Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber

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 theirheads 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?”
    â€œAtchison.” 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?”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œWhen was that, that she started walking?”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œWho you think I mean? Miz Nesbitt and him.”
    Marie hops off the porch, sending chickens onto thedriveway. 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