Kinsey’s first strangled cry happened soon after midnight, causing Scott to sit bolt upright in bed - unsure of what he heard or where he was. Why does my room look different? The first clue his befuddled brain managed was Omaha.
Kinsey’s next cry launched a string of gibberish only spoken in the world of nightmares. Scott swung his legs over the side of the bed for his feet to locate the floor and stand. Kinsey. Two short strides forward and smothering cloth hit him in the face. The involuntary reaction to strike out only produced a punching match between him and the blanket. As the rope let go, the makeshift wall came down in one heavy heap leaving Scott shedding it like an old winter coat.
With the barrier down, the half moon touched the other side of the room - its dim light robbing objects of defined lines. In bed, his cousin was involved in her own wrestling match with ghostly quilts taking on the role of the demons in her dreams. Sounding like an injured wild animal, her night scare language continued.
“Kinsey!” Scott stumbled forward while kicking aside the blanket pooled at his feet. An awkward landing on her bed to offer comfort only rewarded him with the heel of his cousin’s hand connecting with the lower part of his jaw. “Dammit!”
“Staaay awaay ye bloody stinkin’ mongraaal.” His cousin’s accent - the accent she struggled to keep at bay - owned the statement with an eerie cadence.
Scott tackled his dreaming assailant with a bear hug and held on to avoid another attack to the jawline. “Freckles. You’re safe.” Trying to keep an even tone, he continued reciting the mantra in her ear.
Kinsey gulped in air as if she had just surfaced from deep dark waters. Little by little, her gasping reduced to a pant - finally allowing a strangled word of recognition. “Scott.”
“I’m going to let go and get some light in here. All right?” Gradually loosening his grip in time with Kinsey’s slowed breathing, he stood and lit the lamp wick, regretting he’d ever blown it out.
“Scott?” A new high-pitched form of panic was heard. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Sick? Grabbing a chamber pot from under the bed, he caught the repeat performance of her evening meal in a timely fashion. After a few encores, the pot with its lid in place took the final bow outside in the hallway for the maid to deal with later. He could already guess the Hotel Gossip Chain of Command - maid to cook to waiter to maitre d' to front desk clerk.
Knees drawn up, arms wrapped in a self hug and lowered head to hide her embarrassment, a shaky, muffled apology was given. “Scott, I am so sorry.”
With a poured glass of water from the night stand’s pitcher, Scott sat next to his cousin and offered his support. “Here - take few sips.” While passing the drink to Kinsey, he put his arm around her shoulders and cleared a few strands of hair hanging down in her face. “The day George and I enlisted we proceeded to patronize one Boston pub after another.” The memory came flooding back - my God, it was a miracle we weren’t arrested or hospitalized. “By evening’s end, I found myself in a damp, dark alley upchucking everything but the leather boots on my feet. So, no apologies necessary.”
“Yes, but...it was G. H. Mumm’s Gold Label.”
Scott was encouraged by Kinsey’s slight stab at humor during a humorless situation. “True. All right, you should apologize for that.” A slight smile on his cousin’s face told him the worst was over but the dark circles under her eyes and the tremble in her hands indicated words still needed to be said. “Your nightmare again?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Kinsey…” Scott rubbed the back of his neck. “I know you’re lying and you know how I feel about being lied to. It’s time we had a discussion. Not now, but...” Hoping it was the right path to take, he continued. “We have two travel days to Stockton. During this time we will talk about it because honey, this won’t get any better until you do. Trust me - I’ve had experience with nightmares.”
“Nightmares and upchucking.”
“My expertise spans an abyss of various profound topics.” Finally, his cousin gifted him with a genuine smile. Her color had improved but the darkness under her eyes remained. “Would you care to hear my thoughts on sleep deprivation? No? Good. Neither do I. Boring subject - makes me yawn.”
“That was a bad joke.”
The pointing shake of his extended thumb signaled Kinsey to untangle from the bedding and lay down. “It certainly wasn't a good one.”
Adjusting the lamp to a soft glow, Scott stepped over the mayhem of their temporary wall. Privacy no longer seemed important. Falling back into bed never felt better.
“Scott?”
Dear God. Was there a spare chamber pot in the room?
“When I'm old and gray and haven’t seen Paris, will you take me?”
Relieved it was only a silly question, Scott laughed. “Well, I don't know. I'll be older and grayer -”
“Promise me.” Kinsey’s voice had regained some of it’s stubborn determination but an underlying sadness stifled its full potential.
Realizing the seriousness embedded in the question, he gave his honest answer. “I promise.” A nagging thought still remained. “Why do you think you won't see Paris?” Waiting for the reply, he drifted off to sleep.
