A middle-aged woman, late forties perhaps, in a long, gray silk dress sat on a worn bench in an old train station. Her dress was topped by a dark, fuzzy, mohair sweater that belied the late afternoon heat, and from the side, she appeared to be broadly and fixedly smiling, her thin lips pressed upward toward the crown of her graying head. Head-on, she presented a strongly different aspect. The side-glance smile was really a tight-lipped grimace, which emphasized the visible pulse of her temples. She sat with her hands on her purse and her purse in her lap, and occasionally let go of a prolonged sigh.
A few customers stood at the counter, waiting for the absent clerk. Though it was 1951, the station’s dark, mottled furniture and tarnished fittings gave the scene a frozen air of antiquity. When the door opened from the outside with a sharp squeak and a man hurriedly walked in, the station’s occupants turned in unison. The man glanced at all corners of the station with quick jerks of his head, spun on his heels, turned back to the door and then back again to the room, and finally sat on an empty bench directly ahead of the woman.
He appeared in his late thirties, tall and solid, with black hair close-cropped. He wore an odd pair of glasses made of thin, copper-colored metal tubing, and he had several days of stubble on his chin. Next to him, on the bench, he arranged an old backpack and an older brown leather satchel reminiscent of a doctor’s bag from the turn of the century.
The man sat on the bench for a moment, fidgeted, started to get up and then settled back down. He turned his head sideways and said in a soft but deep voice, "Got something in my bag I’m not supposed to have on the train. Guess I’m not really supposed to be on the train neither, but that’s just details. There’s a right time and a wrong time, and then there’s my time."
The woman shifted in her seat, sighed, and touched her suitcase, a large leather-sided bag accented with green brocade. She looked at the man, and then toward the counter where the clerk had yet to appear. She looked toward the bathroom, leaned forward a bit, and then with an audible sigh, sat back slowly against the bench.
His head still cocked sideways, the man looked up at the ceiling, stained with water damage and time. He pursed his lips forward and made a small smacking sound and said, “It’s not like it’s a riddle, and it’s not like it’s a mystery, neither. It’s sorta’ more like a complexity.”
The woman pulled her purse close to her chest and leaned forward. “Sir, it’s absolutely none of my business what’s in your bag, and it’s absolutely none of your business to bring it to my attention.” Her voice was firm, but it had a fatigue in it, a falling away.
The man swung completely around on the bench, bringing the satchel up on the bench’s back, clinching its two handles with a veiny hand.
“Not a matter of business, yours or mine. ’S not a matter of what’s right or what’s wrong, neither. More a matter of what’s what.” He shrugged his shoulders, face impassive. “Not trying to force you to take a look. Just saying that one look might open your eyes, that’s all. Eyes are meant for opening."
He shifted around and faced forward again, the satchel in his lap.
The woman settled the sweater about her shoulders, sighed, and looked at her watch. She rose, jaw set, and walked to the edge of the man’s bench, facing him. She pointed to his bag and said, “Where my eyes choose to light is solely my choice, and I don’t choose to muddle about in other people’s baggage.” She looked him up and down and shook her head. “Sir, I am midway between calling the stationmaster and calling the police. I’m uncomfortable enough waiting for my connection in this little backwoods station without your interference.” She stiffened her neck and head. “I’m not one to sit still while strangers accost me.”
The man faced around to her. “Not trying to be impolite ma’am, but you could call General George Armstrong Custer back from the cold ground and I’d ask him to share some lemonade. Just trying to make some conversation.” He rubbed his knuckles rapidly under his chin and narrowed his eyes at the woman. “That’s about all I got, besides what’s in these bags. I do agree there’s been a cost though, that’s a fact.”
She moved close enough to the man to see that his eyes were sharply bloodshot, the skin below puffy and chapped. In a quiet, deliberate voice she said, “There is no point in bandying about riddles with me, sir. I’m in no mood, no mood at all. This may look like a public place, but I’m a very private person, and I won’t sacrifice that privacy on the altar of mere courtesy.” She gathered the loose sweater around her once more and stepped wearily to the counter, where the clerk had just returned to his post. “I want to speak to the stationmaster, to lodge a complaint against that gentleman on the bench with the two bags. I believe he may be carrying something dangerous in that woeful satchel of his.”
The clerk, a wizened man with a prominent Adam’s apple, scratched his head and looked at the man with the bags, who now held the attention of all the station occupants.
The man on the bench shrugged and raised his outstretched hands into the air. “The lady’s drivin’ up the road without checkin’ her maps. There’s no problem here with me or my bags. I’m just waiting to get on the train and go, and jawin’ a bit in the meantime. I’ll not trouble the good woman again.”
