Tied to the Tracks

by Rosina Lippi

  In neat, slightly wavering handwriting the word please had been inserted before the last, rather abrupt directive.

  “Oh, this is going to be good,” Rivera said.

  Miss Maddie set an old-fashioned breakfast table, one covered with a flowered tablecloth and crowded with heavy, thick plates and platters. Delighted, Rivera helped herself to flapjacks and eggs and bacon and ham and drizzled syrup over the whole.

  “I do like to see a girl with an appetite,” said Miss Maddie. “Won’t you have one of these muffins Caroline made for us? She’s the best cook in Ogilvie, is our Caroline.”

  “You are the sweetest thing,” Caroline said, blushing. “But far too kind.”

  Angie found herself next to Miss Zula, who seemed content to watch and listen as Rivera and Miss Maddie and Caroline carried on a disjointed but energetic conversation about ham.

  With her silver-blond hair and long pale neck, Caroline worked like crystal wine goblet among jelly-jar glasses, but she was clearly at home here and very much at ease. She moved around the kitchen as if she had spent many hours there—to refill the coffeepot, to fetch Miss Maddie her handkerchief—and kept up with her part of the conversation.

  She was saying, “Mama’s planning on going up to the lake tomorrow.”

  “Are you planning on going up, Caroline? Or are you too busy with wedding plans?” Miss Maddie was small and plump, with perfectly rounded cheeks, but she had a rich voice and a way of speaking that would be welcome in any National Public Radio broadcast booth, not in spite of, but precisely for, her accent.

  There was a small silence while Caroline wiped her mouth with her napkin, which was odd, because as far as Angie could tell from her plate, she hadn’t eaten anything at all.

  “Maybe for a little while,” she said. “If Mama needs me.”

  Rivera, who considered the only real sacrifice she was making this summer her regular trips down the Jersey shore, wanted to know more about the lake, how far it was, who went there. Miss Maddie and Caroline let themselves be drawn into that discussion while Angie turned back to Miss Zula.

  “How long have you known Miss Junie?” Angie asked.

  The small, round face stilled in a way that meant nothing, yet, to Angie, but it did make her curious.

  “Junie Maddox and I matriculated at Ogilvie together and graduated on the same day. We taught high school English, both of us, starting in the fall of 1952. Not at the same school, not in those days, but we often worked on our lesson plans together. And then she married Bob Lee Rose and gave up teaching.”

  And that, Angie realized, was the smallest part of the story, and all Miss Zula was willing to tell just now. Along her spine she got a flutter of nerves, the sign that she had stumbled, unexpectedly, onto something important. She was just about to say that straight out when the door opened and Harriet came in.

  “Well, now. Finally,” said Miss Zula. “Harriet Rose Darling, you are late again.”

  “I lost track,” Harriet said, leaning over to kiss the old woman on the cheek.

  “We’ll see to it they put as much on your gravestone,” said Miss Zula as she patted Harriet’s cheek. “ ‘Here lies Harriet. She had no idea it was so late.’ ”

  “What was it, dear?” asked Miss Maddie, holding up her cheek in turn. “Those fractious boys of yours?”

  “No,” said Harriet as she fell into a chair. “It was Tab.”

  “How is dear Tab?” Maddie asked.

  Harriet seemed to be considering an answer while she helped herself to eggs. Then she said in the languid way of a woman who has been praying for the same thing every day for many years without satisfaction, “Why, it would be best if Tab would just die.”

  “Harriet,” said Caroline.

  “What?” Harriet said. “It’s true. I mean it with all my heart.”

  Rivera, unable to contain herself any longer, let out a burst of laughter.

  Angie had eaten more than she meant to but found that she was oddly comfortable, given the events of the early morning and the fact that Caroline Rose was sitting across from her at the table. The conversation flowed along from the wayward ways of boys and men, to the new dress Junie Rose was having made for Caroline’s wedding, to the benefit auction at the church, to the cost of printing posters, which brought Rivera to the subject of the English department photocopier, and Patty-Cake Walker, who had given Tied to the Tracks a monthly allowance of twenty-five copies.

  “Bring that to Rob’s attention,” said Caroline. “He’ll deal with Patty-Cake.”

  “Patty-Cake and her copy machine,” said Miss Zula, her mouth pressing hard. “As proud as a dog with two tails.”

