

“Yes, I do have good friends. One thing is for sure, I will never go hungry.”

“No, you will not; not on this trip anyway.” Emily went quiet. Her dredged up memories were swimming in her wine-soaked mind. Her mood was shifting.

“Thank you, again, for sharing those personal moments,” said Hagen.

She picked up the empty wine glass and waggled it in mid-air. “Well, ply me with alcohol and I’m an open book.” She put the glass down and stared at the table again.

Coming back to the reality of her position made her feel suddenly awkward and out of place. Hagen got her to talk about her past and now she felt strange about it. She no longer wanted to feel comfortable because she knew it would end in two and a half days. Her little humdrum world got caught in the gravity of Hagen’s enormously dense and brilliant star. Like a comet, she would briefly orbit Hagen’s sun, just long enough to enjoy it and blaze in his solar wind. Then she would be flung out into the cosmos of her own life to wander the universe and float aimlessly in the void, again.

“Dinner was delicious.” Emily got up from the table. “My compliments to Carol Riccardi when you see her.” She picked up the empty plates and salad bowls and put them in the sink.

“Just put them in the dishwasher.” Hagen felt her mood shift. It got a little chillier in the kitchen.

After rinsing their plates and wine glasses, she put them in the dishwasher and walked over to the table. She stood there, falling into waitress mode, getting re-comfortable with him as the boss and her as the help. Her emotions were caught up in the momentary soup of self-awareness, self-pity, self-doubt, and expensive wine. Emily was not willing to be deluded into thinking that she belonged there in any capacity other than that of an employee. No matter how she looked at it, she was the help. She appreciated Hagen’s generosity; sharing his food and wine with her. Inside she was telling herself that this would be the only time it would happen. From now on, she would fix his meals or get them from the dining car but eating with him was no longer an option. She might even go back to her cabin on the Amtrak train. If he was at all sensitive to anyone’s wishes, then he would allow her to do what was comfortable for her.

She put her hands on her hips and looked down at her boss. “Do you want anything for dessert?”

“No, thank you. I am quite full. You did the lasagna justice with that very generous piece you gave me. Would you like something for dessert? I think there might be a key lime pie hiding somewhere in the refrigerator.”

“No, thank you. I’m quite full, too.”

“Is everything alright, Emily?”

She folded her arms. “Yes… no.” She sighed and looked down at the floor briefly then back at Hagen. “I don’t know.” She didn’t want to say what she was feeling without it coming out sounding silly and selfish. “Maybe it’s the wine. You had me talking about my past, things that I hadn’t thought about, at least that deeply, in quite some time.”

“I apologize if I made you do something uncomfortable. I just wanted to know a little about you. It was not my intention to upset you.”

“I know it wasn’t, Hagen. I’m just feeling a little sorry for myself, I guess. And I know I don’t need to. But I do. I blame the alcohol, not you. I’m sorry that I am such a party pooper.” Feeling that this was an opportune time to say it, “Maybe I should leave you alone tonight and sleep in my cabin.” She looked down at the floor again, her arms still crossed.

“If that would make you feel better. Like I said, it’s your decision. But I don’t see the reason why. You have not offended me whatsoever, and you have not pooped on anyone’s party. If you did anything, you brought life to it.”

Emily looked up from her downward gaze, into his eyes. He could see right into her; she felt it.

“Let me confide in you Emily, if I may. Sit, please.” He waved his hand to the banquette.

She sat back in her seat; arms still folded.

“I have always had the ability to sense someone’s feelings and emotions. I know when someone is sad, or happy. I can tell when someone is being truthful or is hiding something. No, I am not a mind reader or a psychic. I happen to have a sixth sense that’s a bit more sensitive than other people’s. We all have it. We call it a gut instinct. Have you ever met someone and for some reason you just didn’t feel comfortable near them?”

“Yes. I work with someone like that.”

“Let me guess, the jealous Eddie you mentioned.”

“I don’t know how you figured that one out, but yeah, Eddie.”

“And, haven’t you ever met someone, who even before they speak, you felt like you wanted to be near them?”

“Yes, I have. I’ve met some passengers that I just liked a lot, and for no other reason than a feeling I got, or they just seemed nice. I’d go out of my way for them, do extra things for them.” Emily was including Hagen in that group of people who she liked at first sight, but she wasn’t going to say that out loud.

Hagen felt who Emily was, too. “When I first met you, I knew you were a good person. You have a big heart and you give off a lot of very positive energy. People like to be around you.”