He stood up, stretched, and did an ornamental little bow in the direction of the distressed woman.
She turned back to the clerk and was about to speak when the clerk came from around the counter and approached the man on the bench.
“I’m sorry, sir, and I surely don’t mean to inconvenience you, but I can’t have the passengers alarmed or upset. Would you mind opening your bag so we can all see that there aren’t any problems?”
The man on the bench brought his lips up in a flat, small smile, looked at the station’s pocked ceiling and then flattened his hands on his knees. “Oh, you can bet there’s problems. That’s a bet that rides a winning horse. But this particular bag isn’t where those problems breathe. I just wanted to knock up against the lady’s curiosity, nothin’ more than that.” He took a sharp intake of breath, then looked at the woman. “Like to tell, there’s just about the barest bit of nothing in this bag, which just about sums up what I got left. Sure, what the devil, everybody should take a look. What else could happen?” He motioned to the old satchel with his hand.
The clerk stepped forward to the edge of the bench. He looked at the man, took a breath, and then pulled apart the bag’s two handles. In the bag, sleeping on a faded old towel, he saw a small kitten.
The light from opening the bag woke the kitten, which arched its back high into the air on its wobbly legs and then settled back onto the towel. It had a lot of motley orange, gray, white and black in its markings, but its head was almost entirely white, save for a square patch of black that perfectly outlined one of its eyes. The fur on the ridge of the kitten’s back was raggedly cut, and looked in places to have been singed.
“General Sherman,” said the man. “Meet your new friends. The General’s name was Beauregard before last week’s accident, but in light of that matter, he’s been retagged.” The man gave the kitten’s head an awkward stroke, which the kitten acknowledged by rising and resettling onto his towel.
“Well!” said the clerk. “I’ve been here since ’41, and in all my ten years I’ve never seen a kitten sleeping in a suitcase.” He turned to the kitten’s owner. “Why, I know you! You’re Zeb Sander’s boy. Riley, isn’t it? I heard about the accident.” He looked at the ground and muttered, “Terrible, terrible thing.”
Upon hearing of the accident, the woman moved in closer. She shook her head, but then became mesmerized by the animal. She stretched her hand toward it, then looked up at Sanders.
“Mr. Sanders, I know it’s none of my business, but this kitten looks like it hasn’t eaten in a week. Did you bring any food along for it?”
Sanders cocked his head to the side and looked from the woman to the kitten and then back again. “Well, I haven’t spent a great deal of time in my life kitten-tending, and that’s a fact. That kitten’s mama burnt up in a fire not a week ago, the same fire that burnt my mama and papa up, the fire that burnt up pretty much everything I had.” He looked at the kitten. “Between the two of us, this kitten’s been doing most of the eating since then, even though it’s mostly been scrambled eggs I been feeding him. He likes ’em, though.”
The woman gave a quick gasp and then reached into the satchel. She pulled the kitten out and brought it against her chest. The cat woke for a moment, settled into the dark fuzz of the woman’s sweater, and then went back to sleep. The woman nuzzled the kitten’s head with her chin.
“Mr. Sanders, my name is Mrs. Ellen Canterbury, and I’m very sorry to hear of your loss. But even in sad times, you’ve got to look out for the living. You simply must run to the store and purchase some kitten food before you get on the train. Kittens have very specific dietary needs.”
Sanders started to speak, but the clerk stepped toward both of them and raised his hand.
“Riley, I’d like to get you and that cat where you need to go, but there’s just no way I can allow you on the train. We’ve got specific regulations about animals in the cars, and without a proper carrier, he can’t ride in the baggage car, either. I’m sorry, but these are the rules.”
Sanders laughed. “Mister, I don’t give two kicks at a copperhead about rules. My parents’ house was burnt to the ground not five mile from where we stand, and I’ve been trying to put out that fire with a quart of whiskey every day since.” He scratched his head. “Today’s the first day I’ve had coffee with my breakfast.”
He looked to the sidewalk outside the station window, and then continued.
“My daddy was just a dirt farmer, and not a particularly educated man. My mama didn’t pretend to be any better. That fire took my parents, and then I let the whiskey take my job, and pretty much everything else. That kitten is about the only thing left in the situation that has any life to it.” He took off the odd glasses and ran his hand through his hair. Then he looked at the kitten in the woman’s arms. “I’m gonna deliver that kitten to my sister in West Blighton. She’s to take care of it, even if she doesn’t want it. And then I’m clearing out, God knows where. I’m not gonna stick around to help; things are past help now. And the holes in my pockets have holes in them, so I can’t be buying any cat carrier.”
