A Pot of Jam

The engine gave a shuddering cough that echoed through every car, and then its left lung gave out. I had heard it laboring up the long grade and had begun to wonder if it would make it, when it let out a wheeze, a jerk, and the cylinder head blew off.

Boston was four hours away, and my time was precious. So was everyone else's, judging by the variety and sharpness of their complaints—except for one old lady who had boarded at a station near the foot of the grade and sat right in front of me.

She was a dear old soul—plump and serene, with a gray worsted shawl and a little reticule on her arm. Her round, rosy face was framed by a bonnet with ruffles, tied under her chin. Over her gold-rimmed spectacles, perched on the end of her nose, she peered at you with soft, kindly eyes. The sort of grandmother you wished you had, if you'd never known one—so comforting was her presence.

As the delay dragged on, the passengers grumbled. Some remarks I can't recall; others I can't repeat.

A man with unpolished boots and a full set of dust-brush whiskers, wearing a collarless shirt and a slouch hat, declared he'd "be doggoned if he ever knew where he was at on this road."

Another, whose sample case sat beside him, a restless, loud talker, said they ought to build a cemetery at both ends of the line so mourners could walk and everybody would be satisfied, instead of trying to haul trains full of live people who wanted to get somewhere.

Then a woman spoke, wearing a hat covered in flowers and a shiny brown silk dress, new and clearly the pride of her heart, given how carefully she guarded it. She was one of those brisk, outspoken women of forty-five or fifty—slim, narrow-faced, keen-eyed, with a nose that was quite red and would one day meet her ambitious upturned chin. Her lips were firm, the lower pressing tight over the upper when she'd made up her mind. Her voice cut like a buzz-saw hitting a knot:

"You ain't tellin' me we're goin' to miss the train at Springfield, be ye?"

No one answered; the car fell into dead silence.

The conductor arrived, wiping grease from his hands with cotton waste. He was a gentlemanly sort, patient and used to abuse, and he gave short answers.

"Maybe one hour; maybe six."

The gaiety died. The whiskered man said, "Well, I'll be gosh-durned!" The sample-case man let out a string of profanity unprintable here. The woman in brown rose, gathered her skirts, skewered the conductor with a glare, and said, "You've gone and sp'ilt my day." Then she crossed the aisle and plumped down opposite the dear old lady, shaking out her dress.

"Dirt mean, ain't it?"

The dear old lady looked at her, nodded kindly, then gazed at the conductor until he closed the door. In a low, sweet voice that permeated the car like music, she said, "Well, if we're going to be here for six hours, I guess I'll knit."

I began to take notice. Her philosophy had made her immune to such trivialities. Six hours! What did it matter? There was something of the Spanish "mañana" and the Italian "dolce far niente" in her acceptance. Another sun would rise as beautiful as today's; why worry about its setting? Eat, drink, and be merry—or knit.

I wanted to know more about her, but I couldn't very well intrude. She sat in her own little nook, between two seat-backs, with the woman in brown taking one of her seats. I had my own seat behind hers. I could watch her over the back, studying her back hair, bonnet, shawl—and knitting.

I couldn't help but watch. There was something irresistible about her. I remembered a dear old lady from my past—not so stout, with blue eyes and smooth gray hair. I could still see her by lamplight, knitting white yarn, and sometimes even now I think I hear her voice.

The dear old lady before me felt in her pocket, fumbling for a pouch tied around her waist, then pinched her reticule and said to herself, "Oh, I guess I put it in the bag." She leaned over and began unfastening the clasps of an old-fashioned carpetbag, wrapped in a linen duster, which rested on the seat beside the woman in brown, who drew her immaculate skirt out of the way.

I craned my neck, eager to see what she'd pull out. Would it be a man's stocking, a baby's mitten, wee socks, or a stripe for an afghan? Oh, the stories hidden in such knitting! Every ball of yarn holds a thread connecting hearts—to a son, a daughter, a pair of pink toes, or a boy with frostbitten cheeks.

First came the ball of plain gray yarn, then two steel needles, and then—

The dear old lady stopped. An expression of blank amazement spread over her face as her fingers searched the bag.

