1
El Paso, Texas
I bite my upper lip, a terrible habit when Im nervous. This time its the long line for tickets at the train station causing the chewing. The ticket counter is an opening in an outside wall of the station house, leaving those of us in line to endure the cool of the evening as night falls. A line this long, this late, isnt a good sign.
The insane trip I set out on has already taken more than one wrong turn, and I dont need anything else to go sour. I spent four days traveling from Pittsburgh to El Paso, sitting and sleeping on hard seats. My body and soul ache at the prospect of hard seats for the final twelve-hundred-mile—three long days and nights—leg to Mexico City.
I want a Pullman sleeper berth and I am ready to fight for it.
A compartment all to myself would be even better. I need time to digest the fact that I am going to Mexico alone. Im hoping that with a good nights sleep the sunken feeling in the pit of my stomach and overwhelming fear that Im being quite foolish will go away. But I have a sick feeling that no matter how much rest I get, I wont be able to keep a bridle on my doubts.
What was I thinking! Well, as my dear mother says, when I act impulsively, Im not thinking. For the first time in quite a while I, too, am questioning my good sense. Its just that when Mr. Madden refused to let me tackle a foreign correspondent assignment on the grounds that it was too dangerous for a woman … well, I became furious. What poppycock!
Like most men, he has little understanding of what women are capable of doing. And that brought us to butting heads because Im too impatient to keep tackling the boring reporting assignments given to me solely because I wear petticoats.
Rebelling from being exiled to the society page, I set out to do something that no other female reporter has ever done: report news from Mexico.
Why Mexico? I had saved my pennies during my brief sojourn in the newsroom, but what little I had wasnt enough for reporting from “overseas.” It would pay, however, for the seven days by train it takes to get from Pittsburgh to Mexico City, a journey of close to 2,500 miles.
Once in the Mexican capital, I would generate enough money to keep me going by sending articles back to the paper. I am certain Mr. Madden will not fail to publish the articles—even if he refused to underwrite the assignment, interesting stories about events in a land far away sent by a young woman of their community will excite the papers readers.
My mothers elation at my abrupt success at going from laborer to newspaperwoman turned to shock and disbelief when I told her I would prove myself by reporting from untamed Mexico, a land of endless bloody revolutions, fierce bandidos, and wild Indians on the rampage.
Even though it is 1886, the West is not yet completely tamed, and I have read that Mexico is decades behind America in its own struggle to civilize itself. This makes the land south of us either fertile ground for exciting stories or a danger zone, depending on whether one is looking at the situation through my rose-colored vision or my mothers morbid fears.
I quit the paper, bade my few journalistic friends adieu, packed a bag, grabbed my mother, and set out to prove myself again. And as I said, at my own expense, something else that would never have happened to a man.
My mother insisted upon coming with me, of course, no doubt planning to poke with a hat pin any bandido who bothered me. She is certain that I will end up being kidnapped and having to make tortillas for a bandido chief—after I endured unspeakable things. And I must admit that her insisting upon accompanying me put the minds of my brothers and my editor a little more at ease, for they, too, were positive that I would be putting myself in harms way.
Nevertheless, all this changed when last night on the train my mother got stomach problems.
To my dismay, there was no way she could continue. The poor dear had horrible stomachaches. At first, she couldnt stop throwing up. She was not in a dying state, just an uncomfortable, messy state. We figured shed eaten something that didnt agree with her and by morning shed be better, but she wasnt. Instead, she had a bit of a fever and just felt that icky, miserable feeling when one is under the weather—not wanting to move, just rest and sleep.
This left me in a pickle, for I felt responsible for her. A decision had to be made. Either I gave up my trip or I found a place for her to stay while I continued on. My mother hated to see me go on alone, but she knew how important it was that I complete what I had started. If I returned to Pittsburgh without having succeeded at my boast that I was capable of being a foreign correspondent, it would be with my tail between my legs and the only employment opportunity that of begging for my old job at the factory.
Before disembarking the train, I asked the porter, who was so helpful and kind when my poor mother became ill, if he knew of a place my mother could stay for a while. He gave me the address of an elderly couple who might rent us a room.
Thank goodness I was able to make safe and comfortable arrangements for her stay; otherwise, I would never have gone on.
I promised her once I arrived in Mexico that I would send letters every day so she would know how I was progressing—and that I was unharmed.
I am determined to prove myself come hell or high water. She knows how important this trip is to me, and no matter how crazy she thought I was in taking this trip, she also believed that it would be the only way for me to prove myself.
A shout from the ticket counter brings me back to reality: “Window closed; come back tomorrow morning.”
