Golden Poppies Page 4

  It was nice to see him with a genuine smile on his face. Sadie smiled back.

  She looked around the Pullman sleeper. Indeed this was as fine as the newspaper advertisements proclaimed. The pair of wide seats seemed to be a private living room. And the wood paneling gleamed like a library in a fine home.

  Their belongings were tucked away yet able to be accessed when needed. It was as luxurious as the hotel Sadie had stayed in during her honeymoon in San Francisco.

  Sadie studied the scene out the window. The crew bustled around, preparing the train for departure. Well-dressed passengers waited to board. Down the row she saw peddlers selling food to second- and third-class passengers. They would sleep sitting up for the journey. Sadie was grateful to have the means for a sleeping car. Heinrich’s work was stressful, but it provided them all she could ask for financially.

  Malcolm returned with the twine and then assisted other passengers. They kept him busy running for beverages and blankets and making reservations in the dining car. Most were polite or indifferent; a few were rude or downright cruel.

  Sadie bristled when she saw a man with angry eyes pull out a ten-dollar bill and wave it at Malcolm.

  “George, if I like the way you treat me on this trip, this is yours in Chicago,” the man with sandy-brown hair declared. “If not, then, well . . . I’ll be taking my wife out to a nice dinner when I get there. Understand me?” the man challenged, a smirk on his lips and arrogance shining from his eyes.

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Malcolm grinned at the man. “My job is to make you happy.”

  Sadie’s stomach turned while watching the interaction. She did not understand how Malcolm could be so calm or why he did not correct the man for using the wrong name.

  Sadie leaned in and whispered to her mother, “Did you see that?”

  Momma nodded without expression.

  “Aren’t you outraged?” she questioned.

  “Malcolm knows his job, Sadie,” Momma lectured. “People are cruel, very cruel, to servants.”

  “But . . .”

  “Do not make it worse for Malcolm by asking him to reassure you that he is fine,” Momma scolded.

  Sadie was stunned. Had her mother lost her moral bearing? Her face must have shown her dismay.

  “Sadie, I know you are not accustomed to seeing racial cruelty, but you read the newspaper enough to understand the ways of this nation. Each community has its own code. On the train we will see all of them.” Momma went on, “You cannot change that man, but you can learn the truth about the world and decide what kind of person you want to be.”

  Momma patted Sadie’s leg and then looked out the window, signaling an end to their conversation. Sadie felt like a child.

  Soon the train jerked and slowly rolled away from the depot. People of all ages, mostly White, but a few Negroes and Chinese, waved from the platform. Sadie didn’t know them, but she was touched by their farewell and enthusiastically returned the gesture.

  The tracks pointed toward the bay and then turned a sharp right, running past Emeryville and then Berkeley. The Marin hills stood to the west, like a sentry across the sparkling water. The scene was mesmerizing, the land both familiar and yet new from this angle.

  In Berkeley, rolling hills rose to the east while the bay glistened to the west. A riot of brilliant orange poppies covered the hills, contrasting with the dark-green canopy of oaks and the grass—still bright green from rain. It was a beautiful time of year.

  They turned inland to their first stop, Martinez, a small community Sadie had never visited before. Many farmers shipped their produce from this station. She opened her window to get fresh air but was disappointed. The wind blew the soot from the engine through the opening, making the stuffy air preferable to the smoke.

  They resumed their journey, crossing the Carquinez Strait and leaving the bay behind. Fields surrounded the train on both sides. People with hoes in their hands bent over the land. Most wore the wide woven caps that marked them as laborers from China.

  Malcolm stopped in front of their seats, offering two metal cups filled with water.

  “Would you care for anything else?” he asked.

  Sadie shook her head. “No, thank you. This is lovely.”

  She smiled at him, wanting to say more, longing to have the right words, but her thoughts were muddled. Momma was right. What could she do to make it better? This was Malcolm’s life, and she was only a short-term guest in it.

