An Imperfection in the Kitchen Floor

by Heather Greenleaf

  As with every first snow of the season, a certain nostalgia crept over me. My entire life I had been planning on leaving, going somewhere it never snowed, and now, watching it from the window, I was sure I would miss it.

  I felt a searing pain in my finger. I looked down and the potatoes were turning red. I had cut myself with the paring knife. I howled, squeezed it, and began to get lightheaded as the blood seeped through my clutched fingers.

  Mama rushed to my side. She produced a towel, pried my hand off my wound, and wrapped it tightly. Soon the pain subsided a bit, though I could feel my heartbeat in that finger.

  “Tish,” Mama shook her head. “You really must pay attention. That is an awful cut, and now we have to throw away all these potatoes.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I said. “I’m so terrible at food preparation. At least I didn’t do this at the shop.”

  She nodded. “I wish you hadn’t done it at all, actually.”

  “Did you have many customers today?” I asked.

  “Not as many as we would have liked. If we can get through the winter, we will be all right. Things have actually picked up since the war ended and people don’t seem to think ill of your father any more. But with you leaving, I’ll have to work there for a while. There simply isn’t any money to hire someone else to help Papa. He’s talking about getting a loan to cover some of the expenses and hold us over for a bit, but I’m not sure there is anyone in town who will give him one…” Her brow furrowed in a look of worry that she had come to share with Papa. She trailed off, perhaps thinking she said too much. “Don’t you worry about it, though, Tish. Let’s focus on the holidays and your wedding. Papa and I will manage just fine. Were you planning on getting together with Ellis this evening?”

  “Well, I was, but perhaps not now with the snow. He planned on coming over around eight o’clock, but I’ll ring him now and suggest that he just stay in.”

  “Yes, that might be wise. Tonight we can finalize the wedding plans, just us,” Mama said. Hearing me sigh, she held her hand up and continued, “I know. You don’t want anything lavish like Ivy, but there are still decisions to be made.”

  Decisions. Indeed. Though the ones that Mama was talking about—the flowers, the cake—were ones that I didn’t spend much time on. The decision to marry Ellis, the man he currently was, hung heavy on my heart during his bad days. And now, with what Mama had confided about the shop, a distinct worry about abandoning Mama and Papa and the family business began to creep in.

  I was firmly set on my desired path, though, quite close to achieving exactly what I wanted. It was hard to admit that the golden luster around my dream had faded a bit with the reality of it. I feared I would regret stopping its forward motion, but there was also much to fear in staying the course.

  I put no voice to these fears, though. Not to Mama, not to Virginia, and certainly not to Ellis. Under the electric lights that burned bright that evening, Mama and I sat together in the sitting room with the radio churning out “The First Noel” and “Adeste Fideles” as we discussed the menu for the wedding luncheon and strung cranberries for the Christmas tree.

  Later that week, Ellis happily reported that William had given him a contact at the Standard Oil Company. They needed workers in California, and so he was going to New York to meet with a few men there to see what was available. For days, he floated on this news. It seemed as if, finally, the darkness had been put behind him. There was joy in his voice as he planned his trip. The adventurer that I had known in him had returned, and I saw more and more of the old Ellis in the days approaching the interview. With the possibility of an exciting future within our grasp, my fears began to subside. Maybe this was just what he needed to permanently heal.

  He planned to leave the following Monday morning, taking the commuter train to Philadelphia, and then another train from 30th Street Station to New York’s Penn Station. He had found a boarding house ten blocks away from the Standard Oil office where the meetings were to be held.

  Papa even offered Ellis money to pay the fares. When he declined, Papa insisted. I knew this might be a sacrifice for Papa, but I hoped that he was offering because he was able.

  “Son, you are going to be family soon.” He shoved the cash into Ellis’ breast pocket and would not hear otherwise. I squeezed Papa’s forearm in thanks, knowing he understood that this job would mean our departure.

  I packed all of my hope inside Ellis’ bag and hugged him hard the Sunday night before he left. I would see him when he returned from New York, surely with good news of a job in California. The promise of our tomorrow lay just a few train rides away.

