February Fever by Jess Lourey Page B

trouble,” Terry said matter-of-factly.
    The three of us did not disagree.

Thirteen
    The lemon dill cod was not great, but because Mrs. Berns was watching me with her know-it-all face, I swallowed every last bite. Terry held his own in the conversation, maintaining a friendly/evasive style of chatter. I didn’t mind, and even Mrs. Berns seemed to warm up to him toward the end. She and I were on our second helping of free ice cream, the cutest little cups of Häagen-Dazs with a wooden spoon magically included as part of the lid, when he excused himself.
    â€œYou’re not going to the Valentine’s dance?” Mrs. Berns asked as he pushed in his chair.
    He shook his head. “I’m no Fred Astaire under the best of circumstances. I don’t think I should try on a train.”
    I watched him walk away, his bulk dominating the aisle, the ice cream expanding in my throat. “I’m also not a Fred Astaire. What’s this Valentine’s hoedown of which you speak?”
    Mrs. Berns refilled my glass of merlot from the hobo half-bottle we’d ordered. We’d both commented that we should have simply brought the free champagne from our car. Next time.
    â€œNot a ‘hoedown,’ though that’d be a hoot. Just a Valentine’s dance. Jed, you coming?”
    He stretched long, like a cat. “I say nay. It’s been a long day, and I’m ready to hit the hay.” His eyes lit up. “Did you hear that? I rhymed! Maybe I should learn to rap.”
    â€œMaybe,” I said, accepting his goodnight hug. “Sleep tight. You know where our room is if you need anything.” I dropped a generous tip for Reed on the table—the least I could do considering Mrs. Berns was currently paying for everything else—and waited impatiently for her to finish her ice cream.
    â€œFor someone who didn’t want to go to a dance, you sure are antsy about getting there.”
    I pointed behind her. “Do you see that long line still waiting to eat? I want to give them a chance.”
    â€œFine, but from where I’m sitting, it sure looks like you want to get your dance on.” She stood, wiggling her hips suggestively. “Hey, speaking of a hoedown , you know what another weird word is?” Before I could speak, she answered her own question. “ Boy howdy . That’s something a woman should never say.”
    The train lurched as I stood. I grabbed my chair for balance. That’s when I realized I was more than a little tipsy. My cutback on alcohol the last year was making me a definite lightweight.
    â€œYou’re absolutely right,” I said, following her down the narrow aisle. She was swaying as much as I was, and it wasn’t all the train’s fault. “You wanna hear something else weird? Why is swearing so bad? It’s just words. It’s like, you can’t wear your bra and underwear outside, but call it a bikini, and it’s just fine.”
    She put her hand out and grabbed onto a bald man’s head for support. “You’re right!”
    I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. “I know.”
    We continued to pinball our way down the aisle, past the line of hungry-looking people still waiting for their spot in the dining car, and all the way to Car 6, one ahead of the viewing car. Mrs. Berns entered first. It was full of coach seats, almost all of them taken, some of them holding sleeping passengers.
    â€œWhere’s the party?” she asked, a little bit too loudly.
    â€œOne down,” a woman in a nearby aisle seat said, placing her finger in the page of the book she was reading. “Can’t you hear the music?”
    I couldn’t hear it exactly, but I could feel it. A bass-thumping was faintly massaging our feet.
    â€œYou wanna go party with us?” Mrs. Berns asked the woman. She was maybe in her mid-fifties, hair pulled back in a messy bun, an AmeriTrain-issued blanket pulled