  The next stop was at the capital of the state: Sacramento. Sadie had imagined it would be imposing, larger than San Francisco, but it looked less developed than even Oakland. Only the capitol building marked it as special. Soon they pulled out, heading for the Sierra and then out of the state.

  Sadie had only a vague memory of their travel from Ohio to California when she was eleven. Her father had loved the scenery and spoke of their journey often in the years after. She had pictures of it in her mind but wasn’t certain whether they were recollections or pictures her imagination made from his stories.

  A large granite boulder suddenly flew by only feet from the train. She jumped back and then laughed at herself. She leaned in close to the window. The train rushed past tall evergreen trees that towered over the window of the car. Some were so tight together that they blurred into one mass, and others were far enough apart to register as separate trees. Most were so close she feared they would strike the glass. It was dizzying, but quickly she adjusted to the motion.

  They were in the mountains of the Sierra. She thought she would have noticed the ascent, but she hadn’t felt the train climbing higher. Only the landscape out the window told her they’d changed elevations.

  The view suddenly opened to a gorge with a mighty river tumbling below, churning across huge rocks. Though it was light out, a quarter moon chased them as they rushed along the riverbank. The sight was nothing short of majestic.

  “Your father teared up at this beauty.” Momma sighed. Sadie took her hand. They both missed him.

  “I can see why,” Sadie replied with moist eyes of her own.

  Their tender moment was interrupted by the shouting of a pinch-faced woman. “Are you testing my patience on purpose?”

  The rude matron glared at Malcolm as she poured the liquid from the cup onto the floor of the train. Sadie saw him take a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. What did you wish me to bring to you?” he asked.

  “Lemonade! I asked for lemonade. And you brought me iced tea!” she exclaimed.

  Sadie wanted to correct the woman; she had asked for iced tea. Sadie had heard her. The whole car had heard her. She started to rise, but Momma restrained her.

  “Let him do his job without interference.”

  Sadie signaled to Malcolm as he walked toward them. He stopped with his head cocked, ready to listen.

  “She asked for iced tea,” Sadie said. “I heard her. Would you like me to correct her?”

  Malcolm shook his head and implored, “Please, ma’am. Just let it be. If you chastise her publicly, she will complain to Mr. Smith, my conductor, which never goes well for me.”

  “You cannot mean that Willie Smith will not treat you fairly,” Momma asked.

  Malcolm’s head jerked back, and his face pulled inward in confusion. “You are acquainted with Mr. Smith?”

  “He’s my nephew,” Momma explained. “I haven’t been in regular contact for many, many years, but we were close when he was a child. In fact, your uncle and grandmother assisted in his family’s move from Richmond, Virginia, to Oberlin, Ohio. Emily and William Smith?”

  Malcolm looked even more confused.

  “You do know the story of our families?” Momma asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I just . . .” He shook his head and pasted a smile on his face. “I’m glad that you believe Mr. Smith will be a friend to me. He’s new to this route; we haven’t worked together before.”

  “I can’t imagine he will show any race prejudice when he—”

>   “Thank you, ma’am,” Malcolm interrupted. “I best be getting on with my duties.”

  He tipped his cap politely and left them. Now Sadie was confused by Malcolm’s attitude. He appeared to be hiding information from them. Perhaps it was none of her business, as Momma kept telling her, but she was curious about the mystery.

  Once they crossed into Nevada, the scenery out the window was dramatic in an entirely different way. The desert spread out before them, long past where the eye could see. Stunted shrubs gave it texture. The temperature rose until it was uncomfortable even to be seated and gazing out at the land. Sadie held an entirely new level of respect for the settlers who crossed this territory by wagon and the workers who laid the tracks for the railroad.

  “Your table is ready.” Malcolm interrupted Sadie’s thoughts.

  “Thank you,” Sadie replied with a smile, and they followed him to the elegant dining room.

  If anything, it was more ornate than the sleeping car. The carved seats around the tables were upholstered with damask cushions. White cotton tablecloths covered the surface laid with silver utensils, glassware, and a vase with flowers. Each window had rich velvet curtains. Glass and electrical bulbs shone from above. Most striking were the great number of Colored men dressed in long white tunics, ready to serve. It was as sophisticated as the Palace Hotel in San Francisco.

