Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) Page 3

  I bend over, hold my breath, and ever so slowly pull the wire earpieces into place, careful to avoid knocking her earrings. My hands are clumsier than hers. When I try to center the lenses, I bang her cheek with the back of my hand and gasp right in her face. “Oh… I… I’m so horrible at…” I look away.

  Do not cry. Do not cry.

  “Avery swears the trickiest surgery he does is removing his patients’ eyeglasses. And even harder than removal is putting the darned things back on.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt bows her head. The moment collects itself. “Thank you for your help, Iris,” she says the way someone might end a prayer.

  I follow Mrs. Nesbitt and Henry into the kitchen.

  She smiles and points to a small, papery lump on a saucer by the sink. “One can always squeeze another cup of tea from a used tea bag.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We get our tea bags from New York. Avery’s dear friend Marsden sends them.”

  The kitchen is an aboveground food cellar with windows and a back door. The cabinets are lined with jars of string beans and jam. Next to a bread box is a tin of saltines and what looks to be a fresh pie wrapped in waxed paper. The table holds a magnifying glass, copies of The Kansas City Star, and a folded paper fan. There’s a telephone, an ice box, a gas range, and a shotgun propped by the back door.

  Mrs. Nesbitt is watching me. “Do you want the truth?” she says.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Avery and I don’t cook. His patients who can’t pay—most of them, actually—keep us fed. But I miss the smells, the art of it. Of course, nobody in Wellsford would understand me on that.” She doesn’t ask if I can cook. I think she has already figured that one out.

  “Would you like me to fix the tea?” I ask bravely, glancing at two dainty, but dusty, teacups on the counter. I’d like to tell her I’m better at touching china than human beings. I’m better with boiling water than warm people.

  Perched on the chair like an exotic little bird, Mrs. Nesbitt watches me fill the kettle and light the burner.

  “I suppose you had electricity at home in Atchison,” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Avery has electricity at his medical office in town, but it’s not here yet.” She sighs. “I’m so very sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Baldwin.”

  I’m at a loss for words. My inconvenience is not something I’ve ever considered. Until now, no one has ever mentioned my inconvenience about anything. My father never asked: Iris, will spending the summer in Wellsford, Missouri, without electricity be an inconvenience for you? or Will wearing these prissy suede boots around the store inconvenience your toes?

  I answer her questions about my train trip and explain how the cow turned out to be a dead bum. “Mr. Deets said Dr. Nesbitt had to go pronounce the man dead.” A shadow crosses her face. I can’t tell if it’s about Cecil, the hobo, or something else entirely.

  Mrs. Nesbitt explains her son’s schedule. “On evenings and weekends Avery sees folks at our office here.” She nods toward a bolted door off the kitchen. I learn they moved seven years ago from St. Louis, and that Cecil’s wife, Pansy, used to do their housekeeping. Mrs. Nesbitt shakes her head. “She was a troubled woman.” She doesn’t mention that Pansy has passed, nor does she speak of her other son, the one Cecil told me was killed in the war.

  I watch her slanted, swollen fingers barely manage the teacup. I’m bewildered as to if, or how, I should help.

  Mrs. Nesbitt cocks her ear. I listen too, but don’t hear a thing except the squeak of a windmill through the screen door.

  She plants Henry and stands. “Avery’s coming!” She pats her hair, adjusts the remarkable shawl over her black housecoat, and positions her tiny hands on the cane handle.

  I stand too, smooth my skirt, and fold my napkin as small as I can. Beside her I feel like something giant and dull.

  Mrs. Nesbitt’s eyes dart from her cane to the window. She works her mouth like an actress silently rehearsing her lines.

  I hear the crunch of car tires. My stomach flutters.

  Mrs. Nesbitt gives me an anxious smile. Is she embarrassed of me… for me? She straightens her spine.

  A car door slams. Footsteps. A dog yowls. Chickens screech, as through the back door walks Dr. Avery Nesbitt.

  CHAPTER 4

  He swipes a glance at me then fixes on his mother with an expression of sheer astonishment.

  “Mother?”

  He starts toward her, I think to grab her arm, but stops himself, steps back. He looks around the room, then rests his gaze on Henry. Dr. Nesbitt is slight, clean-shaven, pale-haired, about Daddy’s age, and only a bit taller than me.

