Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) (16 page)

We did not. You almost killed us.

Rage and fear boil in me.

Why did you do that?

He tilts his head, gives me a half smile, then gets back to the business of Sunday driving, wheeling along as though my terror counts for less than the squished bugs on his windshield.

Now I huddle in the back of the Nesbitts' car, panting into the palms of my hands. I know they are watching me, but they do not say a word. My hands tingle. I taste blood. I've bitten my lip.

How can a memory feel so
alive
? How can Daddy be
dead
?

I wrap myself in my arms, my heart stalled as it was then—the first time I really knew I couldn't trust him, the first of many times I tasted the fear of losing him.

And now I have.

We did
not
have all the time in the world.

I look up, watch thunderheads tumble over the horizon. Fat raindrops hit Dr. Nesbitt's windshield, pulling the dust into muddy tears. The tracks are empty. The only train today was the one streaking back to that horrible memory.

Dr. Nesbitt checks me in the mirror. “Are you all right?”
he says softly. But I can't answer.

After a long moment I speak to the backs of their heads. “I have an awful memory from when I was little. My father almost killed himself—and me—trying to beat a train at a crossing like this one.”

“Was it this very spot?” Mrs. Nesbitt asks.

“No, we were heading toward Kansas City on a Sunday drive that day. I haven't been past it since. But nothing was right with us after that. Maybe before that. I don't know.”

They nod, tilting their heads in exactly the same way.

I look down the tracks—right, left. Then repeat. I listen to the hollow wind. “We can go now,” I whisper. “Thank you for stopping for me.”

We arrive in Atchison in the early afternoon.
I direct Dr. Nesbitt to Daddy's store. The Nesbitts meet Carl and get a tour of the back room while I pick out the shoes. The store smells of shoe polish and leather glue. I rub the edge of the worn oak countertop under Daddy's beloved cash register, bounce his scratched glass paperweight in the palm of my hand. On the surface everything is in perfect order.

My father's world.

I wonder what the Kansas City store smells like—probably Celeste's perfume.

Carl looks so sad and sorry. He packages Daddy's shoes, gives me a hug.

We drive on to the mortuary. The funeral director greets us at the door, motions us to a stiff purple divan in the hall, and walks away. I sit between the Nesbitts, feeling like ten different people wrapped into one.

Voices and footsteps echo from rooms down the long corridor. I fold Mrs. Nesbitt's hand inside mine, careful not to crush her fingers. My other hand steadies the shoe box on my lap.

The director returns and ushers us to a dim room with my father's coffin on a curtained table. It's huge and slick, with curvy silver trim and bulky handles. There are sprays of lilies and roses on top and a florist-shop wreath on a spindly wire stand.

I have never seen my father wear shoes when he's lying down, except his slippers. He would just never do that. I picture him upright, chatting with customers, guiding them by the elbow through his store, smiling his salesman smile. I see him wearing these shiny coffin shoes walking in Kansas City with Celeste hooked to his arm.

God…
I squeeze my eyes.
What's wrong with me?

“Why's the lid closed?” I ask the mortician, handing him the shoe box.

He shakes his head. “The accident, Miss Baldwin. We'll take care of your wishes with these as best we can. God bless you.”

While Leroy shows Dr. Nesbitt around Atchison,
Mrs. Nesbitt and I go home. Mrs. Andrews has opened the
parlor windows and swept the front porch. Thanks to her, there are fresh sheets for us tonight and supper—pot roast, biscuits, pickled beets, and peanut brittle.

While Mrs. Nesbitt naps on a twin bed in my room, I sit on the edge of the divan, avoiding thoughts about the
FOR SALE
sign in the front yard. I know what's coming. In a moment I'll start chopping everything—the lampshades, doorknobs, photos, even Mama's old secretary desk—into a thousand morbid memories.

I half expect the hands on our mantel clock to move backward. The next-door neighbor has mowed over a bunch of chives in his side yard. The oniony smell drifts in, shifting my mind to Wellsford. I'm dusting with Mrs. Nesbitt, cherishing every inch of her precious jasmine bedroom. I hear the chickens and cows and Marie's constant commentary of barks and greetings and growls. I feel the heaven of Leroy's body under that roof of stars. I see the fountain pen and letter holder on Dr. Nesbitt's desk.

I shake my head. There is nothing on Daddy's desk today but a fine layer of dust.

His bedroom door is shut. I make myself go in and raise the blinds. My hands fly to my chest. Facing me on the floor, in a shaft of late afternoon light, are his old leather slippers, looking as though they have just stepped out of the wardrobe. I stare at the one pair of his shoes that hold the history of our life here together. They are polished, of course, but the creases and shape are so much my father, I
see his weight still on them, feel him standing there. Barely breathing, I step forward.

“Daddy?” I whisper to the space above the slippers.

Yes, Iris.

“Are you all right?”

Yes.

“Where are you?”

I don't know.

I'm trembling, hopeful that maybe he'll explain what happened, knowing he won't. “Were you trying to beat the train again, or was it an accident?”

No reply.

Tears roll down my face. I take a deep breath, wondering why it is always so empty between us. Without expecting to, I ask, “Is Mama there?”

Silence.

I imagine the smooth wall of his cheek, how he turned his face away whenever I mentioned her. I glance around his bedroom, cleared of the everyday belongings he took to his apartment in Kansas City.
Kansas City.
I step back. “Wh… what about me? Celeste says I should live with her now.”

Instead of words, I get an image of Celeste married to someone else. I'm not in the picture.

I step forward. “I
said
, ‘what about me'?”

I'm thinking.

I stare at thin air. “You never could answer that one, Daddy.”

You'd never trust my answer even if I had one, Iris.

