Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber Page A

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.
    â€œWhat’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.
    â€œHow about an ‘r’ word for embarrassed. Eight letters, hyphenated.”
    â€œUh… 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?”
    â€œThirty-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.”
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œDot 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?”
    â€œMelancholia. 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
,
drip
s 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