Chapter 1

Evening Train

 

September 24, 1936

The Prairie

 

The evening train lurched and Iris Hazelwood opened her eyes.

It was not a station stop, just another of those mysterious bumps familiar to regular railway passengers. A trifle to hardy souls who traveled by train across America’s vast western prairie. But Iris hadn’t boarded a train for years and she was unaccustomed to unexpected jolts and irregular motions.

Each new bump was an unwelcome shock—alarming to her as a cannon shot. It was an apt metaphor because she seemed to be at war with the railroad. She’d begun her trip by battling timetables, grappling for balance, foraging for food and drink, and longing for sleep. Between Tucson and Oklahoma, she barely slept at all.

Then, gradually, as her two days on the railway stretched into a third, she’d become accustomed to the motion and able to nod off for hours at a time. At last, after several hundred miles, Iris made peace with the Union Pacific Railway and that company’s lumbering Pullman cars.

She felt the moving railcar sway for a moment more before it settled into a steady rhythm. When it did, Iris closed her eyes again and slept.

 

After an hour, a further jolt shattered her sleep, but this time her eyes remained closed. She’d been dreaming and her dream had been unsettling. Echoes of it seemed to linger in the confines of the rolling railway car. In her dream, she’d heard an unearthly howl which had forced her awake with the feeling that she’d cried out in her sleep. Or had she imagined these things? Despite her disinclination to revisit her dream, she found herself unwilling to open her eyes. But the Pullman car swayed again and she felt her journal slide from her lap, so she sighed, reluctantly opened her eyes, and bent down to retrieve it.

“Please, allow me,” said the man in the seat opposite.

The unexpected voice startled Iris. Why hadn’t she noticed him before?

She sat back while the man abandoned his seat and knelt to recover the errant journal. His movement was graceful. His hands were gloved. Crouching at her feet, he picked up the journal and offered it to her, his arm outstretched, his head bowed. Instinctively, she looked beyond the kneeling man and then behind her. All other seats were empty. She and the genuflecting man were the only occupants of the otherwise uninhabited Pullman car.

A woman traveling alone should be cautious of strangers, but something about the situation summoned her native confidence. Ordinarily a man crouching so near might seem a threat and yet she wasn’t frightened. Instead, his submissive posture made her feel ridiculously regal, like a queen receiving a courtier.

“Careless of me,” Iris said. “Thank you.” She received the journal with a nod and then regarded the stranger as he rose. She sought to see his face, but its features were hidden beneath the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat—not quite a sombrero, but definitely not a Stetson. The man kept his head down as he brushed his trouser leg and resumed his seat.

“You are traveling far?” he asked without looking up. His tone was polite. She detected an accent, Spanish she decided.

“To Sharon Springs,” Iris answered. “Sharon Springs, Kansas.”

“Ah,” said the man with an air of recognition and yet he did not look up to meet her gaze. “Business or pleasure, if I may be so bold to ask?”

“Family business,” she said without hesitation. She’d been asked this standard “business or pleasure” question three days ago when she boarded the first train in Arizona. Again, she received a similar inquiry yesterday when she changed trains somewhere in Oklahoma and now, she’d answered a third time.

Why repeat her “family business” answer to strangers? Of what possible interest could…?

“Me as well,” the man interrupted her thoughts. “My business is also with family and, I am sad to say, it is a death. I hope that your business is not so unfortunate.”

“A death you say? I’m sincerely sorry to hear it,” Iris said.

“You are too kind,” responded the man. “But for my manners, I am sorry. We have not been introduced.” At last, he raised his head. “I am De Soto Miguel de Valdez and I am at your service.” Though he remained seated, his deferential nod seemed sincere as he added, “And I am enchanted to make your acquaintance.”

“I’m Doctor—um…” she couldn’t stop herself saying doctor in time, so she found it necessary to amend her introduction by saying, “I’m Iris Hazelwood.”

“Mucho gusto. You are the medical doctor?” he asked with apparent interest.

“Afraid not,” Iris blushed. “I’m a doctor of…” she decided not to say metaphysics and so instead she said, “a doctor of ideas.”

“There are such doctors?” Valdez inquired.

“I’m afraid so,” she said.

