“No, Thank You” by Alan Rice

I was eight years old when I first became truly—seriously—aware of my mother’s illness. I could never remember her not being ill; but that’s not quite the same thing.  The handkerchief she always carried with her, into which she coughed discreetly, and then quickly, almost surreptitiously, checked for blood before tucking it away out of sight, if never out of mind, was a fact of her existence. As ordinary as lipstick.  We never mentioned it.

And she never kissed me. At the time, this did not seem terribly odd to me; time spent with my mother was so very limited, on account of her sickness. From infancy, I had been raised by my aunt, my mother’s younger sister, and we were not a demonstrative family. That’s not to say we were unloving; that is certainly not true; we loved each other deeply, but we regarded love rather in the same way we regarded money: something never to be hoarded but to be conserved, to be spent judiciously, whose value must be appreciated.  Love was not to be regarded casually, lest it be cheapened.  Accordingly, kisses were dispensed sparingly, as a special reward, on the top of my head, sometimes accompanied by a quick hug. I recall how she would deftly avoid a kiss, and it grieves me now to think how much those moments of affection must have cost her, the ache she must have felt inside, wishing it could be more, that the moment could be prolonged. The longing to feel the smoothness of my little girl cheek on her lips.

The fear of passing on the disease.

“Kissing’s special,” my father explained one time. We were walking together down the lane that led to the house, between the fields of field corn and alfalfa. It was July, and hot and dry; Dad worried about rain, whether there would be too much or too little, the price of feed, and what hog prices would be in the fall, to find out if he’d break even on the farm. I held his hand.

We reached the porch, but instead of going inside he sat down on the swing, and I sat beside him.

“Aren’t you goin’ in?”

“Just a minute.” His big, weathered, grown-up hand took mine. He took a long, familiar pause, and I waited for him to gather his thoughts.

 “I can’t go with you and Mother to Colorado. I can’t get away just now. I’m going to have to come later.”

This sank in. The three of us were going to go, or so I thought, to visit Dad’s brother and his family near Boulder.

“You know your mother isn’t well.”

The fact of Mother’s illness was a constant, and so Dad’s mention of it signaled something significant.

“This place in Colorado will help her get better. We hope.  A sanitorium.”

It didn’t matter that I didn’t know the word; surely it meant another hospital. His long pauses and the interjection of a big, grown-up word suggested another, more serious, possibly sinister, reason for the trip, perhaps an uncertain duration.

“How come you’re not coming?”

“I’ve got things to do here.” He fell silent, and then looking over to me, “You’ll be all right, won’t you.” Not a question, but a statement.  “Look after Mom.”

I remember sitting next to Dad on that porch swing and nodding, solemnly, I suppose.  I’d be all right. I was a farm girl, after all, and used to having to take on myself tasks that ordinarily would have been relegated to a child much older. And I had been on trains before. Of course my father didn’t mean that I was to be responsible for Mother, but that was his way of telling me not to get into any trouble. Though I was not a mischievous child, I was, of necessity, independent; I knew no boundaries. He was concerned, perhaps, that I might forget to tell her where I was going, or some such thing, and somehow cause her to worry. Or, more likely, that it would make me feel more grown-up to assume such serious responsibility, for I modeled my behavior on the dignified, courteous, and somewhat taciturn adults I saw around me, and I had a standard to live up to.

Then, too, was the fact that Mother was often away, and while her illness didn’t seem to get worse, but neither did it improve. Her face—so perfectly formed, so serene—was drawn, and the once-round cheeks hollow. She had the family’s deep-set eyes, and the sickness only exaggerated their dark sockets. She never raised her voice; looking back, it seems as if our family—Dad, Mother, the various aunts and cousins—all spoke in carefully modulated tones, as if saving breath, or speech. My time on the train with her would be precious, and covered with a pall of seriousness, and Mother and I would have to get to know each other again.

I didn’t understand at the time that Dad was staying behind to wrap up the sale of the farm that would cover the expense of the sanitorium.

That was how I happened to be on the train with her.  It started promisingly, with the bustle of loading baggage, the constant movement of people at the station, porters and conductors in their uniforms, and all the shouting and good-byes.  I stood by my parents, as they pressed cheeks together, and murmured things I couldn’t hear. Dad wore his gray suit and a broad-brimmed hat and Mother had a pale shawl thrown over her shoulder. The faces around us were either joyous or sorrowful, but Mother and Dad were solemn.  As they faced each other, I saw Mother take Dad’s hand, and squeeze it. 

They separated, and Dad stepped over to me, He crouched and gave me a quick, dry kiss on the cheek.