  Behind him limps a creature—a cross between a long-legged skunk, a flop-eared coyote, and a weasel.

  The dead hobo’s dog.

  Mrs. Nesbitt’s gaze bounces between her son and the dog. “Avery?” she says in an exact imitation of him.

  Dr. Nesbitt stares at her slippers and shawl.

  She pats my arm. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Avery, please meet Miss Iris Baldwin. We’re having tea.”

  He nods, smiles politely. “Welcome to Wellsford.” His gaze returns immediately to his mother and her cane. “I haven’t seen that cane in years.”

  “My chair’s in the bedroom,” she says firmly.

  Dr. Nesbitt looks at me and raises one eyebrow a fraction of a fraction of an inch. “I see.” He gets a bowl of water and sets it on the floor. The dog drinks, then flops on its side. I stare and hold my breath, waiting for the next shallow rise and fall of its ribs. “So you’ve brought us a patient?” Mrs. Nesbitt remarks.

  “I found her when I filed that poor man’s death certificate at the depot. She belonged to the hobo. Needs stitches.” He turns to me. “Miss Baldwin, what a harrowing afternoon you must have had. Was the entire train in an uproar?”

  “No. They said we’d hit a cow.”

  He nods, his face grim. “That old vagabond was probably deaf as stone, fishing for dinner.” He sighs. “I’ve witnessed hundreds of exits from life… some are just sadder, more empty, than others.”

  He checks his watch, unbolts his office door, then turns to face us. “I hate to interrupt your tea time, but while we’ve got daylight left, I could use your help with this pup.”

  He rubs the dog’s ears, then picks her up. “First, Mother, we need your help with a name. Having a proper name might help her survive the night, and you’re just the person for it.” We follow as he carries the dog to his examining table and lights two kerosene lamps. He places a chair for his mother by the dog’s head.

  Mrs. Nesbitt studies the trembling animal, caked in mud and dried blood, and announces, “Marie!”

  Dr. Nesbitt looks as if he hasn’t heard her right.

  “Marie?”

  “Marie,” she repeats, riveting us with those fiery eyes. “I’ve thought about it and I like it.”

  Dr. Nesbitt lifts one ear flap and says, “Okay, Marie, just keep still while I examine you.” He gently probes down her sides, her legs, her tail, all the while stroking her and crooning, “You’re strong. You’re going to be fine.”

  His tender voice, the smell of rubbing alcohol so like Mama’s sanatorium, and Marie lying helpless on the table mix together inside me and I can’t help it, I start crying. I sniff and dab, and soak Mrs. Nesbitt’s hankie.

  “Tears bathe the heart,” she remarks. She and Dr. Nesbitt wait until I’m through, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to let someone finish crying. “It’s a miracle,” he says, turning to his mother. “I can’t find a flea or a tick anywhere, but…” He holds up Marie’s tail—a muddy, broken feather. “We’ll have to amputate this piece.”

  I look away, praying I won’t have to touch it.

  “She’s also got a slew of cuts that need stitching. Iris, could you please get the strainer from the kitchen cabinet just left of the sink.”

  Strainer? I rummage in the kitchen, return to the office with it. He’
s holding a dark brown bottle with a stopper. The label says: Ether. “We’ll soak cotton with this and line the bottom of the strainer. Then you hold it over her nose.”

  Marie looks up at me and blinks, her eyes as watery as mine. Mrs. Nesbitt pats my arm. “What in the world would we do without you, Iris?”

  Dr. Nesbitt opens the window, then the ether bottle. Crickets, tree frogs, and a chorus of cows join us in the room. The ether smells sickeningly sweet. I hold my breath, take the strainer from Dr. Nesbitt, and put it over Marie’s nose.

  Her whiskers poke this way and that through the mesh. Her breathing slows. I glance at Dr. Nesbitt, absolutely certain I’ve killed her. But he’s busy cleaning and assessing her wounds.

  I feel clammy, light-headed.

  Don’t watch him.

  Think of something else, anything else…

  What’s Leroy doing at this moment? Missing me maybe? What about Daddy? Hmm… he’s huddled with Celeste in Kansas City. They’re planning their fancy window displays for Petticoat Lane. I wonder what county my suede boots have traveled to by now. I think of the paper doll family on the train. I wonder how that little girl would act out this “getting a puppy” story.

