Читать книгу Finding Faith - C. E. Edmonson - Страница 5

THE TRAIN CONTINUED on through the mountains for another hour, stopping at stations so small they seemed like mere afterthoughts. Faith Covington couldn’t imagine anyone disembarking there—not without a compass, a sleeping bag, and maybe a machete, anyway.

The forest remained unbroken, stolid, and dense—as immovable as the face of a rocky cliff. Faith sat beside her mother, her hands folded in her lap. She had a million questions, but was too afraid of the answers to ask them.

At the front of the car, two soldiers were drinking from a pewter flask. Suddenly, they began to sing, slurring their words, much to the disgust of the other passengers. Over and over, they sang the opening verses of “Happy Days Are Here Again,” all the while conducting a vigorous argument about the lyrics. Finally, the conductor entered the car and asked them to keep it down. The minute he was gone they started up again, this time choosing “On the Sunny Side of the Street.”

Faith was less than thrilled at the impromptu performance. Both songs suggested that folks ignore the grim realities that marked day-to-day life in New York City—the mass evictions, the homeless children living in packs, the bodies lying frozen in the streets on cold winter mornings. Just grab your coat, get your hat, leave your worries on the doorstep. Nothing to it.

Maybe, on her best day, Faith could manage to forget her troubles, but this was not her best day. No, this was about the worst day of her life.

These thoughts were still running through Faith’s mind when the train finally cleared the mountains and began a long descent into the valley. For a time, the tracks ran alongside a broad river marked by rapids wherever it narrowed to sweep around mid-water islands. A dozen canoeists had taken advantage of the spring floods. Maneuvering their canoes through the roughest spots, they braved the turbulent white water. Faith watched, fascinated, as one of the canoes flipped, its nose rising straight up before it landed on its side, throwing its two paddlers into the roiling water.

At first the paddlers were helpless, despite their life jackets. Faith knew how they must have felt.

The water was moving too fast for swimming. It spun the men around, tossing them from side to side as if they were twigs. Then the river suddenly widened, the waters calmed, and the men swam into a quiet backwater. Their canoe, unfortunately, had other ideas. It was headed downriver. Fast.

“What river is that, Mom?” Faith asked.

“The Delaware. It runs all the way to the Atlantic Ocean.”

“And that house over there?” Overlooking the river, the house Faith pointed at was midway up a steep bluff. Enormous by any standards, it featured a row of eight, white-brick chimneys that ran the length of the building’s slate roof. “Who lives in that house?”

“That’s Cliff House. It’s a resort.”

“People stay there?”

“Of course. People from the coast have been coming to Monroe County for their summer vacations for a long time. Why not? The scenery is beautiful and the summers are much cooler than in New York or New Jersey.”

“Aren’t we in New Jersey?”

“Not for long. That’s Pennsylvania on the other side of the river.”

Faith stared out the window as the train turned onto a stone bridge. From the center of the bridge, she could see a dozen resorts on the Jersey and Pennsylvania sides. Faith was cheered by the sight. She’d nearly given up hope, but here it was, civilization. She could live with this, even if she was asked to wash dishes and make beds. Even if she was asked to clean bathrooms. Though she’d much prefer to curl up in front of the radio or lose herself in a book, hard work didn’t frighten her. What frightened Faith was that unbroken wilderness, that forest as dark as it was unending.

In East Stroudsburg, a few minutes from the bridge, the train stopped long enough to take on water for the engines. Margaret and her daughter took advantage of the delay to quench their thirst with a treat: two bottles of Coca-Cola purchased at a small grocery store. As they strolled back to the train, Faith again fought an urge to ask specific questions about their final destination. Unfortunately, her mother was doing her mind-reader act again. As she and Faith slid their green glass bottles into a wooden crate, Margaret spoke without looking at her daughter.

“Where we’re going,” she announced, “is nothing like this.”

