Lost on the Prairie Page 8

  As Mr. Clemens starts ambling down the hallway, Danny closes the elevator doors.

  “Lucky you, having dinner with Samuel Clemens,” he says.

  “Why? Is he famous or something?” I ask.

  “Famous?” Danny chuckles. “That man is one of America’s greatest authors. He’s toured all over the country giving talks and lectures. On his book covers he uses a different name, Mark Twain. Haven’t you ever heard of him?”

  Chapter 16

  I'M JUST A MITE JUMPY getting ready for dinner. Will I know how to behave in the company of a famous author in a fancy hotel dining room? Will I remember my manners? Mama’s voice slices into my worry.

  “Elbows off the table, Peter.”

  “Don’t lick your knife, Peter.”

  “Close your mouth when you chew, Peter.”

  I’m going to have lots to remember during supper.

  I have a good long soak in the claw-foot tub in the bathroom. It is almost deep enough to dive into. I can’t believe how much hot water comes out of the tap. Back home in Kansas we only bathed on Saturday nights.

  Mama and I would pull the big tin tub from the back porch into the kitchen. She and I would fill pails with water at the pump and pour them into a giant copper cauldron on top of the stove where the water heated. Then Mama and I would dip the hot water out of the cauldron into the tin tub.

  Mama bathed first, then Alvin, then me, then Levi and Sylvester, and finally Papa. By the time Papa got his turn the water wasn’t even warm anymore and awful dirty. But he never complained a bit and plopped into that tub as if he was a duck dipping into a pond.

  I wish I could give Papa a chance to have a bath in this pearly white tub with gold taps and a never-ending supply of hot water. He’d think he’d died and gone to heaven.

  When Danny showed me into the room earlier, he pointed out some clothing hanging in the closet. “I’m to tell you these are from Mr. Olsen, the vice-president of the Great Western Railroad Company. He’s left a note for you on the nightstand.” I decided to read it right away.

  Dear Mr. Schmidt,

  On behalf of the Great Western Railroad Company, I wish to extend my deepest regrets about the detachment of the railroad car carrying you and your horses. We have sent word to your parents and they will be awaiting your safe arrival at the Humboldt train station two days hence. Please accept a night in this hotel, some new clothing, and dinner in the dining room at our expense as a way of offering you and your family our most heartfelt apologies.

  Wishing you a prosperous future in your new home in Canada, I remain

  Yours most sincerely,

  Mr. James Olsen

  I tuck the letter into the nice, roomy carpetbag sitting on the bedclothes. The generous Mr. Olsen must have provided that too. I take out the starched white underwear and socks I find inside.

  There are some blue dungarees and a plaid flannel shirt hanging in the closet. I figure I’ll put them on tomorrow for the train trip. But on another hanger is a smart blue suit that looks like something a sailor would wear. It has tight pants with gold buttons down the sides of the legs. The shirt has a wide navy collar trimmed with white bands and fastened with a broad bow. There’s even a pair of shiny black shoes with silver buckles. I feel a mite uncomfortable in the suit and wish I could just wear the buckskin clothes and moccasins Joe’s mother made me.

  But even though Violet washed them for me after the fire and they look good as new, they might not be proper for a fancy hotel dining room. My new shoes pinch my feet a mite, but the sailor suit hangs a little loose on my bones. When I look into the mirror above the bureau, I just stare for a long spell. I am so clean and dandy and citified, I hardly recognize myself. I seem to have grown some taller since I left Newton.

  Danny whistles when I step into the elevator to go down to the dining room. “You sure clean up purty, Peter. You look like one fine gentleman.”

  As I leave the elevator, Danny points to the dining room door, guarded on either side by palm trees. “You’ll find Mr. Clemens in there,” he tells me.

  Sure enough the author has already arrived and is puffing on the fattest cigar I’ve ever seen. His glass is brim full of whiskey, no doubt poured from the tall bottle standing on the table. He spots me as soon as I enter.

  “Over here, Peter,” he calls, beckoning me over.