She wished he hadn’t said that. Her emotions were running rampant and crying in front of him was not an option for her. Managing to keep her emotions in check, she said, “Thank you, Hagen. I can tell that you have a big heart, too.”

“Thank you, my dear. Now, if I may be so bold, I think I know what you are thinking. You are afraid of getting comfortable here. You want to put a more professional distance between us.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t read minds.”

“I cannot read minds, but I have had a lot of experience with human beings, and combined with my gut instinct, it simply makes me very intuitive. I am right though, am I not?”

“Yes, yes you are. There’s no sense trying to lie to you.”

“Emily, listen to me.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “In your travels, you are going to meet thousands of people from all walks of life. Some will be brilliant, some will not. Some will be rich, and some will not. They will present themselves to you in all shades of colors with all types of personalities. If you try to pick and choose those who you wish to know and toss the others aside, then you will be cheating yourself. You will be cheating yourself out of life. If there is one thing that I have learned in my seventy-four years traveling around the Sun, it’s that when the Universe puts something, or someone, in front of you, it is telling you to learn from it. If you feel that not staying here for the next couple of nights is better for you, then by all means, do what is best for you. I do hope, though, that you will still be my attendant for the remainder of my trip. And if you change your mind about staying here, the offer is always on the table.”

“You certainly have a way with words.” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry if I got silly. I’ll stay tonight. Maybe tomorrow you can tell me about you, quid pro quo and all that.”

“Absolutely. You must have been reading my mind this time.”

“Just a gut feeling.” Her smile sincere, a smidge apologetic.

“I told you, it works.” He returned her smile; his blue eyes were captivating.

She looked deeply into those eyes. There was something there, a knowing. Was it just age and experience, or could he really read minds? One thing she could see was that he looked drained. “You look tired, Hagen. Shall we call it a day?”

“Yes, let’s call it a day. It has been a long one, and a filling one. I haven’t eaten that much in one sitting in a long time. Why don’t you go get settled in downstairs and I’ll see you in the morning?”

They left the kitchen and walked into the dining area where Emily had left her things.

“Good night Hagen, and thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

“When do you usually get up in the morning?”

“I grew up on a farm, so I have always been an early riser. I don’t expect you to get up when I do.”

“I can be up for you whenever you need me to begin my day. I’m used to it.”

“Alright, then. I will expect you at your post by eight thirty.”

“Aye, aye, Admiral.” She saluted, but not comically this time. “I will see you on the bridge at zero-eight-thirty-hours, sharp.”

He returned her salute. “Dismissed, Ensign.”

She smiled, gathered her belongings and walked to the elevator. The door was open. She went inside and looked around. It wasn’t like a regular elevator—there were no buttons to press. Hagen, seeing her confusion, walked over to assist her.

“Sorry, I should have given you a lesson. It is quite simple. See that lever on the right?”

“Yes, I see it.”

“After you slide the door closed, you will move the lever to the down position. Once you get to the bottom you can open the door and exit the lift. To come back up, close the door and move the lever to the up position. When you arrive, you open the door and get out. It’s a very simple design, completely silent and pneumatic; one of my patents, by the way.”

“Sounds easy enough. Oh, one more thing. Are you a breakfast person? Coffee in the morning?”

“I am most definitely a coffee in the morning person; breakfast sometimes, it depends on the occasion. Maybe toast or a pastry of some sort. Why do you ask?”

“OK, mind reader, you couldn’t figure that one out?”

“I figured it out when you asked me what time I get up. We can discuss breakfast in the morning.”

“Alrighty then. Let’s go for a ride.” She closed the door and moved the lever to the down position. Feels So Good by Chuck Mangione began to play. “Good night.” She waved as the elevator descended to the lower level.

“Good night.” He waved back. He walked over to a wall switch and turned off the lights as Chuck Mangione’s flugelhorn and Emily’s laughter faded into the floor, then walked down the hallway to his room to get ready for bed. After changing into his pajamas, he sat on his bed. He closed his eyes and memories played in his mind as his fingers felt the weave in the Navajo blanket, like a blind man reading brail. Fifty-three years of memories; another big sigh. He pulled the covers down and climbed in. It didn’t take long for him to drift off to sleep and for the dreams to begin.

When the elevator reached the lower level, Emily opened the door and carried her things to the guest room. A hallway like Hagen’s led to the bedroom door at the end, with a bathroom door on the left. When she turned on the lights in the bedroom, she was greeted by a room filled with furniture you would not find on a regular passenger train. A beautiful, queen-size cherry sleigh bed was against the far wall with matching nightstands. Against the left wall was a matching dresser and mirror. A walk-in closet and chest of drawers were against the wall that separated the bathroom from the guest bedroom. You would have no idea you were on a train if it weren’t for the gentle rocking and the sound of the wheels click-clacking on the tracks. The walls were adorned with paintings and photographs. All the paintings had the same initials—HB—in the bottom left corner. She remarked to herself how talented Hagen was. His ability to transfer to canvas such detail was extraordinary.