“Look after your mother,” he said. She looked at me and smiled kindly, and together we made our way to our car.

Our compartment fascinated me.  It was cramped, of course, but I was delighted by the efficient use of space. There was a little fold-down table, where we had some sandwiches from a wicker hamper. I was to have the upper berth, which folded down from the ceiling; Mother would have the porter convert our settees into the lower. There was space for our hand luggage, and little reading lights that were operated by a button on the wall. Of course, it wouldn’t have been appropriate to make too much ado of the marvels of all this technology; but neither could we appear to be blasé, either; that would have shown an equally poor lack of taste. We said little; there would be time for that.  We settled down for the long journey.

After a while, I tired of looking out the window as the landscape of the Midwest seemed to pass by us.  I remember thinking it was odd to realize that it was we, and not the landscape, that were moving, and realized, too, how often I had stood in the cornfields and watched the trains pass by and that now, I was the one being watched by some child taking a break from her chores or play to watch the passing locomotive, and its long line of rumbling cars. I resorted to a book that I had brought, but tired of that, too.  Not surprisingly, what with the gentle rhythmic lullaby of the train, I fell asleep.

When I awoke, I was hungry. I looked expectantly at Mother; her eyes were closed, but then she coughed and she looked away. She lifted her handkerchief to her lips, discreetly glanced at it, then carefully folded it up. She smiled at me.

“Mom, what shall we do about supper?” I asked. “Is it time yet? Is the dining car open?”

“Yes, I believe so,” she said.

Nothing more; when she was ready, she’d sit up, perhaps take out her compact (as she sometimes, but rarely did) and adjust her makeup, and perhaps hand in hand we’d go through the car to the diner.  But she seemed abstracted; she kept looking out at the scenery—what there was of it—and said nothing.

“Mom, are we going to be late?”

“Oh, Darling, sorry.  I was thinking,” and she smiled weakly.  “I’m not feeling very well. I don’t think I’m going to want any.”

This was a problem. If Mother wasn’t well, what would that mean?  What would I have to do?  Should I get someone?  Did the train have an on-board doctor? And what to do about supper?

“Mom,” was all I could manage. I suppose my anxiety showed through my attempt at stoic calm.

She smiled at me, and took my hand to squeeze it a little. “It’s all right, Darling, I’m not ill. I’m just tired, that’s all. Perhaps I can have the porter bring me something from the kitchen later.  But you need to have something.  Tell me.”  She looked at me with that expression that signaled an Important Message.  “Do you think you can go to the dining car by yourself?  Do you think you can do that?”

It would be an adventure, surely, an expedition into the unknown, the untried. I nodded as bravely as I was able. The most important thing was, of course, not to disappoint—or even more important, not to worry—Mother.

“Of course you can,” she reassured me. “I’ll give you money. Do you know where the dining car is? How to get there?” I nodded. “It’s two or three cars down, you’ll know it, I’m sure.  You’ll have to pass between the cars, you know, but you can do that, can’t you?” I wasn’t sure, but I nodded anyway. She squeezed my hand a little tighter. “I don’t want you to worry about me. I’m alright, just tired.”

“What should I . . .” I was worried about money. Surely the food on a train would be expensive.

“What is it, honey?”

“What should I get?”

She smiled patiently. “Well, you look and see what they have. Whatever you like.  But don’t get pork chops, they’ll probably be dried out. Maybe they’ll have chicken.”  I frowned, thinking over choices that would have to be made, not wanting to look foolish.  Mother seemed to read my look.  “Don’t worry, Sweetheart. You know, many of the cooks on these trains are quite good.”

“Do you think they might have chicken and dumplings?”

“They might very well.  That would be a good choice. But you choose what you want. Now,” and she reached into her purse. “Here’s your money,” handing me three quarters. Then, hesitating, as if aware that she was contradicting herself, “Try not to spend it all, alright?”  But then, feeling guilty, perhaps, “But you order what looks good to you.” She put on her best, most reassuring smile, and squeezed my hand.

We touched cheeks, as was our custom, and I made my way to the end of the car, to the sliding door that separated the two carriages. I was near sick with dread. But the thought of returning, unable to complete this special mission was, of course, utterly unbearable. The shame would be overwhelming.  But so, too, would be the unthinkable error of being careless with those three quarters. On the other hand, I had faced far more intimidating things of the farm; the beheadings of countless chickens, birthing of calves, the sundry messy tasks that accompanied an agricultural life. Surely ordering dinner off a menu couldn’t be that awful.