He stepped forward and took the sleeping kitten from the woman’s arms, set it back on the towel. It groggily extended its limbs and then plopped down, asleep in an instant. The woman stared at the kitten for a moment and then looked up at Sanders.
“Mr. Sanders, I’m not in the habit of pushing my way into people’s lives, but you seem to be at an impasse here. I can’t allow the price of a cat carrier to deepen your misfortune.” She moved to her bench and picked up her purse. “Will you please accept the cost of a carrier and some kitten litter and food so that this creature’s needs are taken care of? If that’s all that stands between this kitten and your sister’s care, let’s just seize the situation now.”
Sanders chuckled, and then looked closely at Mrs. Canterbury. “Well, I don’t truck much with strangers’ charity, but you seem all right. Sure, as long as the rent stays the same, General Sherman doesn’t mind a new hotel room. And he’s probably a mite tired of scrambled eggs by now anyway.” He extended a long-fingered palm to the woman and said, “Just fill this with some green, and I’ll bring back the new cat tote, litter, and some kitty vittles, double-time.”
The woman pursed her lips forward and then nodded. “Very well. The train is leaving in less than fifteen minutes, so you must be quick. I’ll bring the kitten into my compartment, number fifteen. Bring the carrier and the food there and we can make sure this creature is comfortable.” She rummaged in her purse and thrust some bills at Sanders.
Sanders grabbed the bills and left, taking his backpack, but leaving the satchel and kitten behind. The clerk watched him leave, and then turned to Mrs. Canterbury.
“There’s just about enough time for him to make it to the general store and back, and I do think he’s coming back. I’ll let you board with that cat, but if he’s not back with that carrier in time, I’m going to have to take that cat off the train.”
Mrs. Canterbury was staring absorbedly at the kitten. She didn’t appear to have heard the clerk. Then she straightened her head with a start and looked up at him. “That’s fine. At least the kitten will have something besides that man’s cooking to sustain him. They can always catch the next train. Could you please have a porter take my bag?” She picked up the kitten and hugged it to her chest. It woke and began to play with the threads of her fuzzy sweater. It looks so much like Giacometti, she thought. Then her husband’s face pierced her memory and the corners of her mouth drifted down. She smiled wanly at the kitten and moved toward the train.
Moments after the final boarding call, Mrs. Canterbury heard a soft knock at her compartment door. Sanders opened the door and stepped in, holding the carrier, several cans of cat food and his satchel, with his backpack over his shoulder. Mrs. Canterbury was sitting on one of the padded compartment benches with the kitten on her lap.
“Well,” he said, “we best pop that animal in the carrier and be done with it. Don’t want him getting used to lounging about in train cars.” He set the carrier on the floor, opened its top, and then cut into one of the cat food cans with a large folding knife pulled from his pocket. He poured some food into the bottom of the carrier.
Mrs. Canterbury sat fully upright. “Wait, Mr. Sanders. Surely we can allow this little kitten a chance to adjust to its surroundings, and to eat without being caged.” She picked up one of the cat food cans. “Is this the only brand of food that store carries? Thank goodness I don’t have to shop in this part of the state. It’s likely there are more vitamins in the label than in the food.” She shook her head and frowned. “He’ll have to have some water as well.” She stood, stepped into the tiny compartment restroom and returned with a dish filled with water and a small piece of cardboard. She set the dish on the cardboard next to the carrier.
“Lady, that cat could live on grasshoppers and June bugs. It doesn’t need any laboratory gumball to decide how many vitamins it needs. It’s a cat, I bought it cat food.” He raised his hands and shrugged. “Situation’s really not all that complicated.”
As he spoke, the train pulled out, the car vibrating with the deep thrumming of the diesel engine. He glanced at the kitten and then back at the woman.
“We might not have any lacy-edged universities in this part of the state, but we do know how to keep our pets alive.” With his knife, he scooped some cat food from the can and onto the piece of cardboard. The kitten bounced over and began heartily chewing on the food. “Besides,” he said, “with all those mangy kids and other animals at my sister’s house, she might end up feeding this cat licorice, for all I know. She wasn’t altogether keen on getting the beast regardless.”
Mrs. Canterbury stared at the food on the cardboard, her lips drawn back, nostrils flaring. “Mr. Sanders, you and I have very different ideas about nutrition. In fact, you and I probably have different ideas about a great many things. I’ll secure a more appropriate dish for the kitten’s food later.” She sat back against the bench and looked for a moment at the kitten. Then her tone softened. “It’s eleven hours to Coolwater from here, my final destination. Would you be so kind as to allow the kitten to stay in my compartment until then? He could keep me company.”
