The Hope Chest — Chapter 9 - Mr. Martin's Escape

Mr. Martin's Escape

THE TRAIN CLIMBED STEEPLY UP INTO WHAT Miss Dexter said (when she started speaking again) were the Blue Ridge Mountains. But darkness had fallen, and the only thing Violet could see out the window was the reection of the inside of the train car, two long rows of passengers, mostly women, on red mohair-covered seats, surrounded by their handbags, hatboxes, picnic baskets, valises, and traveling pillows.

“I hope you understand I'm not a racialist, Violet,” Miss Dexter was saying as she unpacked fried chicken, biscuits, and apples from a picnic basket. “Mr. Martin doesn't seem to understand this. He doesn't seem to realize that with everything we women have worked so hard for in the balance, we can't be distracted by every little battle that comes our way.”

Mr. Martin had gone to look for something for them to drink.

“Can I take some of this to Myrtle?” Violet asked, indicating the meal Miss Dexter was serving out. A few days ago she would have considered it the very height of bad breeding to ask her hostess for more food. But she was starting to realize that being well brought up had its disadvantages. It kept you from asking for the things you needed.

“Yes, of course,” said Miss Dexter. “I certainly don't intend to starve the child,” she added, wrapping some food up in a napkin.

“Separation of the races doesn't necessarily mean inequality, Violet, it just …”

In honor of her newfound rudeness, Violet walked away without waiting to hear the end of this.

Violet worked her way toward the back of the train. There was no point in asking directions, she thought, on a train. She found the colored car all the way at the back. Clutching the napkin in her st, she opened the last door and walked back through the aisle of colored passengers. She found Myrtle sitting next to an elderly woman.

“I brought you some dinner,” said Violet. She held out the napkin.

“Thanks,” said Myrtle. “Mrs. Merganser, this is my friend Violet.”

Mrs. Merganser looked at Violet and nodded a greeting. Then she closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Violet supposed she must be too old to stay awake.

“Can I sit down?” she asked. She felt uncomfortable being the only white person in the colored car, but she was tired of Miss Dexter and in no hurry to get back to her. And there was something she wanted to ask Myrtle about anyway.

“Sure.” Myrtle made a space between herself and the window, and Violet squeezed into it. The rattan seats in the colored car were even more uncomfortable than the mohair-covered iron springs.

Why didn't they make train seats out of something more comfortable?

“I think Mr. Martin might be on the run from the police,” she said to Myrtle.

“Did you only just now gure that out?” said Myrtle.

“Well, when did you gure it out?” Violet asked, annoyed.

“First time I saw him, back in New York. When he jumped a mile when we came into the room.”

Violet wasn't sure if Myrtle was telling the truth or was just trying to show how smart she was. Anyway, Violet had more pressing

concerns. “But don't you think he might be a little bit smitten with

my sister?”

“Yes.” Myrtle frowned.

They sat in silence for a moment.

“Doesn't your sister know how to send a fella to the rightabout if he gets too fresh?”

“I guess so,” said Violet. One way or another, Chloe had certainly sent the Mr. R.'s to the rightabout.

“Then I wouldn't worry about it,” said Myrtle.

“But what about him being on the run from the police—we think?”

Myrtle did that shrug thing with her eyes. Apparently she didn't consider being on the run from the police a major character aw.

“Well, he could be dangerous,” said Violet. “He could hurt us.”

“He hasn't hurt us yet, has he?” said Myrtle. Violet must have conveyed by her expression that this wasn't a satisfactory answer, because Myrtle added, “There are lots of ways to get in trouble with the law without hurting anybody, you know.”

Violet did not know this. “Anyway, I think maybe she already sent him to the rightabout, and now he wants to try to get her to change her mind.”

Myrtle nodded. She must have come to the same conclusion.

“Maybe she'll want to change her mind.”

“I don't think so,” said Violet. “She doesn't want a— a gentleman friend. She sent these fellas back home in Susquehanna to the rightabout, and they were much better-looking than Mr. Martin.”

“Looks aren't everything,” said Myrtle sagely.

Violet was starting to get a prickly, uncomfortable feeling in the back of her neck. She turned around quickly. From the studied way that everyone was looking somewhere else, she was sure they had all been staring at her a second ago. “Am I not supposed to be in here?” said Violet.

