Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) Page 9

  Mrs. Nesbitt squeezes my hand. Without realizing it, I’ve stopped rubbing. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “No.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt takes a deep breath and looks at me in the kindest way. I feel pressure from her thumbs in the palms of my hands. But she doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. Instead she gives me a long silent moment to fill with an explanation if I choose.

  I don’t. I can’t talk about anything—not Dot or Gladys. Inside and out, life is just not holding together like it’s supposed to.

  Mrs. Nesbitt gazes at the house, then off toward the clothesline. “Would you guess I used to play the piano?” she says, turning her hands. “So did Morris. He had a gift.”

  I imagine Morris’s piano music pouring out that parlor window. I want to ask if Gladys Dilgert plays piano, but I don’t. “Is Morris the reason we never dust the piano or the parlor, you know… like we do your bedroom things?”

  “Yes.”

  Now I know why the front room holds its dusty breath, why the cover on the piano keys stays down. It’s still Morris’s room. She’s preserving his fingerprints.

  We move to the kitchen. Mrs. Nesbitt wants help with her puzzle. She slides me a pencil and squints at the crossword. “For some reason I’ve had such difficulty with this today, Iris. Explosive. Second letter is ‘y.’”

  “Dynamite,” I say. I fill in “mule” and “superstition.”

  “How was your encounter with Dot this morning?” she asks.

  “Her mouth is lethal.” I grind the words. “And she’s still sick…”

  “Yes… ?” Mrs. Nesbitt folds her hands on the table.

  I sense another invitation to say what’s on my mind. I glue my eyes to the crossword and like a magical omen, there it is. “Twenty-four down—expecting,” I whisper.

  “Anticipating.”

  I count out the squares. “No. It’s only nine letters.” My stomach is a knot. “Mrs. Nesbitt? Uh… the answer is ‘with child’—the letters all run together.”

  “Ah… yes. Good!”

  “No,” I say slowly, “not so good.”

  She searches my face. “What is it, Iris?”

  I picture Dot today and how she’ll look in the coming months. “I mean, have you noticed that Dot’s gotten bigger around the middle even though she’s been so sick?”

  “Dot?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Dot.” Tears fill my eyes. The words burst out. “I think she’s with child.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt twists her hankie while I tell her about the bruises on Dot’s arms and neck and the unforgettable way she touched her stomach. “I think she was telling me, without saying it. The way Pansy showed you her bruises.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt looks at the ceiling. “Couldn’t it just be a buildup of bad humors?”

  “In a way, yes.”

  “But… who?” Mrs. Nesbitt sounds frantic and resigned. “The Deets keep so to themselves. Dot doesn’t know anybody much. Since Pansy left it seems her only connection to the outside world is listening on the party line and our laundry. When my glasses are clean I don’t miss much, but this… is all my fault!”

  We fall silent a moment. “Poorly isn’t all she’s going to feel when Cecil finds out,” she says. “He’s already drinking himself to death, crazier every day… he’ll… Oh, God.” She shakes her head.

  We pile our hands on the faded oil cloth and bow our heads, the crossword puzzle forgotten.

  CHAPTER 14

  It’s Saturday morning and Dr. Nesbitt has mowed the lawn, trimmed the hedge, and swept the stoop—all before breakfast.

  It’s steamy hot with no breeze. “If he starts chopping firewood,” Mrs. Nesbitt says, fanning herself at the kitchen table, “I’m calling a doctor!”

  I smile and weave my mending needle into a frayed milking smock Mrs. Nesbitt plans to give Dot. I don’t know how she’s going to do it though, since we’ve been acting like Dot doesn’t have that unspeakable baby growing inside her.

  Mrs. Nesbitt folds her hands and says matter-of-factly, “He knows.”

  I stare a hole through her. “Cecil knows about Dot?”

  “No, Iris, Avery knows.” She glances out the window at her son marching toward the house with the freshly oiled shotgun. She whispers fast. “He told me he’d figured it out. That’s why he’s so wound up, why we all are…” She shakes her head.

  Dr. Nesbitt steps in, props the gun by the door, his expression grim. “Mother, could you please stay by the phone. I’m expecting a call anytime. I think I’ll have a delivery today.”