The photographs were also quite beautiful. Some were scenic and some were of people. They captured beautiful landscapes, mostly of the southwest. The people shots were candid—a lot were of Native Americans—and caught the subjects in action at just the right time to tell a story. This guy is good. There were initials in the bottom right corners—SC. I wonder who SC is. Is SC in the casket?

She unpacked her clothes and put them in drawers and in the closet. She put on her long nightshirt, grabbed her toothpaste and toothbrush, and padded barefoot down the carpeted hallway to the bathroom.

What she found there was just another example of what you don’t normally find on a train. There was a full-sized, marble-walled shower with glass doors and a window with privacy blinders that looked to the outside. The sink was a work of art in itself. The basin was blown glass with swirls of colors set into a basalt countertop with a waterfall faucet.

The toilet looked totally alien. There was no tank, and when you approached it, the lid rose automatically and a control panel on the wall next to it illuminated. Hagen sure does like his control panels.

“Well, let’s give it a go.” She giggled at the unintended pun and sat down to do the deed. After the deed was done, curiosity got the best of her. The alien throne also had an integrated bidet. She had never experienced a bidet before. She knew what they were and had always been curious to experience one. She pressed the “Bidet” button and the process began automatically. She giggled again. “I hope a bottle of wine doesn’t come popping up.” She was quite impressed by the bidet function, thoroughly enjoyed it, and wondered why Americans never really got on board with it.

She brushed her teeth at the sink, feeling sinful spitting into something so beautiful, then went back to the guest room and crawled under the covers. She was experiencing a slight sensory overload—visually with the artwork and the appreciation area; gastronomically with the food and wine; and tactilely with the bidet and the fifteen-hundred thread-count, Egyptian cotton sheets; like she was sliding into a Teflon lined bed. It was a busy and filling day for Emily, and it didn’t take her long to nod off into dreamland either.

Above her, Hagen slept deeply. Dreams and images whispered their way into his subconscious, like morning fog through trees. He would occasionally stir when something unsavory came to the forefront, but would easily slip into the depths again, surrounded by the insulation of good things past and yet to come. At one point, a woman entered his dreamscape. She was barefoot and wore a white, flowing dress. Behind her, shrouded in the mist of dreams were the shapes of other people. They stood there, faceless, without moving. She didn’t seem to be aware of them. She smiled, held out her right hand and took one step forward. He couldn’t tell if she was offering to take someone somewhere or accepting the offer to be taken. She waited with an arm outstretched. Then she spoke.

“Let’s go home.” She signaled to whomever it was she was talking to, to follow her, then she turned around and disappeared into the mist with the other figures.

Hagen stirred. He woke up, halfway opened his eyes and looked out into his room, expecting to see someone standing there, beckoning. No one was there, but he had the feeling he was not alone. He could smell the faint aroma of peach blossoms. It was not the first time he had the feeling that he was not the only one in the room, and he knew from experience that if he turned on a light to see the room clearly that he would find no one there. He lay back down and drifted off, the train rocking him back to sleep like a giant bassinet.

Emily fell fast asleep. She dreamed as well, but hers was a straightforward dream, inspired by the memories that she’d exhumed for Hagen over dinner. Her mother was in this dream and she was holding the geisha doll. But this dream doll wasn’t stiff. She was fully movable and wasn’t tied down to a wooden base. Emily’s father was also there, in his uniform. His face was blurry, showing only vague features she’d gleaned from the photos her mother had of him. Her mom put the doll down on the dresser and held one hand while her father held the other. They let her hands go and she danced around the dresser, banging her drum. Suddenly, she stopped dancing and looked up at Emily’s father. She banged her drum… three… more… times.

Bang... Bang... Bang!

On the third bang, a loud explosion sounded somewhere off in the distance and he vanished into wisps of smoke. Her mom watched her husband’s soul float away on a breeze as tears rolled down her cheeks. She leaned over and kissed the little doll on the cheek, stood up, looked over her shoulder in the direction of the explosion, and then noiselessly faded into a mist and floated away on the same breeze with her husband. The little geisha doll stiffened into a pose, hands in mid-bang on the drum, feet stuck to the wooden base. That was Emily’s only dream that night. The rest of her sleep was deep and silent.

