Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber Page A

whitebroadcloth shirt still neat as a pin after a long day at work. “Did Cecil act strange?”
    â€œOf course he acted strange. He’s Cecil,” Mrs. Nesbitt says. “Why?”
    â€œHe came to my office.”
    â€œWith Dot?” I ask. “She’s sick.”
    â€œNo.” Dr. Nesbitt shakes his head. “Cecil didn’t say anything about Dot. He has a horrible case of hemorrhoids.”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œThis is a bit medical, Iris, but I know you can manage it. Hemorrhoids are a painful inflammation of the buttocks.” I swear I see a trace of mischief in Dr. Nesbitt’s expression. “The vessels of the rump.”
    I work furiously to fight off the picture forming in my mind.
    Mrs. Nesbitt screws up her face. “Is the inflammation everywhere?… I hope.”
    â€œWell no, Mother, it’s…” He squeezes his fist.
    Mrs. Nesbitt waves her hand. “Never mind. At least, for once, we’re not hearing your grisly diagnosis at the
dinner table
.”
    â€œSo
that’s
why Cecil showed up this morning.” I shiver. “Why, he acted like a rooster trying to lay an egg. I thought he was after revenge for my hitting Dot.”
    I can’t tell them how he leers at me, how I think he might touch me if he thought he could get away with it.
    Mrs. Nesbitt’s eyes sparkle. “Did you treat the affected rump, Avery?”
    â€œYes. Consider Cecil all tied up, at least for now. But”—his expression darkens—“Cecil’s spleen is enlarged too. Most likely he’s drinking again.”
    Mrs. Nesbitt sighs. “His drinking is even worse since Pansy left, isn’t it, Avery?”
    Dr. Nesbitt shrugs. “Mother, Cecil Deets’s moonshine habit is not your fault.”
    Mrs. Nesbitt looks skyward, bounces her fist off her lap. “Why didn’t Dot go with her mother?”
    â€œWe’ll never know. That’s not your fault either.”
    I can’t help imagining Dot day in, day out, at home with Cecil—listening to him rant against Pansy, sneaking past his drunken gaze, bracing against his grip, growing as mean and sly as he is.
    One thing I do know: Cecil Deets makes my father seem like a sweet dream.

CHAPTER 13

    Ghosts rattle the roof—Wake up!
    I sit up, still half in my dream.
    Your house! Read the sign.
    I untwist my nightgown, open the sheers, and gaze out the window. Hail hammers the shingles. Lightning turns the ice stones to a field of opals. But my dream-eyes focus on something else: my front yard back in Atchison with a FOR SALE sign on it.
    I drop my head. Dread creeps up from the cellar inside me, the place where every miserable, morbid thing lives. It’s crowded down there and locked. But Mrs. Nesbitt’s questions about Mama and my house forced the FORSALE sign to escape through the dream door.
    Daddy’s selling our past. At least my nightmare of living with Celeste in Atchison won’t happen.
    I hug my knees, wanting the bedroom to fold in around me, to wall off the future.
    My fingers trace the imaginary ribs of my old chenille bedspread. I smell the faint bacon grease and coffee scent of our kitchen.
    Staccato pops of hail on the window glass force me back to Wellsford. Marie hops in my lap. “Maybe he’ll sell me with the house,” I tell her. “Why not?” She curls up while I shudder and sob. It’s storming inside, too. “Do you miss your hobo?” I scratch her ears. “He was loyal. At least you two worked
together
.” I light my lamp, a glimmer of mad beginning to mingle with morbid, and write.
    July 30, 1926
    Dear Leroy,
    Please answer immediately. Is there a “For Sale” sign in my front yard? I’ve got to know. I dreamed it was true, so the idea is stuck in my brain like a sliver. Daddy is not going to rent our house—he’s selling it, isn’t he?
    You always tell me the things I need to