Death Train to Boston by Dianne Day

"I do not require anything at this time."
    To my utter amazement, Norma pouted. Her lips were nicely shaped, and even as I watched, her lower lip grew fuller. Slowly she turned away from my bed and walked toward the door; halfway there she looked back over her shoulder with those dark eyes glinting and asked, "Father, will we all be at table together for supper tonight?"
    Melancthon Pratt let a pause gather in the air before he replied. I stopped chewing and swallowing because even I could feel the sudden, subtle charge in the atmosphere. "Nnoo," he said slowly, drawing out the word, as if making his decision as he spoke, "I think not. I think you may lay a table for two in front of the large window. And tell the others they may go ahead and eat when they've a mind to."
    Hmm, I thought, very interesting.
    And then, because that was precisely what he would have said, I felt most dreadfully the pang of missing Michael.
    Missing Michael did not, however, stop me from finishing the soup and bread. There was a sweet pudding for dessert. I tasted it, and decided to have it later. For my first real meal in a while, I'd already had enough.
    Now that I was done with the food, something that had been bothering me asserted itself. As I folded my napkin and pulled it through the napkin ring that had come on my tray, I asked in a tone both casual and sincere, "Do you enjoy watching people eat, Mr. Pratt?"
    He did not reply. His face took on a rather odd expression, as if my question had somehow hit him right between the eyes.
    This pleased me quite a bit, so I decided to needle him a little more. Opening my hands in a helpless gesture, I looked down at my lap and then back up at him. "Would you take this tray? Eating has quite exhausted me and I cannot lift it. Please, if you'd be so kind."
    "Humph," he said, but he rose to his feet, covered the space between the chair and the bed in two long strides, and snatched up the tray, which he then went to place on the dresser against the far wall. But that necessitated moving the pitcher to one side, which in turn meant he had to balance the tray on one hand, and that almost proved too much for the big man. The tray's contents slid . . . and slid . . . until at the last possible moment he righted it and set it down on the dresser.
    "Thank you so much," I said, sagging back against the pillows with unaffected languor. Certain sensations reminded me that I would have to take care of the necessary bodily functions before too long, and I wondered how much longer he intended to stay.
    "Humph," the big man said. This syllable seemed to serve all purposes for him save exposition.
    I fixed my mouth in a neutrally pleasant expression, adjusted first one shoulder and then the other against the pillows, ignored an itch that had begun on my left leg, and waited while he brought the chair right up next to the bed. He took my hand.
    The voice I had internalized said, Be docile. I clenched my teeth and let him have the hand, although just that one contact, that seeming act of possession, made me feel even more entrapped than reason told me I already, truly was.
    "Caroline James," said Melancthon Pratt, "the wives have taken to calling you Carrie. I prefer Caroline."
    You would, I thought, but I forced the corners of my mouth to curve up a little higher. "As you wish," I said. Then seizing the opportunity, I added, "I shall call you Mr. Pratt."
    "It would please me if you would call me, as they do, Father."
    "But I cannot do that, can I? First, because I already have a father. He lives in Boston, and as soon as possible I must let him know what has happened to me. Second, because it would be inappropriate for me to call you Father, as we have no children between us, which would be the only other reason I can think of for giving you that appellation."
    "Ah," Melancthon Pratt said, smiling, "that is how I shall begin, then. I will tell you about the angelic vision that led me to you, and the many children that