“I don't know,” said Myrtle. “Probably not.”

Violet got up. Being out of place was unpleasant; it made your stomach hurt. She might as well go back and get her own dinner.

“I'll see you later,” she said. She turned to say goodbye to Mrs.

Merganser, but the old woman was sound asleep. She must be too old even to talk anyway, Violet thought.

Just as she got back to the suragists' car, the door at the other end of it snapped open and two men strode in. The men were dressed in black suits with starched collars that seemed to hold their chins up uncomfortably high. They marched down the car and stopped in the aisle next to Miss Dexter.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” said one of the men. “Is there a man occupying this seat?” He pointed to the place Mr. Martin had just vacated.

“Yes,” said Miss Dexter, looking surprised. “He's just gone to get drinks.”

“Aha,” said the man who had spoken, and the two men looked at each other and nodded.

Then they just stood there. As Violet came up to them, she could see this made Miss Dexter nervous. They made Violet nervous too.

They had an ocial, police-like air about them.

“May I ask who you are?” Miss Dexter said.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, we're not at liberty to say,” said the man who had spoken rst. Then the train lurched around a bend and both men fell sprawling down the aisle, their arms and legs tangled together.

They picked themselves up with great dignity, as if they had meant to fall down. They made their way back up the aisle to Miss Dexter, gripping the edges of the seats tightly.

Violet didn't know who these men were, but she and Myrtle both thought Mr. Martin was running from the police. Mother and Father would probably have thought Mr. Martin was beyond the pale. But Myrtle liked him. Maybe he hadn't even really done whatever it was

the police were after him for. Maybe there'd been some kind of mistake.

Violet made up her mind. Even if there hadn't been a mistake, she wasn't going to let the police catch Mr. Martin. She liked him. He talked to her like she was a person, and he'd stuck up for Myrtle too.

Whatever else he might have done … Well, she just hoped it wasn't anything too horrible.

Violet tried to slip past the two men, heading the way Mr. Martin had gone to look for drinks. One of the men stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

“I'm just going to use the saloon,” Violet said, with the most innocent look she could muster. The bathrooms on trains were called “saloons,” for no reason Violet could imagine.

The man stepped aside and let Violet pass. Violet tried to walk calmly to the end of the car, gripping the backs of the seats as the train's movement threw her from one side of the aisle to the other.

She opened the door with diculty and walked nervously through the narrow vestibule. The four doors at its front, back, and sides rattled loudly.

She opened the door to the next car and managed to squeeze through it before it slammed on her.

A conductor stepped in front of her—not the conductor from Washington, but a dierent one. “Whoa, there, missy,” he said. “You don't need to be running around between train cars like that. It's dangerous. Where's your seat?”

“There,” said Violet, nodding to the car ahead. One thing her eleven years of life had taught her was that most males considered women and girls to be simultaneously mysterious and not very bright. So it wasn't very hard to lie to them.

The conductor looked over his shoulder. “Well, then how did you manage—”

“Excuse me,” said Violet, and pushed past him.

She found Mr. Martin in a vestibule after she'd passed through four more cars. He came out one door as she was coming out the other. He had a brown bottle of root beer in each hand and one sticking out of each of his trousers pockets.

“Mr. Martin, stop,” she said, holding up a hand toward him. She was out of breath from the eort of walking in the rocking train and pushing through the heavy doors.

Mr. Martin stopped and stood looking down at her quizzically.

The train was chugging slowly up a steep grade. The jointed oor of the vestibule heaved and creaked under their feet, and they both braced their legs to keep from falling.

“There are some men back there,” Violet said. “Looking for you.

They're wearing tight collars, and they won't say their names.”

Mr. Martin looked surprised at none of this. “Palmer agents. Did

they ask for me by name?”

Violet had to think for a moment. “No.”

Mr. Martin nodded. “Good. Don't tell them my name, please.” He put the two bottles of root beer into Violet's hands. “Forgive my abruptness, Miss Mayhew, but I'm going to get o the train here.”

“To what?” said Violet, not sure she'd heard him right.

The train had reached the crest of the hill. “You can tell them where I got o,” said Mr. Martin. “In fact, you had better. Give my apologies to the ladies.”

He opened one of the side doors of the vestibule and stepped out.

