The rhythmic clattering sound of the wheels started to change and he could feel the train beginning to slow. Jack turned off the reading lamp and switched on the blue night light. As he slowly lifted the shade, some lights came into view. The flashing fluorescent signs of a tavern, the headlights of cars waiting at a crossing, some shadows against the windows of the houses near the track all showed that another small Midwestern station was near. He consulted the timetable and looked at his watch. 10:03 P.M. They were due in Marion, Iowa, the Milwaukee Road station stop for Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Right on time. Well, it was only 4 hours since they had left Chicago. Not long enough to get too far behind schedule.

He had decided to go out to California to visit his only child, Jean, for Thanksgiving. All any holiday did for him was dredge up memories of the past and he hated to be alone. He'd been by himself for so many years now, that it was hard to remember what it was like to share anything with another person. Jean had moved out to California seven years ago when she went off to college.

After what he had endured in 1912, nothing much had mattered to him, at least until his daughter was born. The ordeal that had nearly taken his life had robbed him of the woman he loved and almost had broken his spirit. When his body recovered from that terrifying experience, he took up a few odd jobs, slowly at first. It was one of those that led him to the life he had now. He had started out cleaning up at night in an art gallery in Greenwich Village. The owner had seen his drawings laying around one day and wanted to see more of his work. One thing had led to another, and when the old man was ready to retire, he just gave Jack the business, happy to know it was in good hands.

Jack put his heart and soul into the art gallery business, learning everything he could about it and after only a few years, his had become one of the most successful galleries in the village. It was his personal life that was not a success. After what had happened to his first love, Jack's heart had felt hollow for a long time. He had failed repeatedly in trying to form a real relationship with someone else. It was 8 years before another woman had become a part of his life. Martha. And she too had been part of his life for such a short time. They had met when they had been taking an art history class. She was small, blond, absentminded and sweet. So different from…He couldn't even speak her name. No, Martha was different in her own way and she got under his skin. Oh, they had been in love. But it was not the same. Never the same as the first woman he had loved.

They married in 1922. And almost right away she became pregnant. He should have known even then, that something would go wrong. She'd had a terrible pregnancy, and sometimes, she said things that made him feel that he was responsible for her discomfort. When she died after childbirth from a hemorrhage, he felt guilt, remorse, fear and sadness. But he couldn't give up. He had a child to raise.

Jack vowed then never to get involved with another woman. It was too risky. Everyone he loved died. His parents, Martha and someone else. Instead, he put all of his energy into raising Jean, his little girl. They'd had some good times, when she was growing up. She was bright and funny, more like him than the mother she had never known. Now she was an artist in her own right with a gallery next to the pier in Santa Monica. Jeannie, as he preferred to call her, was engaged to a doctor who was with the Navy down in Long Beach. It would be good to see her and meet her young man and to feel like a family again.

Jack smoothed his short blond hair and put his book down. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His hair was only slightly streaked with gray. Outwardly he looked full of energy. Only his eyes gave away the sadness that he carried within.

"Not too bad for 56," he thought to himself.

The train had stopped and he could make out the signs on the end of the depot that read MARION, IOWA. There were quite a few people getting on here.

"Lot's of people traveling for the holiday. Glad I booked this little bedroom early."

The car was so far about half full. By the morning, more travelers would have boarded, most of them going all the way to Los Angeles.

He'd had the porter make up the berth and as soon as the train started up again, he planned to turn in. He closed his book and looked out the window once more. A woman on the platform caught his attention. There was something familiar about her, and if he didn't know she was dead, he could have sworn it was..

"Say it, Jack," he told himself. "Stop holding it in and say it."

But he could only think her name. Rose. As lovely and as beautiful as the flower for which she was named.

He studied her as she struggled to find something in her purse. And then without lifting her head, she started walking, carrying her suitcase, moving toward the door of the car he occupied. Even though he knew it couldn't be her, he still watched with fascination. She walked with such a regal carriage.

"Just like Rose," he sighed, sadly, pulling down the shade.

Why did that woman have to be the last thing he saw before he went to sleep? Surely this was likely to bring on those nightmares that he still had even after 36 years.