  Marie whimpers. I jump. Dr. Nesbitt, in the middle of removing the broken tail, instructs me to shake four more drops of ether on the strainer cotton. Mrs. Nesbitt sits at the end of the table, cupping one of Marie’s front paws in her hands. I think she’d hold my hand too if she could. A few drops of ether dissolve in thin air before they hit the floor. But overall I manage without spilling the whole bottle or fainting.

  Mrs. Nesbitt watches her son’s every stitch, but I can’t. I concentrate on reading the eye chart on the wall across the room and alphabetizing the labels on his shelf full of ointments and adhesive tape.

  When he’s finished and it’s finally time to remove the ether for good, we wrap Marie in a blanket. “She can sleep in here tonight,” he says as we lower her to the floor. “By the window. She probably needs the stars for a good night’s sleep.”

  In the kitchen lamplight I could die. My cotton dress is completely stuck to me with sweat. I cross my arms, huddle on the chair.

  My back and neck ache. My stomach rumbles. I’ve lost all track of time. I can’t recall how or where this day started. In fact, I can’t say exactly if I am the same person who started it.

  Dr. Nesbitt lights the gas range, unwraps a chicken potpie and places it in the oven.

  “What else?” Mrs. Nesbitt asks, looking over a row of canning jars. “Succotash? Stewed tomatoes?”

  Dr. Nesbitt rolls his eyes. “With the afternoon I’ve had, the last thing I want to look at is a stewed tomato!”

  “Careful of your wicked sense of humor, or Iris will be on the next train.” Mrs. Nesbitt smiles and claps. “We need brandy! Lord knows we’ve all had an extraordinary day. Iris, could you please get the decanter and three snifters from your bedroom? They’re on the buffet. Oh, and a candleholder off the table. This is a night for celebration. By the way, Avery, I told Iris we’d eat in the kitchen instead of the dining room while she’s with us.”

  Dr. Nesbitt’s expression seems to say, What? We never eat in the dining room.

  When I return with the brandy, he pours a few sips in my glass. “Today, besides the hobo’s accident, I had to remove a decades-old plug of earwax, pull three black teeth, and—”

  Mrs. Nesbitt makes a face and cuts him off. “Thank you, dear.”

  I place the holder on the kitchen table and light the candle. Dr. Nesbitt stretches. So does the flame. I take my first sip of brandy—a swallow of liquid fire. We sit around the little table. The kitchen smells like chicken after all.

  “By the way, Mother, did I mention that you look ravishing this evening?”

  Mrs. Nesbitt tips her cane. “Thank you, Avery.”

  “Dad bought that cane and shawl for you, didn’t he?” he says.

  She strokes the silk embroidery and smiles. “The Japanese Bazaar at the World’s Fair—St. Louis, 1904.”

  “We can shorten the cane a bit, if you plan to use it,” Dr. Nesbitt says, standing. He unbuttons his coat, opens the oven.

  “Yes, I introduced Iris to Henry this afternoon.”

  “Who?” Dr. Nesbitt says immediately, turning to his mother. He raises his eyebrows, potholder in hand. “Henry?”

  “Henry!” Mrs. Nesbitt says. “My cane.”

  A smile twitches his lips. He dishes up the potpie. “You’ve named the cane… ?”

  “Henry.”

  “It isn’t exactly a Japanese name, Mother.”

  “Well, it goes well with Marie!”

  We eat a few moments in silence. I don’t know what to add to the conversation. Would Dr. Nesbitt be interested in hearing about people’s corn and bunion problems when they’re being fitted for shoes? Well, actually, maybe he would! But I keep my mouth shut.

  “I also had to convince Vivian Eckles that there’s nothing medically I can do for her hiccups,” he says. “I told her to go home, put a silver knife in a glass of water, and drink it upside down with a paper sack over her head. And if that doesn’t work, I prescribed biting the ends of her little fingers and picturing an old gray horse, or, as a last resort, passionate kissing!”

  My mouthful of succotash is ready to explode.

  “Avery! After that session with the ether and then the succotash, you’re going to kill Iris!”

  Dr. Nesbitt nods an apology my way, then smiles and taps the side of his head. He holds up his snifter and salutes. “Thank you, Iris, for your assistance this afternoon. Thank you, Mother… and a special thanks to you, Henry!”