The sun’s dazzling brightness replaced the foggy white moonlight far too soon. Scott resisted the temptation to pull the drapes and crawl back into bed - he needed to check on the status of their delayed transportation. Running his hand through his hair, he raised an eyebrow at the soft snores emitting from the mound on the other bed. He quietly donned his pants and grabbed a towel along with a few personal items to use in the bathroom at the end of the hall. Stepping out while shutting the door behind him, a familiar voice offered opinionated advice.
“Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.” Their pompous hotel neighbor’s stare dressed down Scott’s appearance of unruly hair, unshaven face, sloppy undershirt and bare feet. “Benjamin Franklin.” With a disgusted shake of his head, the man entered his room.
Scott’s attention shifted to the used chamber pot at his feet. A big toe carefully guided Kinsey’s revisited veal to its new residence - directly in the door’s path of Franklin’s biggest admirer. “Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.” A satisfied smirk appeared. “Robert Louis Stevenson.”
A clean shave can renew a man like a good cup of coffee - which was near the top of Scott’s morning agenda. Very little had changed upon his return to their room - including the snoring lump in the middle of Kinsey’s bed. After drawing the curtains to halt the advancement of the sun’s rays, Scott located paper and pencil to leave his cousin a note.
Checking on status of train departure.
Remembering the book of poetry he’d bought in Boston for Kinsey, he fished it out of the bottom of his bag and added -
Broaden your horizons by reading not wandering.
Note and book were left on the nightstand for her to find.
Scott didn't believe in fortune tellers, crystal balls, or predicting the future. He barely tolerated Kinsey’s short-lived obsession with tarot cards. However, when a good omen presented itself, he acknowledged it with appreciation. The first good omen came in the form of the lobby’s unmanned front desk - allowing him to leave the hotel undetected, unquestioned and unscrutinized.
Warming temperatures stepped up as Scott’s second good omen. The dank air, which hung over Omaha the day before, had surrendered to a soft breeze coming from the direction of the river, carrying the slightest hint of an early Spring. Navigating the sloppy streets toward the telegraph office and station was less of a chore on a sunny day.
Old Number 7 still remained stationary in front of the train station - good omen number three. As he turned the doorknob to the telegraph office, Lady Luck resided in his back pocket and he would be saying goodbye to Omaha in the next few hours.
A confident smile accompanied Scott as he entered. “When does the train leave today?”
“Tomorrow morning. Nine fifty-three. On the dot.”
Remembering the older clerk’s hearing was in question, Scott repeated his query a bit louder - praying for a different answer. “Not today?”
“Tomorrow.” The man’s eyes narrowed for a better view of his customer. “Clean out your ears, young fella. You got potatoes growing in that dirt.”
Scott’s confident smile morphed into a defeated one. “Yes, sir. Good advice.” In fact, he couldn’t remember being in a town willing to offer so much advice - spelling, marriage, patriotism, personal hygiene - he should stop by the mayor’s office to offer his own suggestion for their city limit sign. Welcome to O-pinionated O-maha. Nebraska’s Gateway to Enlightenment. “So, tomorrow morning - nine fifty-three.”
“On the dot.”
“On. The. Dot.” Scott sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose. Twenty-four more hours of maintaining the ruse of wedded bliss. A cup of coffee was needed now more than ever. However, keeping his father posted came first. Leaning over the counter, Scott snagged a pencil and paper but froze at the clerk’s disapproving stare. “I’d like to send a telegram.”
The man removed the items from Scott’s hands. “Property of the city of Omaha and its employees.” Licking the end of the pencil, the official employee of the city of Omaha began. “Where to?”
“Green River, California.” Scott placed his hands on hips, took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. While gathering some patience, his stomach chose to let out a rumbling growl.
“Better get some grub into that complaining gut of yours. Martha’s Cafe has breakfast specials until the noon hour.”
Add nutrition and finances to the advice list. “Well, then, I guess we best hurry.”
“Who’s receiving the telegram?”
Shifting his stance, Scott crossed his arms - prepared to do battle on the spelling of his father’s name. “Murdoch Lancer. That’s Murdoch with a C - H.”
“Of course it is. How else would you spell it?” The letters were carefully printed out.
“Is that Lancer with a S?” The man let out a snort. “I'm just funnin’ with you, son.”
Scott nodded and forced a grin as a few more one-sided guffaws were shared.
“All right, young fella. What’s your message?”
“Now arriving on the 27th. S.” Scott paid for the service and turned to leave.
“Didn't lose that little runaway of yours, did ya?” The old man’s eyes squinted at his writing.
‘Nope…” Adjusting his hat lower on the forehead. “Got her tied up at the livery stable.” As the clerk’s head jerked up, it was Scott’s turn to chuckle with a wink. “I'm just funnin’ with you.”
The train platform was deserted outside the telegraph office. And why shouldn't it be? Old Number Seven rested comfortably on its tracks with nowhere to go until tomorrow morning. “Nine fifty-three on the dot.” Scott gazed up at the silent locomotive. One more day in Omaha, Nebraska.
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