"You're excused," the woman said, unperturbed. "What did you do anyway?"
"I did nothing."
"Then why'd you excuse yourself?"
"Your elbow is in my side," Smith said uncomfortably.
"Is that supposed to be a dig?"
"Excuse me?"
"There you go again. Now what's wrong?"
"Your elbow is still in my side."
"I can stand to lose a few pounds. I will be the first to admit it. But these train people don't make the seats big enough to accommodate those of us of the ample persuasion. If you take my meaning. Ain't nothing can be done about it, honey. I tried dieting. I tried not eating. Oprah I ain't."
Smith looked around for another seat. But there was none. Craning his head, he tried to see into the cars behind him. People were coming down the aisles, wearing that worried look that told him there were no seats to be had.
"Now who's squirming?" the woman asked.
"Sorry," said Smith.
"That's better. You settle down now, and we'll get along fine. Like the man say, you got to go along to get along."
The train lurched into motion, and Harold Smith watched the station fall away. Gathering speed, the Merchant's Limited rattled past an iron monstrosity of a bridge that looked as if it had been built by medieval ironworkers. There was a brief stop at Back Bay Station. As the suburbs of Boston began clicking by, the train picked up speed.
Smith waited until the conductor had collected his ticket before trying to open his briefcase.
"Need help with that?" his seatmate asked.
"I can manage."
"Just 'cause I'm a woman don't mean I ain't strong. You look like you could use a hand."
"I am fine."
"You don't look, sound or act like it," the woman said doubtfully.
Smith turned the briefcase sideways, then the long way, but given the way the woman in the adjoining seat was spilling over into his seat, it was impossible to move his arms usefully.
Smith had to be careful. The briefcase was boobytrapped. If unlocked incorrectly, explosive charges would detonate, destroying its contents. Not to mention Smith and anyone in a ten-foot radius.
"You gonna stop fussing any time soon?" Smith's fellow passenger said thinly.
Smith sighed. "Yes. I am done."
"Good. But it still ain't open."
"I changed my mind."
"I don't blame you for giving up. I'm that way about childproof caps myself. You know, I think the companies got it all backward. They should sell medicine in chocolate boxes and chocolate in childproof bottles. If they did that, my life would be a whole lot tidier, and I'd fit into this damn seat to boot."
Smith stared out the window, watching the familiar undulating stone fences and granite outcroppings of New England pass by. They reminded him of his upbringing. Only Harold Smith could be moved to quiet nostalgia by the sight of hard, unromantic granite. But that was the kind of person he was.
At Providence, Smith waited patiently. Hardly anyone got off, but several people got on, all looking disappointed at the lack of empty seats.
"I know that look you wearing," the woman beside him said.
"What is that?"
"You were hoping I was getting off here. Well, I ain't. So you can just get over it."
"I do not know what you are talking about," Smith said stiffly.
"You ain't hardly spoke to me all this time. You ignoring me. That's fine. I been ignored before. It won't hurt me. But this ain't my stop, so don't get all hopeful-faced on me."
The train started up again. It rolled out of the station and into the light of day, diesel engine laboring.
Smith cleared his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed like a yo-yo.
The woman eyed him skeptically. "Something on your mind?"
"No."
"The next stop ain't my stop, either. If this is the catbird seat, like I hope it is, I ain't getting off until the accident."
Smith blinked. "What accident?"
"The accident what's gonna happen."
"How do you know an accident is going to happen?" Smith asked sharply.
"Because one always does on these things. Don't you read the newspapers?"
"Yes. But the accidents are entirely random. There is no predicting them."
"Well, it can't be random enough to suit me. I just want to have my accident and stop riding these damn rattletrap things."
Smith thin jaw sagged. "You want an accident?"
"As God is my copilot."
"Why?"
"For the insurance money, why else? You think I like riding these stuffy old coaches? Hah! Not likely. Once I file my claim, I fly first-class all the rest of my days. No more having my insides shook up in one of these rattlers."