“What?” I tap the shoulder of the man in front of me. “Are they really closing the window?”
He turns to me, a rather nice-looking man.
“Yes, Im afraid so.” He glances down at a railroad pocket watch, an item that reminds me of my own. When my father died, my mother gave me his watch, and it has been with me ever since.
“But why?”
“No idea. Maybe hes tired and wants to go home and eat. Cant blame the poor chap. Listen, I know you dont know me from a hole in the wall, but would you like to join me for dinner? Im famished and wouldnt mind the company.”
“I, uh…” I fumble, caught by surprise, not knowing what to say. This is a first for me. Ive never been asked out by a strange man. To the contrary, my life has been so occupied with helping my mother keep food on the table for my brothers and sister that Ive had neither the time nor the inclination for courtship or even keeping company.
The first thing I cant help but notice is his height—I have to look up. Hes tall, probably over six feet; his body hovers over my five-foot frame. I assume he indulges in sports, for he appears to have the build of an athlete. Hes young, maybe five or six years older than my nineteen,1 with striking green eyes that are framed in silver wire-rimmed pince-nez—another favorite of my dads, except his glasses were gold. Hes clean-shaven, which I prefer, and his hair—curly, dark brown—is not long, but not short, either, falling just below his ears. Hes wearing a dark suit, giving him an eastern look, rather than the rough clothes of the westerners I see all around.
My mother claims I will fall for an older man because I worshiped my father, who died when I was six. He was prominent in our little community and became a judge. When not out tending to the horses, he wore suits.
“Cat got your tongue? Its just dinner. I thought youd like the company. Frankly, I felt sorry for you because you appear to be a woman alone. A bit worried, are you, out in the world all by yourself?”
Well Ill be! What a turkey!
I square my shoulders. “I was concerned about getting a sleeper, not about traveling alone. I am quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you. And for your information, Im not alone. Im with my mother. Now if youll excuse me, I must get back to her.”
“Fine, have it your way.” He starts to leave, but then turns back and tips his hat. “Good day.”
He walks away, leaving me agitated—more at myself than at him. The invitation had been polite and my hesitation had annoyed or perhaps even embarrassed him. But he is also insensitive enough not to realize that I have a right as a woman to travel alone if I care to and that I am not hiding my head in fear. However, I also realize I am oversensitive about setting out alone, not only because of what it will do to my career if I fail but also about how it will shatter the high expectations of those who encouraged me.
I have to admit that it probably would have been nice to have shared dinner with the gentleman. And he might even be heading in the same direction I am by train. But as usual, Ive thrown caution to the wind and am doing it alone, going to a foreign country with a reputation of being wild and lawless, and with no one to lean on. No one to protect me or at least have for companionship and comfort, as my mother would have been. Oh, I am going to miss her sorely. Especially after I have turned down an invitation to dinner in this strange, rather wild, and backward town.
“Chin up, Nellie,” I mumble to myself in the most confident voice I can muster, “you can do this.”
One thing is for certain: Without a doubt, I will be here tomorrow at the crack of dawn to secure a private sleeping berth. Maybe I can sleep my way to Mexico and avoid the likes of him.
Once there, I will just take it day by day. Ill be fine.
In the meantime, I might as well head into the station building to wait. Im not hungry and have crackers left over from lunch to nibble on. I want to be right here, even if I have to sit on a bench all night long. Besides, as much as Id like to, I cant go back to my mother.
Since there was the possibility she might get better and try to continue on despite the fact she was weak and could relapse, I told her a little fib: I was leaving tonight. Right or wrong, I saw this as an opportunity of a lifetime, to experience traveling on my own, so I seized the opportunity. How could I pass it up?
Never before have I gone out of town all by myself, because its not proper etiquette for a single woman to travel without a companion. Well, why is it proper etiquette for a man to travel alone? Once again, rules made by men. Why should they have all the fun? Besides, this is something I have wanted to do forever, and even though I realize this is probably not the smartest time to make this decision, being that I am going into a foreign country where I dont speak the language, Im glad Im doing it.
And without a doubt, I am scared.
But I cant, I wont let that stop me.
When I was five years of age, my father took me down to the stables to learn how to ride a horse. I was so scared. I didnt want to get on—the horse was a monster, even though it was only a pony—but my father insisted he wouldnt let the reins go.
Instead of giving in to my tugging and pulling to leave, my father knelt down and looked me square in the eyes and said, “Nellie, youll never get anywhere in life if you dont face your fears. Worse, you will miss out on a lot. So hop on.”
So here I am—facing my fear.
Tomorrow I will make sure to be first in line, before I lose my false courage.
Copyright © 2014 by Carol McCleary