Read Online No Job for a Lady by Carol McCleary - Free Book Online
Authors: Carol McCleary
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blocking his view of me, even though I only intend to freshen my face.
Having been raised with brothers whom my mother and I had to constantly pick up after, I am surprised at how neat he is. His personal possessions are not scattered around the compartment, and the few in the cubbyhole washroom are neatly displayed. He has even taken a metal cup to hold his toothbrush and a tree twig. My father also used a twig to rub his teeth with, because he complained that brushes were constantly falling apart.
If Mr. Watkins wasn’t so sarcastic, I might even be attracted to him, but there is something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. He seems rather inquisitive about me, but I guess that’s natural. I am curious about him, too. Under different circumstances, and if I wasn’t so busy looking for stories, I wouldn’t mind chatting and getting to know him a bit more in a friendly manner, instead of this inquisitional way.
I also have a feeling that he is not particularly fond of women. He is polite, no question about it, but he seems to take extra delight in refusing to abide by the rule of ladies first—especially when it comes to choosing a berth!
I wonder what happened in his life to give him such a negative slant about women.
“I’m surprised,” Roger Watkins states when I come out of the washroom.
“About what?”
“How quickly it took you to freshen up. Most women take forever with their toiletry. When they come out, they basically look the same, except that maybe their hair is more combed, and not always for the better. Some women make their faces look like a clown’s, with all that ridiculous stuff on their eyes and lips! Why do women wear such paint on their faces?”
For a moment, I am speechless. I’ve never heard a man ramble on and on about women, especially their attire. And what he just said to me, is it a compliment, or what?
“Well, I grew up with six brothers and I wasn’t allowed much time in the bathroom. Besides, my mother doesn’t believe in all that makeup. She says natural beauty is better. Unfortunately, I have neither natural beauty nor makeup.”
“You are too hard on yourself. You’re not a bad looker, except when you are jawing at me over the berths. And you have a smart mother. Shall we go?”
“Where?” is all I can say at the moment, for I am still flabbergasted at what he has just said.
“To the dining car.”
“What? No. I already told you—”
“I know you have a dinner engagement. But, I, too, must eat, so I thought I’d at least escort you there. You never know what lurks between train cars.”
“You read too many mysteries, and yes, I noticed your Poe book. And, no thank you, I do not need your protection.” I square my shoulders. “I am an American girl who can take care of herself without the aid of a man.”
“Fine. And speaking of Poe, listen to this: ‘Take this kiss upon the brow!/And, in parting from you now,/Thus much let me avow—/You are not wrong, who deem/That my days have been a dream;/Yet if hope has flown away/In a night, or in a day,/In a vision, or in none,/Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem/Is but a dream within a dream.’”
“I’m impressed. That is beautiful and very poignant. What’s the title?”
“‘A Dream Within a Dream.’ It was published the year he died.”
“How sad. Didn’t Poe have a tragic life?”
“Drank himself to death.”
“He also didn’t have very good luck with women, did he? I suppose you haven’t, either.”
What made me say this, I have not a clue, but the minute it slipped off my tongue, I wished I could retrieve it, for the look on Roger’s face made me want to crawl in a hole.
12
I leave feeling like a skunk. My wicked tongue made me say that. Unconsciously or maybe consciously, I was testing my theory that he had issues with women. Well, I guess I got my answer. Oh boy …
It is still too early for dinner, and I take a seat in a passenger car to
Having been raised with brothers whom my mother and I had to constantly pick up after, I am surprised at how neat he is. His personal possessions are not scattered around the compartment, and the few in the cubbyhole washroom are neatly displayed. He has even taken a metal cup to hold his toothbrush and a tree twig. My father also used a twig to rub his teeth with, because he complained that brushes were constantly falling apart.
If Mr. Watkins wasn’t so sarcastic, I might even be attracted to him, but there is something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. He seems rather inquisitive about me, but I guess that’s natural. I am curious about him, too. Under different circumstances, and if I wasn’t so busy looking for stories, I wouldn’t mind chatting and getting to know him a bit more in a friendly manner, instead of this inquisitional way.
I also have a feeling that he is not particularly fond of women. He is polite, no question about it, but he seems to take extra delight in refusing to abide by the rule of ladies first—especially when it comes to choosing a berth!
I wonder what happened in his life to give him such a negative slant about women.
“I’m surprised,” Roger Watkins states when I come out of the washroom.
“About what?”
“How quickly it took you to freshen up. Most women take forever with their toiletry. When they come out, they basically look the same, except that maybe their hair is more combed, and not always for the better. Some women make their faces look like a clown’s, with all that ridiculous stuff on their eyes and lips! Why do women wear such paint on their faces?”
For a moment, I am speechless. I’ve never heard a man ramble on and on about women, especially their attire. And what he just said to me, is it a compliment, or what?
“Well, I grew up with six brothers and I wasn’t allowed much time in the bathroom. Besides, my mother doesn’t believe in all that makeup. She says natural beauty is better. Unfortunately, I have neither natural beauty nor makeup.”
“You are too hard on yourself. You’re not a bad looker, except when you are jawing at me over the berths. And you have a smart mother. Shall we go?”
“Where?” is all I can say at the moment, for I am still flabbergasted at what he has just said.
“To the dining car.”
“What? No. I already told you—”
“I know you have a dinner engagement. But, I, too, must eat, so I thought I’d at least escort you there. You never know what lurks between train cars.”
“You read too many mysteries, and yes, I noticed your Poe book. And, no thank you, I do not need your protection.” I square my shoulders. “I am an American girl who can take care of herself without the aid of a man.”
“Fine. And speaking of Poe, listen to this: ‘Take this kiss upon the brow!/And, in parting from you now,/Thus much let me avow—/You are not wrong, who deem/That my days have been a dream;/Yet if hope has flown away/In a night, or in a day,/In a vision, or in none,/Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem/Is but a dream within a dream.’”
“I’m impressed. That is beautiful and very poignant. What’s the title?”
“‘A Dream Within a Dream.’ It was published the year he died.”
“How sad. Didn’t Poe have a tragic life?”
“Drank himself to death.”
“He also didn’t have very good luck with women, did he? I suppose you haven’t, either.”
What made me say this, I have not a clue, but the minute it slipped off my tongue, I wished I could retrieve it, for the look on Roger’s face made me want to crawl in a hole.
12
I leave feeling like a skunk. My wicked tongue made me say that. Unconsciously or maybe consciously, I was testing my theory that he had issues with women. Well, I guess I got my answer. Oh boy …
It is still too early for dinner, and I take a seat in a passenger car to
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