  We gaze out the window without talking. The dust finally rests after its breathtakingly busy day. I look at Mrs. Nesbitt. Her lipstick and rouge have faded, but her eyes are as bright as the stars popping through the night sky.

  I run my finger back and forth through the candle flame. A train whistles on its nighttime trip to the horizon. Mrs. Nesbitt cocks her head. The whistle moans again. She tilts her face heavenward and smiles. “That’s the hobo’s angel saying, ‘thank yoooooou… for adopting my pup.’”

  CHAPTER 5

  Marie cries in Dr. Nesbitt’s office. Neither of us can sleep, for the same reason. We aren’t home.

  Marie’s clean blanket must smell funny to her, and I’m moving like a mummy in this corset of a bed. I can’t turn over. I can barely breathe.

  I worm my way out, light the kerosene lantern, and kneel to examine the bedclothes. Dr. Nesbitt must have made this bed, the way the sheets and blanket are wrapped and tucked like a bandage for someone with a broken back.

  Moths drawn to my lamp cast huge, fluttery shadows on the wallpaper. It is printed with barefoot goddesses floating around in togas and laurel wreaths. It is truly the strangest wallpaper I have ever seen. But the moths seem right at home in ancient Greece.

  I need Hercules to unmake my bed! I yank the blanket and top sheet loose, wide awake now. I hear Marie whimpering and yowling, then footsteps and Dr. Nesbitt’s soothing voice.

  So far, except for helping with the ether, I am useless here. Dr. Nesbitt has done everything I was hired to do. He did the dinner dishes, pulled the shades, pumped water for us to wash our teeth, and helped his mother get ready for bed. Maybe I’m supposed to hop up and just know what to do, but I don’t. They don’t need me. They’ll realize it soon enough.

  I pull Rosie from my trunk and rub her lumpy paw over my lip. Right after Mama died I remember thinking how brave it was of Mrs. Andrews, our housekeeper even then, to take Mama’s blue velvet dress without asking Daddy and turn it into a cat. She filled her with stuffing and rose sachets. I named her Rosie and I tried to connect the scent to Mama, but it wasn’t true. Mama’s true smell got sucked away in the sanatorium.

  My trunk is bigger than the dresser. I’ll never find places for everything I brought. The top drawer is already full of the necessities Mrs. Nesbitt got for me—safety matches, Pompeian Beauty Powder, a f
ountain pen, stamps, and… stationery.

  Stationery…

  I twirl my hair. My stomach drops.

  I should write Daddy.

  I fill the fountain pen, position a sheet of stationery on the trunk, and write the date on my first ever letter to him.

  June 1, 1926

  Dear Daddy,

  The words are a cramped black smudge. My handwriting goes uphill, but worse is that “Dear” and “Daddy” aren’t right together.

  On another sheet I scratch:

  Dear Father,

  I still don’t like “Dear,” but “Father” is okay. “Father” will fit better in the post office box in Kansas City he traded for our home.

  Now what? The paper is huge and endlessly blank. I write:

  Thought you’d like to know I made it safely to Wellsford.

  Dr. Nesbitt and his mother have an interesting house out in the country. It is a farm, but a man named Cecil Deets does the field work.

  We had pineapple upside-down cake for dessert tonight. Mrs. Nesbitt has stopped using her wheelchair, but no one will say why.

  I stop, add a few more lines, stop again. This is stupid. I sound like a bull manure salesman. It feels like lying even though it’s true. It’s too… what? Friendly? Daughterly? Forgiving? I watch the moths flitter around the Grecian ruins. I picture my room at home—a pitch-black box with the ceiling for a lid. That’s the house of ghosts now, not this one.

  A moth grazes my cheek. My letter falls facedown on the floor. When I pick it up, a tear drops right on “Dear Father,” turning it into a pale puddle. I wipe my face on the bath towel folded over my footboard, take another paper, and write:

  Dear Father,

  I made it to Wellsford.

  Dr. Nesbitt’s house is a farm.

  Your daughter,

  Iris

  I imagine my letter’s trip from the mailbox at the end of the driveway, to a train, to a truck, and into Daddy’s hand. He’ll read it in one gulp, hand it to Celeste. I hope they turn it over and over, looking for more. I hope he notices how much it doesn’t say. I can see Celeste, with lipstick smeared on her front tooth, gushing, “Oh, Charles, what a fabulous idea you had hiring Iris out, she sounds so happy!”