The Morning

The Morning

It was 6:15 a.m. when Emily opened her eyes and looked at her clock on the bedside table. She hopped up as soon as she could think clearly, wanting to be up and ready before Hagen. She quickly dressed in her work uniform and went to the bathroom down the hallway to freshen up. That big, beautiful shower called to her. She wanted to take a shower so badly—a real shower; not one of those micro, all-in-one closets she had to share with someone. She didn’t want to waste too much time, so she washed her face, brushed her teeth, and tied her hair in a ponytail. She figured she’d enjoy a shower after breakfast, maybe take Hagen up on his offer to use his washer and dryer.

She left the bathroom and got into the elevator. This time she shared the ride with Kenny G. Interesting choice in elevator music. As she rose to the upper level, she peered through the elevator’s glass windows into the appreciation area. There, in a recliner, sat Hagen, smiling ear to ear. Emily opened the elevator door and walked out into the room. She put her hands on her hips.

“Good mornin’ farmer Hagen. I don’t s’pose ya already milked the cows an’ fed the chickens, didja?”

“Well, good morning to you, Emily. The cows are full of milk, and the chickens are hungry. I thought you might want to do those chores ya’self, seein’s how ya fea-ul ‘bout werkin’ fer yer supper, an’ awl thayut.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. But to be honest, I’ve never done either of those things. So, if you value your livestock, you might want to find something less farmy for me to do.”

“Well then, why don’t we have some coffee and discuss breakfast?”

“Sounds good. But maybe we should talk food now, so I can get everything on one run to the dining car.”

“I have a better idea.” His cat-that-ate-the-canary grin told her he was up to something.

“Uh-huh, I’m sure you do. And I bet it doesn’t involve anything from the outside.”

“Well, you’re half right. We can make coffee here. No sense in walking three hundred feet to and fro just for that.”

“OK, how am I half wrong?”

“Wait—you’ll see.” He couldn’t help grinning, giving away his having something up his sleeve.

“Uh-huh, we’re going to be docking with the mother ship, right?”

As they were bantering back and forth, the train pulled into the Kansas City station and came to a smooth stop in front of the platform.

A few moments later—DING DONG!

Emily scrunched her face and cocked her head. “Was that a doorbell I just heard?”

“Yes, my dear, it was. Let’s go see who it is, shall we?”

“I think you know who it is, but I’ll play along.”

They talked on the way down as Johnny Mathis sang When Sunny Gets Blue.

“I hope you don’t mind that I ordered out.”

“Why would I mind? I’m beginning to forget that I’m an employee, you know. I put on this uniform this morning,” she plucked at the fabric of her left sleeve, “to keep myself, and hopefully you, reminded of that fact. Am I ever going to actually do some work around here?”

“It might not seem like it, but you are working right now, and have been from the moment you came on board. Also, it’s not necessary to wear that uniform. It’s perfectly fine to wear your civvies. I should have mentioned that last night.”

She shrugged. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

They arrived at the lower level. Emily opened the elevator door and they walked to the entrance. Hagen pressed a button on the wall and the door swung open outward. Standing out in the cold winter air were six people: three generations—two parents, two grandparents, and two children. They were all bundled in their wintry garb, replete with knitted scarves and hats and gloves and rosy cheeks. The mom was holding a large brown paper bag and the father was holding a cardboard box that once contained a case of wine.

“Good morning everyone! Please, come in out of the cold,” said Hagen.

“Good morning, Hagen! Good morning, Uncle Hagen!” Their voices a mix of Polish and American accents.

Piotr, Krystyna and Piotr’s parents, Zelik and Ryfka, emigrated in 1973 to America from Poland. The children, David and SJ, had no Polish accent and spoke perfect English. They went inside and the kids gave their Uncle Hagen hugs. Hagen closed the door to keep the cold out and the heat in. The parents handed the bag to SJ and the box to David, and took turns giving Hagen a big squeeze.

“It is so good to see you again. How is everyone?” asked Hagen.

“We are quite well, thank you. The question is, how are you?” asked Piotr.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” said Krystyna, putting her hand to his cheek. “We are so sorry to hear about Sal. We will miss him terribly.”

Hagen smiled a brave smile. “I miss him, too. I’ll be fine.”

“He was a good man, as are you, my friend,” said Piotr.

“Yes, yes he was.” Krystyna dabbed her eyes with her gloved hand. “He touched a lot of lives and everyone is better for having known him.”

Ryfka took Hagen’s face in both hands. “Wir beten für euch beide.”

(We are praying for both of you.)