I balanced my way between the rocking cars, and two cars later found myself in the diner. I was about to seat myself when I hesitated.  Should I wait?  How did one proceed? There was no one to ask, and I couldn’t go back. But my question was answered by a tall Black man in a white jacket, wearing white gloves, and holding a number of menus in his hand. He approached me, nodded slightly, and smiled.

I wasn’t afraid, but this was an unusual situation for me.  I had been raised without any overt prejudice, and certainly there were Blacks who worked on my father’s farm from time to time. I was taught to be courteous and respectful to all people, no matter their age or race or station in life.  That’s what good people, people who had earned respect in our town, always did.  They showed respect for others. But here I was, a little girl, and this tall—very tall—Black man was waiting on me. Perhaps he sensed my awkwardness, for his face assumed a kindliness, and his manner softened, so that I realized that he was not so much my servant as my helper. He would guide me, and show me—without telling me—what to do.

“Good evening, Miss,” he said, almost softly, I thought.  He had kindly eyes that crinkled in the corners, a thin face with a high brow, and his close-cropped hair was flecked with white.  He looked around, his head tilted slightly to one side. “Are you here by yourself?”

I nodded.

“You’re just in time for dinner,” he said, with a trace of a Southern drawl. “Won’t you come this way, please?”  He nodded in the direction of the car, and led me to one of the booths. Then, before I could slide in, quickly brushed off the seat with a napkin.  “Let me get you a glass of water,” he said, “and you can look over the menu.” Again he smiled, and with a slight bow placed the folded faux-leather menu before me. He smiled and slipped away.

I glanced around to see how other people, grown-ups, were doing it. Some had been served already and were just beginning their meals.  Others studied the menu. I opened mine up, and looked at the dinner selections. It appeared that my choices were somewhat limited.

Number One

Table D’Hote Dinner

the first section read. I didn’t know what “Table D’Hote” meant, but considering that the cost was $1.25 my guess was that it had to mean “expensive.” Besides, it looked like something that involved multiple courses; olives and celery sticks, consommé, roast leg of veal . . . chicken fricassee . . . Russet potato . . . garden fresh vegetables . . . and ice cream. Or “home-made” pie. Cream cheese with sherried dates. Far from the country fare I was used to on the farm.

The next set of offerings looked more promising. There were fewer options, but the price was less “hote” than the Number One.  But it was 75¢. That would leave nothing, and Mother had asked me to try to not spend it all. 

Number Three “Chef’s Selection Dinner Plate” was obviously an option, but it carried risk.  One was offered only a choice of meat or fish without specifying what kind, potato, and green vegetable, served “family style” on a single plate. There was some risk, I reasoned, but the price was right: 50¢.

I set down the menu, and as if on cue my water was there with a glass and a pitcher of ice water.

“Well, Miss,” he said, again smiling.  His voice was satin, his inflection kindly, his movements graceful and gentle.  I was immediately thankful for him.  “Have you decided what you would like?” 

“What’s this?” I asked, as politely as I could, not wanting to sound suspicious. “The ‘Chef’s Selection’?”

He knew what I was asking. He leaned forward, as if giving an air of confidence. “Tonight? The selection is the Chicken Fricassee. With dumplings. And the potatoes are mashed. And there’s green beans as well; fresh, not canned.  Would you like that?”

I had seen chicken fricassee as one of the offerings on the Number One choice.  “Isn’t that one of the other . . . the other . . .”   My voice trailed off. I was afraid I’d made a mistake, and would end up ordering the expensive dinner that we couldn’t afford. But my waiter rescued me.

“No, miss. That’s the chef’s choice for tonight. You see,” and he lowered his voice, “It’s really all the same. That first selection just gives you more choices. It’s the same recipe. And you can trust me, it’s really very good! The chef is a friend of mine!” and he grinned conspiratorially. “Does that sound all right? I wouldn’t want to disappoint you!”

He had completely won me over. It was his gentleness, his grace and charm that had allayed my fears. There was none of the obsequiousness that perhaps I would have received had I been a little older, or had my mother been with us, though I doubt that she would have tolerated any kowtowing or unctuous servility. No. He saw a somewhat plain little white girl, on her own, needing a little help, and he was there to help, perhaps as he would have hoped his own child might have been had she been in that situation. I nodded. “Thank you,” I said.

He straightened and smiled, and with something just shy of a flourish pulled out his pad and wrote down my order. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “You just let me know if you want anything else,” and he was gone.  But then, a moment later, he appeared with a tall glass of cold milk. I was about to protest, but he just smiled and continued down the car, stopping here and there to inquire if the other diners needed anything.