Sanders squatted on the floor next to the kitten and watched it eat. “Yep, if I had the choice between me and this kitten for company, I’d lean toward the cat every time. Sure, you two have yourself a shindig. I’ll check back on the General a little further down the line.” He stood to leave, but at the door he turned back. “Say, even though I’ve traveled around here all my life, I never shuffled my shoes through Coolwater. I hear tell it’s beautiful.”
Mrs. Canterbury kept her eyes on the feeding kitten. “Yes, I’ve only been there once myself, a long time ago. Indeed, it was beautiful. Many things back then were beautiful.” She continued to stare at the kitten, her shoulders slumping slightly.
“Cool water,” he said. “That’s something my folks could have used a lot of. Well, I’ll look in on the General later.” He left the compartment and shut the door.
The woman petted the kitten while it finished up the last of the food. Then she stood, and looked at her face in the bathroom mirror. It was now streaming with tears. “Coolwater,” she said, her face wincing as though she had a sharp pain.
The sun was setting, and a line of carmine light glanced off the wall of the compartment, thrown through the gap where the pulled shade met the sill of the narrow window. Mrs. Canterbury rose and pulled up the shade, revealing distant clay-colored hills across a broad valley. “One more night,” she said into the sunset. “One more night and that man will know the pain he’s caused.”
She was weeping in earnest now, though she did it silently, her jaw taut and her lips clasped. She brought her suitcase down from the overhead rack, set it on the small bed and opened it. It was filled with articles of clothing and some smaller dressing room cases. She slipped her hand to the bottom of the suitcase and withdrew a small, red satin bag, tied at the neck with a gold drawstring. She loosened the string and withdrew, by the barrel, an ornate silver revolver. The barrel, cylinder and trigger guard were nickel, beautifully filigreed with abstract designs. The grips were ivory, also highly tooled by an engraver’s art.
She laid the revolver on the bed and kneeled on the floor of the compartment, lightly holding it in her hands. She stared dully at the gun, no longer crying, her face lightly streaked with mascara from her tears. The gun’s weight in her hand prompted the memory of its cool barrel held against her temple, positioned and repositioned. Could it really be that easy, she thought?
She sat in reverie for a long while, then started when she heard a knock at the door. She looked wildly around, then thrust the gun and its bag under the bed pillow. “Yes, who is it, please?”
“It’s Riley Sanders, ma’am. I just wanted to make sure that General Sherman wasn’t rubbin’ you the wrong way. He can be a bit of a cross to bear at times, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes. I mean, no. He’s been quite calm. He’s fine, just fine.” She stood from the bed and looked around the room, searched the inside of the cat carrier and then under the bed. “Actually, I took my eyes off him for a moment, and he must have hidden himself somewhere. Why don’t you check back in a little while after I’ve located him?” Even though she was alone in the room, she felt a flush on her face, embarrassed that she hadn’t kept her eye on the cat.
The voice from behind the door came a little louder. “Mrs. Canterbury, I recognize that you’ve got yourself a prettified palace of a train car there, but it’s really no bigger than a glorified privy. A lost cat in there is pretty much like losing your hand because it went into a glove.”
She heard a cough and the noise of his hand on the door handle.
Sanders spoke rapidly behind the door, his voice betraying his impatience. “Now, that cat’s just about the only thing that survived at my parent’s house, and I’m going to see to it that it gets to my sister with its tail still attached. Do you mind letting me in to give you a hand?”
“Yes, I do,” she said with a brief flash of panic, thinking the cat might have been injured, or worse. She moved into the bathroom and looked into the tiny shower stall, but saw nothing. She stepped back into the compartment, then walked to the door. “I do mind, Mr. Sanders, but perhaps the situation justifies your entrance. My privacy wasn’t proving to be too entertaining regardless.”
Mrs. Canterbury opened the door, and when Sanders walked in the kitten came immediately out from under the bed and started playing with his shoelace.
“Just like Atlanta, General,” he said, picking up the kitten and holding it at arms length. “You just attack, and take no quarter. Well, Mrs. Canterbury, here’s one lost soul that’s come back to the fold. He’s a trickster, he is.”
Mrs. Canterbury sat down on the bed and looked at the floor. “I’ll only say it once, but I did look under that bed. I guess I just wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” She didn’t want to look at Sander’s face. Her primary thought was to remain in control, at least until she could be alone again.
