The next thing the women knew, Serge was clutching an imaginary bullet wound in his neck with one hand, grabbing the tablecloth with the other, falling to the floor with all the dishes.
They were quiet for a time as they stood on the curb with their luggage, waiting for cabs.
“I’ve never been kicked out of a place before,” said Teresa. “Taxi!”
Half the group got in the first one that stopped and headed for Penn Station. Serge flagged down a second and the rest got in. “Follow that cab! I’ve always wanted to say that.”
The two taxis quickly covered the dozen blocks to Thirty-fourth.
“Here we are!” said Serge, helping the women out. The book club rolled luggage inside the building.
“You should have seen the original station, the historic one — they tore it down in 1963,” said Serge, hand over his heart. “But there’s a little silver lining. It produced a preservationist outcry. It’s been said that Penn Station had to die so that Grand Central could live.”
Their luggage wheels squeaked on the concourse. Serge rolled an overnight case and carried a box in his other arm.
“What have you got there?” asked Maria.
“This?” said Serge. “My trains.”
“Your what?”
Serge stopped and opened the box.
“See? There’s the engine,
“When did you first get interested in trains?” asked Rebecca.
“Watching
“Those models are all quite nice,” said Teresa. “But why bring them? Isn’t actually riding on a real train enough?”
“No.”
They resumed rolling luggage.
“They’re going to build a new one,” said Serge.
“New what?” asked Teresa.
“Penn Station. It’s supposed to be an unbelievable piece of modern architecture — I’ve seen the models, and I can hardly wait! I saw the president’s speech on C-SPAN during the dedication and took notes and committed it to memory: ‘Whether you are a wealthy industrialist or just a person with a few dollars to your name, you can feel ennobled, as people did, in the old glass-and-steel cathedral that was Penn Station. People without tickets could come in the afternoon just to dream about what it would be like to get on the train.’”
The women noticed Serge wasn’t walking with them anymore and looked back. Serge held up a hand as he composed himself. “I’ll be okay.”
Public announcements echoed through the station. Waves of people poured in from subway connectors. Overcoats and newspapers. Serge and the women continued until they got to the big train board and looked up. The letters and numbers clattered as they flipped over, updating arrivals. Three down from the top: “Miami…
“This way,” said Serge. They took the escalator down to the departure platform. Ahead was a gleaming metal rocket, the pride of the Amtrak Corporation. They rolled luggage past the diesel and several silver cars until they came to the steps of their sleeper. The women climbed aboard; Serge stood in the doorway passing up luggage.
The BBB found their sleeping compartments, and Serge found his. He cranked down the upper bunk, cranked it up, flipped the sink open from the wall, flipped it back up, then down again just to be sure, flushed the toilet, hit the button for porter assistance, changed channels on the flat-screen TV, angled the vents up and down, left and right, adjusted the thermostat, cycled the reading and wall lights, turned on the radio, climbed into the overhead luggage compartment, let himself down, and finally clipped all his spy travel bags to the various handrails with spring-action mountain-climber D rings.
The porter showed up in the doorway. He had never seen a fully activated sleeping cabin before, TV and radio, lights, air, sink, toilet, Serge giving the upper bunk another quick up-and-down on the pulleys.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” said Serge. “Just a shakedown cruise.”
“You hit the porter button?”
“It was a test. I’m happy to report your response time is excellent.” Serge tucked a five in the porter’s shirt pocket, then began unloading his box of trains on the floor. “That will be all.”