Zelik put a hand on Hagen’s shoulder. “Ja, ja, wir werden ein spezielles Gebet für Salvatore im Tempel sagen.”

(Yes, yes, we will be saying a special prayer for Salvatore in Temple.)

“Danke. Ich danke Ihnen und meiner Familie dankt Ihnen,” said Hagen

(Thank you. I thank you and my family thanks you.)

The children stood there, holding the bag and box, listening to the conversation. Emily stood near the elevator watching everything. She could see the genuine affection this family had for Hagen, and for this Sal, and surmised from the conversation that Sal was in the casket.

“Thank you. He loved you all so very much.”

Hagen noticed Ryfka’s eyes looking over at Emily.

“Oh, where are my manners? Morawski family, this is Emily. Emily, these are the Morawskis, Zelik, Ryfka, Piotr, Krystyna, David, and SJ. Emily is my assistant for our trip home.”

Emily smiled and nodded to them. “Nice to meet you all.”

In a jumble of Polish and American accents, the Morawskis responded in kind.

“David, SJ,” said their mother. “Why don’t you take the food upstairs and put it in the kitchen for your uncle?”

“OK, Mama.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Emily, would you mind playing elevator operator for them?” asked Hagen.

“I’d love to.” Emily followed the Morawski siblings into the elevator and closed the door behind her. Henry Mancini’s Mr. Lucky serenaded them as they disappeared into the ceiling.

“She seems like a very nice girl,” said Krystyna.

“She is indeed. She has already been good company for me. She has a quick sense of humor and has so far been quite amiable.”

“Good, that is good,” said Piotr. “Is she going to be with you until New Jersey?”

“I only have her in an employee capacity until Philadelphia. I think she is very curious to know more about me, and Sal. I haven’t told her about him.” He turned and looked in the direction of the cargo hold then back to the Morawskis. “And, she respectfully hasn’t asked. I commend her for that, but I may tell her about me, about us.” Another glance in the direction of the cargo hold. “I also believe that it might be time for me to write my memoirs. Emily is interested in journalism; and photography, just like Sal. Maybe she’s the one to help me, I don’t know. What I do know is that I am not comfortable letting one of those greedy, publishing company vultures, with dollar signs for eyes, write my family’s story. It should be written by family. I need to do it, but I will need help.”

Hagen locked eyes with Ryfka. She smiled and nodded. He smiled and nodded back.

“Maybe it is time,” said Piotr. “You and Sal have lived amazing lives. If I didn’t already know you, I would read your story. Well, I lie, I will read it. I hope you write it. It does feel like the right time.”

“Hagen, my dear. I have something I would like for you to give to Sal.” Krystyna held out her hand. “Would you mind giving this to him?”

She handed him a small linen napkin with something wrapped inside. He unfolded it a bit to get a peek at what was inside. He choked up a little. “Sal so loved your chruscikis. He said that if he had to choose what to have for his last meal, it would be a big plate of your chruscikis.” A tear formed in each eye and made a trail down his cheeks. Krystyna wiped them away with her gloved hands.

“I will never forget the first time he bit into one of Krystyna’s chruscikis,” said Piotr. “He looked like he had been kissed by an angel.”

“Would you like to give them to him?” Hagen asked Krystyna.

“Will you please do it for us? There is not much time remaining before the train starts to move again.”

“Yes, I will give them to him.”

“Thank you.” Krystyna’s eyes teared up and it was Hagen who now wiped away tears.

The elevator delivered Emily, David, SJ, and Lawrence Welk back to the lower level. “Wait until you see what new goodies are waiting for you upstairs,” said Emily, as she opened the elevator door. “You’re definitely not going to go hungry anytime soon.”

Hagen looked at Piotr and Krystyna. “What did you do?”

“Oh, nothing really. Just a little of this, a little of that,” said Piotr.

“Thank you so much. Here...” He reached around to put his hand in his back pocket.

Krystyna stopped him in mid-reach. “No, no, no; not this time. We love you and it is the least we could do. Please, enjoy the food and the memories it will bring.”

“I will. Thank you, all of you.”

The engine blew its horn announcing all aboard. They all hugged one another. Krystyna took Hagen’s face in her hands and looked him deep in his eyes, “May G-d bless you. Take care, my friend.” She kissed him once on each cheek, then looked over at Emily and said, “It was so nice to meet you, my dear. Take good care of our Hagen.”

“Yes, ma’am, I will. It was nice meeting all of you.”