"Why," she said to herself, "why! Well! You don't tell me—Well! I never! Isn't that dreadful! Oh, I never!" She drew out an unfinished gray stocking. "Just look at it! Isn't it awful!"

The woman in brown sprang up, switching her skirt. "What is it?"

"Jam!" said the old lady.

"Jam! You don't mean—"

"Blackberry jam. My Lizzie put it up for John just before I left, and—oh, it's too bad! It's streaming all over the seat and running on the floor! Oh my!"

The woman in brown jumped out into the aisle. "Well, I should think you'd have had better sense than to carry jam in that thing! I ain't got none on me, hev I?"

The dear old lady didn't answer; she was too absorbed in her misfortune. "I told Lizzie before I left she should put it in a basket," she continued, "but she said it had a tin cap and was screwed tight, and she'd stuff it down in my clothes. I never let it out of my hand but once, when I gave it to the man who helped me up the steps. He must have set it down sudden."

She drew out clothing stained with jam—one handkerchief looked like a towel that had wiped a boy's face after he'd swallowed the whole jar.

The woman in brown was inspecting her skirts, twisting them to find stray bits. The dear old lady kept working, her back shielding the mess. A sticky fluid trickled onto the floor, puddling in the aisle, and the woman stepped over it as carefully as if it were a snake.

I started to help but stopped. What could I do? The jam had soaked John's stockings, and more besides. The dear old lady was traveling to see John—her son, no doubt. No, I couldn't be of use; and besides, a woman was there to help.

"You ain't got no knife, I suppose?" said the woman in brown. "If you did, you could scrape most of it off."

"No," replied the old lady. "Have you?"

"Well, I did, but I don't know where it is. It would gorm that up too, likely."

"No, I guess I'll try to wash it off. I'll get rid of this anyway," said the old lady, and out came the jam jar—cracked down the side, its tin cap loose, wrapped in yellow paper—all of which she tossed out the window.

The woman in brown stood in the aisle, holding up her skirts. It wasn't her bag or her stockings. She'd paid her fare and she was entitled to comfort. I saw her face as she stood before me, reading her thoughts. She was disgusted—first the railroad, now this careless old woman. Her nose, like a red lobster claw, wrinkled with contempt. I understood why she didn't offer to help.

The dear old lady finished her examination, exploring the bag, lifting and replacing things. With a sigh of relief, she said, "Ain't but one stocking tetched, anyhow. Most of it went into my shoes—that's better. Oh, I was so scared!"

"Everything stuck up, ain't it?" rasped the woman, still standing. She seemed to enjoy the old lady's misery.

"Well, it might have been worse, but I ain't going to worry a mite. I'll go to the cooler and wash up what I can; the rest will have to wait till I get to John's," she said sweetly, gathering her things and heading for the wash basin.

The car sank back into dullness. Passengers who weren't experts on locomotives (and whose advice, if taken, would have fixed everything) were picking flowers outside, ready to jump aboard at any sign of life. Every so often the car would jerk backward, bumping into the one behind. A man who'd spent his life in a country store explained to a mechanical engineer (who had a market garden near Springfield) that "it was the b'iler acting that way; the engineer was letting off steam when he raised the safety valve."

A brakeman opened the door by the water cooler, passed the old lady washing up, ran the gauntlet of questions, and slammed the other door without a word. The woman in brown, having claimed another seat, fired off remarks with the speed of a Gatling gun.

A rumor spread that another engine had been telegraphed for and would arrive soon. The sample-case man squashed that hope: "It's ten miles to the nearest telegraph station, and it'll take two hours to walk it." All in language unprintable.

So the car relapsed into gloom, and nobody believed anything.

During this depression, I saw the dear old lady coming down the aisle, her face calm. The bag was buttoned up in its linen duster again. The woman in brown was waiting, her feet up on the seat, her precious dress tucked in.

"Quite a muss, warn't it?" she said gleefully, as if rejoicing in the punishment.

