The Way to LA
Jame Rada, Jr.
4: 5: The Letter
Two weeks had slipped by in Thurmont as Celine Winfrey remained with the Freeze family. Dawn after dawn, she rose to the sound of locomotive whistles and settled at the little kitchen table, waiting for word from California—any word.
Bill Freeze had mailed a letter, addressed to her in-laws in Los Angeles at the address her husband had written on an envelope. By Bill’s reckoning, it should have arrived in a week, then allowed a day or two for reply and—for the fare she so desperately needed—a money order or train ticket. Yet nothing came. No telephone call, no telegram sealed in wax, not even a scrawled postcard. Only silence, stretching a second week into nearly a third.
Bill didn’t exactly mind the delay. It gave him extra mornings to read the Baltimore Sun to Celine, extra afternoons to watch her slender hands clear plates from the diner. The connection between them—he translating headline after headline into her soft French accent—made him feel needed, important. He liked the way her dark eyes lit up when he paused, waiting to see if she understood. He liked being the one she relied on.
They sat in the Railroad Diner’s cramped kitchen on Monday morning, sandwiched between the breakfast rush and the lunchtime crowd. The air smelled of grease and cinnamon rolls. Outside the rear window, the Western Maryland Railway tracks gleamed silver in the weak September sun. Occasionally, a freight train rumbled past, rattling every dish on the shelves and sending a puff of coal smoke into the kitchen. Upstairs, the Freeze family’s bedrooms lay just above the diner’s cooking fire and clatter of plates.
At the table, Bill flipped through the morning paper, scanning the dense columns for news of France. He avoided the grim bulletins of influenza sweeping across Europe. Even though it concerned the soldiers, it didn’t seem too dangerous. Instead, he hunted for stories of bravery, of small towns resisting occupation, or of the latest Allied advance. When he found a lighter human-interest piece—a farmer in Iowa who milked thirty cows before daybreak, or a clown who cheered wounded soldiers—he read it in solemn tones until the punch line, then let a wry smile slip across his lips. Celine always gasped, then laughed—a soft, bell-like sound that warmed his chest.
She paused, rising from the table to peer out the kitchen window. The yard beyond was quiet save for a single robin song. “C’est si paisible ici,” she said in French, her voice hushed. “No explosions, no marching soldiers, no ruins. It reminds me of the villages before the war.”
Her shoulders relaxed for a moment, as if she might believe it were true. But last night, her dreams had turned violent again, and her muffled sobs and cries had drifted through the thin walls, reaching Bill’s own restless sleep. He knew the peace frightened her—when her world calmed, the horrors she’d lived in France surfaced.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back when the war is over?” he asked gently.
She leaned forward, her fingers tracing a ring of chipped enamel around the sink basin. “I don’t know,” she whispered. The light caught the tears in her lashes. “My family is gone. My husband—he lives here in America, so far from the France I loved.”
“Will you miss it?”
Her gaze drifted to the battered table. “I miss it already. I missed it when I was still there. The war changed everything. It’s not the France I knew.” She spoke with a quiet longing, a regret that lay thick in the air between them.
Bill’s mother, Rosemary, appeared in the doorway, her apron dusted with soap and her hair pinned back firmly. She’d been hanging freshly laundered sheets on the line, timing each trip past the tracks to avoid the black soot of passing trains. She set a wicker basket of folded clothes in the mudroom. “Back to work, you two,” she said, voice brisk but warm. “Hick Thompson’s headed this way, and table six wants coffee.”
Bill stood, nodding to Celine. Her face settled into its work expression: calm, purposeful, mute to customers’ greetings but graceful as she cleared plates and refilled glasses. Because she spoke no English, she couldn’t help in the kitchen or take orders; instead, she bused tables, her lean arms carrying stacked plates with surprising ease. Lately, business had picked up—young men with flour-dusty overalls or railway uniforms slipped in at noon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired newcomer. Even with her hair tied back and sweat at her temples, she moved like a dancer; when she offered a shy smile—rare as a passing cloud—it transformed her face into something radiant.
After the last train rumbled by, Uncle Henry—the depot agent—stepped into the diner’s kitchen carrying a handful of mail. He had the postman separate the family’s mail from the mailbags before taking them to the post office. He used it as an excuse to get a free meal from his sister.
Henry brushed soot from his cap and leaned in close to the gas lamp on the table. “Letter for Celine Winfrey,” he announced, lifting a creamy-white envelope stamped Los Angeles, California. His eyes twinkled with good news.
