Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) Page 5

  CHAPTER 7

  I’ve lost track of the days. Sunday slipped into Monday before I caught hold of it.

  “We used to go,” is all Mrs. Nesbitt has said about church.

  But this morning we’ve got the very reverent Dorothy “Dot” Deets here instead of a minister.

  “I knew you were at the Nesbitts now, but who cares? Their laundry is my job,” she hisses, sizing me up the moment I step out into the yard. She stands, hands on her hips. “Your kin as gangly as you?” She’s short and roly-poly like her name, with springy red hair and chapped cheeks. She wears a sack dress and worn out lace-up boots. She’s like girls at school who let the catty comments in their heads exit right out of their mouths. “So are you just gonna stand there starin’ or what?” She bugs her eyes at me. “I ain’t wantin’ your help.”

  I had been watching her from the kitchen window, and what she really means is, I ain’t needin’ your help snooping through the Nesbitts’ laundry.

  But something tells me to just keep starin’ while Dot digs through the dirty clothes. After a minute I ask casually, “So, what’re you finding in that basket?”

  Dot scowls. “Where you come from?”

  “Atchison.” I know she’s trying to piece together where I fit with her and why there’s none of my laundry in the basket. “Where do you live, Dot?”

  “A mile that way,” she points with her head, then returns to her digging and sniffing. I guess she’s decided to continue the laundry investigation with me watching. She holds one of Mrs. Nesbitt’s hankies to the light, smells it, and frowns. “Why’s the old woman wearing perfume all the sudden? And look…” She glances toward the house, then shoves the hankie toward me. “It’ll take all day to get this damn lipstick out. Most folks I have the acquaintance of think she’s a”—Dot pinches her nose—“snob. But I say more like a witch… the way she just gave up her wheelchair and started walking.” Dot snaps her chubby fingers. “How can somebody do that? You’re either lame or you ain’t.”

  “When was that, that she started walking?”

  “A few weeks ago. I saw her practicing back and forth on the porch with a cane. She’s plain strange.”

  Dot plucks out a dinner napkin and sniffs a stain. Her eyes light up. “Whiskey!” She waves it like a white flag. “Here, smell. Imagine him doctorin’ people with a gut full of moonshine.”

  “How do you know what whiskey smells like?”

  Her voice is hushed. “All I know is that Dr. Nesbitt keeps liquor in the dining room closet in a fancy bottle.” I nod, barely stopping myself from asking exactly how she knows that.

  Dot pokes at an ink stain on the pocket of Dr. Nesbitt’s shirt. “Still writing those fancy letters.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s got somebody in New York City—you know,” she wags her head, “corresponding back and forth every single week, but the lady never visits.” Dot’s eyebrows shoot up and stay there. “Because I bet she’s already married to somebody else! All these folks just love Doc Nesbitt.” Dot sniffs. She’s clearly not a passenger on that ship of fools. “But one thing he can’t do is count. He pays me per piece, never checks my numbers. My daddy don’t understand why he’s still livin’ with his mama.” She scrubs a spot of Marie’s blood with a brick of lye soap. “Where’s your things?” she asks, reaching the bottom of the load.

  “I do my own.”

  She curls her lip. This tidbit will fuel theories about the snotty, too-good-for-regular-country-washing girl the Nesbitts hired. “You like ’em?” she asks.

  “Who?”

  “Who you think I mean? Miz Nesbitt and him.”

  Marie hops off the porch, sending chickens onto the driveway. She tilts her nose, walks past Dot, and whines at me. “Looks like Mrs. Nesbitt needs something,” I say. Dot’s eyes darken. I walk inside and sit at the kitchen table with Mrs. Nesbitt, who is figuring her crossword puzzle. Next to it is a postcard. She slides it over to me, message-side down. It’s from Leroy.

  June 5

  Iris,

  How are you?

  I am writing this at our spot.

  It has been 99 / hours since you left.

  Wellsford sounds real interesting, especially the dead hobo and the eye test. Did you pass it?

  Atchison is buggy.

  My ice job is either too hot or too cold.

  Warmly (!)

  LP

  I smile at Mrs. Nesbitt, put the card in my pocket. I can’t help but wonder if she has already read it.