  ●●●

  My feet touched cold on the wood floor when I climbed out of bed the next morning. Dressing quickly in the dark, I walked to the window. More snow had fallen overnight and then hardened into a crystal crust over the lawn. The tops of the tree branches were gently iced like glittering sugar cakes. Christmas was just two weeks away, and there would be much to celebrate. Ellis would be back from New York in a week or two, hopefully with good news about a job in California. His darkness would fade. We would be married and on our way.

  I went downstairs, finding Mama in the kitchen making breakfast. The oatmeal on the stove bubbled up steam in popping puffs.

  “Good morning, Tish,” she said as she bustled about. “Breakfast is almost ready. Could you please pour a pitcher of milk and place it on the table? I’ll go rouse Ollie. Papa should be down soon. He is giving me a ride to the station today. My train leaves just before eight o’clock. Could you please stop at Rothwell’s Drug Store and pick up some nice paper for wrapping gifts?”

  “You are going downtown?” I asked.

  “Yes, to pick up some of the loan documents your father has been discussing with a few banks. Papa wanted to go himself, but in the end, he decided he had better stay at the shop.”

  “I could go, Mama,” I offered.

  She waved me off. “It’s all set. Papa phoned ahead and each bank is expecting me. I want to stop at the confectioners for chocolate for Ollie for Christmas, too. Can you walk him to and from school?” I nodded in agreement. “And don’t forget to get the wrapping paper I need from Rothwell’s.”

  Papa came to the table, followed by a sullen Ollie. Papa’s bow tie was straight and tight, and Ollie’s sat askew on his chest. Ollie’s hair looked tousled and disobedient, and his face was a pout. He flopped his body into the chair with reluctance, without turning his legs under the way Papa expected of us at the table. Papa lifted his eyes from his oatmeal and looked across the table at his son.

  “Oliver, sit properly,” he said.

  “Come on, Oliver, perk up,” I said, settling into the chair next to him. “This is the last week of school before Christmas break. Christmas Eve will be here before you know it. Maybe you’ll get some of those cream-filled chocolates you like,” I cajoled. Coming into the dining room and settling at the table, Mama threw me a smile. I received only a grunt in response from Oliver.

  We ate our breakfast in a quiet rush. When the clock chimed its heavy single tone of seven-thirty, Mama hustled us all up from the table and toward the foyer for our coats. I helped Oliver into his heavy wool jacket, cap, and mittens, and found his school books, securing them into his strap. After buttoning up my coat, Mama handed me Oliver’s lunch pail. She secured her favorite maroon hat upon her head, smoothing the pheasant feather that embellished it, and hurried Papa out the door.

  A bitter wind muscled its way into the house as we opened it to the morning, and our bodies constricted in the stinging air. We all huddled into our outerwear, our necks shrinking into our shoulders, backs hunched and chests braced against the wind. Our farewells were brief, Mama and Papa seeking the still air inside the touring car, and Oliver and I quickening our pace toward the school house.

  It was about a mile’s distance, and the winter air sliced my cheeks with each howl of the wind. Ollie and I passed the time mostly in silence, too chilled, or perhaps,
in his case, still too sleepy, to speak. Our thirty-minute walk took us through the center of town, along Davisville Road, and up the steps into the schoolhouse. I stopped in a moment to greet his teacher, Mrs. Ely, lingering a bit to warm my hands, and then was on my way back to town.

  The air was still biting, but the wind had stilled. Three crows swooped and hopped from tree to tree along my way. They called out, scratchy and loud, in short bursts of staccato competition as they swooped against the gray sky.

  When I reached Rothwell’s, I pulled open the heavy door and was welcomed by a tinkling bell and a rush of warm air. The pharmacy was crowded this morning. I made my way to the counter to request the wrapping paper Mama wanted.

  “Good morning, Miss Hess. Cold today, isn’t it?” Mr. Rothwell smiled warmly.

  “Yes, it certainly is, Mr. Rothwell. Christmas will be here soon. I was wondering if perhaps you had any wrapping paper in stock,” I said.

  “I do. I have two different kinds this year. A beautiful red with holly leaves and one that is green with cherubs. I’ll get them both so you can decide.”

