BUT HE DID NOT FINISH SPEAKING before the engine began to run and drowned him out.
Being a railway waiter means standing in place while the world moves around you. Because of us, instead of noticing that they had trapped themselves inside the belly of one of the most remarkable mechanical inventions of modern times, moving at speeds never before achieved, travelers could pretend that they were sitting in a dining room similar to their own. One evening around seven o’clock, on a popular route, our dining car teemed with people. There were frequently men and women of distinguished character, wealthy, well known, respected. On this occasion, there was a table on the far end of the car attracting stares that turned into stage whispers. I was too busy with my passengers to pay attention until Rapp, the waiter assigned to the table, grabbed my elbow. His skin was darker than mine, and he had greasy hair and a slight mustache waxed into crude points at each end, in imitation of our head cook.
He said: “You’re a bookworm, Clover.”
“What about it?” I was in no mood for his teasing.
“No offense. Sensitive one, you are. Just that I’ve noticed that grim half-breed face of yours perks up when you’re talking to that queer peddler.”
Rapp was just as much a half-breed as I was, as were all the railway waiters back then, but I was more annoyed by how he spoke about my friend. “Mr. Fergins is no peddler.”
“Rambles through the cars hawking books, don’t he? Ain’t that a peddler? Besides, that ain’t what I wanted to say. Thought you’d fancy a look.”
He gestured with a nod toward the table. There was a passenger, back facing me, his hair worn long with strands of white and silver. He sat at a forward angle over his meal of boiled leg of mutton with Parisienne potatoes as though he were driving a team of horses.
“Mark Twain—Twain, the writer. Don’t you even know about the things you know about?”
I had never seen an author in the flesh. I had never considered seeing an author in the flesh long enough to think what I would do.
Rapp’s half of the car remained busy, but my tables had begun to clear, and the chief cook called me over to help. After I was charged with a smoking tray of food for one of my tables, the cook opened the ice chest in the floor and pulled out a bottle of wine. It was for table sixteen.
I took a few deep breaths and crossed to Rapp’s side, where I turned to face one of my favorite authors, a half-dozen witty and clever sayings at the tip of my tongue. From under a wig of silver hair, a frightful old woman looked back up at me, flicking her long tongue over the white blur of her false teeth. “Heavens, what are you standing there for?” exclaimed the lady. “You can see I’m thirsty, boy. What kind of waiter are you?”
My hands moist with hot sweat, the bottle slipped through my fingers. Shattered glass and splattered wine: the greatest fear of the railway waiter. All the occupants of the dining car were gaping at me and it seemed every last one joined Rapp’s laughter.
I could not bring myself to tell Mr. Fergins what had happened. A few days later, he was rolling his books through our cars and calling out his newest titles. I still felt the sharp sting of humiliation. Even minor embarrassment lingered a long time with me. I fell off a horse when I was seven years old, and some mornings in New York City, waking on my hard cot in a closet-like room, the shrill laughter of my former playmates rang in my ears.
The bookseller must have heard something of the practical joke, because he spoke to me in such a way that he might have been visiting my sickbed.
“There is no keeping a secret on a train,” I said, my eyes falling to my hands.
He tried an innocent smile, then frowned at himself for giving himself away. “Come. Any man could drop something on a moving train.”
“One of the other waiters played a dirty trick. Said Mark Twain was in the dining car, and I believed it. I stupidly believed it.”
“No, but Twain wouldn’t be traveling that route this time of year,” he began, then stopped himself, excusing the strange digression by clearing his throat. “Mr. Clover, you believed your unworthy associate’s statement because you are an honest man, and you expect honesty reflected back from the world. I have been known to be the same way.”
“The worst part, Mr. Fergins, was not Rapp’s joke. It was how I felt when I saw it was not really him.” As I finished the statement, I realized with shame that there were tears in my eyes.
“You are always better off to read a book, anyway, than to meet the person behind it.”
“Why?” I asked of the peculiar reassurance. By the time he held out his handkerchief I had forgotten my own question.
“Do you know why you are so upset?”
“I don’t, sir,” I admitted.
“Let us think about it. Maybe it will come to you.”
“No. I haven’t a clue why I have turned into such a baby over a silly prank, some broken glass, and an author who was never there to begin with. New York City is too hard, just as Reverend Millens warned.”
“Millens?”