Sanders set the kitten on the bed next to her. “The only body here that looks alarmed is you, madam. And I do think you have a tiny problem with your makeup. Or maybe I’m just not acquainted with the latest European styles.”
She frowned and stood to look in the bathroom mirror. “Mr. Sanders,” she said, tissuing off the smeared mascara. “I can only assume that you haven’t had much experience with women, but I must say that you surprise me with the boldness of your remarks. You happened to have caught me in the midst of removing my makeup, which is why I had taken my eyes off the kitten.”
While she spoke, the kitten pawed at the drawstring of the gun bag, which had remained exposed after Mrs. Canterbury hurriedly thrust it under the bedding. The cat continued to pull at the bag until it was halfway out from under the pillow.
“Well, are those the pajamas that the good woman is providing for you, General? They appear to be silks from China, or at least not from Sears.” He pulled the bag from under the pillow and the gun’s barrel caught the light. He picked up the gun and whistled a long, appreciative note, then looked into the cylinder and set the gun down on the bed. He put the kitten on the floor with the bag.
Mrs. Canterbury had just turned from the bathroom and entered the main compartment when she saw what the cat had revealed. Her mind went blank when Sanders held up the gun. Her stomach plunged, her jaw clenched, her face tingled with a mix of shame and anger. Now she faced him as he spoke.
“Mrs. Canterbury, I have to say you’re a surprise and a half. You just don’t look the squirrel hunting type. Never would I figure you for a gun-toting gal. And what a beauty it is! But under your pillow? And loaded?” He picked up the gun again and examined it closely. “This thing looks like its a hundred years old, even if it is in perfect shape. What were you going to do with it, rob the train?”
Mrs. Canterbury stood in the doorway of the bathroom, her face flushed, her hands grasped tightly together. In a low, constricted voice, she replied, “Mr. Sanders, a woman traveling alone must be careful. Actually, I was just verifying the gun’s location in my suitcase when you knocked, and I slid it under the pillow because I didn’t want to frighten you.”
Sanders laughed. “Well, I’ve seen a few guns in my time, so there wouldn’t have been much knee-wobblin’ on my part. But where did you get a prize like this?”
Mrs. Canterbury sat on the edge of the bed, her face severe. “It is, or was, my husband’s gun. He is a lifelong collector of antique firearms, and this is the prize of his collection. It’s a specially made 1847 Colt, .44 caliber, one of a kind. It’s only been fired once, just to test its capability. It’s very, very valuable.”
He brushed the gun’s grip and looked at her. “I’m surprised your husband let you take such a thing along on your trip. Couldn’t he have given you a nice, modern pistol, suitable for a lady?”
She grimaced. “At this moment, my husband doesn’t know it’s missing. For that matter, my husband barely knows I’m missing, and wouldn’t much care that I am. I won’t trouble you with the details, Mr. Sanders, but let’s just say that my marriage isn’t what it used to be.”
She retrieved the gun and set it back in the suitcase under her clothing. Then she sat on the room’s only chair and shuddered. The two of them sat in silence, the only sound the kitten’s batting at the bag’s string on the floor and the steady clatter of the train’s steel wheels.
Sanders rose to his feet. “Well, I really should leave you and the General alone, since this is your last night together. Good evening, ma’am.” He moved to the door and was extending his hand toward the knob when there was a knock. A soft voice announced, “Mrs. Canterbury, your meal is here.”
Mrs. Canterbury stepped around Sanders to the door and opened it, where a white-coated porter stood holding a silver tray with several covered dishes and a bottle of red wine. He brought the tray in and set it on a small folding table against the wall, opposite the bed. She thanked him, gave him a tip and he left.
Sanders stood off to the side, then began to move back to the door when Mrs. Canterbury spoke.
“Mr. Sanders, we haven’t been particularly friendly toward each other since we’ve met, but you have shown me the courtesy of loaning me your nice kitten, and I’d like to return the favor. Would you please stay and have a glass of wine? It’s a vintage Bordeaux that I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”
Sanders smiled. “Mrs. Canterbury, I wouldn’t know a Bordeaux from bread dough, but I wouldn’t mind a glass of red. My daddy used to make a little wine at our place, though some batches smelled like a goat’s behind, pardon my saying so. Always tasted pretty peppy, though.”
She inhaled and began to speak, but thought better of it. Is this one of those cosmic jokes, she thought, spending a last night with some moonshiner’s son, a thousand miles from home? She positioned the table between the chair and the bed and then gestured to the chair with an open hand.
Sanders sat.
