The woman sitting behind us tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I’d watch her luggage while she went and got something to eat. She was taking the same train as we were, and I obliged, inspired by a sense of camaraderie that rejuvenated me in lieu of caffeine. When the woman left I looked over her ragtag luggage, the suitcase with the broken zipper, the bed linens stuffed in garbage bags, and the spiral black notebook split open on the seat. I wondered what was on the pages of the notebook, where she was traveling, and if her going to get something to eat was really just an excuse to disappear. I glanced around and considered my fellow travelers, curious to think that any one of them might be running away from something, that the short pudgy guy dressed in black denim might finally have found the woman of his dreams, while the young mother cradling her newborn was secretly proud of the cunning way she’d left her deadbeat boyfriend. It was a period of languid anticipation, but one that would be punctuated by the personalities that lent our romance of traveling by train an aspect of justification.

*

Adrienne’s grandfather, Elmer Fritz Antonson, was born September 30th, 1917, in Chicago, to parents of Swedish descent. After graduating high school, he worked in a butcher shop. It was a job that he was good at but never really liked. In 1936, when Elmer was nineteen, a friend visited him. It being the Christmas season, the friend spoke about how busy he was over at Marshall Fields, the colossal department store on State Street in Chicago. When Elmer inquired whether a seasonal position might be available, the friend encouraged him to apply. Shortly thereafter, Elmer was employed at Marshall Fields, working in the Oriental Arts Department, his formative career years molded by the capable hands of one Genevieve Myers.  Ms. Myers proved to be tough, a lady whose skirts never frilled, a Katherine Hepburn of the retail world, and my image of her running an arts department in Chicago, back at the beginning of the twentieth century, with such a wonderful name, strutted across the floor of my mind with the mesmerizing steps of a heroine. She had a strong impression on her employees, and she instilled a business ambition that later in his life lofted Elmer into the societal ranks of Chicago’s elite.

I had done research on Elmer. His contributions to such innovative ideas as the electric toothbrush, battery-powered watch, and the wedding registration impressed me and piqued my curiosity. However, when I searched for his name with these items, it never emerged, and so I felt I’d discovered a secret that discredited Elmer’s claims. I didn’t want this to be the case. I wanted desperately for all of his claims to be true. I wanted it for Adrienne and her family, who spread his stories to an admiring public. I wanted it for Elmer, who in his eighty-eighth year ushered the recognition of his achievements through his body like young blood. Finally I wanted it for myself, who, sitting in the train station at five thirty in the morning, needed something to make this trip worth my while. Thinking about alternate versions of the truth, I realized that the competition must have been rigorous when anything and everything needed to be invented, that whoever got the idea patented first enjoyed adulation and affluence. Keeping this in mind, it was possible Elmer’s ideas were stolen and patented by somebody else. It was possible Elmer sold his ideas and used the money to stabilize his financial life with his young wife and daughter. It was possible, anything was possible, and I felt comforted by these alternatives.

*

“Oh Jesus Lord in Heaven,” gasped a voice behind me. It was the woman whose luggage I’d been watching, and she was commenting on the images of the exploding Challenger that flashed from the television screen. Her mouth was full of the breakfast sandwich she’d bought, and when she said again, “Oh, Jesus Christ Lord have mercy,” I almost puked because she chewed with her mouth open and chomped up bacon and eggs marred her words. I looked at Adrienne with a face that asked, “Is it wrong if I stick my gum in that lady’s hair?” I turned around and the woman smiled and laughed as she covered her stuffed mouth. “Thanks for watching my stuff,” she said, and flicked her eyes back to the news. It dawned on me that the train company wasn’t a bunch of idiots after all. Give people a big TV and fast food and waiting all morning doesn’t seem so bad.  I tucked a piece of hair behind Adrienne’s ear. She made a fist and started writing on her hand.

“Why do you always do that?” I asked.

“Lists keep me focused,” she explained.

“Why don’t you write it down in your notebook?”

She examined her fist and said, “I figure I’m going to die anyways. It might as well be from ink poisoning.”

“Do…You…Have…Any…Food or Water…In…The…Boxes?” the woman behind the counter belabored to a Latino couple trying to check their luggage. The unresponsive couple silently endured the interrogation, their full moon faces trying not to crack.