Bill’s heart thumped. He crossed the room in two strides and showed the envelope to Celine. “Elle est arrivée,” he said in French.
She let out an excited breath and wiped her damp hands on a tea towel. “Enfin! Lisez-la, s’il vous plaît.”
Bill hesitated, eyeing the unfamiliar handwriting. “Are you sure? It might be private.”
She laughed softly. “Private or not—I can’t read it.”
With a sigh, Bill slit the envelope open. No crisp check slipped out. No train ticket fluttered free. He smoothed the page and began to read, translating as he went. His mother and Uncle Henry listened in silent curiosity, though neither spoke a word of French.
The Winfreys’ letter was polite, distant, almost formal: their son Nathan had informed them of his marriage, yet they confessed surprise at receiving a letter instead of a new daughter standing before them. They admitted ignorance of where Thurmont lay, though if it remained in Maryland, Celine faced a cross-country trek. “We look forward to making your acquaintance when you arrive,” they wrote. “Please advise us of your estimated time of arrival, and we shall meet you at the station.” The letter ended simply: Harold and Joyce Winfrey.
Bill’s stomach sank. “They didn’t send any money. No ticket.”
Celine’s face drained of color. “But I told them I had no money. No way to get there.”
He nodded, shame tugging at his shoulders. “I wrote the letter for you.”
“But why—?” Her voice trembled.
Bill shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t have it to send. Fifty dollars is a lot of money.”
Rosemary came to Celine’s side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Could they have forgotten?” she asked, frowning.
“Maybe,” Bill said, “but it doesn’t change that you have no way to travel.” He rubbed his knuckles on the tabletop. “And their letter… it sounded so formal. No warmth.”
Celine sank into a chair, tears spilling down her cheeks like rain. “Nathan said they would welcome me.”
“They will,” Bill said softly. “But we have to find another way.”
“How?” Her voice cracked. “Even the smallest fare could run sixty dollars. I have eight.”
Bill reached into his pocket and laid six dollars on the scuffed oak table. “My earnings this week.”
She pushed the bills back, eyes bright with distress. “I can’t take that.”
“You want to get to Los Angeles,” he said. “Start fresh. You’ll pay me back when you can.”
Her hand found his. “You’re a good man, Bill Freeze.”
Uncle Henry went back to the depot and brought back a set of railroad timetables. He spread them across the kitchen table under the golden glow of the lamp. He mapped a route: a local train to Hagerstown, transfer to the Pennsylvania Railroad’s “Liberty Limited” bound for Chicago, then the Santa Fe’s “California Limited” slicing west across the Mojave Desert. Nearly five days of rattling steel and sun-scorched plains would deliver her to Los Angeles. He promised to secure a Pullman seat—no extra cost, though she’d have to sleep upright.
Bill copied each connection carefully in French, underlining train names and departure times. Celine studied the notes, running slim fingers over familiar place names, asking for every detail to be clarified. They could not risk another misstep.
“Time to pack,” Bill said when the plan was set. “You catch that westbound train in the morning.”
“I will have tickets ready,” Henry told Bill. “If you’re a few bucks short, I’ll make up the difference.”
“Thanks, Uncle Henry.”
She stood, wrapped each of them in a warm hug, breathed in the scent of laundry soap and wood smoke, then climbed the narrow stairs to her tiny attic room.
Bill went to bed early, promising to help Celine carry her trunk to the station. But exhaustion weighed on him like a freight car. He turned and tossed, the lamp’s glow flickering through the slats. At sunrise, his alarm shrilled, and he fell out of bed, every joint stiff, limbs weak as noodles. He pressed his fevered forehead against the cool sheets, sweat matting his hair.
His mother knocked gently. “Bill, dear—get up. Celine’s train leaves soon.”
He shook his head, voice ragged. “I’m too sick.”
She came in, touched his brow, and recoiled at the heat. “You’re burning up. Influenza is going around. You must stay in bed.”
He tried to lift himself. The room swayed. “But Celine—”
“She’ll understand, love.” Rosemary smoothed his pillow. “I’ll have her step into the doorway so she can say goodbye.”
And so Celine’s last glimpse of Bill would be through the open kitchen door: his pale face framed by rumpled sheets, his eyes heavy with regret. He could not stand to see her go, but his body would not obey. The war, the flu, the silence from California—they had changed everything. And when the train whistle cried in the distance, Bill lay back against his pillow, fever dreams carrying him into a sleep he could not fight.