  Before I can catch it, “Dot?” pops out of my mouth. We sit a moment surrounded by my stunning stupidity. “Of course it’s not Dot… yet,” I blubber. “I’m sorry. She’s not… I won’t…”

  Cows bawl. Wasps float around their nest in the window casement.

  “I know, Iris. Dot seems to be the only girl in the whole world expecting a baby,” Mrs. Nesbitt says.

  Dr. Nesbitt swipes his hands on his work pants. “Well, Cora started labor prematurely. I think I heard two heartbeats last week. Twins run in Ellis’s family. I’d like you to come along to help, Iris.”

  My stomach drops. I poke the needle in my finger, my face hot and undoubtedly as red as the bright bubble of blood I blot on my napkin. “Yes, sir,” I say, trying to imagine how I can do anything useful besides boil water and wring my fingers into knots.

  I catch Mrs. Nesbitt watching me. “You give an excellent hand massage. I am sure you will do wonderfully.”

  Dr. Nesbitt nods and crunches down the driveway for the mail. Moments later he plops a Sears and Roebuck catalog and a letter for me on the table and carries the rest to his room. Celeste’s handwriting.

  Ugh…

  I stuff the envelope in my pocket. It can wait.

  Mrs. Nesbitt and I get busy too, as though chores can make Dot go away. But I know busyness won’t erase Celeste, or Dot’s baby, or my impossible awkwardness. And all the busywork in the world can’t stop the train to Kansas City in September with me on board.

  Just the same, I straighten the linen closet, reline Mrs. Nesbitt’s hankie box with fresh paper, gather eggs, and make corn muffins. I even give Marie a bath with Dr. Nesbitt’s car-washing water. We clean out the pantry and pack the backseat of the car with canned peaches and apple butter and a cardboard box of old quilt scraps and towels. Dr. Nesbitt adds his flashlight, extra batteries, his black bag, and a box of matches. This could be quite a night.

  Long after supper the telephone rings, and we’re off.

  The steamy heat has collected itself into droplets that wash the windshield as we navigate our way to Cora’s.

  Standing on the worn wood porch are a yellow cat and Ellis, Cora’s lanky husband. Both look like they’ve been living on an empty stomach. “Cora’s water shed,” Ellis mumbles, bumping his head on the door frame as we go inside.

  While Dr. Nesbitt examines her, I boil water, refold the rags, and avoid the bedroom. Finally he calls me in.

  I stop dead away at the door. A boggy, toadstool smell mixes with Cora’s moaning and panting. She’s dark-haired and ghosty-white with a fistful of damp bedding in each hand.

  I step back. Dim curtains draw around my eyes. I grab the door handle and count my breaths.

  Cora turns toward me, wild-eyed. She blinks to focus and whispers hoarsely, “Get Ruthie. She’s scarit. Thinks I’m dyin’.”

  Dr. Nesbitt and I turn to Ellis. “Ruthie?”

  Cora’s husband looks for a moment as though he can’t place who that is. He bends down and yells under the bed. “Ruth, come out from there this minute!”

  We wait.

  “Ruth!” He swipes his long arm. “The doctor’s here. I said get out.”

  Something stirs in me. “Please. I’ll take care of her,” I hear myself offer. I squat down and lift the dingy bed skirt. In deep shadow I make out a figure curled on her side. Above us, the mattress sags under the writhing weight of her mother and two unborn babies, who also seem scared to fa
ce the world.

  I have an idea. I go in the front room and unload the quilts. With a pair of scissors from Dr. Nesbitt’s bag, I cut a paper doll girl and two tiny baby shapes out of the cardboard box.

  Flat on my stomach, I poke my head under the bed. I sweep the flashlight and come face to face with Ruthie. I hold the paper doll up to the light and jiggle her like she’s talking. “Hi, Ruthie, would you like a corn muffin?”

  Ruthie glues her eyes to the doll. Says nothing.

  “Or would you like something to hold?” the doll asks.

  Ruthie doesn’t move.

  I slide a quilt scrap across the dusty plywood.

  Ruthie pops her thumb in her mouth. She stares at me with perfectly round pale eyes. We stay there together a long while—with me stretched out right in Dr. Nesbitt’s path around the bed. I guess he’ll step on me if he needs my help.

  Cora’s growls turn to shrieks. “I think Mother Nature can hear you now,” Dr. Nesbitt says. “Good job. She’s ready to lend a hand with these babies.”

