Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber Page B

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.”
    â€œSteam?”
    â€œFury at her husband, at herself. She lacked backbone. I think Cecil had bruised it one time too many.”
    â€œYou mean he hit her?”
    â€œLike 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 forthemselves. 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œBy 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.
    â€œCecil didn’t say a word. He just referred to Pansy as ‘
passed on,
’ which is partly correct I guess.”
    â€œSo Cecil doesn’t know about your talks with Pansy or the money?”
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œBut how could she just leave Dot?”
    â€œMaybe a trade for her freedom—Dot was always ‘daddy’s special girl.’ Pansy’s heart was just one big bruise, not working right.”
    â€œMaybe 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!
    â€œRed-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