“Please—can you tell me one?” the stranger asked.

“Tell you an idea, do you mean? Oh my—where to begin?”

“At the beginning perhaps?” he suggested.

She thought for a moment. Was this inquisitive stranger merely passing the time or was he seriously interested in her work? When introducing himself, he’d touched his hat, then tilted his head back to reveal his face. He was not attractive. His frame was short and his head was large and smallpox scars mottled his dark complexion. Still, he had a distinctive face with penetrating eyes, a broad nose, a fair mouth, and a neatly trimmed moustache.

How old? she asked herself. At least seventy, she guessed, so thirty years my senior. Is he flirting? What an idea—a man his age—and yet does a man ever outgrow such inclinations?

Despite his advanced years, Iris was flattered by his attention and she experienced an unexpected stirring of youthful passion. So, she considered him again, was more charitable this time, and pronounced him ruggedly handsome. His long sideburns were streaked with a patina of luminous silver. He was probably someone’s grandfather or maybe a mischievous uncle. Good speech, well-dressed, virtuous manners. He might be a professor himself.

“Do you know the axiom?” Iris ventured, probing the man’s understanding.

“Axiom?” he considered the word. “Ax—it is for the wood, no?”

She laughed and would have continued, but a Harvey Girl arrived with a tray of apples and sandwiches. Traveling has upset my clock, she thought, is it lunchtime already or is this meant to be supper?

The two passengers made their menu choices, whereupon Valdez insisted on paying for both meals and Iris accepted the gesture.

Valdez?

Iris had fallen into the habit of labeling others by their last name, a protocol from her professorial days.

Are my campus days behind me now, she wondered?

 

A moment later, the girl returned with drinks.

“No wine I see.” Valdez frowned as he examined the choices.

“Not in Kansas, sir. We’re dry here. Tea or coffee only, I’m afraid,” said the girl who was freckled and clean and twenty.

“A pity,” he removed his gloves and reached inside his jacket to extract a huge wallet. It was then that Iris noticed his right hand was missing the uppermost joints of two fingers. The girl noticed too. As Valdez paid and politely refused the change, he seemed to sense their interest, for he addressed an explanation to both women: “A hazard, I regret to say, of my profession. God be thanked, I still have my thumbs.”

As the girl departed, Valdez produced a knife and motioned for Iris’ apple. “If I may assist,” he said.

She handed it over and he balanced the crisp fruit in one hand as he used the knife to section it into fours and carve out the pips and stem. Completing this dexterous surgery, he handed the edible pieces back to Iris. Then he skillfully sliced his own apple, wiped the blade with his handkerchief, and folded the knife into his pocket.

It was a very sharp knife, Iris noticed.

 

 

Chapter 2

September 24, 1936

The Prairie

 

The train was running late and the day advanced as the two travelers ate in silence. Savoring her sandwich, Iris Hazelwood tried not to stare at the man sitting opposite her. For his part, Valdez devoured his meal, then turned to gaze at the passing prairie. There was little to see. She suspected he was being polite, patiently waiting for her to finish.

 

“Do you travel much this way?” asked Valdez after the girl had returned to collect the empty cups, apple cores, and crumbled rectangles of waxed paper. At least Iris had surrendered a crumpled sandwich wrapping. Valdez had neatly folded his into the shape of a butterfly which he presented to the beaming girl.

“I’ve only made this trip once,” Iris answered. “What I mean to say is only once in this direction. To be precise, I’m making a return trip. I’ve been away for twenty-five years.”

My god, she thought, has it been that long? Yes—my last trip was 1911—so twenty-five years then. How the time has flown.

 

Iris was young in 1911, younger than the freckle-faced Harvey Girl. All those years ago she’d been traveling east on her way to Kansas City, bound for college. Leaving Sharon Springs behind that day had been a thrilling journey—her first trip alone. Excited to be going, she’d been blissfully unaware that she’d be away so long. She’d meant to come back to the farm at every term break, but before she knew it, she’d spent four solid years at the university without a single visit home.

Why not?

Was she distracted by the exhilarating freedom of campus life? Did she object to the rural limitations of West Kansas? Iris was unable to recall the reasons she’d stayed away.

