John Abbott - Scimitar

He had rung for the porter as soon as he was dressed and had been told the dining car would not be opened until they left Phoenix. But he offered to bring Sonny a cup of coffee and some sweet rolls if he wanted those now. Sonny asked him to please change the bed back into a sofa before he brought the coffee and rolls. The porter flashed a wide grin and said he’d be happy to, sir.

Sitting now with his coffee and warm rolls, Sonny faced the direction in which the train was speeding, and watched the magnificent landscape outside. By this time tomorrow morning, they’d be in San Antonio, Texas. On Wednesday morning, they’d be pulling into St. Louis, Missouri, and by mid-afternoon they’d be in Chicago. He’d connect there later that evening with the Lake Shore Limited to New York. If all went as scheduled, he would arrive there at 1:40 P.M. on Thursday, the twenty-fifth.

How much are they asking ?

Twenty-five .

Giving him the absolute deadline for arriving in New York. Twenty-five. The twenty-fifth of June. Knowing he could not possibly take an airplane because airport security devices had a nasty way of detecting weapons packed in one’s luggage.

He sipped at his coffee.

He had been told several months ago that one day soon his years and years of waiting would be over. He suspected what the assignment would be; one did not forgive easily in his part of the world, and it had been too long a time now. But even without knowing the complete details — the actual target, though he felt he had already guessed correctly, the date, the location, the number of people, if any, who in addition to himself would be involved — he could feel a rising sense of excitement. After all those years and years of training, all those years and years of waiting in a foreign land among people he despised, his patience would finally be rewarded by success. At last they would permit him to serve his country with honor and with pride. He awaited only his final instructions. The rest was already in his hands and in his head.

He looked at his watch.

Seven minutes past seven.

In ten minutes, they’d be in Phoenix.

And shortly after that, he would enjoy a hearty breakfast in the dining car.

He felt very good about everything.

She had seen him last night when they were boarding the train, but she pretended not to notice him this morning as he came into the dining car. He was possibly the handsomest man she’d ever seen in her life. She had to admit that her knowledge was somewhat limited; she was only nineteen years old. But she was not altogether inexperienced, and to her discerning eye he seemed not only extraordinarily good-looking, but extremely self-assured as well.

She could not tell what color his eyes were from where she sat midway up the car, either blue, or green, scanning the tables, meeting her own eyes briefly before moving on, and then flashing with sudden light as the train emerged from a tunnel and sunlight splashed into the car, causing him to squint. She even liked the way he squinted. Eyes scrunching up, and then the face relaxing again, a faint smile touching the mouth. Humor at his own expense, a grown man ambushed by sunlight. She wondered how old he was. She’d once dated a thirty-year-old. Thirty was too old, but she didn’t think he was that old, God he was handsome! She went on pretending not to notice him, busying herself with the menu again, and was genuinely surprised when he appeared at her table.

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” he asked.

She was too startled to speak.

“Hello?” he said, and smiled again.

“Hello, hi,” she said. “Sorry, I...”

“I didn’t mean to...”

“No, no, I was just...”

“ Is anyone sitting here?”

“No. No, please sit down. Please.”

“Thank you.”

He pulled out the chair.

Green. They were green. Or actually a greenish-grey. She guessed. She forced herself to take her eyes from his face. She busied herself with the menu again. He was watching her. She felt suddenly flustered. She wondered if she was blushing.

“Anything good?” he asked.

“What?”

“On the menu.”

“Oh. I... uh... haven’t decided yet. I mean... there are lots of good things, but I don’t know what I want yet. Would you like to look at it?”

“I’ll get one from the waiter,” he said.

“You can have this one if you like. Really.”

“No, that’s all right.”

“Really. I think I know what I’m having, anyway.”

“I thought you didn’t know.”

“I always have eggs,” she said, and shrugged.

“And are you having eggs this morning?”

Faint smile on his mouth. Was he laughing at her? Or did she delight him? Full, sensuous mouth...

“Yes, I think I will be having the eggs this morning,” she said.

“As usual,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, and smiled.

“In which case, I’ll accept the menu,” he said.

She handed him the menu.

“Thank you,” he said. He was still smiling, studying her face. “I’m Sonny Hemkar,” he said.

And realized his error at once.

“How do you do?” she said.

Damn it. Force of habit. Too late now. He held out his hand. Awkwardly, she reached across the table for it.

“I’m Elita Randall,” she said.

“That’s a very unusual name,” he said.

“It means ‘special person,’” she said. “In Latin.”

“Randall?”

“No, Elita. The word ‘elite’ comes — oh, you’re putting me on, right?”

“And are you a special person?” he asked.

Still holding her hand. The waiter was watching them. Sonny holding her hand that way. Sonny. He couldn’t be thirty. Nobody named Sonny could be thirty. He had such a beautiful mouth. She suddenly felt like kissing him. Just as suddenly, she took her hand from his. Gently.

“ Are you?” he asked.

“Am I what?”

“A special person.”

“Yep, that’s me. Gorgeous, intelligent...”

“You forgot modest,” he said.

“Right, modest, too,” she said.

“You are,” he said. “Gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” she said, “but I know I’m not. I wouldn’t have said it if I really thought I was.”

“How old are you?” he asked.

“How old do you think I am?” she said.

“Fourteen,” he answered.

“Oh, sure.”

Did he mean it?

“Or fifteen, maybe,” he said.

He wasn’t smiling. Maybe he meant it. Did she really look like a teeny-bopper? She was wearing faded jeans and a floppy sweater, maybe they did make her look younger than she actually was. But fourteen? Even fifteen?

“Right,” she said, “I’m the youngest soph at UCLA.”

But suppose he really thought she was fifteen?

“Is that where you go to school?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Good school.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your major?”

“I want to be a social worker.”

“Hard work,” he said.

“Yes, but it’s what I want to do.”

“Good,” he said, but it sounded like a dismissal. Perhaps because he picked up the menu at the same time.

“What do you do?” she asked.

“I’m a doctor,” he said from behind the menu.

Stuck with it now. Go with the truth. Or at least the partial truth.

“Really?” she said. “Do you practice in L.A.?”

“I’m in residence there.”

True enough. But...

“I’m going back East to see my mother. She isn’t feeling well.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” he said, and lowered the menu. “I think I’ll have the eggs, too,” he said. “Is your home in New York?”

“Yes. Well, my mother’s. I’ll be staying with her for the summer.” She paused and then said, “They’re divorced. My dad’s with the Army in Germany. He’s a colonel.”