  I stretch my arm and walk the little figure toward Ruthie. “Can I lay down with you?” I say in my dolly voice. She takes the cutout and examines her in the flashlight beam.

  I hear Dr. Nesbitt unlatch his black bag and rattle through it. “Damn… damn,” he whispers. I lift the bed skirt and look out. His yard shoes squeak as he steps over me. The tan leather is scarred and soft. Next thing I know he’s yanking out his shoelaces.

  I turn back and show Ruthie the two lumpy cardboard baby shapes. “Hi, sister,” they say.

  She giggles and reaches for them.

  “We want to hug you.” Ruthie presses the cardboard girl against the babies.

  Something’s happening. The weight of Cora has moved toward the foot of the bed. Dr. Nesbitt calls Ellis in from the front room. There are no newborn cries, only a new smell of wet, rusted iron—blood, earth, and sweat.

  “Would you like to come out now?” I ask Ruthie.

  She shakes her head no.

  “That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll be right back.” I go to the kitchen and spread twin corn muffins with apple butter, put them on a plate. I carry the plate to the bedroom, kneel down, and push it across to Ruthie. She eats the muffins flat on her back, drizzling crumbs like rain. I smile. “I’ll bet the mice love you.”

  In a moment Ruthie collects her dollies and quilt and crawls out. Her curly strawberry hair is matted to her face.

  I carry her right out to the back porch. There’s no swing, so I feel for the step in the pitch-dark. Tree toads and crickets saw the humid air. I cradle her on my lap. I smell muffin crumbs and dusty little-girl sweat in her hair. The weight of sleep fills her legs, her back, and finally her head. I stroke her downy cheek. I make the rhythm of our breaths match.

  The huge oak overhead drops its acorns on the yard. An owl floats his question across the fertile night. Hoo? Hoo?

  Through the window I hear Dr. Nesbitt instruct Ellis. “These babies need your help.” His voice is kind and wise, like a traveler sure of his destination. “Okay, Cora, Ellis is going to prop you up. Move down. Push… Not the footboard, the baby. That’s right. Whoa… lookie there! He’s as long as his daddy. Push, Cora. Yell all you want, but keep pushing. Don’t hold back. Two little fellas. Wow!”

  Ruth stirs. The word is out. Even the stars listen as her brothers’ cries join the night chorus. Mother Nature is bragging about her shining accomplishment.

  I feel part of something magical.

  An hour later Ruthie and the yellow kitty are in bed. Two sticky, froggy little boys have been washed—one by me—and wrapped, with Dr. Nesbitt’s shoelaces secured around their belly buttons.

  We clean up and pack up. Dr. Nesbitt pads to the car in his stocking feet and nudges it into reverse. Two little kerosene lamp flames in the window of Ruthie’s house greet the first rays of morning.

  Something is new inside me too. But it’s still too close to sort out. I only know I could stay awake forever.

  Dr. Nesbitt sighs and whacks the seat. “Damn it!”

  “What? Dr. Nesbitt?”

  “Never once, in my whole practice life, have I ever forgotten my cord clamps. They’re totally useless sitting on the counter in my office.” He glances over at the grin on my face.

  “Your shoelaces worked perfectly,” I say. “I don’t think those babies knew the difference.” Our headlights create a tunnel in the mist. “Well, a lot of help I was,” I say. “Think how many times you and Ellis had to step over me!”

  “My pleasure, Iris. A bit unconventional… but you knew exactly what you were doing. Thanks to you, Cora stopped worrying about Ruthie and concentrated on those boys.”

  I sit straighter on the seat. “I’d like to bake a cobbler and check in on them this afternoon. I could take Mrs. Nesbitt. She’d like that.”

  Dr. Nesbitt gives me a respectful little nod and smiles. “Might you let me come along, too?”

  “My pleasure,” I say, as the stars tuck themselves into the dawn.

  CHAPTER 15

  August 12, 1926

  Dearest Iris,

  Your father was tinkering with our new cash register this morning when he threw up his arms and exclaimed, “Celeste, write Iris. We need another hand around here!” So… c’est moi! He said you’re a whiz at punching keys. Hopefully they’ll be flying in September with the mountain of sales we expect. Hope you’re ready for hard work.