She retrieved a drinking glass from the bathroom, set it in front of Sanders, and filled it halfway with the rich red wine. She filled her own glass on the tray and sat back on the bed.
Sanders raised his glass. “Here’s to the future. I don’t think it’ll be worth a good goddamn, excuse me, but here’s to it anyway.” He looked expectantly at Mrs. Canterbury.
She didn’t pick up her glass. With an audible intake of breath, she looked quickly away. The future is no deeper than this glass, she thought. Then she looked up to the window, but the night’s darkness only reflected the room lights. She looked at the kitten on the floor and murmured softly, “He looks so much like Giacometti, it’s uncanny. But Giacometti had a black head and a white eye. He’s so much like him though.” She reached down to the floor and softly touched the kitten’s head.
Sanders took a drink from the glass he’d been holding for the toast. “So, the General looks like a cat of yours, does he? Jocko something? He probably doesn’t have the General’s ambition, though.”
Mrs. Canterbury looked up at Sanders, eyes reddening. “No,” she said. “He has no ambition at all. My husband backed over him with the Studebaker about three weeks ago. He hardly said a word about it, just a quick apology. I loved that kitten.” She took a sip of the wine, held the glass to the light, and then took a long draught. She set the glass down again. “The irony of my husband leaving me less than a day after he killed Giacometti wasn’t lost on me. He’s always had a fine sense of timing.”
Sanders set his own glass down and looked at Mrs. Canterbury. “Your husband sounds like one Class-A peckerhead. You’re better off without him. In fact, let’s toast to that. To a horse’s ass husband, missing in action.” He raised his glass again into the air.
She shook her head and then gave a wan smile. “Indeed. To lost husbands and lost lives.” She looked quickly at Sanders and, without drinking, set her glass down. “I don’t mean to sound flippant, Mr. Sanders. You’ve had your own share of recent tragedy.”
Sanders drank deeply, then set his glass down and looked at its place on the table. “Yep, you said it. My folks deserved better. They deserved a better son, at least one that wasn’t dead drunk while their house was burning down. And they deserved a better end. Whoever said people get what they deserve was one dumb cluck.”
The kitten began climbing up Sander’s leg, gripping his pants with its small claws. Sanders grasped it behind the neck and set it on his lap.
“So, General, what do you deserve? Do you deserve to go to Aileen’s, where she’ll probably forget to feed you, or where one of her idiot kids will put you in the Frigidaire? No, you deserve better, but I’m afraid we often just don’t have a choice.” He shrugged his shoulders and stroked the cat, which shut its eyes and rolled its head in appreciation.
“Mr. Sanders, surely you don’t mean to leave that kitten in the hands of people who won’t care for him. You seem fond of him. Can’t you see it in your heart to keep him with you until you settle down?”
“Oh, he’s not a bad sort,” Sanders said, continuing to stroke the cat. “But every time I look at him I just think of my folks, and those are heavy thoughts. I’m traveling light. I can’t see keeping him. I don’t even know which wind is going to blow me whichaways. No, this cat’ll have to take his chances with my sister.” He looked up at Mrs. Canterbury and smiled. “Unless, of course, you want to take him.”
Mrs. Canterbury drew back and clutched at the neck of her sweater. “Well, I can’t! I have to go to Coolwater. I mean, I must go to Coolwater. Excuse me for a moment.” She stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, then threw some water on her face. Mr. Sanders should know that none of us are here on vacation, she thought. She dried her face and gave herself a long look in the mirror. Then she returned to the table and sat down.
“Mr. Sanders, I’ve never been a particularly open person, and never free with my feelings. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons my husband left. Regardless, by whatever means it has occurred, you and I are together in this odd moment, and I’m going to disclose something to you.”
She finished off her glass of wine, poured another, then topped off Sander’s almost empty glass.
“My husband and I were married in Coolwater, at a beautiful old church, nine years ago. We stayed at a lovely Inn there. I’ve secured lodging in the very same room where we stayed. I thought I’d take a little trip back there, just to complete the cycle, the cycle of entering and leaving a marriage.” It almost sounds reasonable, she thought.
Sanders groaned. “Mrs. Canterbury, that notion has every one of the seven flavors of knotheadedness in it, bar none. If that isn’t the ding-dang dumbest thing I ever heard! Your applehead husband runs out on you and you’re going to go back to your honeymoon room and mope around, diggin’ for some little bits of your old self? You’ll be reminded of the sorry lug the entire time! Did your brains drift away the last time you were soaking in the tub?”
