Looking to Emmett with a grateful smile, he suddenly expressed surprise.
—You aren’t the steward!
—I’m one of the brakemen, said Emmett.
—My thanks all the same.
Turning to his left, the reveler picked up a martini glass that was on a small round table and began carefully filling it with gin. As he did so, Emmett noted that the olive in the bottom of the glass had been speared with the minute hand of the clock.
Having filled the glass, the reveler looked to Emmett.
—Could I interest you . . . ?
—No, thank you.
—On duty, I suppose.
Raising his drink briefly toward Emmett, he emptied the glass at a toss, then considered it, ruefully.
—You were wise to decline. This gin is unnaturally tepid. Criminally so, you might say. Nonetheless . . .
Refilling the glass, he raised it once again to his lips, but this time stopped short with a look of concern.
—You wouldn’t happen to know where we are?
—Outside Cedar Rapids.
—Iowa?
—Yes.
—And the time?
—About half past eight.
—In the morning?
—Yes, said Emmett. In the morning.
The reveler began to tilt his glass, but stopped again.
—Not Thursday morning?
—No, said Emmett trying to contain his impatience. It’s Tuesday.
The reveler exhaled in relief, then leaned toward the man who was sleeping on the couch.
—Did you hear that, Mr. Packer?
When Packer didn’t respond, the reveler set down his glass, took a bread roll from a jacket pocket, and threw it at Packer’s head, accurately.
—I say: Did you hear that?
—Hear what, Mr. Parker?
—It’s not Thursday yet.
Rolling onto his side, Packer faced the wall.
—Wednesday’s child is full of woe, but Thursday’s child has far to go.
Parker stared at his companion thoughtfully, then leaned toward Emmett.
—Between us, Mr. Packer is also unnaturally tepid.
—I heard that, said Packer to the wall.
Parker ignored him and continued confiding in Emmett.
—Normally, I am not one to fret over such things as the days of the week. But Mr. Packer and I are bound by a sacred trust. For sound asleep in the next cabin is none other than Alexander Cunningham the Third, the beloved grandson of the owner of this delightful car. And we have vowed that we will have Mr. Cunningham back in Chicago at the doors of the Racquet Club （that’s racquet with a q, mind you）， by Thursday night at six, so that we can deliver him safely—
—Into the hands of his captors, said Packer.
—Into the hands of his bride-to-be, corrected Parker. Which is a duty not to be taken lightly, Mr. Brakeman. For Mr. Cunningham’s grandfather is the largest operator of refrigerated boxcars in America and the bride’s grandfather is the largest producer of sausage links. So I think you can see the importance of our getting Mr. Cunningham to Chicago on time.
—The future of breakfast in America depends upon it, said Packer.
—Indeed, it does, agreed Parker. Indeed, it does.
Emmett was raised to hold no man in disdain. To hold another man in disdain, his father would say, presumed that you knew so much about his lot, so much about his intentions, about his actions both public and private that you could rank his character against your own without fear of misjudgment. But as he watched the one called Parker empty another glass of tepid gin and then draw the olive off the minute hand with his teeth, Emmett couldn’t help but measure the man and find him wanting.
Back in Salina, one of the stories that Duchess liked to tell—when they were working in the fields or biding time in the barracks—was about a performer who called himself Professor Heinrich Schweitzer, Master of Telekinesis.
When the curtain rose on the professor, he would be sitting in the middle of the stage at a small table with a white tablecloth, a single dinner setting, and an unlit candle. From offstage a waiter would appear, serve the professor a steak, pour a glass of wine, and light the candle. When the waiter left, in an unhurried manner the professor would eat some of the steak, drink some of the wine, and stick his fork upright in the meat—all without saying a word. After wiping his lips with his napkin, he would hold a parted thumb and finger in the air. As he slowly closed them together, the flame of the candle would sputter, then expire, leaving a thin trail of smoke. Next, the professor would stare at his wine until it boiled over the rim. When he turned his attention to his plate, the top half of the fork would bend until it was at a ninety-degree angle. At this point, the audience, which had been warned to maintain a perfect silence, was rumbling with expressions of amazement or disbelief. With a raised hand, the professor would quiet the house. Closing his eyes, he would point his palms toward the table. As he concentrated, the table would begin to tremble to such a degree that you could hear its legs knocking against the surface of the stage. Then reopening his eyes, the professor would suddenly swipe his hands to the right, and the tablecloth would shoot into the air, leaving the dinner plate, wine glass, and candle undisturbed.