  I sit down in the high-backed chair across the snowy tablecloth from Mr. Clemens. A waiter pops up immediately and Mr. Clemens orders me something called a sarsaparilla. It tastes fizzy and fine.

  “They’re serving steaks and mashed potatoes with gravy tonight, Peter, so we are in luck.” Mr. Clemens’s voice is so loud and hearty that most of the other people in the dining room turn to stare at us.

  “Minnesota beef is surely tasty. It’s been my favourite meal here at the West Hotel on my previous visits.”

  While I sip my sarsaparilla, Mr. Clemens unbuckles a worn brown satchel and takes out a grey notebook and a thick black pencil. He picks up the steak knife by his plate and whittles the pencil’s stubby lead tip to a sharp point.

  “Now, Peter, I’d be obliged if you’d finish your story. When I had to disembark from the elevator you were just climbing down that roller coaster in Omaha. What did you and your young lady friend do when your feet first touched the ground?”

  I cough a little, nervous-like, before launching into the next part of my story, and Mr. Clemens scribbles fast and furious in his notebook as I talk. Whenever I stop to take a breath, Mr. Clemens puts down his pencil and takes a gulp of whiskey and a puff of his cigar. I’ve just told him about rescuing Joe from Sica Hollow when our food arrives.

  Mr. Clemens puts up his hand to stop me, fills up his whiskey glass again and says, “We will commence with the rest of your story after we eat. This steak needs to be downed while it’s hot and juicy.”

  I watch Mr. Clemens cut into his steak with the same knife that just sharpened his pencil and I pick up my knife to do likewise.

  “Can I ask why you are writing down my story?” I venture as I make my mashed potatoes into a mountain and pour gravy down its sides.

  “Well, I’m an author, Peter. Ever heard of my books? The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, or The Prince and the Pauper?”

  “Can’t say I have,” I falter and my face flushes. “But my brother Herman had a shelf of books and he read a goodly number to me. My two favourites were Captains Courageous and Robinson Crusoe.”

  “Well, if you liked those, you’d probably like my stories too. They’re about boys close to your age who have powerful adventures. And it seems to me you’ve been having quite a powerful adventure yourself, young Peter. Thought maybe I could use some of your excitement in my next book.”

  “You might write about me? Why, that would truly be an honour, sir. What’s your next book going to be called?”

  “Don’t know yet. Fact is, I haven’t written a book for a long spell, Peter.”

  “Why?”

  Mr. Clemens takes another gulp of his whiskey. His voice is sad and slurry.

  “I’ve had quite a burden of grief to carry of late, Peter. My sweetheart Livy, the light of my life, died not so long ago. And before her, my daughter Susie went to her grave from meningitis, and my son Langdon succumbed to diphtheria.”

  Tears trickle down Mr. Clemens’s cheeks and soak into his bristly moustache hairs.

  “My condolences,” I say as soft and gentle as ever I can. “My family’s had some sorrows too, sir,” I confess. “The reason I was travelling with the horses was due to my big brother Herman’s sudden death, and my little brother Alvin, well, he gets these shaking fits and we don’t know why.”

  “Might be epilepsy,” says Mr. Twain. “Ever heard of that?”

  “Can’t say that I have, sir.”

  “I have two daughters left and one of them, my girl Jean, has those shaking fits too. The doctors tell me it’s called epilepsy.”

  “And how do the doctor
s try to heal her?” I ask, perhaps a little too eagerly. Wouldn’t it be something if I could learn about a way to help my brother Alvin?

  “There’s not really much they can do, Peter. My dear Jean’s heart is weak, and I worry she may not be long for this world either.”

  Mr. Clemens has stopped eating and is draining his whiskey glass in big gulps now. The waiter comes to take our near-empty plates away.

  Mr. Clemens picks up his pencil and I notice it is trembling in his hand. He opens his notebook. His jaw twitches, his shoulders shake, and then bang! His forehead lands smack dab down on the open notebook pages.

  “Mr. Clemens,” I say, getting up and reaching across the table. “Mr. Clemens.” I shake his shoulder. He gives a loud snore. I do believe he’s fallen asleep. I take his burning cigar out of his hand and place it on the spittoon near the table. Just then, the waiter appears with dishes of ice cream.