While at school she’d tried to maintain connections with home. She’d posted letters to Alice, but the old woman was an infrequent correspondent. There’d been even less contact with Iris’ brother who never answered. At last, when Alice’s letters ceased to come, Iris too stopped writing and the farm faded from her consciousness.

So that was how it went. She left the farm and went to university and then on to more study and an academic career in Arizona. Iris never returned to West Kansas and her brother Ham and their guardian Alice stayed behind.

Twenty-five years, and in all that time, Ham had never answered her letters. Then abruptly he’d written twice. The first letter had reached her a few months ago on the day she was scheduled to rehearse her role as philosophy faculty marshal for The University of Arizona’s graduation exercisesH. The envelope had arrived as a special delivery, coming to her doorstep in the early morning. Rushed for time, she’d slipped the letter into her jacket pocket and only found a moment to read it at noontime.

The message was brief. Ham had written two lines containing the unvarnished news that Alice, their elderly guardian, had died. Then a month later another letter arrived—this time a plea for his sister’s help.

Ham’s second letter sounded urgent and Iris wired back to say she would come. She made hasty arrangements and boarded the train. And, the instant she took her seat in the Pullman car at the Tucson station, she began to have doubts. So many doubts that, as the train pulled out, her mind overflowed with questions.

Why go back after more than two decades? Ham may be in need, but he’s a stranger to me. He writes that the farm has fallen on hard times, but it was never much of a farm to begin with and he’s never asked for my help before. Why go now? Do I miss my brother? Do I regret having stayed away so long?

She had to admit she did.

She should’ve gone back earlier—should’ve gone to Alice’s funeral—would have gone had she not been immersed in graduation. A train ticket was expensive and money was tight and Iris was lucky to hold a tenured position. How would it look if she dropped everything, abandoned her responsibilities, spent her meager reserves and hopped on a train to rush home to Kansas? How would it look to leave when she had obligations in the desert?

After all, Alice was not family.

Besides, even if Iris had gone to the funeral, what could she have done there? Crumple a fistful of dirt and sprinkle it on the old woman’s coffin? That was a meaningless ritual. Death was the ultimate axiom. It was the philosopher’s self-evident first principle, the most self-evident of all. The axiom of Death was irrefutable and final.

 

“Death,” Iris said aloud without meaning to.

Her fellow passenger was dozing, but Valdez seemed to hear her because he raised his head and picked up the thread of their earlier conversation.

“My niece. The death is my niece,” he said. “I am her—how do you say it—at her baptism?”

“Her god father,” offered Iris, still chagrined that she’d spoken indiscriminately.

Best not to shout ‘death’ at someone, she thought, let alone a casual traveling acquaintance.

“Si,” Valdez grinned. “God-father. That is the very word. She is—I mean to say she was—my sister’s youngest one. A sad death.”

“Sad,” agreed Iris.

“The same as you,” Valdez commented as he discreetly removed a thin flask from his suit pocket and tilted it toward Iris.

“No thank you,” she said. “And I don’t understand.”

“It is liquor. I apologize if I have given offense.”

“No, not at all. I understand the drink. I meant I misunderstood your comment regarding your niece—you said ‘the same’?”

“Ah. With your permission.” Iris nodded and Valdez took a sip, then replaced the flask. “I meant to say that your name it is the same as that of my niece, Avellano, you understand? You would say ‘hazel’ as with your last name.”

“A coincidence,” Iris smiled.

“Ah—but how is the saying? Perhaps as a doctor of ideas you have heard of it?” Valdez stared out the window at the passing prairie, his lips moving, his gloved hand tracing the air, apparently composing a sentence. After a moment, he turned to Iris and recited: “They say that, a coincidence—it is a miracle of which God desires to remain the anonymous author. Do I remember the saying correctly? Ah, I am sorry. I see you are in need of resting.”

Despite her efforts to remain attentive, Iris was beginning to nod. “Yes, thank you. I am feeling quite tired, I’m afraid.”

“You must sleep,” he smiled. “I will stand the guard.”

“Obliged,” Iris mumbled as slumber overtook her.

 

When she awoke, the seat across from her was unoccupied. Valdez was gone and the long summer day was dissolving into dusk. Instinctively, she glanced over her shoulder, but the Pullman car was empty.

