Tied to the Tracks

by Rosina Lippi

  Tony, shaken for once out of his usual languor, raced upstairs with Rivera just behind him.

  “Miss Zula is here,” he said. “She just dropped by.” He pushed both hands through his hair so it stood on end.

  “She’s got a half dozen relatives with her,” Rivera said. “It’s like oral exams all over again. What if they don’t approve of us? Can they fire us?”

  “Calm down, winkie,” Angie said. “That won’t happen. Miss Zula just wants to establish who’s in charge; that’s good, in a way. This isn’t the way we planned it, but it’ll be okay.” She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Give me your first impression.”

  Rivera closed her eyes and then opened them. “Daunting. Regal. Inscrutable.”

  Angie nodded. “We expected that, right? And we’re up for it. We better call and make apologies about the birthday party.”

  “Not necessary,” said Tony. “Miss Zula and Miss Maddie are on their way there, too, they said so.”

  The Braggs had come from church, the women in dresses and hats, the men in suits, their shoes highly polished. Zula Bragg was a small, strongly built woman with a willing smile, but her eyes missed nothing at all. If she meant to put Angie on guard, then her sister Maddie was there to offset that effect. Miss Maddie might have been Zula’s twin in body and face, but she was the kind of older woman who clucked and petted and cooed and most probably never said a bad word about anyone. She had brought them an applesauce cake, which was a relief, as they had nothing to offer visitors but beer, coffee, cold pizza, and a half pack of stale Oreos.

  The rest of the Bragg contingent was made up of three nephews, the sons of Zula and Maddie’s elder brother, who had died in Korea—and two grandnieces in their thirties. Martin Bragg was a minister, Joseph an accountant, and Calvin was a physician. All three were big men, barrel shaped with high foreheads and deep-set eyes. The two women, both Calvin Bragg’s daughters, issued a long list of invitations: to dinner, church, tours of the campus and town and countryside, while their uncles hummed agreement and encouragement. Through it all Angie felt Dr. Bragg’s sharp gaze observing, weighing, and coming to conclusions. It was best to turn the tables in a situation like this, so Angie produced her brightest smile for him.

  “Do you have any specific questions for us, Dr. Bragg?”

  He looked not so much surprised as satisfied. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “we do.” He had the deepest voice and the most melodious southern accent, so that the overall effect was almost magical. Rivera caught her eye, and Angie knew they were wondering the same thing: whether they might be able to talk Dr. Bragg into narrating some part of the documentary. The idea was so intriguing that she almost missed what he had to say.

  He was asking, “My brothers and I have been wondering, what exactly were you thinking when you named your company Tied to the Tracks? Has it got to do with the old films, or is there some deeper meaning?”

  “I hope you can answer that in two sentences or less,” said his daughter Marilee. “Because once these three get to talking about books you had best hunker down for a while. And we have got to get going.”

  “Now, child, we can spare a few more minutes,” said Miss Maddie. “And besides, I want to hear the answer to this, too.”

  They were all looking at her, but Miss Zula’s gaze was the sharpest, and Angie had a sudden and uncomfortable flashback to school.

  “Well,” she said slowly, “our view of things is that everybody finds themselves tied to the tracks at some point or another, and that’s where the story is. We tell stories.”

  “Ah,” said Reverend Bragg. He sent a satisfied look to his brothers. “Didn’t I say? They’ve updated Tolstoy’s unhappy families to suit the vagaries of the digital age.”

  “I didn’t hear her say anything about Tolstoy,” said Joseph, looking affronted. “You are up to your usual tricks.”

  “Our Calvin,” said Martin, “is a veritable compendium of logical fallacies.”

  Tony let out a hiccup of a laugh, and the three men looked at him.

  “I could listen to you talk all day,” Tony said, holding out his hands. “Really. My uncles argue about baseball statistics and sausage.”

  “Be that as it may,” Miss Zula said, “you boys will have to come back another time to argue literary theory.” She used her cane to lever herself to a standing position, giving one of her nephews a look that said she did not want, and would not welcome, his help. “Miss Junie asked me to come by early, and you know how she is before a party.”

  “I hope you will come back,” Rivera said. “I’d like to hear more of this.”

  “She means it,” Tony added. “If it’s a debate you want, Rivera is your girl.”

  On the way out Marilee and Anthea Bragg pulled Angie aside.

  “Auntie Zula is a lot stronger than Daddy gives her credit for,” said Marilee. “I happen to know that for a fact, as I’ve been her physician for the last six months, since Daddy cut back on his practice.”

  “They’re just protective,” added Marilee. “But the good Lord never put a woman more capable of speaking her mind on this earth. You make Auntie unhappy or push her too hard and you’ll hear about it.”

  Miss Maddie patted Angie on the cheek and smiled. “Aren’t those boys something? I blame Zula for reading philosophy to them when they were still in diapers. Logical fallacies.” She gave a delighted laugh. “Don’t you be worrying about our nephews. They do like to growl but they don’t hardly ever bite. Now, I’m looking forward to Junie Rose’s birthday party. I expect to see y’all there, and so does Zula.”