  “What’s a word for halo, Iris—six letters, starts with ‘n’?” she says, pointing to the puzzle.

  I think a moment. “Try ‘nimbus.’ I remember the word from Sunday School.” She nods. I write the letters in the squares for her.

  “How about an ‘r’ word for embarrassed. Eight letters, hyphenated.”

  “Uh… hmmm… Give me a minute.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt holds up her hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll think of it.”

  I take our kerosene globes out on the back porch to scrub with Dot’s old wash water while she hangs the laundry. The wet soot runs down my arms. I grip the glass. I do not want to break one in front of her. “I can take the clothes off later,” I say, “if you want to go on.” I study the clotheslines. “How many pieces today, Dot?”

  “Thirty-eight,” she says, the way someone might say shut up.

  Dot waltzes past me and pops her head in the back door. “Forgive me for interrupting your puzzle, Miz Nesbitt, but you need Borax Powder, ma’am. Oh, and I told Iris that it is a pure pleasure washing such fine things as you and Dr. Nesbitt own. It’ll be thirty-eight pieces today, ma’am, and thank you.”

  “Thank you. I’ll inform Avery.”

  I watch Dot flounce off down the driveway, her hair blazing like a lit tumbleweed.

  I dry the globes, then go in and sit with Mrs. Nesbitt. We study the crossword from an old edition of The Kansas City Star newspaper. “How’s Dot?” she asks.

  “I told her I’d take the wash down, so she could go on home. She didn’t look happy, but she left.” I don’t tell Mrs. Nesbitt that Dot uses a bushel barrel too much soap in the tub, or that she charged for thirty-eight when it was only thirty-five, or that she reads our laundry like a diary. “How long has she been doing the wash?”

  Mrs. Nesbitt shifts in her chair. A shadow crosses her face. “Since her mother, Pansy, left. Not quite a year.”

  I look up from the crossword. “Pansy Deets left? Cecil told me his wife passed on.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt nods. “You’d better make us some tea.”

  I light the stove and fill the kettle.

  “Dot also claims her mother passed on, but she didn’t. She’s not dead.” Mrs. Nesbitt drops silent. Sets her mouth.

  I put tea bags in our cups and wait for the water to boil. It’s so quiet, it seems even the chickens are listening. Marie curls up at Mrs. Nesbitt’s feet.

  She shakes her head. “When Avery and I moved here seven years ago, I was in an awful way.”

  I look over at her. “Ma’am?”

  “Melancholia. That’s why we came—Avery thought it might help me. This was my other son, Morris’s, farm. We moved after he was killed. Avery leased the land to tenants and we kept the house. His widow didn’t want it.” She looks up. I wonder if she’s picturing his widow’s face. Water drip, drips in the catch pan under the icebox. Tears begin to drain down the creases in Mrs. Nesbitt’s cheeks. She covers her face, bows her head, and sobs.

  The teapot pings and creaks on the burner. I’ve never seen an old person cry like this. The sadness from life is supposed to be folded inside an old person, not streaming out. I trace the wood grain pattern on the table with my fingertip, feeling helpless, hopeless to know what to do. My eyes start to burn and now I’m crying too, over I don’t even know what. After a moment Mrs. Nesbitt slides her hankie to me.

  The kettle whistles. We look up at each other. Mrs. Nesbitt smiles sadly. I wipe her glasses, wondering how many times she’s had to recover
from feeling bad—hundreds of times more than me.

  She pats stray hairs back into her bun, clears her throat. “Avery established his medical practice and got busy with his office out here and his clinic in town. I was in particular need of company when Pansy happened along, ready to do housekeeping and cooking. Despite our age difference, I could tell we both had hollow spots inside.” Mrs. Nesbitt suddenly looks up at me—right through me really, and nods as though she knows I have those very same holes in me. “Anyway, I knew the reasons for mine, but Pansy was tight-lipped. She was full of steam with no vent.”

  “Steam?”

  “Fury at her husband, at herself. She lacked backbone. I think Cecil had bruised it one time too many.”

  “You mean he hit her?”