She felt the weight of that emptiness. It seemed to press upon her, as if her world began and ended with the dimensions of the vacant railway car. The darkening prairie outside was absolutely blank. She sensed she was in motion, but the impression was indistinct. The swaying car suggested there was a locomotive somewhere ahead and there should be a caboose following behind, but there was no way to know for certain. She took it on faith that she was on a train, on the prairie, in Kansas. She tried to remain alert, but the rhythm of the train captured her and she closed her eyes again.

 

An hour later, she imagined herself awake, but knew she was dreaming. In her dream, she seemed to glance out the Pullman window and see a large wolf standing unexpectedly close to the rails. The animal’s gray head was down, but it raised its snout and looked directly at her before its outline was lost in a fleeting blur of passing prairie. She had seen that look before.

“Valdez?” she seemed to ask.

Iris stirred in her sleep, striving to wake but unable, as is the way of dreams, to open her eyes. At last, she surrendered to her dream and was transported back to her campus where she seemed to be regaling her students with an academic lecture.

 

“Valdez is a mysterious figure and a wolf is a powerful omen,” she told her freshman who had just embarked upon their study of metaphysics. “Taken together, the man and the animal are messengers. Seeing a wolf—real or imagined—offers a glimpse of the future, but the sighting can foreshadow vastly different fortunes. The same wolf can symbolize protection or danger and predict anything from the acquisition of wisdom to a descent into chaos. Are there any questions?”

In her dream, a young man raised his hand and asked precisely what she imagined he would ask: “Will this be on the test?”

 

When she heard the conductor announce the next stop, Iris awoke and stretched luxuriously. She’d been dreading a return to her girlhood home—a return to Kansas to face her past—but Valdez and the wolf had altered her perspective. The past had vanished. She would look to the future. She’d traveled far, but this was not the end. Sharon Springs was merely a destination. Her journey was yet to come and it would begin the moment she stepped off the evening train.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

September 24, 1936

Sharon Springs, Kansas

 

The merchants of Sharon Springs stood in their doorways facing the street. They had no customers. It was well past closing time. But another rumor was circulating, so everyone stayed put and stayed open—just in case.

Every merchant on Front Street grabbed a broom, stepped onto the twilight sidewalk, and pretended to sweep. Their movements were so identical, they might have been choreographed. The sun had set, but it was still hot as blazes, everyone said so, and dust hung in the air. West Kansas needed rain, but there was no sign of it. The cloudless sky stretched tight from horizon to horizon, pale like wax and empty as a pocket.

The merchants swept in slow disinterested circles, nodding to townsfolk who loitered on the sidewalks. Every shop on Front Street offered an unobstructed view of the depot. In both directions along the tracks merchants were outside their shops, sweeping, surrounded by milling knots of townsfolk. No one spoke. No one shopped. No one could afford to. Those twin plagues, the Dust Bowl and the Depression, had hit Kansas hard, leaving the people and merchants of Sharon Springs with little to do.

And so—in obedience to the latest rumor—everyone had congregated on the sidewalks and watched the sunset, but they’d also kept one hopeful eye on the depot. Though unspoken, everyone undoubtedly shared the same thought. Everyone anticipated the arrival of tonight’s evening train and each one prayed, after their own fashion, that the rumors were true.

As the darkness grew, the proprietor of Mumford’s Emporium stopped sweeping and glanced toward the courthouse tower. He leaned his broom against the dusty wall, pulled out his pocket watch and wound it, then put the watch away and listened. The courthouse clock hadn’t worked for years—not since April. Not since Black Sunday when a towering dust storm roiled across the prairie, blotted out the sun, and fouled the clockworks. But Holy Ghost was nearby and Mumford knew the Catholic chimes could be relied upon to strike the hour.

So, he listened.

Eight whole notes sounded, then the quarter hour.

As usual, he thought, the cross-state train is off schedule. Too many cows on the tracks. Too many dawdling passengers holding up progress as they gather up children and luggage and handbags and lunch pails. A bit more organization and a lot less—

As if to interrupt his unspoken critique, a locomotive whistle moaned in the far distance and stoic men and women—pious people—practical people not given to public display—gasped and took a step toward the depot. Their faces were wreathed in anxious smiles and their voices chattered in anticipation of “the great day” having come at last when the next trainload of Mountain workers would pull into town. An infusion of replacement supplies and fresh workers was just what the town needed. Supplies meant more work was scheduled at the Mountain and that meant paychecks and paychecks meant strangers with money to spend.

