She lay back on the bed, looked at her ring again. She’d met Paul three years earlier, when he was in Greensboro on business. His parents owned considerable tobacco interests in eastern North Carolina, and Paul, who’d graduated from Chapel Hill the year before, oversaw sales at his father’s direction.
Claire closed her eyes, allowed her mind to carry her back to the cool October evening in 1926 when she and Donna and two other sophomore girls from their dormitory had crossed the quadrangle at dusk on a chilly Saturday evening. They’d stood on the corner where Spring Garden and Tate streets meet, giggling, watching the red and orange and yellow leaves drift down around them and stir in the wind about their feet. The four of them had waited nervously for the streetcar that would take them downtown to the O. Henry Hotel. The young men from the local armory were holding a fall dance for the women’s college. Claire thought of the dress she’d worn, a pale blue silk gown Donna had loaned her. She thought of the boys she’d danced with that night, most of them forgettable, certainly none of them more memorable than Paul, who then was nothing more than a freckle-faced boy with a low-country drawl and homebrew on his breath who’d tried to kiss her on the dance floor in front of her friends. How they’d all laughed, howled really, at the telling and retelling of it on their way back to the dorm that night, their shoes kicking up dry and dying leaves, Donna even corralling the leaves into piles before picking them up and tossing them into the air, singing, “We’re the queens of autumn!” How Claire had lain in bed that night and pictured Paul’s face, the bodies of the dancers moving all around them, the pulse of the music pounding in her chest, her heart beating somewhere beneath it.
But the things that Donna had said before bed soured the memory, and Claire wished she could remove Donna from it. Donna knew nothing about Paul or his family. She certainly knew nothing about Claire’s parents. Claire was certain that her parents were exceptional people. Her mother was kind and gentle and openhearted. Her father was honest, worked hard, and treated his employees well. He’d joined the army during the war, even though he was wealthy and did not have to and would have never been expected to fight.
Claire’s parents loved her, and they seemed to love Paul. After all, they were throwing a huge engagement party for them at the club in Gastonia in two weeks. Donna would be there and Paul’s parents would be there too. Donna would see how wrong she’d been to say the things she’d said.
Claire adjusted her pillow, listened to the train move along the track, felt it rock beneath her. She tried to clear her mind, tried to drift off to sleep, but something kept needling her—Mrs. Barnes on the steps at the Lincoln Memorial; the smell of the woman Ella’s breath on her face; the things Donna had said about the strikers and Claire’s parents; the image of a slightly younger Donna tossing oak leaves into the air; Claire’s parents’ quiet house that overlooked the mill and the lake back in Belmont; and the uncertainty of the long, silent days that stretched out before her until she could marry Paul in the fall and have the rest of her life begin.
Claire sat up in her bunk, pushed the covers down to her ankles, and slipped her feet free of the sheets. She made as little sound as possible when she climbed down, reaching her foot into the darkness for the flat of the sitting chair by the bunk instead of stepping on Donna’s mattress. Once she made it down she slid open the closet door. She pulled her gown up over her head and swapped it for the dress she’d worn that day, her own warmth still nestled in the fabric around the armpits, the scent of the city still clinging to the fabric. She stepped into a pair of slippers and opened the door, did her best to block out the light coming into the berth so that it didn’t cross Donna’s face. She stepped into the hallway.
While her eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, Claire’s fingers reached for the wall to steady herself as the train rocked beneath her. The late hour, the soft carpet under her slippered feet, the knowledge that she’d left her room fresh from bed without making up her face or hair fed something in her that she couldn’t quite put a word to. No one knew where she was right now. Not her parents, not Paul, not even Donna, who was still asleep in her bunk. She wondered if it was excitement that she felt? Danger? Was it freedom? She followed the hallway to the dining car, the lights blazing inside as if a meal service were about to begin. The breakfast plates and cutlery had already been set, and in the corner beside a tray stand, a young Negro porter in a dark vest and matching bow tie polished silverware with a white rag.
“Miss,” he said. He nodded his head, looked away from Claire as soon as his eyes met hers. He could have been Paul’s age, perhaps a little older.
“Hello,” Claire said.
His seeing her in slippers and with an unmade face had embarrassed her, but his looking away from her had embarrassed her even more. She considered turning and walking back down the hallway toward her room, but she feared both offending him and appearing younger and sillier than she wanted to appear. Instead, she walked farther into the car and stopped near its middle. She gazed around her at the set tables.
“First service isn’t until six a.m.,” he said, “but I might could find you something if you’re hungry.”
“What time is it now?” Claire asked.
He reached into his pocket and looked at a watch.
“Quarter after one,” he said. “We’ll stop in Charlottesville in a few minutes.”
“Do you mind if I sit?” Claire asked.
“No,” he said, “not at all. Want a cup of coffee? I could find some coffee.”
“No,” Claire said. “But perhaps a glass of milk, if it’s not too much.”
“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.