  “Like I said, she was tight-lipped. Stoic… or maybe paralyzed in fear. I saw the marks.” Mrs. Nesbitt brushes her fingertips over a spot below her ear. “Pansy didn’t try to cover them up—I guess she let her bruises speak for themselves. But she wouldn’t allow Avery to examine her, even when I’m sure she had broken ribs.”

  I pour the water. Steam releases around us.

  “I knew things were getting worse with Cecil. One afternoon last fall she announced she wanted to take Dot and go to her sister’s.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt grips the edge of the table. Her hands look tiny and withered. “I was all for it. Gave her money for their train fare.”

  Marie sighs in her sleep. Dr. Nesbitt’s night shirts wave at us from the clothesline.

  “By dawn Pansy was gone. She had walked the four miles to the depot, bought a one-way ticket to Chicago, and there’s been no trace of her since.”

  I hold my cup with both hands, imagining Pansy trudging alone in the dark.

  “Cecil didn’t say a word. He just referred to Pansy as ‘passed on,’ which is partly correct I guess.”

  “So Cecil doesn’t know about your talks with Pansy or the money?”

  “I’m sure he suspects it. Pansy didn’t have a penny to her name, or so she said. She told me he took everything she made.”

  “But how could she just leave Dot?”

  “Maybe a trade for her freedom—Dot was always ‘daddy’s special girl.’ Pansy’s heart was just one big bruise, not working right.”

  “Maybe Dot refused to go.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt lifts her cup, takes a sip. “Maybe.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt glances out at the clothesline. “That’s when I hired Dot to do the laundry—so she’d have some income and, I don’t know, maybe I could keep an eye on her somehow. But she’s shifty like her daddy, and closed-mouthed like her mama.” Mrs. Nesbitt shakes her head. “I was stupid to get involved with them. I needed somebody to need me. But a wise person would have stayed away. A wise person wouldn’t believe a word they say.”

  I stand on a chair by the clothesline, furious that Pansy used Mrs. Nesbitt, lied right in her face, and left her daughter in Cecil’s hands. I see Dot’s curled lip and her ruddy cheeks.

  Red-faced.

  That’s it!

  “Red-faced!” I yell, jumping off the chair. “The crossword for embarrassed is ‘red-faced,’” I say, running in the kitchen door.

  Mrs. Nesbitt claps. “Ah, yes! Thank you, dear.”

  I write the word on the squares, then stand a moment, weighing whether to say the next thing that has popped into my head. I don’t. But I have figured the perfect eight letter word, hyphenated, to describe Dot and her mother.

  Two-faced!

  But then, Dot must need a hundred faces to survive living alone with Cecil. I felt two-faced the instant I met him—trying to mind my manners, trying to act polite to the devil.

  CHAPTER 8

  June 14, 1926

  Dear Iris,

  Thank you for your letter. We have been so busy, it is impossible to believe two weeks have passed. Getting the store in order requires long hours, meetings with my investors, contracts with vendors, and countless design decisions. It leaves little time to write.

  I thought of you this morning when I heard from Carl. He says the Atchison store is practically running itself! He hired Constance Dithers and her daughter, Faith, to work out front. I plan a trip to Atchison in late July to check the books and oversee the shoe orders for fall.

  We must finalize the name for the Kansas City store and get our sign painter to work. One can’t start advertising too soon. Here are the choices:

  Baldwin’s Bootery

  A step ahead

  Uptown Shoes

  Shake off that cow town dust, put on

  our uptown shoes.

  What’s your vote? Mine is Baldwin’s Bootery. Celeste likes the uptown theme. Our painter charges by the letter, so a long slogan is pricey. But image is everything! We’re surrounded by upscale establishments. Window shoppers need an inducement to come in and spend!

  Thank goodness Celeste is an absolute wizard with window dressing!

  Kansas City is truly “on the move” with boulevards, baseball, mansions, Petticoat Lane, and a magnificent railway station. There is even an airfield. Next thing you know I’ll buy a plane and take flying lessons! Until then, I have bought a new Cadillac with a V-8 engine. It is a dream to drive and will cut down my travel time between stores. Celeste says the upholstery is “heaven.” What make does Dr. Nesbitt drive?