Ryfka hugged Hagen, holding him for a long minute. When she looked up at him her eyes had welled with new tears and she again held his face in her hands. “Hagen, mein liebster Engel. Bitte kommen Sie bald wieder, um uns zu sehen. Wir müssen mehr von euch sehen.”

(Hagen, my dearest angel. Please come back to see us, soon. We need to see more of you.)

Hagen held her face in his hands. “Mein liebster Ryfka, da stimme ich zu, wir sehen uns nicht oft genug. Ich werde Vorkehrungen treffen, um hier für eine Weile auf dem Weg zurück nach Hause zu bleiben.”

(My dearest Ryfka, I agree, we do not see each other often enough. I will make arrangements to stay here for a while on my way back home.)

Ryfka dropped tears onto his hands. He kissed her on both cheeks. Zelik gave Hagen a big hug.

“We had better go before the train takes us with it,” said Piotr.

Hagen pressed a button and the entrance door swung open; cold air spilled in at their feet. The Morawskis walked out onto the platform and turned around to wave to Hagen and Emily as the door closed. A few minutes later, the train jerked forward, and then settled into a smooth acceleration. The Morawskis watched as the tail end of Hagen’s railcar left the station, then put their arms around each other as they left the platform.

Emily and Hagen went into the elevator. Al Hirt played Java on the ride to the upper level. “The Morawskis are really sweet people,” said Emily.

“Yes, they are,” said Hagen affectionately.

The elevator arrived at the top. Emily opened the door. They talked as they walked to the kitchen.

“Did you really order food, or did they just show up with it?”

“They knew we would be coming through Kansas City. I knew they would want to see me. And I wanted to see them as well. They have been our good friends for many years. They are wonderful bakers. Their bakery is right around the corner from the train station. We always made time to see them when we would come through Kansas City.”

They walked into the kitchen and Hagen saw the pastries laid out on a plate. There were fruit danishes, cheese danishes, plain croissants and chocolate croissants. An enormous loaf of freshly baked rye bread, sliced and bagged, sat next to the plate.

“The pastries look amazing.” She opened another box. It was full of something she didn’t recognize. “But what are these?”

“Oh, she really did outdo herself. Those are chruscikis, a traditional Polish Holiday cookie. They are deep-fried and dusted with sugar. Krystyna’s are the best. Go ahead, try one.”

Emily picked out a small one and bit into it. She savored the flavor, smiling. “Mmmmm, that is good.”

“I know, and they are addictive, so be careful.” He patted his stomach. “OK, let’s have some coffee.” Hagen reached into a cabinet underneath the espresso machine and pulled out a large, stainless steel coffee press. From the cabinet above, he retrieved a bag of ground, dark roasted coffee.

“Have you ever had French pressed coffee?” asked Hagen.

“No, I’ve heard of it but never had it.”

“How do you like your coffee?”

“I like it dark and strong. You?”

“Me too. This makes a very strong brew.”

Emily watched him as he measured out ground coffee and put it into the press, then filled it with hot water from the espresso machine. He put the lid on the press. “Voila, that’s it.”

“That’s it? That easy?”

“Yes, that easy. It will steep for a little while before I press it.”

“Where do I find coffee cups?”

Hagen reached into the same cabinet where he found the coffee and pulled out two cups. “Do you take anything in your coffee?”

“Nope, I’m a purist. I take it straight.”

“Shall we have our breakfast at the dining room table?”

“Sure.” She picked up the plate of pastries and went into the dining area and put it on the table, then went back into the kitchen to wait with Hagen for the coffee to steep.

“Oh, I forgot,” she opened the refrigerator door. “Look—more food.” She pulled out a large, foil-wrapped Pyrex dish. “David and his sister said these are cabbage rolls.”

“Krystyna’s golumpkis and chruscikis all in the same day. There is a God.”

“And” —she pointed to six brown, champagne-corked bottles on the door shelf— “beer. David said his father brewed this batch especially for you.”

“Piotr’s lager AND golumpkis! With your permission, we may be dining in again this evening.”

“This is about you, not me. Who am I to argue with the boss?”

“You’re catching on.”

“I just know when to quit losing. Besides, home-cooked food beats restaurant food any day. Someone put love into it, and that always makes it taste better.”

He nodded. “Yes, it does.”

“By the way,” she folded her arms, “your refrigerator is overflowing with love. If you make any more food stops, you’ll be eating enchiladas and lasagna for breakfast.”

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled. “That was the only food stop.”

She leaned against the counter. “How much longer until you press the coffee?”

“We’ll give it another five minutes. Let’s take it into the dining room and sit at the table instead of standing in the kitchen.”