Twenty minutes later, the evening train lumbered into the station. Bell sounding, wheels and pistons churning, brakes groaning, the locomotive glided to a stop. Couplings clattered as each trailing car halted. Then steam billowed into the darkening sky and there was a moment of hesitation as the crowd realized that the much-anticipated throng of workers was not onboard. Nor, judging by the dearth of freight cars, was the train delivering any appreciable quantity of supplies.

In fact, as crest-fallen residents stared at the lone passenger car, they expelled an audible sigh. Despite their hopes, only a single passenger detrained—a stranger to be sure, but scarcely the harbinger townsfolk expected. Mumford retrieved his broom and debated whether to cross over to help the stranger with her luggage, but he decided that surely someone would be coming to meet such a well-dressed woman. So, he turned away, rolled up his awning, and locked up for the night.

His fellow merchants followed suit as they folded up sidewalk signs, collapsed awnings, and bolted their doors. Townsfolk dispersed, shaking their heads, and drifted away. The devout went to church. The rest went home.

Within minutes of the train’s belated arrival, downtown Sharon Springs was deserted.

 

The train pulled out. An hour passed and no one came to collect the stranger so she sat on her trunk, rolled up her sleeves, and ate an apple. Iris Hazelwood, Ph.D., had arrived, but there was no sign of her brother and she was beginning to think her decision to return to this backwater town had been a mistake.

 

Iris must have dozed because the blare of the automobile horn startled her. It was pitch dark and an old Hudson sedan idled roughly alongside the depot. She could see its distinctive hood beyond the platform. Most of the vehicle was unseen, but its headlamps illuminated the empty rails and reflected in the windows of the shops beyond the tracks.

Iris stood up and waited, but no one came.

If that horn honks again— she frowned.

But, before she could finish the thought, a young man emerged from the Hudson, hurried across the platform, and extended his hand.

“Sorry fer bein’ late,” he apologized. “You’d be Dr. Hazelwood.”

“Yes,” she said. She was bone-tired. Three trains, three days plus three hours of extra waiting at the depot had tuckered her out. “And it’s Iris—Iris Hazelwood.”

They shook hands. The boy introduced himself as Billy, then he stood stark still, apparently waiting for orders.

Now what, Iris wondered. “Shouldn’t we—?” she began aloud.

“I gotta say I’m so, so sorry, ma’am,” said Billy. “You see there was a mix-up in the time—we’re in the Mountain Zone you know. Any-ways—welcome home.”

They shook hands again and the boy re-introduced himself as hired hand on her brother’s farm. They shook hands a third time, then he hoisted her suitcases and dipped his shoulder toward the car. “This way, ma’am, if you please. The Mister’ll be along with the truck directly fer your trunk.”

Iris looked doubtfully about. Surely leaving the trunk here, unattended in the dark would be a mistake.

Billy followed her gaze, “It’ll be fine. Too big to steal, I reckon. This way. I’ll take you to the farm.”

“Nevertheless—” Iris began, but the energetic boy was half-way to the automobile.

Billy stowed the luggage, put the automobile in gear, and steered toward the street. As they wheeled through the deserted town, Iris smiled. Despite her exhaustion it tickled her to think that this boy—he couldn’t be more than fourteen—was allowed to operate a motor vehicle.

“Have you been driving long?” she asked.

“This rig?” answered Billy. “Not much. Drove tractors mostly but now our spread is gone—” his voice trailed off.

After decades of no contact, her brother Ham had written to Iris about his ‘troubles.’ Most of the ancestral farm had been auctioned off and little was left except the house and barn and a narrow strip of field.

According to Ham, the Mountain Project had taken the rest.

Ham’s letters had come as a surprise. First came news of Alice, then came her brother’s entreaty that she return home. Ordinarily, she’d have resisted, but her job in Arizona had grown stale and, it so happened that she was absolutely free to travel. So, she’d ridden three days on the train to see what could be done. It was, she’d decided, what a big sister ought to do and she’d smiled to think that her cantankerous baby brother might actually need her.