  “More like a witch with a familiar,” said Harriet.

  Miss Maddie said, “I swear, I’ve heard more stories. It’s just unnatural, a woman carrying on about a machine like that. I suppose if her Wayne hadn’t walked in front of that bus she’d have more important things to keep her busy.”

  “She did hover over Wayne, but then he gave her reason enough,” Harriet agreed. “That reminds me. Patty-Cake has been after her nephew Win Walker to ask you out.”

  Miss Maddie said, “That young man with the tattoo on his bald spot?”

  “No,” said Miss Zula. “You’re thinking of Walker Winfield, who’s a deacon at Church of Christ. Win Walker goes to First Baptist.”

  “Win Walker and Walker Winfield?” asked Angie.

  “Double first cousins,” said Harriet. “Jean Winfield married Jackson Walker and they named their first son Winfield Walker. Then Jackson’s sister—Sue Ann Walker?—married Jean’s brother Joe Bob and they named their firstborn Walker Winfield. Except they don’t resemble each other, not one bit. Win got all the looks but all Walker got was religion. And a bald spot, which he went and got tattooed one time when he was struggling with the angel, I suppose.”

  Rivera pressed a fist to her mouth and then smiled anyway. “What exactly does Walker have tattooed on his bald spot?”

  Miss Maddie turned to her sister. “What was it now? Praise Jesus? Wait, no, I remember. Jesus Saves.”

  Rivera said, “Maybe Win has got some good tattoos, you’ll have to let us know, Angie.”

  Angie resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at Rivera and reached instead for another piece of toast.

  “Where does Patty-Cake fit into all this?” she asked.

  Miss Maddie got a thoughtful look on her face. “If I recall, her Wayne was half brother to Jackson on their daddy’s side.” Then she let out a small, very musical laugh. “You’ll have to stay in Ogilvie a lot longer than a school year if you’ve got a mind to learn all the family connections.”

  “It was just Patty-Cake I was wondering about,” said Angie. “As she’s taking such an interest in my love life.”

  Harriet said, “Rivera, I’d guess Patty-Cake has already got some young man picked out for you, too.”

  Miss Maddie’s bird-bright eyes flashed behind her glasses. “Now, won’t that be nice, don’t you think? With the Independence Day Jubilee coming up and all.” She turned her face toward Rivera. “We celebrate the Fourth of July in a big way here in Ogilvie.”

  “What Miss Maddie in’t telling you,” said Harriet, “is that she’s been head of the Jubilee committee since just about ever. Why, there wouldn’t be a Jubilee without her.”

  Miss Maddie started to protest, but Harriet held up a hand and carried on. “There’s a barbecue and games, and in the evening there’s the picnic basket auction and dance. Of course you have to have a ticket to be a Basket Girl, but I bet Miss Maddie could see to that.”

  “I might could,” Miss Maddie said. “Now, Rivera, tell us. You got somebody you want to invite down from the city? A boyfriend you might want to show around Ogilvie?”

  Angie slid down a little further in her chair, resigning herself to the idea that this conversation, long overdue, would take place at this particular breakfast table with two elderly women.

  Rivera looked up from her ora
nge juice, her expression innocent, friendly, vaguely agreeable, and shrugged.

  “A girlfriend, maybe,” she said. “I’m gay.”

  “How nice for you,” Miss Maddie said. Harriet hiccupped and put three fingers to her mouth as if to hold it shut. Miss Zula handed her another napkin.

  “She means she’s a lesbian,” Caroline said to Miss Maddie. “Harriet, drink something before you choke.”

  “I understood her, Caroline,” said Miss Maddie. “I watch HBO. Are you a lesbian, too, Angeline?”

  Harriet hiccupped again, but it would take a lot more than a few blushes to upset Rivera, who was enjoying herself without reservation.

  “No,” said Angie. “I can’t claim that honor.”

  Harriet said, “But I thought lesbians go around in pairs?”

  “Nuns go around in pairs,” said Miss Maddie, brightly. “And those polite young Mormon missionaries who dress so neatly.”

  “To answer your question,” Rivera said to Harriet, “as far as I know there’s no rule in the lesbian handbook that says we have to go around in pairs. But I’ll check with the governing board, if you like.”

