Lourdes: A Vampire In The Old West

2. Belgian Chocolate

A nine-year-old girl with ribbons in her hair sits on a train. She's a dot in the behemoth's belly, yet here in a private cabin, she sits like a queen. Silk curtains, rosewood panels, and ivory accents. The girl, her mother, and her father all recline on cushions in a stateroom that could be mistaken for a parlor in a country estate. And the girl, in frills and fine lace, is dressed for a box seat above opening night at the opera or a garden overcome with ivy beside velveteen bears and imaginary tea – not a sojourn behind billowing steam. This finery, though, passes over her head, and the girl's attention is fixed on the horizon instead. She looks with widening eyes as the green landscape outside turns gold. Her mother and father look out, too, their hands clasped, fingers intertwined.

"Where are we going?" The girl asks, her mind imagining the worlds beyond the window rushing by. Any stop, every stop brings with it more people, places, and things than the child can comprehend. Her mind swims.

"All the way to California," the girl's father grins. "To a new house. A big house."

"Really?" The girl giggles. She jumps in her chair.

"Yeah," her father nods. "Where you can have anything and everything you want."

"And, tell me, what is it you want most of all right now?" The girl's mother adds, stroking her child's head. The girl gives it some thought, acute concentration visible between her ears. Then, the idea fully formed, she grabs it.

"Hot chocolate!" The little girl shouts.

"Well, then, we've got to get you a cup of the finest hot chocolate in the world," her mother sings. "Topped with whipped cream." The woman kisses her daughter, stands, and starts for the door. Before getting there, though, she turns to her husband. "Dear, will you help me fetch the cup?"

"Of course," the man speaks. He rises and taps a shape on the inside of his vest. "You'll be needing my wallet, now won't you?" The man comes to his wife and, again, holds her hand. Gazing upon his daughter, he gives a wave. "We'll be right back with cocoa sprinkled with Belgian chocolate." The man shuts the cabin's door.

The little girl's eyes turn back to the forests turning to prairies turning to desert outside the train. She watches cities yawn into towns. She sees tall buildings shrink into huts. Suit coats become dusters. Pocket watches are replaced with pistols. Politicians are recast as bandits. The little girl looks out as marble mausoleums give way to wooden crosses. She turns away. Coming across to the cabin's door, she peeks out, her little eyes and ears taking in the dim hall. Other cabins. Other doors. Spartan lights hanging overhead. And there, far away, two figures in the dusk. Footsteps and the sound of clattering china.

†

"Where are we going to get the money for a big house? Huh?" The girl's mother needles. "How do you think we're going to afford any home?" She shakes her head, sighs, and looks down at an expensive saucer of hot chocolate and whipped cream.

"We'll find a way," the girl's father breathes. The train rocks around a bend, throwing the man against a wall. "We always do."

"No..." The woman huffs. Tossed by the train's movement as well, the mother keeps her daughter's drink safe, pressing it against her breast. Not spilling a drop. "You always find a way to lose a fortune. We used the last of our bank account to buy the tickets out of Chicago. And why'd we do this? Because of a horse deal gone bad. And why were we in Chicago in the first place? Because we had to move after you owed money in Atlanta. And why were we in Atlanta? Oh, that's right, because we were on the run from New York. Do you want me to go back further? Talk about the businesses in Boston and Philadelphia? About the houses we had there? About the houses you lost?"

"I love you," the man whispers.

"I don't know if those words matter any more," the woman grieves.

"I'm doing this for you..." The man starts. The husband touches his wife's chin. He holds her softly in his hands. "And for our daughter."

"That doesn't make it right," the woman utters. She walks away with quick, quiet steps, the hot cocoa wobbling but not peaking over the edge of its china throne. Her husband, in one long stride, is beside her again.

"I always find money. I'm always good at that. I want you to know I'll do the same thing when we reach the West. I'll build a business again. I'll buy our daughter anything she wants. I'll buy you everything you want," he promises. "I love you."

"You can't buy me what I want," the woman sighs. Her eyes dissolve into the chocolate and then lift to her cabin. For a moment, she thinks she sees her daughter.

†

The little girl with ribbons in her hair shuts the door and hurries back to her seat. She climbs up, kicks her feet, and turns her face to the window just as her parents return.

"Look what we've got!" The girl's father announces.

"Just the way you like it!" Her mother beams.

The couple sit down beside their daughter. Handing her child her hot chocolate, the woman gives only the most genuine of grins, but – unnoticed by the child – a pain tinges the corners of her lips.

"Thank you, Ma! Thank you, Pa!" The little girl shouts. She slurps up her hot cocoa, painting her mouth with chocolate and cream. Her mother drapes her in her arms. Her narrow fingers, freckled skin, and flowered bosom frame the girl. The child smiles. Someday, she'll look like her mother. For now, though, the shape of youth sucks at her saucer. Gazing upon his partner and his daughter, the man makes a face. But rather than warmed by this tableau, his mouth twists. He clucks, casting his vision on the little girl's cup.

"They forgot the Belgian chocolate," the girl's father spits.

"It's okay, Pa!" The girl giggles. "It's still good!" She continues to inhale the swirling cocoa, greedily, loudly emptying her bowl. Her gulps drown out the noises of the train. In this moment, there are no shrill squeals, whistles, rustles, and bells. No, there's only a little girl lapping at the last of her Chantilly cream. And then there's a knock at the door.