“But…” I pause, watch the sun wash his slippers. “I guess you're right. That is
one
thing you
do
know about me.”

I feel something tiny but new—that bit of honesty—even if it's just me talking to myself. I sniff the cedar lining of his wardrobe, count his collection of agate marbles in a box on the dresser. It's time to cry again, but I don't. I unlace my boots, remove my socks, and stand, twisting my bare feet on the scratchy wool rug. I walk up to his slippers. I study their shiny brown outsides, then walk around and slip into them the way I did as a little girl.

Tears streaming, I wriggle my toes, still trying to somehow absorb his footprint.

I'm awake half the night. It's strange having Dr.
Nesbitt asleep in Daddy's bed. The feel of the creases Mrs. Andrews's ironing left in my sheets, the crisscross call of Atchison train whistles, the electric yard-light next door, and Mrs. Nesbitt's soft snoring combine—two worlds mixed.

Very soon I will not be at home in either one.

Thursday afternoon the church smells like coffee and gingerbread, made by the circle ladies for Daddy's reception after the service and burial. Reverend Wolver welcomes everybody at the door—community people, Carl, Mrs. Andrews, Leroy's parents, and Daddy's store employees. But he has forgotten my name. He looks ancient and smells like overcooked turnips.

Celeste is here, but her sister didn't come. Neither did
her friends. Her face resembles a wet hankie smeared with lipstick. She sits next to me on the pew, squeezing the lifeblood out of my right hand.

Leroy is on my left, then the Nesbitts. Leroy and I barely touch, but we breathe together—a secret hymn pumping between us.

Reverend Wolver's service is not about my father. It's not about any of us, really. The homily sounds like he's chewing a piece of gristle. I look out the window at an empty bird feeder. Forget his Psalms and prayers. Forget the forgiveness of our infinite sins. What we need is a list of advice for living
without
Charles Baldwin.

Who will I be mad at?

What will I feed my ghosts?

How will Celeste and I fill the future?

We sit in folding chairs at the cemetery. Daddy's
elegant casket reminds me of a tuxedo. The dark tarp surrounding the coffin hole covers Mama's headstone. I have no recollection of her service here.

Celeste's gardenia perfume mixes with the musty black dirt. She dabs her eyes and glances at the funeral car. She wants out of here. I don't blame her. She's too young for endings. I'm sure she figures if Charles Baldwin can't be her partner in Kansas City, then he's better off in Atchison.

As they lower the box, I imagine the long, sooty trail of a train whistle—ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I cannot cry. I
can't pray for Daddy's departed soul. The only thing to do is breathe, feed air to my heart.

“Dead people never sleep,” Celeste whispers when
we're back at the church. “That's why they keep you awake at night. The deceased are not on a regular schedule.” She glances around the room. I wonder if she's scouting for Daddy's ghost. “Oh, I know I sound nuts.” She shivers. “But I haven't slept since Monday. I guess it shows. I'm so alone now.” She scrunches her face to fight off tears. “Charles and I just adored Kansas City, and that store, and…”

I cut her off, force the sentence before I chicken out: “I have a contract with the Nesbitts, Celeste, and I cannot move until after Labor Day.”

Her tone becomes suddenly businesslike. “The Tuesday after, then.” She raises her arms heavenward, offering God her sermon. “I had to give up my wedding dress, my monogrammed towels, and our new apartment. I have nowhere for all the gifts. Nobody. The store was
everything
.” She gives me a soulful look. “You simply can't imagine what it's like, Iris.”

Mrs. Nesbitt, as usual, has not missed a thing. She holds me—and Celeste—in her strong gaze. What dawns on me is something Mrs. Nesbitt has seen too: Celeste is just a hobo in stockings and pearls.

We drive her to the station a bit early. She is anxious to get going, she says, there's so much to do, no time to go to my house now. With a bright smile she reminds me how “thrilled your daddy must be knowing you plan to
live with me and help run the Bootery.” She swoops up the train steps, turning her ankle in the process. But she doesn't stop, doesn't look back.

“I hope she sleeps on the trip,” Mrs. Nesbitt says as she waves at the caboose.

All the signs point at each other.

I somersault in muddy water.

We trip on the tracks.

Mama's crying.

Money burns.

I'm falling.

I sit on our porch swing, let its squeak grind my dream
fragments away. It's early Friday morning and I have already made a mistake. I have awakened a spider. My rocking has shredded her lacy home, spun overnight between the ceiling
and the swing chains. I miss Marie, her yipping enthusiasm at the beginning of every day. I miss the way my fussy chicks need me at dawn. I'm glad we voted for one of Dr. Nesbitt's patients to feed them while we're gone, not Cecil… or Dot.

I sat out here, just like this, on the afternoon of Mama's funeral visitation. Just six-year-old me with a piece of chocolate cake on a blue-flowered plate, and the cold, boney-white November sky. My fancy church shoes didn't reach the floor, so I couldn't push off to swing. I remember scooting to the edge and scraping them back and forth across the cement floor until the toes were scuffed the color of chalk.

This morning the
FOR SALE
sign in the front yard looks crippled, with grass tufted around its bent stake. A wall builds between me and the day ahead—a whirlpool of impossible decisions and undoings. Everything will need selling, or moving, or rearranging. But there's no right place for any of it, including the most awkward piece of furniture: me. I'm too empty to sell. I'm too replaceable to stay in Wellsford, and I'm too big for Celeste's apartment.

Mrs. Nesbitt and Henry come out. I help her onto the swing. She's light as a feather in her ivory silk robe.

She points to the yard, squints. “Do you find that sign… distracting?”

I wipe my eyes. “It's horrible.” I rattle off the swing, rock the pole out of the dirt, and put the sign facedown in the side yard.