  “I think my dinner companion may have taken ill,” I say to the waiter.

  “Just a bit too much whiskey, I surmise,” the waiter whispers so the other diners can’t hear. “It happens to him almost every night. I’ll get the steward to escort Mr. Clemens out.”

  I help the steward take Mr. Clemens to his room. We lay him on the bed, and I carefully remove his shoes. He snorts and snuffles a few times but doesn’t say a word.

  When I return to the dining room, my ice cream has melted to a syrupy puddle in the dish. I’m tempted to just drink it up, but that wouldn’t be mannerly, so I dip into it with a spoon. It is sweet and still cool.

  Later when I’m in bed myself, I think about Mr. Clemens and how sadness in your life can sometimes sneak up and just take over things, kind of like it did for Mama after Herman died. I suspect Mama’s gone from fretting over Herman now to fretting over me, her missing son. I hope when she sees me safe and sound I’ll be able to put a smile back on her face.

  I say a quick prayer for Mr. Clemens—that something will come into his life to bring him a little spot of joy again.

  The next morning, Danny arrives at my door bright and early to take me down to the dining room for breakfast. He carries my carpetbag and gives it to the steward behind the front desk to watch while I eat my eggs and hash. When I go to retrieve it just before I leave for the train station, the steward hands me not only my carpetbag but a book as well.

  “Mr. Clemens asked me to give this to you,” he says.

  I take the book. The cover says: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain. I open it and see Mr. Clemens has written something on the flyleaf.

  My dear Peter,

  Best wishes on your further adventures. I would like to apologize for my unseemly behavior last evening. I have been letting life’s sorrows drown me of late, but I am hoping to get my head above water shortly. I hope you will enjoy this book. The last line of the story is meant for you as well as my hero Tom.

  Samuel L. Clemens

  I turn to the last page and read the last line: So endeth this chronicle. It being strictly a history of a boy, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a man.

  I close the book, put it into my carpetbag, and head out the door of the West Hotel. The sun is beginning to warm the air and light the cloudless sky as I make my way down Hennepin Avenue to the train station. It’s such a fine fall day, and I’m on my way back to my family. I whistle as I walk.

  Chapter 17

  GYPSY AND PRINCE MUST KNOW we are going home because their ears perk right up and they nicker and whinny when they see me walking up to the boxcar. I’d really like to travel with them, but Mr. Larsen, the ticket agent, tells me that none other than Mr. Olsen, the vice-president of the Great Western Railroad Company, himself has arranged for a special place for me in the first class section of the train. I figure it would be awful impolite to leave that seat empty.

  I decide to spend a few moments with Gypsy and Prince. I scratch Gypsy’s back in just the spot she likes it best and I whisper sweet nothings in Prince’s ear, telling him about all the things we will do together once we are home on our new farmstead in Saskatchewan.

  When the conductor comes to fetch me, I remember how I almost hit the conductor back in Newton with a shovelful of horse manure just before the train left the station. This Minneapolis conductor, standing so straight and business-like in his fine blue suit with gold buttons, doesn’t look like he might be all that familiar with horse manure, but he does have the same kind of thick moustache as the conductor in Newton did. He fingers it nervously as he waits for me and then slips a watch hanging from a silver chain out of a pocket on his vest and snaps it open.

  “Train leaves in ten minutes. Best let me direct you to your seat now, Master Schmidt.”

  I jump down out of the boxcar and follow him along the boarding platform a spell. He stops and we climb up the four stairs into a passenger car. The conductor opens the door and I give a sharp whistle.

  What a fine-looking carriage! The walls are covered in a reddish-brown wood polished so shiny I can see my reflection. I look up at the gleaming tin ceiling. It has a fancy design of flowers and vines punched into it.

  The conductor shows me to my spot. It is near the front. I slide onto the dark leather seat and run my hands down the polished wooden armrests on either side. The wood smells of lemons. The long car is almost full. There’s lots of fine gentleman and ladies that bring to mind the folks I saw sashaying about in the lobby of the West Hotel yesterday.