Hagen pulled two small plates from a cupboard and two linen napkins from a drawer. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll take the press and napkins if you get the rest.”

They put everything out on the dining room table. She slid in and sat on the plush, leather bench seat and he sat in the chair across from her.

Emily folded her arms on the table and leaned in as she eyed the plate of pastries, like a six-year-old outside a candy store window. “What’s your favorite?”

“Anything the Morawskis make is delicious. But, if I had to pick a favorite, it would be the plain croissant. I am a purist.”

“I think I’ll try one.” She picked one out and put it on her plate.

Hagen picked one for himself and ripped it in half before putting it on his plate. “Time to press.” He put one hand over the press, and with his palm, pushed slowly downward until the plunger reached its endpoint. The aroma of fresh, dark roast coffee permeated the air as he poured a cup for each of them.

She sipped her coffee. “Mmm, this is really good.”

“The way I like it. Strong enough to wake Sleeping Beauty.”

“I’d rather have the kiss.” She blushed at her spontaneously blurted comment. “Not that the coffee isn’t good.”

“Ah, you are a romantic.” He looked at her over his cup as he sipped.

“I’ve never been called that before.” She put her cup down and pinched off a piece of the croissant and held it in limbo between the plate and her mouth. She examined her life in a few milliseconds and asked herself if she was a… what Hagen had just called her.

Hagen was watching the micro-changes in her face. “You don’t agree?”

“I guess I never thought of myself that way.”

“Then you are a closet romantic.” He broke off a piece of croissant and put it in his mouth.

“Thanks for outing me. How am I ever going to tell my friends?” Her eyebrows raised, her lips pursed like, now what?

“Chances are, they already figured you out and you are the last to know. That’s the way it usually goes. Believe me.”

She wondered if that was his way of coming out to her, just a little peek from the closet. So far, he’s mentioned family—parents, brothers, sisters. But not a wife. Who was Sal? She kinda had a feeling—not the time to ask. She changed the subject and pulled off another piece of her croissant and put it in her mouth. “This is rrreally good.” A flake of pastry fluttered to the table. She quickly pressed it with a fingertip and kissed it off. “So delicious. It doesn’t need anything else.”

“Enjoy it, and don’t be shy, help yourself.” Hagen felt the subject being redirected and went along with it.

“Thanks. I’m not shy when it comes to food.” She was relieved the discussion of her romanticism had petered out. Another delving into her past so soon after last night’s emotional journey was not something that she felt like having with breakfast.

Thank God he didn’t want mimosas this morning.

They sipped and nibbled as the train rolled on, gently rocking occasionally as Missouri passed by outside the window.

“When you take your castle on the road, so to speak, what do you do to entertain yourself?”

“Well, it depends on the situation, the company I am keeping. If guests are with us, we talk, listen to music, play cards. I might read a book, or listen to music if I am alone, which is very rarely.”

“Did you bring something to read?” She finished the last bite of her croissant. She was interested in the man who owned his own railcar and hoped he might want to open up a bit to her instead of opening up a book.

“No, I didn’t. I don’t think I could concentrate on a book right now anyway. I’ll probably put on some music and sit by the window and watch the scenery. You are more than welcome to join me.”

“Thank you, I’d like that. It’ll be a nice change to enjoy the view. And, we could talk… if you want to.”

“That would be nice, yes. I would like that very much.”

Hagen was pleased to see that Emily was amenable to chatting with this old man. He really did feel it was time to tell his story and was hoping that she might be the one to help him.

She smiled and perused the array of pastries and carefully pulled a cheese danish from under the assortment.

“Wise choice. My second favorite, if I had to choose one.” He had finished his croissant by then and had also been eyeing the cheese danish.

“I really don’t need to eat a whole one,” said Emily. “Want to split it with me?”

He slid his plate in her direction as a way of saying yes. She split the danish and put half on his plate.

“Thank you, dear. I didn’t want to have to force a whole one down either.” Emily slid his plate back. He pulled off a piece of his half. “What do you say we adjourn to the living room after breakfast? We can bring the coffee with us and have a chat and watch the world go by.” He popped the piece of danish into his mouth, then sipped his coffee.

“Sounds good to me.”

When their plates were empty, they got up from the dining table and brought the coffee cups and the press with them into the living room and put them on the coffee table that separated two opposing dark brown, leather, love seats; Hagen sat in the aft-facing love seat and Emily sat facing him in the other. She poured more coffee for them.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She took a sip from her cup. “OK, so I’m curious. How did you meet the Morawskis?”