  Caroline said, “You can’t spend the entire weekend working.” And: “It will be fun.”

  Neither of those things was strictly true, but there was another fact, a bigger one that John didn’t have to hear her say. Junie Rose’s seventy-fifth birthday party wasn’t something a man could just stay away from. Not if he wanted to stay on good terms with the Rose girls and the rest of the population of Ogilvie, most especially Miss Zula Bragg, who was Junie Rose’s closest friend.

  Mostly John didn’t mind these kind of family parties and hadn’t been worried about this one until he picked up Caroline from her wedding dress fitting. For the entire ten-minute drive, she had anticipated disaster in vivid detail.

  “. . . a nice cardigan, the kind she likes, pink. The card’s right here for you to sign.”

  John put the car in park and turned to her. “I got her a card, and a present. You don’t have to do my shopping for me, you know.”

  Caroline blinked at him. “You got Mama a present?”

  “And a card.”

  He watched her face as pleasant surprise gave way to worry. “What ever did you get her?”

  “Just wait and see.” John leaned forward and wiped an imaginary bread crumb from the corner of Caroline’s mouth, felt her startle and then relax. She had a slow smile, even a timid one, and it was hard work coaxing one out of her.

  She started to say something, and then her gaze fixed on an old Chevy parked at an angle in the driveway.

  “Uncle Bruce is here.”

  “I would guess so,” John said. “It’s his sister’s birthday, after all.”

  “You’re not hearing me,” said Caroline. “Uncle Bruce and the boys. Here, together.”

  “Oh,” said John. “Well, lead on. I’m prepared for anything.”

  Established in the shade in the gardens at Old Roses with her third glass of wine, Angie concluded that the Roses would have made an interesting subject on their own if Tied to the Tracks didn’t already have Miss Zula to deal with.

  Old Roses was a huge Victorian-era house of brick and stucco surrounded by live oaks, azaleas, and magnolia trees. The garden, as large as it was, seemed hardly big enough to contain the entire Rose clan. In addition to cousins and friends, Harriet Darling and three of her four sisters were here with their families. The husbands grazed the far end of the lawn, where a grill sat on a concrete apron; the sisters had re
tired to the opposite end of the garden, where they had a good view of what their sons and husbands were up to, although it seemed the pile of bridal magazines on the table between them had most of their attention.

  Angie was content to watch. She raised her wineglass—empty again—to Tony, who saluted and then went back to his viewfinder. He was wandering around the property with cameras slung around his neck and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, too involved in work for once to get into trouble. And still Angie had the idea that when the stills were developed a large proportion would turn out to feature Harriet Darling, who was holding up a full-color spread of a wedding cake frosted with purple roses for her sisters to see.

  Far more important than Tony and his cameras was the fact that Rivera was sitting a few yards away between Miss Zula and Miss Junie in the middle of a crowd of older women, her sleek dark head swiveling back and forth. Old ladies liked Rivera; she was just irreverent enough to keep them on their toes, but her interest in their stories was real.

  Angie found herself so completely relaxed that she might have gone to sleep right there with a plate of food on one knee and her glass on the other, but one of the grandsons was walking toward her in a way that brought junior high school socials to mind. He ducked his head and looked back over his shoulder at the men around the grill. When he came to a stop in front of Angie she thought for sure he was going to ask her to dance. He was about sixteen, tall for his age and awkward with it, a scattering of pimples on his forehead but with a bright look about him.

  “Miss Angie?” he said. “I’m Markus Holmes, Eunice’s oldest boy?”

  His eyes skittered in the direction of the picnic tables and back again. Angie shook the hand he offered and asked him to sit down, a question he seemed to overhear. Then he turned his smile on her, and she could see that he had resolved to ignore his cousins and the teasing that would come his way.

  “I was just wondering, will you be shooting digital video or film for your documentary?”

  “Digital for the most part,” Angie said. “Some film for texture, but mostly high-definition video. You interested in filmmaking?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  It was going to take some time to get used to the ma’am, but there was no help for it; she might as well object to palmetto bugs and magnolias. And Angie liked the kid right away, in part because he went to such trouble not to brag as he told her about what he had been working on. For his age he had a lot of experience, most of it through the local-access television station.

  “Channel twelve, right?” Angie said. “I saw a little of one of the programs last night, political talk.”

  “That’s Scoot Sloan’s show,” Markus said. “The Right Side of Ogilvie, it’s called. You should come down to the station sometime, have a look around.”

  He peeked at her to see how well she took to southern circumlocution, and he looked so eager and shy all at once that Angie was thoroughly charmed.

  She said, “I’d like to see what you’ve done. Maybe you could bring a tape by the media studio this week.”

  “I’d like that,” he said, looking her full in the face for the first time.