  We are exhausted but elated! The grand opening simply sparkled. I’ve enclosed the new Bootery business card. Every day we learn more about our Kansas City customers—demanding and discerning, to say the least. Sound like anyone else you know???

  No nibbles on the Atchison house. If I had half a minute I’d come up there and put a polish on the place. The first impression—that front porch—cries out for a scrub and fresh paint. Actually the whole place needs… something! Your father suggested you send a list—hopefully short—of what you want to keep.

  We signed a two-year lease at the Del Mar Apartments. You will love it! It’s on the fourth floor—two bedrooms, a railed balcony, a full kitchen, and a southern exposure. I can’t wait to display my whatnots and wedding gifts in the light of day. I do hope you’re better about dusting than I am!

  Charles plans a trip to Atchison next week to arrange the shipping of his desk, the wardrobe, and bookcases. We won’t have a corner to squeeze in that piano. Too bad and too too too many details for my rattled brain! Your father is ecstatic to move out of his rooming house. My motto is: Petite is perfect for feet, but not living quarters!

  Just the same, we decided it’s best for you to live with me until Oct 10th, even though my apartment’s no bigger than a shoe box. (We’ll be just like sisters.) It’ll be a pinch, but who has time to spend there anyhoo?

  Have you made a decision about high school? I understand you already have the credentials to graduate! Inherited your father’s brains, didn’t you? If a senior year is not necessary, we hope you will finish your education on Petticoat Lane just like I did. Lots of young girls, with the right touch, can work their way up from stockroom to salesperson to model!

  I don’t know the nature of your connection with the Nesbitts, but if you wish, please invite them to the nuptials. I doubt the elderly mother could come, but it’s the proper thing to do, unless you think they’d feel out of place. My land, what an experience you’ve had in Wellsford. We’re dying to hear all your folksy farm stories.

  Enough of my rambling. Less than a month until Labor Day and your debut in Kansas City.

  Au revoir!

  X O X O

  Celeste “Baldwin”-to-be!!

  I drop the letter on the table, grab the sides of my head, then wipe my fingers on my skirt as though Celeste’s personality has rubbed off on them. I flip the pages to the blank side, grab Mrs. Nesbitt’s crossword pencil, and scribble a reply:

  Dearest Celeste,

  Here’s my list. It’s not things, it’s advice for living with my father
.

  1. Project yourself! Wear bright colors, strong perfume, and heels that click. Otherwise he will forget you are there.

  2. Don’t cough. He’ll be mad that you have tuberculosis.

  3. Remember your shoes are more important to him than your eyes.

  4. Learn to drive yourself.

  5. Advertise your upcoming birthday, or else you will buy, wrap, and open your own presents.

  6. Find a friend who will listen to you. That person is not me.

  7. If you need to know something, read his mail.

  8. Pretend you are a virgin no matter what.

  9. Collect thousands of exclamation points inside you—you will need them to stay excited about him!!!!

  10. Get rid of your question marks??? He will not answer your questions.

  11. He’ll expect two sugar lumps in his coffee. He will not remember if you drink coffee.

  12. Don’t tell him about this advice. He hates anything cheap, much less free!

  P.S. For more luck, spit on a horseshoe and lick the hind leg of a white mule every day. Avoid whistling in graveyards and cross-eyed people.

  P.P.S. I am bringing my chickens to live with us. More folksy advice: If you swallow a raw chicken heart on your wedding day, it’ll bring good luck in love.

  I slump at the kitchen table, shake out my writing hand. My heart sinks. For a strange moment I truly want to protect Celeste from the future with him. She’s counting on so much, and she wants me to be happy for her, with her.

  The ghosts crowding my cellar and all the goddesses know about Daddy by now. So do Carl and Leroy. But the Nesbitts don’t. They don’t know I am nothing to him. Celeste will find out she’s nothing too. I wonder if Mama knew. Did she get gritty and ground up inside every time he opened his mouth? Did she ever dig in the heels of her Baldwin’s boots?

  I hear Henry scraping across Mrs. Nesbitt’s floor. She’s up from her nap.

  I fold the two-faced letter that I won’t mail to Celeste. But I could leave it right here on the table for Mrs. Nesbitt to find. She’s curious and meddlesome enough to read it, at least until Gladys Dilgert arrives full of blabber about her storybook family.