That question evoked memories spanning decades and the feelings attached to them hovered just below the surface. He and his family had been through so much over the last century. Over time, he began to believe that the history of the Beckenbauers would be something that people would want to read about. Vanity wasn’t the impetus. Nor was it money. Hagen was one of the least vain people you could ever know; and one of the wealthiest. He had never felt that there was a right time to write it all down… until now.

One of the main characters in the play is gone. Recollecting memories is all he had; there were no more memories to create. Yes, this is the time. He isn’t young anymore. His hands tire easily. If he is going to publish, he will need an assistant who would type and help edit. Maybe he will not have to search for very long for help. Emily might be the one. She is friendly, sensitive and a closet romantic.

Let’s test her curiosity.

“We met them on one of our trips to New Jersey one year for Christmas. But I simplified the answer to your question.”

“What is the complex answer?”

“It is part of a much bigger story.”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“It could be a long story.”

“Longer than the ride to Philly?”

“Probably not. But I wouldn’t want to bore you.” He raised an eyebrow and half smiled.

“I have a feeling that someone who owns his own railcar hasn’t led a boring life. I also have a feeling that you want to tell me. And my gut tells me that yours tells you that I want to know.”

“You are very astute. And, yes, my life has been far from boring.” He put his cup down. “Before I start talking your ear off about me, may I ask you something first?”

“Sure, ask away.” She lifted her cup to take another sip.

“Emily, where do you see yourself, in let’s say… five years, ten years? What are your plans for the future?”

“Honestly, I have no real plans. Right now, I’m on cruise control, riding along, taking things as they come.”

“Is that what you want long-term?”

“I don’t know, probably not. I’d like to think that at some point in my life, I’ll figure out which direction to go. Right now, the tracks take me. If you don’t mind me asking, why are you so interested in my future?”

“I can understand how it might seem a bit odd this soon after making each other’s acquaintance, but I must be honest, I liked you from the moment we met. I feel comfortable in your presence.”

“Aren’t I a bit young for you?” Her smile told him that her mind didn’t go down that strange path again.

“Yes, you are, my dear. But I think by now you know my intentions are sincere.”

“I was just joshing you.”

“I know. What I would like to discuss with you might have an influence on your future.”

“Go on.” Emily sat there on the sofa, very still, looking him in his eyes, digesting every word he spoke.

“Emily, over the past thirty or so years, I have been approached countless times by journalists and publishers who were begging me for my permission to publish my memoirs. And I have turned them all down. My life is private; my family’s lives are private. Also, I was not keen on the idea that someone wanted my story mainly to sell books and make money. I had not stopped living my life. Telling a story that was ongoing didn’t seem logical to me.”

“But you are still living your life. Remember you told me, ‘the last time I noticed, I was still breathing’?’”

“Yes, I am still breathing. But…”

Someone isn’t anymore.

“…I feel that I am now at a turning point. This is the beginning of the next act in my play.”

“And you want to put down on paper all the acts in your play, so far.”

“Exactly.” His posture straightened.

“Then you should write a book, or a play, or an article for a magazine. It must be quite a story for so many people to want your autobiography.”

“This is not about only me, but about family, friends, and me. About love, faith, the connections we make along the way.”

“Have you already contacted a publisher?”

“Oh, heavens no. I want to write it first, without letting on to any of them that I am doing it. If they caught wind of me even considering it, let alone already having started, I would have to go into seclusion. When it’s completed, then I will decide on how to publish it.”

“When are you going to begin?”

He smiled slyly, looking right into her eyes. “Right now.”

“Right now? Do you have a computer or a typewriter here?”

“No. I am not going to immediately begin the writing process. I will need help doing the typing, though, when it comes to that. My hands are not that comfortable typing more than short letters or emails. I want to find a collaborator, someone to hear what I have to tell. Then when all is told, we will put it on paper and publish it together.”

“Are you going to look for someone in New Jersey or wait until you return to New Mexico?”

“I already have someone in mind. I haven’t approached them yet.” He finished his coffee and put the cup down on the table. “This is why I asked about your future. Emily, I would like you to consider being my collaborator, my assistant on this project.”

“Me?” She sat fully upright and forward on the sofa. Her eyes widened. “You don’t even know me. We only met yesterday.”

“I know you enough. I know you are intelligent and sensitive and respectful.”

“How do you know that?” Emily’s emotions were being stirred up by his compliments.

“Trust me. I just do. You said you were interested in photojournalism. There might be photo opportunities that could be used in the book. Plus, we would be writing it together, ensuring it is written exactly the way it should be, the way I want

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 29.05.2020
ISBN: 978-3-7487-4363-7

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