  Malcolm ushered them to a table where two people were already seated. The well-dressed gentleman rose. He was older than Sadie but younger than Momma. The woman next to him was closer to Sadie’s age.

  “I’m Mr. Davis of Chicago.” He did not reach out his hand. “My wife”—he gestured toward the petite woman next to him.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Momma said. “I’m Mrs. Johnson and this is my daughter, Mrs. Wagner.”

  They sat down. Sadie picked up the elegant menu waiting on the table.

  PULLMAN DINING CAR LAFAYETTE

  ———

  DINNER

  —

  Chicken with Rice

  Consommé, Clear

  —

  Celery

  —

  Baked Whitefish, Tartar Sauce

  Saratoga Potatoes

  —

  Boiled Beef Tongue, Tomato Sauce

  —

  Chicken Croquettes, Mushrooms

  Pineapple Fritters, Wine Sauce

  —

  Prime Roast Beef

  Roast Turkey, Cranberry Sauce

  Boiled Potatoes

  String Beans

  June Peas

  Cauliflower

  —

  Lobster Salad

  —

  Apple Tapioca Pudding, Cream Sauce

  —

  Neapolitan Ice Cream

  Preserved Fruits

  Assorted Cake

  Marmalade

  Dry Canton Ginger

  English, Graham and Oatmeal Wafers

  —

  Fruit

  —

  Roquefort, Canadian and Edam Cheese

  Bent’s Biscuits

  —

  Cafe Noir

  ———

  * MEALS, ONE DOLLAR *

  —

  Hygeia Water Used on Table.

  The offerings were extensive. Sadie looked at her mother studying the menu.

  Mr. Davis asked, “Is this your first journey by train?”

  Momma replied, “Our second, but the last journey was nearly twenty years ago. Trains have changed in the intervening years.”

  “Indeed!” he proclaimed.

  “And you?” Sadie asked, looking at Mrs. Davis.

  “We took the train to San Francisco last month,” she said. Then she added, a coy smile lighting up her face, “For our honeymoon.”

  “Congratulations!” Momma said, matching the woman’s excitement.

  Not every marriage should be celebrated, but all weddings seemed to be.

  “Where are you headed to?” Mrs. Davis asked.

  “Chicago,” Momma replied, “to visit an old friend.”

  “Our hometown,” Mr. Davis said.

  “We will be traveling together for a few days, then,” Momma said.

  They both nodded.

  “The menu changes each night. I cannot understand how they do it, but the food is delicious,” he said.

  The right side of the menu listed French wines and champagne, cordials, California wines, whiskey, beer, and sodas. Momma pointed at the prices. Some of the beverages were four dollars a bottle—four times the cost of the entire meal. The financial crisis caused by the crash of 1893 hadn’t been equally hard on everyone. The beer included Heinrich’s favorite—Bartholomay’s Bohemian. Sadie thought of her husband hundreds of miles away, being served by Lexi. She hoped he was satisfied with his supper.

  Sadie settled on the chicken croquettes, and Momma ordered the roast beef. The waiter was so friendly she wondered if Cousin Willie had requested special treatment for them. But then she noticed that the all-Negro serving staff were equally kind and jovial to the surrounding tables.

  The food arrived on beautiful china plates with a floral pattern and the word “Pullman” embossed in blue letters. Mr. Davis was correct. It was as delicious as any meal Sadie had ever eaten.

  Mr. Davis declared, “Mr. Pullman began his career in New York, but he wisely moved to Chicago to make his fortune. He is most inventive and deserves every penny he earns.

  “Do you know how he made his name?”

  Before they had a chance to reply to his question, he launched into an explanation. “Mr. Pullman used his patented method to raise an entire block of stores in downtown Chicago—without disrupting their business. They’d been built so close to Lake Michigan that a seasonal swamp flooded them. He used hundreds of laborers and six thousand jackscrews to lift the buildings. At the sound of a whistle, the workers simultaneously gave the screws a quarter turn. Each movement was so slight that they did not break a single pane of glass nor disturb the shoppers. Can you imagine that? Sipping tea in a restaurant or buying a coat while the building you’re in is being raised?”