Mrs. Canterbury looked fiercely at Sanders. “Do you think some country bumpkin can call me a fool and get away with it? Do you presume to judge me, Mr. Sanders?”
Sanders waved her off, his voice rising. “My parents are barely one week in the grave, Mrs. Canterbury, and their dying was a stupid waste, no point to it at all. I decided that from now on, if I see something out of whack, I’m gonna pipe up and say so. I didn’t mean to start my new policy with you, but that’s the way it is.”
Mrs. Canterbury was visibly angry. She tried to swallow some wine but spilled it on her sweater instead. When she rose to step into the restroom, she tipped over the table, sending the plates clattering to the floor. One of the knives glanced off the floor and hit the kitten, causing a superficial, but actively bleeding, wound. Mrs. Canterbury gasped and rushed to the kitten, took it up in her arms. She was sobbing now, but she carried the kitten to the bathroom and examined its wound, then dressed it as best she could with some gauze from her dressing room bag.
While Mrs. Canterbury was occupied with the kitten, Sanders righted the table, cleaned up the spilled dishes, and poured what was left of the tipped-over wine into the two glasses.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Canterbury, composed, returned and set the kitten on the bed. She stroked its head while it played with the fabric of her sweater.
“Once a survivor, always a survivor,” Sanders said.
“I don’t think General Sherman is the right name for this kitten,” Mrs. Canterbury said. “He has a certain humorous air about him. I think Balzac is the right name. It suits his daring.” She smiled and stroked the kitten over and over. “Please forgive me for my outburst, Mr. Sanders. I’ve been under some pressure lately, and my manners escaped me.”
“Manners ain’t the meat of people, Mrs. Canterbury. I think for a city gal, you’ve got some snuff, even if you’re a little whispery in your ways. As for that kitten, you can call him Jesus Geronimo for all I care.”
She gave Sanders a long, even glance, and then a weak smile. “Well, Mr. Sanders. I only hope that ‘having some snuff’ is a valuable thing.” She took a drink of her wine and gestured for Sanders to do the same. “You expressed earlier that your prospects were poor. I fear mine are no better,” she said.
Sanders gave his glasses a quick polish with a napkin. “Yeah, well, prospecting requires some tools, and at this juncture, I’m fresh out. I’ve only got that meowing slab of fur you’ve taken a liking to. And you don’t seem to have anything but that fancy gun of your messed-up mate.”
She shivered slightly and thought to herself, Yes, but that gun will make all the difference for me. She took the last drink of her wine. “Mr. Sanders, despite our disagreement, I appreciate your company. But the train arrives in Coolwater at dawn, and I sense a long night ahead. If you grant me your trust with the kitten, I promise his safe return in the morning.”
Sanders rose, took the last sip of wine, and moved to the door. “The General is yours for the evening, ma’am.” He stepped outside, then quickly poked his head back in. “By the way, Mrs. Canterbury, my daddy made elderberry wine that’s a sight better than that Bordeaux. I’d try another brand, if I were you.” He closed the door and left.
Mrs. Canterbury slumped on the bed with the kitten in her arms. When she did, she bumped into the open suitcase, and could see the edge of the gun’s ivory handle under her clothing. She slapped the suitcase lid shut in anger and quick tears followed. She brought the kitten to her chest and hugged it hard, so hard that the kitten cried out in alarm.
“I’m sorry, little kitty,” she said, sobbing, “I’m so sorry.” She let the kitten go and sat on the edge of the bed with her face in her hands. The swaying of the train intensified the shaking of her shoulders. Its rumbling wheels drowned out her soft keening, which almost seemed to be coming from someone else’s throat.
Will he even care if I do it? she thought. Or maybe the first thing he’ll think of is whether his precious gun was damaged in some way. Bastard! And he’ll be the one to decide how I’ll be buried, even how I’ll be dressed! Bastard! Bastard!
The kitten ran to the door and slid his paw beneath it, trying to reach something in the passageway. Mrs. Canterbury gave a brief laugh and watched him play. Mr. Sanders might be a decent man, she thought, but he doesn’t seem to be a cat fancier. His sister sounds even worse.
She sighed deeply, stood, and cleared the bed of her belongings. She picked up the kitten and with her other hand lifted and placed the dinner tray out into the hall. Then she turned out the compartment lights, except for one tiny nightlight above the bed, crawled into bed with the kitten, and pulled the covers up to her shoulders.
