Free Hers the Kingdom by Shirley Streshinsky

And yesterday Sara asked if I wished to take a bath.
     It was like asking if I wanted to go to heaven when I die. I could have cried. The pale linen dusters that are supposed to protect our clothing are now the color of a dirty mouse. The odors of the car get stronger each day so that the windows are open most of the time, letting in more grit from the engine.
     After a bath in Mr. Emory's amazing copper tub, I felt almost human again and I think I became quite hilarious. I did a small dance or two, sang a few songs for Owen and Sara, and even had the Chinese girl giggling. Today Sara is going to join me in the parlor car so that Owen can bathe. Then he promises to sing for us.
     I can't tell you how sorry I am that we allowed this ridiculous brother-sister charade to happen. When I say this to Owen he only laughs and reminds me what a scandal I would cause if he should now suggest we get a

double berth. Sara knows our secret; when I told her she only shook her head and smiled a little.
     Owen is much the more even-tempered of us. I sometimes think he could weather any kind of storm with his charming smile and easy laugh.
     Oh, but speaking of storms. Out of Omaha, at midday, we were moving alongside the Platte River when suddenly it became ominously dark. The wind rose until we began to scramble to close all of the windows. Soon it grew so close, and so dark, that the carriage lamps were lit. The storm came upon us in great, roiling clouds that moved across the plains. They were like something alive, something gargantuan. We watched the storm come; great sheets of rain overtook us, blowing so hard that the train slowed to a crawl. Owen and I went to Sara, thinking that she would be frightened.
     She was. We found her huddled in a chair, shivering. "Come," I said, "let's sit together on the chaise," and she did as I suggested, like a child, trembling all the while.
     The sky lightened a bit and the rain was not so driving. We were infused, then, with a curious yellow light. Far away on the plain we could see lightning crackling through the sky. We counted . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . and then felt the great rumble of thunder shake through us. We could hear the sound of the hail before we saw it—first, as a staccato drumming on the roof of the car and then, as the storm gathered fury, as balls of ice smashing at us from all sides. I pulled Sara away from the windows as Owen rushed to draw the shades as protection from flying glass. The hailstones were as big as India-rubber balls and the noise was deafening. It felt as if we were about to explode, to crack wide open. Sara had her hands over her ears and her eyes tight shut. I pulled her into the shelter of a pantry, where we huddled with the Chinese girl.
     One of the plate glass windows shattered, spilling glass all about, and a shard narrowly missed Owen. Sara screamed; her face was utterly white, her eyes enormous. Owen quickly moved back to us. (He looked at me, and I could see that he was not at all afraid, but rather excited. It is hard to explain, but I knew what he was feeling. We may even have smiled at each other; I can't imagine why.)
     As suddenly as it had started, it was over and there was utter quiet, the train having stopped completely. Through the broken window we could smell the wet plains grasses, the wildflowers, the earth. It was a fresh, new smell, and for the flicker of an instant I was in the real West, not enclosed in a metal container and catapulted through space.
     On a path that is alongside the track came two men on horseback. They had been through the worst of the storm, in the open, and seemed not to realize that it was over. They were drawn up still as balls, tucking their heads under them for protection. In that instant I did know the uncompromising harshness of this land, of life outside the Pullman palace car or Phineas Emory's Alhambra. And I have been trying not to