seat then stepped down to the platform, brushing soot from his sleeves as he studied the quiet towns: Westbridge, Carroll, Fall Valley, Humberton. He’d seen the names on maps but never imagined the places themselves; the sight of their meetinghouses and banks and barbershops and town greens brought trills of childish delight. He yawned, affecting a distracted air.
In Garton he’d boarded the train to find his valise missing and a heavyset stranger slouched in his seat, squinting at a broadsheet. Reverend Stone cleared his throat. When the man didn’t glance up he said, “Pardon me, I believe that seat was in use.”
The stranger raised his eyes with a grave expression. “How do you reckon that?”
“My valise was on it. I left it on the seat when I stepped out for air.”
The man held Reverend Stone’s gaze until a prickle of annoyance rose in the minister. He surveyed the half-empty car: a few bored faces were turned toward the scene. A young peddler had appeared in the aisle, offering his tray of newspapers and cigars and peanuts. Reverend Stone shook his head but the boy didn’t move.
“Every fool knows you don’t leave your valise just setting out. Especially not at a depot.”
“I left it to keep my seat while I took a breath of air. As I told you.”
“I saw naught but a bare bench. I would have noticed a valise just setting out.”
“But you
must
have seen it. A sheepskin bag, brown.”
The man slapped the broadsheet to his lap. “There wasn’t no valise nowhere! I didn’t take it myself, if that’s what you mean to say!”
“Of course not, pardon me.” Reverend Stone hurried to the door and stepped down to the platform. Across the road, a hatless man carrying a sheepskin bag was climbing the stairs of the Pierce Bank. The minister jogged across the road to the bank, mounted the steps two at a time. He paused, gasping, then opened the door and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder.
An idiot woman dressed in trousers whirled around and shrieked, “Remove your
smutty
hands from me!” then smashed the bag against Reverend Stone’s shoulder. It was a ratty sackcloth satchel, nothing at all like the minister’s valise. He said, “Pardon me, I’ve made a mistake, I believed—”
Just then the train whistle sounded. Reverend Stone backed through the door, apologizing, then turned and sprinted toward the depot. The conductor called
Ho!
and the engine chuffed. The locomotive jolted forward. Reverend Stone shouted as he ran toward the gentlemen’s car. The conductor waved, grinning, the door propped open with his boot. The engine churned faster. At the platform’s edge Reverend Stone seized the handrail and slung himself through the doorway, flush against the conductor, and the man whooped.
“Decent pace for a fellow your age!”
He slid into a vacant seat and stared furiously out the window. Someone had snatched the valise from his seat, tucked it beneath their jacket as they strolled away. At that moment some chiseler was fingering his cravat and handkerchiefs, rattling his tins of toothache medication. Reading Elisha’s letter. Sweat trickled down the minister’s cheeks. It all seemed very obvious.
He closed his eyes to still his restless thoughts, but they ran stubbornly to the few occasions of the valise’s use. From his father’s home in Chicopee to the seminary in Cambridge forty years ago. From Cambridge to Newell five years later, his heart buoyed by optimism. From Newell to Saratoga Springs on his wedding tour, Ellen in the coach beside him, her lips pursed with nervous excitement, her fist pressed against his thigh. Joyous times. Beginnings and endings. Reverend Stone wondered which of the two the current occasion might be.
Now he slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and withdrew a half-empty tin of medication and fold of bank notes, moving stiffly so as not to disturb the fellow resting against his shoulder. He counted thirty-three dollars: perhaps enough to take him
In Garton he’d boarded the train to find his valise missing and a heavyset stranger slouched in his seat, squinting at a broadsheet. Reverend Stone cleared his throat. When the man didn’t glance up he said, “Pardon me, I believe that seat was in use.”
The stranger raised his eyes with a grave expression. “How do you reckon that?”
“My valise was on it. I left it on the seat when I stepped out for air.”
The man held Reverend Stone’s gaze until a prickle of annoyance rose in the minister. He surveyed the half-empty car: a few bored faces were turned toward the scene. A young peddler had appeared in the aisle, offering his tray of newspapers and cigars and peanuts. Reverend Stone shook his head but the boy didn’t move.
“Every fool knows you don’t leave your valise just setting out. Especially not at a depot.”
“I left it to keep my seat while I took a breath of air. As I told you.”
“I saw naught but a bare bench. I would have noticed a valise just setting out.”
“But you
must
have seen it. A sheepskin bag, brown.”
The man slapped the broadsheet to his lap. “There wasn’t no valise nowhere! I didn’t take it myself, if that’s what you mean to say!”
“Of course not, pardon me.” Reverend Stone hurried to the door and stepped down to the platform. Across the road, a hatless man carrying a sheepskin bag was climbing the stairs of the Pierce Bank. The minister jogged across the road to the bank, mounted the steps two at a time. He paused, gasping, then opened the door and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder.
An idiot woman dressed in trousers whirled around and shrieked, “Remove your
smutty
hands from me!” then smashed the bag against Reverend Stone’s shoulder. It was a ratty sackcloth satchel, nothing at all like the minister’s valise. He said, “Pardon me, I’ve made a mistake, I believed—”
Just then the train whistle sounded. Reverend Stone backed through the door, apologizing, then turned and sprinted toward the depot. The conductor called
Ho!
and the engine chuffed. The locomotive jolted forward. Reverend Stone shouted as he ran toward the gentlemen’s car. The conductor waved, grinning, the door propped open with his boot. The engine churned faster. At the platform’s edge Reverend Stone seized the handrail and slung himself through the doorway, flush against the conductor, and the man whooped.
“Decent pace for a fellow your age!”
He slid into a vacant seat and stared furiously out the window. Someone had snatched the valise from his seat, tucked it beneath their jacket as they strolled away. At that moment some chiseler was fingering his cravat and handkerchiefs, rattling his tins of toothache medication. Reading Elisha’s letter. Sweat trickled down the minister’s cheeks. It all seemed very obvious.
He closed his eyes to still his restless thoughts, but they ran stubbornly to the few occasions of the valise’s use. From his father’s home in Chicopee to the seminary in Cambridge forty years ago. From Cambridge to Newell five years later, his heart buoyed by optimism. From Newell to Saratoga Springs on his wedding tour, Ellen in the coach beside him, her lips pursed with nervous excitement, her fist pressed against his thigh. Joyous times. Beginnings and endings. Reverend Stone wondered which of the two the current occasion might be.
Now he slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and withdrew a half-empty tin of medication and fold of bank notes, moving stiffly so as not to disturb the fellow resting against his shoulder. He counted thirty-three dollars: perhaps enough to take him
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