Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber

felt—like hobos, when Avery and I came to live here after Morris died. We came home
for
Morris, since he couldn’t.” She grips my hand. “He was lost at sea… a German U-boat.”
    My thoughts travel to Morris, drifting and bumping forever across the floor of the Atlantic in his uniform, then to Mama, all dressed up in her earthly coffin home in Kansas. I shake the images away. “I’m so very sorry, Mrs. Nesbitt.” We gaze at the sturdy tugboat of a farmhouse Morris built, anchored in this sunny green ocean of grass and corn.
    She smiles sadly. “Would you like to know what I say to him?”
    â€œMorris?”
    â€œYes, when I pace the porch and talk to him. May I tell you what I say?”
    â€œYes, ma’am, please.”
    â€œI apologize for being so angry at the world for his dying, for being miserable and morbid for so long. I turned my angel into a ghost.” She wipes her eyes. “So Avery, bless his heart, who has had his own grief to bear, finally wrote a
prescription
for me. A folk remedy, so to speak. And here you are! He knew I needed a person, not a pill.”
    Mrs. Nesbitt places both her hands on mine. We sit silentfor a long while.
    The words tumble from my mouth before I can stop them. “
I
have a person—sort of a friend—who might come visit me here, if it’s all right.”
    â€œFrom home?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” My face is hot. So are the soles of my feet and everyplace in between.
    â€œSo tell me about her, Iris.”
    â€œHer name is… Leroy.”
    Mrs. Nesbitt turns with her mouth open.
    â€œP-P-Patterson. Leroy Patterson,” I sputter. I swear I have never said his whole name out loud before.
    â€œSo
she’s
of the male persuasion.” Mrs. Nesbitt smiles.
    â€œHe’s got three sisters. He knows a lot about girls.…”
    â€œInteresting.”
    â€œI don’t mean he’s
known
a lot of girls, I mean he’s…” I want to swallow every word, curl up, and die.
    â€œHow old is Leroy Patterson?”
    â€œAlmost eighteen. He’s good at lifting, or he could pull something heavy for you, like cement, or maybe help with chores, or…” Leroy sounds like a donkey, and I sound worse than Celeste would trying to sell a pair of used work boots.
    â€œPlease invite him, Iris.”
    â€œYes, ma’am. Maybe I’ll do that. Thank you.”
    â€œI’d like to go to Atchison with you sometime,” Miss Nesbitt says softly. “See your home.”
    I inhale sharply, shift on the bench. “My father is going to sell it.”
    The Anti-Pain Oil radiates across our hands.
    â€œI’m trying not to think about it,” I say. But longing washes over me. I want to go there this minute and dust it. There’s so much I can’t say right now. Too many empty places to fill. I want to ask Mrs. Nesbitt what she’ll do in September when I’m gone, but I don’t. I can’t think about that either. Clouds hover over the house.
    Her tone is halting, careful. “Tell me about your mother, Iris?”
    I slip my hands back. “I… she…”
    Mrs. Nesbitt seems suddenly interested in a jumble of elm branches dipping in the wind. She passes me her hankie.
    â€œShe was always so sick. I wasn’t allowed to touch her.”
    â€œDid your father ever tell stories about her, or… ?”
    â€œNever.”
    Mrs. Nesbitt studies me. Her eyes are sea gray. I imagine Morris in them.
    Mrs. Nesbitt says, “You know, Iris—Morris, your mama, Marie, you, me, why even Pansy Deets, we’re all hobos. Homeward bound.”
    Dr. Nesbitt squats by a wagon rut in the grass and
frowns. “Was Cecil by here today?”
    I shudder. “Yes, sir. And the narrow tracks are the Rawleigh man’s buggy.”
    â€œDid Dot come?”
    â€œNo.”
    Dr. Nesbitt looks up at me, his face troubled, his