  While I waited, I fiddled in my satchel for my change purse, my fingers thick and without dexterity inside my gloves. Behind me, the hushed tones of the customers, gathered in groups, rose in volume as more joined the conversation. Though I was trying to mind my own business, my attention was turned to the door as someone rushed in, desperate to join the gossip. Two separate groups had formed into one, pulsing with whatever small-town news was juicy enough to discuss this morning. They were too far away for me to hear, save for a few high-pitched gasps that rose from their huddles.

  Mr. Rothwell returned, rolls of paper in hand, and placed them on the counter for my inspection. They were fine paper. Mama would be pleased with either one.

  “Terrible for those people who were in the train crash this morning…” Mr. Rothwell said.

  My head snapped up. “Train crash? What train crash?”

  “Yes, haven’t you heard? Seems as if a commuter train heading into the city collided with a commuter train on the way out. Don’t know why they were on the same track. The trains are stacked atop one another. Hot coals poured out and there is a terrible fire. Those cars are wood, you know. The ambulances are rushing people to Abington Hospital, though a man who stopped in here on the way back from the crash site said there aren’t many survivors.”

  My chest constricted and there was a thrumming in my ears. Mama. Please let it have been another train. Not the one she was on. Please. I felt ill.

  “Are you all right, Tish?” Mr. Rothwell asked.

  “Um, yes, thank you,” I forced the words out, abandoning the paper on the counter and rushing for the door.

  I ran straight across traffic and into our shop. I was breathless and lightheaded opening the door. I burst past the customer Papa was helping and raced behind the counter. Papa turned to face me, affronted.

  “Tish, how terribly rude of you…” Papa began.

  I cut him off. “Papa, did you put Mama on the train this morning?”

  “Yes. Nearly missed it, though I’m glad she didn’t have to wait on that cold platform for long. Terrible wind this morning. Why are you so upset?” He handed the customer some wrapped cheese and then we were alone in the shop. My throat felt thick and I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples. My eyes were watering from fear and the cold.

  “Papa. Haven’t you heard? A train on the way into the city crashed this morning. I just heard about it over at Rothwell’s. Do you think Mama could have been on that train?”

  I watched as his face fell and his pallor become white. He swayed and his back hit heavy against the counter.

  “I’ll… I’ll…” he stammered. “I’ll make some calls.”

  There was an ache at the pit of my stomach, as if I had eaten a brick and it was slowly sinking, pulling my insides apart.

  Papa picked up the telephone and rang the hospital switchboard. Silently, I reassured myself while he waited to be connected. No sense in panicking yet, Mama would say. Just wait and see.

  Maybe she hadn’t been hurt. Maybe she had only some minor injury, like a cut or bump on the head. I imagined her retelling the tale to us when we all got home. I watched Papa’s face, willing it to have been the train before or after Mama’s, willing Mr. Rothwell to have been mistaken, willing her to be all right.

  I could only hear Papa’s side of the conversation, but his reactions heightened the worry I had been fighting off. When he hung up the phone, he took a moment to settle himself before telling me what he had learned.

  That moment stretched out long and harsh. I didn’t dare demand the information. Once I heard it, it would be real, and the stillness of now would erupt. And so I waited, watching Papa’s face for any sign of hope, but the longer it took for him to speak, the more I understood the truth.

  “Mama was on the train, and she is in the hospital now. She has been hurt. Badly. They have been calling the house. They say we should come as soon as possible.” Papa’s voice was low and serious.

  Suddenly frantic, I yelled, “Let’s go to the hospital then. Now!”

  “Yes. I… I… need to put all of these things away, close up the shop…” Papa trailed off, infuriatingly slow and dazed.

  “Papa, leave it. We need to be with Mama now. Get your coat. I’ll call Ivy.”

  As Papa turned away from me, staggering out from behind the counter and fumbling with the coat rack, I grabbed the telephone and rang the switchboard, asking to be connected to Ivy’s home in Chestnut Hill.

  It buzzed endlessly and my foot bounced on the tile floor, involuntarily and impatient. Every moment seemed critical. I couldn’t stay still.

  Finally, my sister’s cheery voice was on the line. I hated to tell her, drag her out of what might have been a wonderful day, but I shared the details we knew, and told her we were going to the hospital. She said she would come as soon as could and made me promise to get in touch as we heard more.