Despite Margaret’s warning, as the train cruised first through a valley then began a long, slow haul to the crest of a mountain, Faith focused on the resorts to either side of the tracks. Spragueville, Henryville, Cresco, Mount Pocono... Faith counted more than two dozen large hotels and many more country boarding houses. The resorts were surrounded by spacious lawns and gardens, swimming pools, even a small golf course. Nevertheless, she had to admit, the train stations themselves were growing smaller with each stop, and Pocono Summit, when they finally pulled in at two o’clock, was the smallest of all. Unpainted for many a season, the stationhouse was little more than a shed.

Next to the stationhouse, on a small, gravel-covered lot, two vehicles sat thirty feet apart. The first was a brand new Cadillac limousine. Every inch of the limousine’s black paint gleamed with polish, as did every spoke on its wire wheels. The chauffeur in his gray-green uniform was equally spiffy. The peak on his cap positively glowed.

Not fifteen feet away, an older man wearing canvas pants, dusty boots, and a white undershirt that had seen better days leaned against the rusted fender of an ancient Chevrolet pickup truck. The man’s skin was a deep mahogany and his mostly gray hair, braided on both sides, hung below his shoulders.

Faith didn’t have to ask which vehicle was waiting for her and her mother. She watched Pauline emerge from the first-class car, accompanied by her governess, and run over to the Cadillac limousine. Naturally.

Pauline was fast, but not as fast as the chauffeur, who opened the car’s rear door just before his little mistress plunged inside. An instant later, before her governess joined her, the window on the far side of the Cadillac rolled down and Pauline’s face appeared.

“Oh, Faith...” Pauline waved gaily. “Do you see this car? Soooooo borrrrrring. I’ve been after my father to buy a Packard but he won’t hear of it. Well, goodbye. The train was late and my governess insists that I nap before I dress for dinner.”

The limousine’s engine was so quiet that Faith didn’t realize it was running, not until the vehicle described a wide circle, its tires crunching over the gravel, and pulled onto the road. Faith watched the car turn left and quickly accelerate. A moment later, it was gone.

“Faith,” Margaret said, drawing her daughter’s attention, “this is Ben Hightower.”

Ordinarily, Faith would have responded with a little smile and a pleasant hello. But the man with the braids, Ben Hightower, stretched forth a well-callused hand for her to shake. Women didn’t shake hands with men, at least according to Miss Jennifer Thompson. “It’s never done, girls”—that was how she dismissed any behavior deemed unladylike. It’s never done.

Faith looked to her mother for a signal, but Margaret was staring into the distance, apparently unaware. Finally, Faith took Ben’s hand—she could hardly leave it dangling in space—and squeezed gently.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said.

“Yes, pleased to meet you.”

Though Ben’s expression didn’t change, Faith recognized a hint of amusement in his tone. Most likely, he wasn’t used to polite conversation.

She watched him gather their bags, noting that despite his age, he was agile and graceful, his back straight, his stride firm. He tossed the bags into the truck’s bed as if they weighed no more than feather pillows, and then got into the driver’s side.

Again, Faith was taken by surprise. In polite company, men always opened the door for women. Now she watched her mother open the passenger-side door and signal her to get in.

Faith did as she was told, squeezing in next to Ben Hightower, while her mother took the window seat.

“All ready?” Ben asked. He pressed the starter button and twisted the key without waiting for an answer and the truck roared to life. And “roared” was exactly the right word. If the pickup truck had a muffler, it wasn’t functioning. The noise was ear-splitting and Faith flinched involuntarily.

“Been meaning to fix that,” Ben said. When he rammed the shift stick into first gear, the crunch was louder than the steady chug of the engine.

Faith felt her heart sink. What was she doing here, in her neat dress and her sun bonnet? How could this have happened? She’d been trained all her life to be a lady and she could curtsey with the best of them. So what? Her entire childhood was now irrelevant, all her skills rendered useless by her family’s unexpected, and undeserved, poverty.

Up until now, she’d more or less assumed that she was in control. Sure, she messed up from time to time, but the messes were of her own making. She had the power to correct them, or at least try not to get caught next time. Now she felt like a leaf in the wind or those canoeists she’d seen on her way here—whipped here and there by the wind or the water, a prisoner of circumstances so powerful that she could barely comprehend them.