“Mr. Martin!” Violet gasped.

The side doors were for getting o the train—but getting o after it had stopped, of course. Violet didn't hear him hit the ground because the train was making so much noise. It was true it wasn't moving very fast, but she couldn't see what he'd stepped o into, and neither, she thought, could he. There might have been a three- hundred-foot cli beside the tracks for all either of them knew.

She dropped the root beer bottles—one of them shattered—and grabbed the handrail beside the still-swinging door. She leaned out

as far as she dared. She felt a warm wind on her face and smelled

pine trees and coal smoke.

“Mr. Martin!” she called.

The train crested the mountain and started downward again, picking up speed. Violet heard a door behind her open. A heavy hand landed on her shoulder and hauled her back into the vestibule.

The two men—Palmer agents, whatever those were— glared down at Violet. The one who had grabbed her barked, “What do you think you're doing, miss?”

“Where's Arpad?” snapped the second one.

Violet angrily jerked her shoulder free of the man's hand. “Who?”

“Arpad. Where'd he go? Did he jump?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Violet.

“Listen, miss, we're looking for Sandor Arpad. Scar on his face, one eye, missing three ngers on his right hand. Sound like anybody you know?”

“Three ngers?” said Violet, playing dumb. She watched the remaining root beer bottle rolling around on the oor.

“We're not going to get anywhere with this one,” said the second agent.

“She warned him,” said the rst agent, pointing to Violet. He gripped Violet's arm, hard. It hurt. “Where's Arpad, girl? Don't play games with us. This is a criminal investigation of the highest order.”

“Treason,” the other agent said succinctly.

Violet felt a twist in her stomach—treason, she'd always heard, was worse than murder. But why should she believe these two idiots? She could make her own decisions about people. Mr. Martin didn't seem like a traitor to her. She glared at the agents and said nothing.

“He must've jumped.” The agent who had hold of Violet's arm nodded at the side door, which was still swinging, opening a few

inches and then gently slamming itself shut again. “I'm going after him.”

The agent let go of Violet and kicked the door wide open. Violet could see the light shining out the train's many windows ickering over the ground moving by below.

The agent turned to the other agent. “Question the Sus. See if you can get any of them to understand what ‘accessory after the fact’ means. Then get o in Roanoke and cable J. Edgar Hoover that we've spotted Arpad.” He stepped out through the door.

“No!” Violet cried, horried, as he jumped. The train was by no means moving as slowly as it had been when Mr. Martin jumped o.

“Come on, miss,” said the other agent, grabbing her arm. “Let's see what you and the Sus can manage to babble out.”

“You know, I don't believe he ever told us his name,” Miss Dexter said loudly. Violet was surprised at how well she pretended to be stupid—and surprised she was willing to do it for Mr. Martin, whom Miss Dexter clearly disliked. “He joined us at Union Station and begged a spare seat in our car. But he's a complete stranger to me.”

The agent, who had nally admitted that his name was Mr.

Christopher, had sat down in Mr. Martin's empty seat and unfolded a paper on his lap—a rough pencil sketch that could have been Mr.

Martin in the same vague way that pictures of Uncle Sam could have been Violet's Grandfather Mayhew. It did have a scar on it.

Many of the other suragists had gotten up and crowded around, clinging to the backs of the seats for balance.

“Miss Dexter,” Mr. Christopher said, “try to get this through that female wool you call a brain.” (The suragists hissed.) “This man is dangerous. He poses a threat to the United States of America. By helping to conceal him, you could be guilty of treason.”

“What's he supposed to have done?” demanded a gray-haired suragist in a purple dress.

“I can't tell you that,” said Mr. Christopher.

The woman in purple snorted.

Mr. Christopher asked a number of questions, about whether anyone had heard Sandor Arpad mention where he had been, or where he was going, or any names of friends or relatives or associates. Nobody oered him much help.

“Did he say anything that sounded Bolshevist?” Mr. Christopher nally demanded. “You know, anything un-American?”

Miss Dexter shrugged delicately. “I suppose some of the things he said were a bit socialist,” she said. “But there's an enormous dierence between a Bolshevist and a socialist.”

“That's what the socialists would like you to think,” said Mr.

Christopher.