"Yes, but it's all right now. It soaked through my shoes and went all over my cap, and—" She bent and whispered something. I realized how impossible it would have been for me to help.

She took her seat, placing the bag in front of her. My heart went out to her, but I couldn't find the right words. I wouldn't have felt that way about the woman in brown, who sat across, tapping her feet as if delighted she'd escaped disaster. I'd have given her a piece of my mind—with my toes, had she been a man.

The dear old lady adjusted her shawl, tightened her bonnet, wiped her spectacles with chamois from her reticule. I couldn't stop watching. Then she murmured to herself, "Well, the toe warn't stained—I guess I can work on that."

Out came the needles and yarn, and her wrinkled fingers began to knit. It was the most charming picture in the world.

The woman in brown had a different view. Craning her neck, she snapped, "I s'pose you don't know I can't put my feet down nowheres. It's all a muck round here; you saw it when the jar busted. I been expectin' you'd clean it up somehow."

The old lady put down her knitting and rose. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I'll get a newspaper and wipe it up. I hope you didn't get any on your clothes."

"Oh, I took care of that! This is brand-new and I ain't wore it before. I don't get nothin' on my clothes—I ain't that kind," she said triumphantly.

I watched the old lady bend over the woman's thin ankles, mop up the jam, tuck the paper under the seat bar, and return. I started to help, but it was done.

The old lady resumed her knitting. The woman in brown put her feet down, satisfied her rights were recognized.

Soon I noticed the woman in brown stealthily opening a small paper parcel, eyeing the old lady like a boy watching a policeman. It contained a red napkin, a dinner knife, and two fat, butter-dripping sandwiches.

"Oh, you brought your lunch, did ye?" said the old lady, looking up at just the wrong moment.

"Well, just a bite. I'd offer you some, but I heard you say you were going to eat dinner with your son."

"Yes, that's so."

The needles kept working, and I could tell the old lady was thinking. It was noon, Boston still hours away. John would have to eat late if he waited.

The red napkin was laid out, sandwiches displayed for all to see. "I don't s'pose you left any water in the cooler, did ye?"

"Oh, plenty," came the reply, the old lady not looking up.

"Well, then, I guess I'll get a cup before I eat." She covered the food and went for water.

While she was gone, there was a sudden jerk—a new locomotive had arrived and butted into our car. Passengers rushed in: the flower-pickers, the engineer, the scientist, the sample-case man, and finally the whiskered man. He paused, found his seat, and moved a paper parcel—the one with the sandwiches—from his seat to the seat the woman in brown had just vacated, then sat down.

When the woman in brown returned with her cup of water, she stood over him.

"My seat, ain't it?" he said.

"Yes, 'spec' it is," she snarled, "as long as you want it." She squeezed into her original seat, put the cup on the window sill, and sat down carefully, like a hen settling on a nest.

Then she leaned over and said to the man, "Hand me that napkin and stuff, will ye?"

The man moved his arm, looked under his paper, and said, "It ain't here."

"Well, I guess it is. I put it there two minutes ago!"

He didn't answer, pretending to read.

"Look round there, will ye? Maybe it dropped on the floor."

"It ain't on the floor. Guess I know a napkin when I see it." He sounded sure.

"Well, it ain't here. I left it right where you're sittin' when I went for the water. You ain't eat it, hev ye?" She twisted her head, face full of suspicion.

"No, I ain't eat it. I ain't no goat!" He buried his face in the paper.

Then a small, calm voice came from the dear old lady: "Ain't you set on it?"

"Set on it? What!"

The woman jumped up, pulling at her skirt, her face going pale as the truth hit her. "Oh, Lordy! Just look at it! However did I do it? Oh!"

"Here, take my handkerchief," said the old lady, laying down her knitting. "Let me help wipe it off."

And what a beautiful stain it was! A large, irregular, map-like stain, with counties of ham and townships of bread, with little rivers of butter running everywhere. One delightful stream had even skipped a fold and was pushing a lump of butter down the side plait.

I hugged myself with joy. If only she'd sat in a crock big enough to feed a picnic! And the stain—it should have been as big as the state of Rhode Island!