As I watched him, it seemed to me that he was treating me exactly as he did any of the other customers. That made me feel important; I was being treated as an adult.  I was used to that at home; we always treated each other with an almost formal courtesy. But here, in public, in—to me—a strange place, it was exhilarating. But at the same instant, almost, I realized that I, like all the other passengers in the dining car, was white. He could not possibly have behaved any differently towards me, and hope to keep his job.  I had a sense of outrage; he was nice to me because he had to be. That was all.

Or was it?

I couldn’t believe it. I was quite sure that I had seen something else in his look, or heard something else in his voice, that inspired my trust.

The milk was delicious. I was careful not to drink it off all at once; it would have to last me the whole meal. And I was proud of how I had ordered the least expensive dinner option on the menu; Mother would be pleased when I brought back a whole quarter.

When he came back, he bore a tray on which was a heavy white plate with an aluminum cover. Steam rose from the hole in the center of the cover, and the aroma of poached chicken and savory herbs was luxurious. I unfolded my napkin onto my lap, and the waiter arranged my plate before me. He saw my hunger, my restraint notwithstanding, and smiled broadly.

“There now,” he said. “Enjoy. You be sure to tell me if you need anything else.” And he left.

The food was indeed delicious; I had expected at best something soggy and tasteless, but the waiter was right. The dumpling was light and tender, and the chicken fell from the bone. I tried to eat slowly, partly out of a desire to make the enjoyment of the meal last as long as possible, and partly, of course, because it was bad manners to rush or wolf down your dinner. I glanced around, but the other passengers seemed far less appreciative of their dinners than I. Had any of them looked in my direction, I told myself, they would see how one was supposed to eat in a railroad dining car, with small bites, chewing slowly, and a delicate sip of one’s drink to wash it down.

I was finishing my meal and contemplating these things when my waiter appeared at my table.

“Is everything alright?” he asked. “Can I get you anything?”

I set my fork down. “It was delicious,” I said, and I meant it. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad you liked it, Miss,” he replied, and then, with his head cocked slightly to one side, “If I may ask, Miss, are you traveling alone?”

It would never have occurred to me to be suspicious of his question; in fact, I had expected to be interrogated about the whereabouts of my grown-ups from the moment I entered the dining car. He didn’t appear curious, either, but perhaps concerned about how I was going to manage all by myself.  I sought to reassure him.

“My mother is here, too. But she said she was tired, and didn’t want any supper.”

“Oh, now, that’s too bad.  I hope she’s not unwell.”

I couldn’t, of course, tell him. 

“No,” I answered. “Just tired.  Maybe she’ll get a sandwich later.”

“If you like, Miss, I could bring a sandwich to your compartment.”

That would cost something. But I still had my quarter. Surely that would cover the cost of a sandwich, and Dad had told me to look after Mother. I took a breath.

“How much is a sandwich?”

The waiter smiled. “I can make you a nice bacon and tomato sandwich on toast for twenty-five cents. Do you think your mama would like that?”

I thought of my one unspoken-for quarter. Would Mother think me wasteful? Surely not, since I had saved money on my own dinner. “Yes, thank you, I think she’d like that,” I said.

“I’d be happy to get that for her. Now tell me, Miss, would you like some ice cream?”

From his look, from his tone of voice, I knew that he knew that all little white girls traveling alone on the train would like a dish of ice cream. What he didn’t know, of course, was that I had committed my last quarter to Mother’s bacon-and-tomato sandwich. I lowered my eyes and murmured, “No, thank you.”

The waiter, so studied in his discretion, almost slipped.  His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he seemed about to protest, but instead, he only asked, “Are you sure?” and accepted my silent nod.  “I’ll bring you your check,” he said.  “And I’ll do up that sandwich for you to take to your mother. That way you won’t have to pay a service charge.” He collected my plate and glass and slipped away to the kitchen.

I had really wanted that ice cream. The meal had been so much better than expected, the anticipated taste of vanilla, the smooth creaminess was almost palpable in my imagination. But my quarter was spoken for.  I wanted ice cream, but I had the consolation of my sacrifice.

The waiter returned with the bill; fifty cents for my dinner, and twenty-five for Mother’s sandwich, which had been wrapped in waxed paper. “You have a good night now,” said the waiter. “You can just leave your money on the plate,” he added in an undertone, so as not to embarrass me.  “Will you be needing any change?”

“No, thank you,” I answered, and then, remembering my manners, “It was very good.  Thank you.”

“Why, you’re very welcome.  It was my pleasure.” He smiled again, and went off to collect the dining fares from the other passengers.