  Now for the big news. Celeste and I are engaged. We selected a ring at Jaccard’s Jewelry last week. It is being fitted. By the time you receive this, it will be official. She has informed her family, and by this correspondence, I have informed mine. You are free to spread the news. So be happy for us.

  Give my regards to the doctor and his mother. I know they are grateful to have you.

  Love,

  Daddy

  P.S.

  Dear Iris,

  My engagement to your father is a dream come true! I know the news may take some getting used to. I can’t wait for you to see the ring and celebrate with us.

  Did you know they call Kansas City the “Paris of the Plains”? It’s the fountains and the fashion! You simply must see it!!!

  Au revoir!

  Celeste

  I sit on the floor with my back against the bed frame, and read the letter out loud to Marie. When I finish, she scratches her head and looks at me cross-eyed. “My feelings exactly.” I wave the letter at her. “Six exclamation points in the P.S.! They’re like thumbtacks holding her dreamy news on the paper. It sounds like they’re trying to sell me something.

  “Maybe Celeste helped him write it. Or maybe that’s how he acts all the time now, happily away from Atchison and from me.” I rub Marie’s ears. “I know why he asked about Dr. Nesbitt’s car… just scratching up something to say before the big headline. If they hadn’t gotten engaged, I wouldn’t have heard from him.” Marie yawns. “What’s your vote on the name? I don’t like either of them. The one with two ‘uptowns’ is so long nobody will be able to see the shoes. Any window whiz should know that.”

  Daddy’s phony letter is full of places where he could have left the “Paris of the Plains” topic and asked about me. I know why he didn’t. If my answer isn’t full of cheery exclamation points, he won’t know what to do, except ignore it.

  I swipe my sleeve across my forehead, lift my hair off my shoulders. Marie watches me fold the letter back in its envelope and stuff it in my Kotex drawer.

  “There,” I tell her, “now I won’t have to think about Daddy and Celeste for a whole month!”

  I stare at the wallpaper goddesses. “How’d you do it? Your fathers were worse than mine. They double-crossed you, traded you, sacrificed you, and you still flutter around all fresh in your gauzy gowns like everything’s perfect. I guess if you live forever you learn to get over, and over, and over things. You either float on… or get revenge.”

  Marie yawns and thumps her stumpy tail on the floor. I blot my neck with a hankie.

  What now?

  I go to the kitchen for a drink of water. Instead, without the slightest
plan to do so, I fill two big pitchers and carry them to my room. I fix a bowl with water for Marie and the wash basin for me. I lock the door, pull the shades, take off my shoes and socks, my damp dress, and all my under things. The goddesses watch me lather my washcloth and clean every part of me—my face, my breasts, between my toes, the small of my back, my throat. A breeze ruffles Marie’s fur, hits my wet skin. I stand shivering with my arms draped like wings and drip dry.

  After a sprinkle of Pompeian Beauty Powder, I step into my favorite cotton dress that’s white with yellow flowers and lacy sleeves. I twist my hair into a knot and wash my teeth. When I open the shades, the sun creates stepping stones of light on the rug. I walk across them to the buffet mirror and pinch my cheeks. There. I’ve washed off that Kansas City dust and put on my goddess shoes.

  I float out of the dining room… barefoot.

  Mrs. Nesbitt’s eyes light up when she sees me. “You look like a fresh bouquet on this wilted afternoon.” She looks at my feet and smiles, then inhales, tilts her head back. “I love the scent of your powder.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I saw you received a letter from your father. How is his new store in Kansas City coming along?”

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  My voice sounds anything but okay. I turn, straighten the stack of folded crossword puzzles, and clear the dish rack. I do not look at Mrs. Nesbitt, but I feel her eyes on me.

  After a moment she says, “Henry needs exercise. Let’s check the roses and water our marigolds.”

  I get garden gloves, a bucket full of coffee grounds and crushed eggshells, and the watering can off the back porch.

  Mrs. Nesbitt sits on the shady front steps. We are surrounded by hundreds of sprouts. “It’s hard to tell the weeds from the flowers,” I say.

  “Let’s treat them all the same until we know for sure.”

  I shake a little compost over the seedlings, then barely tip the sprinkling can for fear I’ll wash them right out of the dirt.