  “Do you want to sit down?” She patted the chair beside her again, but he stepped backward.

  “No, thank you, ma’am. There was just one other thing I wanted to ask you about. You know that memory book you put out, the one for people to write in about Miss Zula?”

  “At the library,” Angie said.

  “Well, what I wanted to tell you was, I’ve got this idea that the book’s not going to do you much good where you’ve put it.”

  He was so serious that Angie was a little taken aback. “Why is that?”

  “Because of Miss Annie. The librarian? She’s got a bad case of the curiosities, and everybody knows it. You couldn’t write anything down in that book without Miss Annie right behind you, like white on rice. And then she’ll talk about it.”

  “Ah.” Angie thought for a moment. “You have a better idea where to put the book?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. There’s only one place in town where everybody goes, and that’s the Piggly Wiggly. Wouldn’t nobody be watching, either, when folks want to spend a few minutes writing. Not if you put it over by the recycling bins?” He glanced over to the men around the barbecue grill and then cleared his throat. “I work there, at the Piggly Wiggly, bagging? I could keep an eye on it for you, make sure the younger kids don’t get up to mischief. If you want. Just an idea.”

  “A good one,” Angie said. “Thank you.”

  He backed away, scratching his chin distractedly. “Well, it was sure nice talking to you.”

  “Markus, if you have any other ideas, I hope you won’t keep them to yourself. And come by with one of your tapes this week. I’m in the studio most afternoons.”

  He gave her a real grin, shy and sweet.

  “Hey, Markus! If you’re through flirting, move your skinny butt. Father Bruce is here.”

  An older man wearing a roman collar had appeared on the porch with a large bundle in his arms, and boys were running toward him from all directions. Markus gave her one last apologetic glance and trotted off to join the rest of Junie Rose’s twelve grandsons—the youngest seven, the oldest close to twenty.

  “Oh, Lordie,” called one of the ladies in the circle around Miss Junie. “What’s Bruce up to this time?”

  Angie sat up straighter. She had heard stories about the local priest and had put him on her list of people to interview, but the last place she had thought to run into him was at Miss Junie Rose’s birthday party. And yet, there he was, a slight man of more than sixty and less than eighty in an old soutane that was more gray than black, lopsided eyeglasses with lenses the size of silver dollars, and a halo of pure white hair standing straight up around a pink scalp. He looked like an elf up to mischief.

  “Bruce means well, but he does work those grandnephews of his up into a frenzy.”

  A woman sat down in the empty chair next to Angie. She had the kind of blinding white smile usually found on movie screens, a mass of too-red hair, and her nails and lipstick were the alarming orange of traffic cones. Like all the women Angie had seen thus far, she was as carefully dressed as she was groomed. She wore a dress of deep blue silk with a wide lace collar, bone white leather shoes and matching purse, and heavy gold jewelry on her wrists and fingers and ears. She might have stepped out of a Talbot’s catalog. Not for the first time Angie wished she had dug something better than a shapeless yellow sundress out of her closet.

  “I’m Patty-Cake Walker. Miss Junie’s husband, Bob Lee, was my half brother? I’ll bet your head is just spinning trying to keep us all straight.”

  “It is a little confusing,” Angie agreed. “Father Callahan is Miss Junie’s brother?”

  “He is. You don’t see the resemblance now, but when they were younger, lots of folks took them for twins. Or so I’m told.”

  Angie said, “I didn’t think there were many Catholics in this part of the country.”

  “Mostly you’re right,” she said, smoothing out her skirt. “But I believe Ogilvie must have the biggest Catholic congregation in all of Georgia.” She put a hand on her chest, fingers spread wide. “Not my people and not my husband’s, either, you understand—the Roses and the Walkers have been worshipping at Ogilvie Methodist since it opened its doors way back before the War Between the States.”

  “Is that the little church on Decatur Road?”

  “No, you’re thinking of Turn Around Circle. They’re Presbyterians, but Low Church, if you know what I mean. I’ve got cousins who worship there.”

  The first rule of effective field research was letting people talk without interrupting them unless the conversation lagged. Now there was nothing to do but settle down and let the monologue runs its course.

  “The closest I personally come to the Church of Rome is my half brother Bob Lee?” Patty-Cake was saying. “He was supposed to marry one of the Stillwater girls, but th
en Miss Junie caught his eye, and that was that. It was a big deal back then, let me tell you, marrying outside your faith.” She pursed her mouth as if to stop herself from saying any more.

  “Look there, that’s Connie Yaeger. Now, in’t that dress just the prettiest thing? And those bright colors draw attention away from her less fortunate features. Connie’s been teaching eighth grade at Our Lady of Divine Mercy for just about ever. “ She pushed out an irritated sigh. “I guess you could say that Bob Lee running off to marry an Irish Catholic girl made us the first truly integrated family in this part of Georgia. And Junie brought her girls up proper Catholics, too. Naturally having a priest for a brother made that a lot easier.”