  “You can hang your coat on the hook by the window, son.” The conductor takes my new carpetbag and stows it tidy as can be under my seat. I sit down and look out the window.

  Last-minute passengers are hurrying to get onto the train. There are young boys selling newspapers and tobacco and sandwiches and candy to folks. Makes me wonder if I should have brought some food.

  Just then, I spy a girl and an older woman making their way across the platform towards the train. The girl is wearing a flowery hat and looks familiar for some reason. Both the woman and the girl carry large valises that appear to be heavy and full. The girl is using both hands to handle hers. She sets her bag down for a minute and as she glances up and tucks a wave of her brown hair behind her ear, it strikes me for a second that she looks a good deal like Annie, the girl who shared my seat on the roller coaster in Omaha. What would she be doing here?

  I rub my eyes. Could it be Annie? Annie, who smelled like lilacs and made my palms sweat when her petticoat brushed my trouser leg on that roller coaster seat? The older woman who is with her has sailed ahead and now she turns back and calls out something to her younger companion.

  The girl bends down graceful as a doe to pick up her valise again and walks towards the train. Imagine if it really was Annie. It can’t be. She lives in Omaha, with her father.

  The conductor walks through our car just then. “All settled in there, Master Schmidt? I got my instructions to take good care of you. I been told your story by my superiors and they don’t want no problems till we get you delivered safe and sound to your folks. I’ll be back round noon to take you to the dining car for your lunch.”

  The train gives a lurch and we start pulling out of the Minneapolis station. I watch as we go by a bridge with stone arches and then flour mills and saw mills that line up close to each other as books on a shelf.

  I see some fancy big mansions, then rows of shanties, a grand spired church, and finally lots of tall, funny-looking buildings. I ask the conductor what they are and he tells me they are called elevators and are used for storing grain. Just think! I never even heard of an elevator before this trip and now I’ve seen one kind for storing grain and I’ve ridden in another kind that takes you up and down in buildings!

  We leave the city, and the train chugs through forests and by what seems an endless chain of lakes and rivers. I slip my carpetbag out from under my seat and take out the copy of Tom Sawyer Mr. Clemens gave me.

  I open it to the inside cover, and glance at Mr. Clemens’s inscrip
tion again. I flip to the final page and read those last lines he said were meant for me. It appears Mr. Clemens thinks I’m almost a grown man. I’ll be twelve come Christmas. Is that a man? Will Mama and Papa reckon I’m more grown up when they see me tomorrow? Will Sylvester and Levi stop treating me like a little brother they need to look out for now that I’ve been looking out for myself for so many weeks?

  I read a couple chapters of Tom Sawyer. Tom is wicked smart and full of beans. I cotton to him right off. I laugh out loud when he gets all those children to help him whitewash the fence. I’m so taken by Tom’s adventures that before I know it, the conductor is at my side, clearing his throat politely. “Time for lunch, Master Schmidt. Can I escort you to the dining car?”

  I close the book and tuck it under my arm to take along. No way I want to let that story out of my sight till I find out how it ends. The dining car is right next to the first-class car so we don’t have to walk far. A waiter meets us at the door and takes me to a table set all lovely, like the table last night at the hotel, with lots of different sizes of forks and spoons on either side of a gold-rimmed plate with a soup bowl in its middle. The flowers painted on the bowl are pink roses, Mama’s favourite, and I think what a shame it will be to cover them up with soup. The waiter pours some water into a tall glass for me, and I’m just about to take a sip when I hear a voice I know I’ve heard before.

  “Let’s sit by the window, Grandmama.” I look up. It is Annie, Annie from the roller coaster in Omaha! The waiter is pulling out a chair for her at the table right across from mine.

  Tom Sawyer slips out of my hands and lands a little too near my plate. The cutlery clatters. Annie looks up and her eyes meet mine.

  “Peter?” My heart breaks into a trot. She remembers me.

  “A-Annie?” I stutter.

  The older woman the waiter has just seated across from Annie fixes my face with a piercing stare and raised eyebrows.