I left my three quarters on the plate, and picked up the sandwich.  Then I remembered.  People in restaurants left tips.  I was momentarily panic-stricken.  I fished in the pocket of my dress and with what I’m sure was an audible sigh of relief found a nickel.  Would that be enough?  It didn’t matter; it would have to do. I added it to the coins on the plate.

A few of the other passengers looked up at me from their dinners or their conversation, and I was unused to being looked at. I suppose I scowled somewhat, quite unbecoming of a young girl; had mother been with me, no doubt I would have behaved the young lady she had brought me up to be.  Perhaps it was my disappointment over the missing desert; that unfulfilled desire for some sort of formal conclusion to my dinner left an unfillable emptiness in my stomach. Oh, I knew that by the standards of fine dining it had been a very ordinary meal, but we ate at restaurants so rarely and I suppose I had wanted this to be some kind of festive occasion.  Or, perhaps more than that, it was my own sense of independence; I had found my way to the dining car, and ordered my own dinner.  And if I passed up dessert, I could console myself with my economy, as well as my thoughtfulness in remembering to bring something for Mother.

And so it was with mixed feelings that I made my way through the narrow aisle back to our compartment.

Mother was sitting up.  It was still early evening; the sun was low on the long midwestern horizon, and she gazed out at the passing landscape. She turned away from the window and smiled at me as I came in.

“How was your dinner?” she asked.

“It was good.”

“What did you have?”

“Chicken and dumplings. And I brought you a sandwich,” and I handed it to her.

“That was very thoughtful of you.” She was clearly pleased, and it made me proud. “You had enough money?”

“Yes. I decided not to get dessert.”               

“Well.” She paused. The sandwich lay on the table between us. “Perhaps I should try to eat some,” and she unwrapped her supper. It was much bigger than I had expected, but it had been sliced into two neat triangles. I knew from experience that Mother would eat half, and wrap up the remains for later.

We didn’t talk much that evening. I told her about the waiter who had been so thoughtful, and she nodded in approval. I mentioned my leaving him a tip, and she smiled and told me I had done the right thing.  Then we fell silent, as if by mutual consent, until a porter came in and made up our beds.

In the morning, we dressed as best we could in our cramped little compartment, and made our way to the dining car. My waiter from the night before was not there; his substitute seated us unceremoniously and paid us no more attention than he did to the other diners. He placed menus before us; the same leatherette covers as before, but with a loose, single-page insert with the breakfast fare had been slipped inside. We looked it over, and as I did I noticed that the dinner menu was still there. There was the fifty-cent “Chef’s Selection Plate”: Meat-or-fish, potato, vegetable. Ice cream.

Ice cream.

Ice cream had been included in the meal, but I had overlooked it. My sacrifice had been for nothing. But there was nothing to be done. The moment had passed.

Something must have shown in my expression, because my mother asked me if something were the matter.  I couldn’t tell her about my mistake, of course, and I couldn’t explain why the waiter had failed to explain that dessert was included.  So I muttered “Nothing” and flipped back to the offerings of eggs, sausages, and pancakes. She quickly forgot, and we moved on.

But I never forgot. It’s one of those things, I suppose, that affects you in childhood like a scar from a skinned knee that changes from sore and visible to a mere unsightly blotch, and eventually to only a memory, and yet it is a memory that you hold with that same sense of pain as when the wound was fresh. And in this case, it’s so silly. Why should I be pestered with this memory?  I’ve eaten gallons of ice cream since. In college, girlfriends and I would buy a whole half-gallon and sneak it into the dormitory after hours and sit around, three spoons and a single tub, and gossip gleefully about classes and sports and boys. But not even then, not years and years later, have I ever had quite enough. I still miss that one scoop in its aluminum serving dish that I passed up on the train to Colorado. An empty space that can never be filled.

Several years later my mother passed away. It was not the tuberculosis that took her, but a tumor that developed quickly and unexpectedly so that, being at college, I could not be with her at the end. Her funeral was quiet and solemn, on a beautiful day in August. Dad was stoic, as always, and my aunts and uncles and cousins were discreet in their grief. I held up pretty well, until the end, when I heard the sound of earth hitting the coffin. I was struck by that awful sense not only of loss, but of that which I had never had. Her presence. Conversations. Confidences. Even her kiss that she had withheld from me out of fear, out of fear. I collapsed in tears and uncontrollable sobs and my legs seemed to buckle under me, and my aunt, the one who had cared for me for so many years, had to hold me up as I staggered away from the grave.

That was long ago. I am too old now for it to matter much, but perhaps that is why I call to mind so many things that no matter how long I live, I shall always feel in their absence. A kindly smile. A hearty laugh. A hand to hold. A mother’s kiss.  A dish of vanilla ice cream.

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