  Papa was still fumbling to put on his coat. He seemed suddenly old. Frail and confused, his feet shuffled and his shoulders were hunched. I walked around behind him, hoisted the coat to his shoulders, hurried him out, and locked the delicatessen door behind us.

  “What about Oliver?” he asked.

  Ollie. With a sharp intake of breath, I realized how hard this would be for him. I didn’t know if word had reached the schoolhouse, or if he had been awake enough this morning to pay attention to Mama’s plans for the day. I hated the thought of him worrying all day, but I wasn’t sure what state Mama would be in when we arrived. If she was badly burned, maybe delirious, perhaps it was better if he didn’t see her that way. But what if this was our last chance to be with her? Could I deny him the opportunity to say goodbye? I looked at Papa, searching his face for an answer to how to handle this horrific situation. His face was blank, crestfallen and unhelpful.

  “We’ll stop by the schoolhouse and fetch him,” I decided aloud and we walked out into the cold to Papa’s touring car.

  Though utterly despondent, Papa drove very authoritatively up Davisville Road and stopped outside the school. He remained still in his seat, and I took this to mean that I was to go in after Ollie. I told him I would be right back and shut the car door.

  Mama rode in this passenger seat just hours ago. Her hand touched the cold metal of the handle, and I wished I could feel the warmth it had briefly left there. Had I kissed her goodbye this morning? I thought back. No, we had rushed away from each other in the raw weather.

  My presence in the classroom, only an hour into the day, surprised Mrs. Ely, and her face flashed anger at the interruption.

  “I’m sorry to bother the class, ma’am, but there has been an accident, and I’m here to pick up Oliver.”

  Mrs. Ely’s face smoothed and she showed concern. “Yes, of course. Oliver, you may collect your things.”

  Oliver grabbed his books and slid out from behind his desk. His dark eyes filled but held, and he looked
up at me. “Tish?”

  “Come on, Ollie. We need to go,” I said, my arm around his shoulder. And with that, we left the classroom and joined Papa in the running car. Papa had the wherewithal while we were inside to turn it around so that we were headed back toward the center of town and could continue on to the hospital. Ollie and I clambered in and settled in our seats.

  “Papa? Tish? What happened? Where’s Mama?” Oliver asked from the backseat.

  Papa stayed silent, his stone face fixed on the road ahead. It was up to me to tell Oliver. I shifted in my seat so that I could look back at him.

  “There was a train crash this morning, and Mama was on the train. She is at the hospital now and we are going to see her. We don’t know how she is feeling, or if she will be awake when we get there.”

  “Is Mama going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s get to her and see.”

  The tears that had threatened in the classroom spilled over onto Oliver’s cheeks. I snaked my hand back to hold his. He let out a low moan that sounded like, “Mama.” I looked over at Papa for help and saw tears shining on his cheeks too.

  ●●●

  The hospital was crowded when we arrived. A loud and demanding group huddled around a single nurse, begging for scraps of information, mouths open like baby birds. We maneuvered though the press and entered the ward.

  Though he still hadn’t said a word, now that we were here, Papa’s motion had determination. I gripped Oliver’s hand, as much for my comfort as for his, and we hustled to keep pace with Papa. Cots were pushed up against the walls and people lay in them, gruesome in the blazing ceiling lights. Charred clothing hung off bodies, patches of flaming red skin beneath. Small puddles of blood pooled on the floor. An acrid stench consumed the air, weakening my knees and propelling me forward, away from the carnage. As we passed, I hugged Oliver to me, and put my hand up near his outer eye, like a horse blinder, hoping to shield him from this memory.

  Some cots stood unattended, the inhabitant suffering alone, staring at the ceiling, while others were surrounded by crying women or shouting doctors. We careened through the center of them, jostling left and right as needed. In our haste, Ollie and I collided with a cot that was being moved by a team of nurses. We gave way and waited before trotting to catch up with Papa. Ahead, he paused to check the numbers on the rooms, then suddenly barreled into an open doorway, disappearing from the hallway. Inside, we found him crouched over Mama’s silent form.