 

Years ago, when a much younger Iris was on her way to college, a buggy had come to the farm to collect her for the train. A weeping Alice had prepared a basket of treats to sustain her charge and made an unholy fuss over Iris. In contrast, Ham had merely leaned against the fence, his arms folded across his skinny twelve-year old chest, his demeanor broadcasting indifference, his gaze focused somewhere in the distance, refusing to acknowledge that his sister was leaving, refusing to wave goodbye. She smiled at the memory.

 

While he drove, Billy glanced at his passenger. Without warning, he’d received urgent orders to “pick up the Doctor at the station,” so naturally the boy had been expecting a male. But Billy was no fool and, the moment he turned off the ignition and saw her waiting at the depot, he had two thoughts: he realized she must be his passenger and he regretted honking his horn. It may be alright to summon a man in that crude way, but never a lady—and this woman was definitely a lady. He managed to steal three glances at her as they weaved through the town’s empty streets and each time he did, he found her smiling and he decided that he liked her.

“Are you a native?” Iris asked.

“No ma’am, I’m a Colorado trans-plant,” answered Billy, hoping he had used that unfamiliar term correctly.

“Where in Colorado?” she asked.

“Greeley.”

“I know it well. Named after the newspaper man,” Iris recalled.

“Yes ma’am. Horace Greeley—same as the next county down from us used to be.”

“An influential fellow.”

“Yes ma’am,” Billy agreed.

“But why do you say the county south of here ‘used to be’ Greeley County?” Iris was curious.

“No more Greeley County, ma’am. All Mountain County now. Since the Project.”

“I see,” said Iris thoughtfully, “A result of someone else’s influence no doubt.”

“The Old Man’s doin’ I reckon,” Billy said.

 

The two rode in silence for a time. Iris let the conversation drop and Billy, whom she sensed was capable of sincere empathy, didn’t press her. She closed her eyes and grew thoughtful. The family farm was twelve miles outside Sharon Springs on Water Crest Hill but, even in the dark with her eyes closed, the way felt familiar to her. For better or worse, she was coming home.

 

When they reached the farm, Billy carried her bags inside and offered to take them upstairs, but Iris insisted she could manage. “Goodnight, Billy, and thank you,” she said as she placed a gloved hand on the banister.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Billy. “Yer key.”

“Oh, will I need a house key?” Iris asked.

“Fer the Hudson I mean.”

“The Hudson—?” Iris did not understand.

“It’s to be the doctor’s automobile, the Mister says.”

“Oh, surely not.”

“Yes ma’am. It’s yers to keep.”

“Just as you say.” She accepted the key. “Good night then.”

“Good night, ma’am.”

Iris ascended the stairs. Her brother had written to say that her old room on the second floor would be ready. She shuddered to think what “ready” meant to her careless brother. But she reached for the light switch and was pleasantly surprised to find the room spotlessly clean and much as she had left it more than two decades ago. She glanced approvingly at the roomy bed with one of their mother’s quilts in place, the four-tiered chest of drawers, the mirrored dressing table, and small walk-in closet with a narrow door beside it. Hoping fervently, she turned the knob and discovered a full bathroom complete with sink, commode, and claw-footed bathtub.

“Heavenly,” Iris sighed as she turned on the taps and filled the tub with steaming water. She’d been dreading what she might encounter in the wilds of West Kansas. When she left the farm all those years ago, this room held only a wooden stand with a wash basin and pitcher. There was no indoor plumbing then, so things were definitely looking up. Only one day back home and already she was in possession of her own automobile and this luxurious room. Apparently, her brother planned to accommodate her in a manner to which she could rapidly become accustomed. After a leisurely bath, she toweled off, slipped into her nightgown, and lay down—only to sit bolt upright again with thoughts of her trunk. She sighed and closed her eyes—certain her anxiety would keep her awake.

But moments later, she fell instantly asleep.

 

The evening train lurched and Iris Hazelwood opened her eyes. It was not a station stop, just another of those mysterious bumps familiar to regular railway passengers.

 

 

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.01.2023

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