No sound except the hoarse blast of the whistle, the grinding of brakes, the gasping of steam-laden air.
What could Ken say to his father? That he had saved him? That his love had restored him?
"Dad," he said, "good-bye." He pressed his father's hand. As he sat on a red plush car seat, he looked out of the window. Crumpled, small, his father was hurrying into the shade of the station.
Ken wondered if he would ever see him again.
At Houston, he changed cars. A short run to New Orleans and then north. The transcontinental train was air-cooled. The Pullman car was comfortable, fans whirring, a solicitous porter hovering about.
"What time is it?" Ken asked.
"Seven fo'ty. Had yo' dinner?"
"No."
"Better go in now or it'll be too late."
The diner was crowded. Bustling waiters, a grave steward, the odor of rich foods reminded Ken of New York. A sensory impression, stimulating his mind, recalled the road trip, gay dinners en route.
"If you don't mind sitting with someone else," the steward apologized, "I can place you at once."
Ken didn't mind and he found himself seated opposite two women.
Her name, she said, was Catherine Granville.
"Not really, of course. I'm under contract to a movie company. I'm really Lucy Faydenson. Don't you like mamma?"
Mamma was sitting at the club car desk, writing. She
