The Last Ballad(55)

“It’s not too much at all,” he said. “Would you like it warmed?”

“No,” she said. “Cold is fine.”

“Please, have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

“Thank you,” she said. The man nodded and left the dining car opposite the way she’d come. She sat down in a booth on the west side of the train and scooted toward the window. Lights burned outside. She wondered if it was a small town. She wondered how far they’d already come. Her eyes focused on her reflection. Her brown hair appeared darker than she knew it to be. Her face nearly glowed.

The conversation she’d just had was the longest she’d ever had with a Negro. Unlike Paul, who’d grown up on the plantation before so many of his family’s tenants had left to find work in the cities and jobs up north, she hadn’t grown up with Negroes. She had never been able to approach them with the cool, natural ease with which she’d witnessed Paul and his father move and speak among them.

The porter walked back into the dining car and set a glass of milk down in front of Claire. Beside it he placed a small plate with a cookie sitting atop a napkin. Claire looked up at him. She smiled.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he said. He stood there, his hands down by his sides. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The question surprised her. She looked up at him, considered his face. She pictured Donna sleeping in the bunk, thought of the things she’d said about Paul’s family, about her own family. What would she think to see Claire sitting here in the middle of the night talking to a Negro as if it were the most natural thing in the world?

“Donna,” she said. “My name’s Donna.”

“Donna,” he said. “My name’s Hampton.”

“Hello, Hampton,” she said.

“Hello, Donna,” he said. “Please, let me know if you need anything else.” He turned and walked back to the tray stand.

Claire took a sip of the milk, tried to keep her hand from shaking. Her heart pounded in her ears. The milk calmed her. She set it on the table, spent a moment catching her breath. She picked up the cookie, bit into it. She couldn’t tell what kind it was. A sugar cookie perhaps. She brushed the crumbs from the tablecloth and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. She could feel Hampton’s eyes on her. She looked up at him, and he dropped his gaze to the silverware he’d been polishing.

“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Is your room comfortable?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s quite nice. I just have a lot on my mind tonight.”

He smiled, set the piece of silverware on the tray, and picked up another. He was tall with soft brown eyes and dark skin. She watched him work, and she felt her eyes grow heavy. She felt warm, relaxed. She picked up the cookie and took another bite. She drank more of the milk.

She ran her hand along the windowsill and watched the reflection of it moving in the dark glass. She felt something catch her fingertips. When she looked closer she saw that a hair had been painted onto the metal. She wondered where it had come from. Had the painter dropped it and then covered it over? Had he known he’d left part of himself behind? She used her fingernail and scratched at the hair until it came free and disappeared into the shadows beneath the window. The place where the hair had been was shiny, the metal left exposed.

She looked up at the porter. He’d been watching her, but for how long she didn’t know.

“Do you have to stay awake all night?” she asked.

He smiled and looked down. He placed a fork on the tray and picked up another.

“Yes,” he said. “I come on in New York and work through until the breakfast service begins.”

“That’s a long time,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “It can feel like a long time.”

“Is it hard?”

“The job?”

“No,” she said. “Is it hard to stay awake all night?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “It gets easier. You get used to it.”

“I couldn’t do it,” she said.

“You’re doing it now.”

“That’s true,” she said. “I suppose I’ve been awake as long as you have.”

“You could do it easily if you were working,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose I could.” But she wasn’t certain. She’d never had a job, and the fact embarrassed her even though there was no way he could have known this.

“It’s nice at night,” he said. “But it’s too quiet sometimes. I don’t usually get to talk with nice people like you.”

She smiled, perfectly aware that something, although she wasn’t quite sure what, was happening between them. “You’re from New York?” she asked. He looked up at her, nodded, looked back down at the tray of silverware. “What’s it like?”

“You’ve never been?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“That surprises me,” he said. “You look like someone who would enjoy the big city.”

“What’s it like?” she asked again.

“It’s busy,” he said. “And loud and dirty. It’s wonderful sometimes. Sometimes it’s awful.”