The train rocked and rattled along. Mrs. Canterbury lay in her bed, her thoughts jumping from her life as a little girl to her first days in college, from her first meeting with her husband to what was now in her suitcase. She found no comfort in the train’s steady movement, or in the plush bedding and firm mattress. She only remembered the failure of her marriage, the proud distance she’d kept from people since then, and Sander’s words about his parents. Her decision about Coolwater, once so clear, now seemed muddied. She considered the many poor choices she’d already made, and wondered whether Coolwater would be the worst choice of all. The night seemed endless, but after the first long hour awake, she no longer cried. The kitten slept, while she slowly stroked its head.
The train pushed its steady path through the core of the night. Mrs. Canterbury fell asleep shortly before dawn, and while she slept, she dreamed she was in the room at Coolwater, alone with her cat, Giacometti. Giacometti was upset and trying to tell her something, but he could only silently meow. She kept asking him what the matter was, and why he couldn’t meow. But then she realized that it wasn’t that the cat couldn’t meow, it was that her ears were filled with something. When she pulled out the objects that were blocking her ears, she saw that they were bullets. She turned in shock to Giacometti, but her cat had become Mr. Sander’s cat, General Sherman. She could hear his loud purring. She woke with a start to find the kitten nibbling on her ear, and a loud knocking at her door.
“Mrs. Canterbury, I’m sorry to wake you so early, but we’ll be hitting the Coldwater station in a jiffy. How’s the General doing?”
Mrs. Canterbury jumped out of bed and moved quickly to the bathroom mirror, then scowled, and clawed at her hair. “One moment, Mr. Sanders. One moment please.” Though she was still dressed in her clothes, she threw on her robe and opened the door. “Mr. Sanders, excuse me. I wasn’t quite awake. Yes, the kitten is fine, very good. Please come in.”
Sanders entered slowly, glanced at the cat on the bed, then stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.
Mrs. Canterbury gestured at the chair, then sat back on the bed.
“Well, Mrs. Canterbury,” Sanders said. “I hope you had a restful night. The sandman seems to have passed me right by. I’ll just pick up the General and wish you howdydoo.”
Mrs. Canterbury put her hands on her knees and took a deep breath. She cleared her throat. “Mr. Sanders, this will undoubtedly sound melodramatic to you, but I didn’t tell you my full plan last evening. You see, after I settled into my room in Coolwater, I was planning to take that antique revolver and end my life.” She paused, allowing the words to sink in. “I wanted the act to be a slap in the face to my husband. But then, much of the night I thought about what you said, about your parents’ pointless deaths. And the more I considered it, the clearer it became that I would just be adding to that pointlessness.” She reached into her suitcase and pulled out the gun, extended it to Sanders. “We both were carrying secrets in our bags, weren’t we? Well, this is one secret I don’t want any longer.” She nodded to the gun. “My decisions are usually carefully considered over time, but a certain clarity of mind has been brought to bear over this long night. Will you accept this from me, to begin your new life? As I said earlier, it’s quite valuable.”
Sanders looked at the gun extended in her hand. He shook his head. “You already gave me something, Mrs. Canterbury. I couldn’t do a damn thing to save my parent’s lives, but I happened to be in the right place at the right time to help out with yours, accidental as that was.” He opened both his hands in the air and shrugged. “You might think I gave you another chance, but I look at it the other way around. I did quite a bit of thinking this past night as well, about where a body belongs, and where a situation tries to toss it.” He smiled. “I came up with the gold plated idea that I was just running from myself. I think I’ll head back home and sniff around a bit. There’s probably a decent job there, even for a varmint like me.” He took the gun and walked to the window, then slid the window down. He drew the gun back and flipped it sideways, its silvery gleam briefly catching the light from the compartment before it became absorbed in the dim glow of the dawn.
Mrs. Canterbury stared out the window, a half-smile on her face.
“Maybe some prairie dog will recognize how valuable it is,” Sanders said, “and he can start the family he’s been thinking about.” He turned back to Mrs. Canterbury. “While we’re discussing presents, here’s one for you. I think you and the General make a great team, probably better than my sister and the General would, and probably a seven-league boot better than you and that polecat husband of yours. Whad’ya say?”
She gazed at him, and a slow smile lightened her face. As they turned toward the kitten, a bar of morning sun flowed through the half-pulled shade of the window and fell on the kitten. He was playing with a shoe on the floor, his ragged fur lit by the flame.
“Mr. Sanders, I say yes. And it’s the most positive yes I’ve said in a while. Why don’t you let me get dressed and I’ll show you around Coolwater before you head back. I’ll only need a moment to change my reservations to a different hotel.”
The screech of the train’s brakes pulling into the station drowned out Sander’s reply, but the smile on his face, matching hers, seemed enough to settle the exchange.