  Like Heinrich, Mr. Davis clearly admired a self-made man. Heinrich believed that Mr. Spreckels was a similarly admirable and astute businessman. Some considered such men greedy and overly ambitious, but the fact that Spreckels and Pullman were attempting to drive out all competition did not bother Heinrich in the least. He thought Spreckels was wise to take full advantage of the opportunities that industrialization and urbanization were offering in the moment.

  Mr. Davis paused in the midst of his lecture with a dramatic scowl. He shook his head. Sadie turned around to see what was disturbing him. A well-dressed Negro family was being seated.

  Mr. Davis hissed, “I do not see how they can consider these first-class accommodations if they are serving Negroes.”

  Sadie’s stomach clenched. She wanted to challenge his assertion but did not want to ruin their meal by being argumentative. And she was at a loss for the right words.

  Momma replied, “Surely income is the measure of class, Mr. Davis. Not complexion.”

  “Oh, I see,” Mr. Davis responded, his eyebrows raised. “I have no race prejudice, but I am not so naïve as to believe that standards are not lowered by racial mixing.”

  He continued speaking about Mr. Pullman, though Sadie suspected there was less enthusiasm in his story. Without a break he talked about his construction business and the difficulties of finding good American-born labor that would work for a fair wage.

  Sadie found the conversation tiresome as well as offensive. She didn’t want a direct confrontation but wished to change the topic. Mr. Davis didn’t leave her any room to steer the dialogue in a different direction.

  Looking at Mrs. Davis, she started another topic: “Do you have recommendations for sightseeing while we are in Chicago?”

  The woman smiled and declared, “The Field Columbian Museum. Do not miss it. There is a wing devoted to the new science of anthropolog
y.”

  Mr. Davis agreed. “There is nothing else like it in the United States. Our friend Marshall Field was the primary benefactor, but I made a donation as well.”

  Willie came to the table, their desserts on a tray in his hands.

  “May I join you?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Momma said. “Mr. and Mrs. Davis, this is my nephew Willie Smith. He’s the conductor.”

  Sitting up tall, Mr. Davis belted out, “I knew by your uniform.”

  Willie brought a chair, blocking the narrow walkway, but none of the staff denied him that right.

  Mr. Davis leaned in. “So now they are making you let niggers go where they will.”

  Sadie sucked in her breath. Her stomach rose, and she had to swallow back bile. She studied Willie’s reaction. He took a deep breath.

  “There are no standard regulations,” he replied, his voice measured and calm. “Each conductor makes the rules of his own train.”

  “Unless that Negress newspaperwoman has her way,” Mr. Davis said. “Then no man will have the freedom to decide his own lifestyle.”

  Sadie asked, “Ida B. Wells?”

  The man nodded. He looked between the three of them.

  Sadie’s mind raced, searching for the right words to signal her admiration for the Negro newspaperwoman who was shedding light on the rising practice of lynching Negro men in the South.

  Mr. Davis seemed to make a social calculation and said, “Perhaps you are forward-thinking. Negroes in the West are a different caliber. If they have the means, who am I . . .” He left his sentence incomplete. With a large grin on his face, Mr. Davis changed tactics and asked Willie, “Can I buy you a whiskey in exchange for tales from the rails?”

  Her cousin smiled and nodded, gracious after such insulting words. Like Malcolm, he seemed accustomed to racial disparagements. Willie disappeared and returned with two glasses of amber whiskey.

  “I understand conductors get tipped in more than cash,” Mr. Davis declared.

  Willie nodded.

  “Your best tip?”

  Willie grinned. “Tickets to a baseball game.”

  “A fan?” Mr. Davis exclaimed.

  “Ever since my cousin Sam gave me a mitt when I was six,” Willie said.

  Momma and Willie exchanged smiles at the memory.