“Socialists are good Americans!” said the woman in purple angrily. “They believe in cooperation instead of competition. Many of the greatest and wisest people in our country are socialists.”

Mr. Christopher sneered. “That's why women shouldn't be allowed to vote,” he said. “The female mind isn't capable of making ne distinctions of logic.”

The woman turned as purple as her dress. “Miss Helen Keller is a socialist!” she stormed. “Miss Lillian Wald is a socialist! Miss Jane Addams is a socialist! Miss —”

“If they kept their addled brains out of politics, maybe someone would marry them,” Mr. Christopher said nastily. He got to his feet.

The train was slowing as if approaching a station, but Violet thought that wasn't the only reason he was leaving. The crowd was closing in on him. Mr. Christopher took his pencil sketch and his notebook and retreated.

“What a horrid man,” Miss Dexter said. The other suragists agreed heartily. They made their way back to their seats, and Violet could hear them talking— speculating, she supposed, about Mr.

Martin and what he'd done to get those dreadful government agents chasing him. Violet's stomach squirmed. She hoped the ground hadn't been too far away when Mr. Martin had hit it. Where had he landed, and what would he do now?

Violet looked over at the woman in purple. There was an empty seat next to her. Violet got up and jostled over and sat down in it.

“Excuse me, Miss …”

“Kelley,” said the woman, sticking out her hand and smiling.

Fortunately, Miss Kelley didn't seem to know that children should speak only when spoken to. “Florence Kelley. Pleased to meet you.”

Violet shook hands and introduced herself. “What are Palmer agents, Miss Kelley?”

Miss Kelley frowned. “Is that who those clowns were? I thought that might be it. Mr. Palmer is the U.S. attorney general, and he's got a crazy assistant named J. Edgar Hoover.” Miss Kelley rolled her eyes at the ridiculous name. “Their agents track down radicals and

arrest them.”

“Arrest them for what?” said Violet.

“Mostly for being against the War,” said Miss Kelley.

“But the War is over,” said Violet.

“Parts of it are,” Miss Kelley said.

“And what are Bolshevists?” Violet asked. She had some idea, but she wanted to hear what Miss Kelley would say, especially since Miss Kelley was clearly one of those rare adults, like Chloe and Mr.

Martin, who talked about things that mattered and let you ask questions.

“The Bolsheviks are the people who overthrew the czar in Russia,” said Miss Kelley. “But people just use the word to mean anybody that wants to change the way things are—to make us sound dangerous. Some people say we suragists are Bolsheviks.”

Violet nodded. She had heard that.

“How is your little friend in the Jim Crow car?” Miss Kelley

asked.

Violet looked at her, surprised.

“She's all right,” she said. “The seats aren't so nice there, but she's —ne.” Violet didn't think it was ne at all, actually, but Miss

Dexter had seemed to and she was an adult.

“It's a national shame,” said Miss Kelley. “This Jim Crow business.

My organization, the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, is ghting to put an end to it. There's no reason decent people can't ride in a train car with each other.”

Violet stared at Miss Kelley. “But you're not colored,” she said.

Then she covered her mouth, shocked at her own rudeness.

“No, I'm not, but that doesn't mean I can't ght for justice side by side with colored people.” Miss Kelley patted Violet on the shoulder.

“You know it's wrong, putting your friend in another train car.

When you know right from wrong, don't let anyone tell you

dierently.”

They both looked over at Miss Dexter.

“I won't, Miss Kelley,” said Violet, and meant it.

Soon it was time to fold down and rearrange the seats into berths.

A porter came in to help them with this. Violet climbed into a top berth beside Miss Dexter. She lay awake for a long time, boxed in by the train's curving metal ceiling, the wall, the thin lumpy mattress, and Miss Dexter. She thought about Myrtle in the Jim Crow car, probably sitting up all night in that rattan seat. Finally Violet drifted o to sleep and dreamt that she was running and running, trying to catch a train that had left a long time ago.

Sometimes the train stopped at stations and Violet woke, sliding forward as her head bumped against the partition. Then she fell back asleep until the train started again and her feet hit the partition at the other end. The train whistle let out a long, loud moan each time the train came to a crossing. Finally Violet gave up sleeping and lay awake wondering what Mr. Martin had done to get people called Palmer agents after him and whether he had survived his leap into the dark.