  “Close your mouth, Harriet,” said Miss Zula. “You look simple-minded sitting there showing off your bridgework. Rivera is teasing you, and you’re embarrassing Caroline.”

  “Well, there’s nothing new about that,” said Harriet, touching her napkin to her mouth. “I’ve made a career out of embarrassing my little sisters. All four of them overachievers, what’s left for me but bad behavior? I might not be sophisticated, but she loves me just the same, don’t you, baby?”

  Caroline said, “If you try not to insult anybody else this morning, yes.”

  Rivera said, “Tell us more about this nephew Patty-Cake has dug up for Angie. Maybe he’ll have more luck getting her out of the house than Tony and I have been having.”

  “You don’t have a young man?” asked Miss Maddie, turning to Angie.

  “There’s someone I date now and then, back home.”

  “Five years of nothing serious,” added Rivera, and gave Angie a wide-eyed, not quite so innocent look.

  “Five years!” Harriet said. “If you don’t want the man, honey, my advice is to throw him back in and get yourself some fresh bait.”

  Miss Maddie held her napkin up to her face when she laughed. “You are terrible, Harriet.”

  “Tell the truth and shame the devil,” said Harriet.

  “I’m very busy with the film company,” said Angie. “I’ve got no complaints.”

  “But you’re such a young woman,” said Miss Maddie. “It’s a shame if you don’t enjoy yourself a little while you’re here. Don’t you think, sister?”

  Miss Zula produced one of her rare smiles. “Certainly. We’ll have to see what we can do.”

  At that moment, struck by the strange turn in the conversation, by Caroline Rose’s expectant but sober look, and most of all by the expression on Miss Zula’s face, a flash of understanding struck Angie: They had come, finally, to the place Miss Zula had meant them to be. She was going to raise the subject of John Grant, and then there would be nothing to do but tell the story. Angie looked around the table at each woman in turn, and then caught Rivera’s eye.

  To Harriet she said, “Tell Patty-Cake I’d be happy to make her nephew’s acquaintance. I’m looking forward to it.”

  You’ve got to give the old woman credit,” Rivera said later. “She’s got style.”

  “So did Machiavelli,” said Angie.

  They had insisted on walking back simply because Angie didn’t want to sit in the same car with Caroline Rose, not just yet. Not until she had some answers, starting with the most obvious one: who exactly knew about the summer she had spent with John Grant five years ago.

  Of course the only person who could tell her that was John himself. She thought of him on the river, and her pace slowed for as long as it took her to banish that image yet again.

  They crossed the old wooden footbridge over the river and paused to look down into the water. Angie said, “You don’t think—” She stopped herself.

  “No,” said Rivera.

  “No what?” Angie said. “I wish you’d stop answering questions before I ask them.”

  “No, Miss Zula didn’t get us down here to play matchmaker for John Grant and you.”

  “How would she even know about that?” Angie said, exasperated.

  “Don’t ask me,” Rivera said. “But she knows. I could see it on her face, and so could you. Maybe she was watching you at the birthday party when John took that arrow. Your face gave a lot away.”

  Angie pushed away from the bridge rail. “I’m going into town,” she said. “I’ve got to get this cleared up before there’s real trouble.”

  “Sure,” said Rivera. “Don’t you want to know where he lives?”

  Angie closed her eyes, counted to three, and then she nodded. She stayed that way while Rivera gave her directions, and didn’t move until she was finished.

  “You sure this is a good idea?” Rivera asked.

  Angie felt herself flushing. “You got a better one? Never mind, don’t answer that.”

  She was off the bridge and walking fast when Rivera called after her.

  “Tell him hello from me!”

  The looks Angie got as she walked through town were mostly friendly or curious; a few people said hello and looked like they would have gladly stopped to talk. Any other time she would have done that, but just now she couldn’t afford to. If she let herself be distracted, if she stopped to think, she’d lose her resolve.

  One plate-glass window after another reminded her that she wasn’t wearing makeup, that she had tied her hair back with a rubber band, and that the shirt she was wearing over jeans had a rip in the pocket. She was overdressed for the weather but underdressed if she compared herself to the other women her age who passed her on the street.

  She had never been able to manufacture any real interest in fashion, and rarely remembered to look in the mirror. The good clothes she had brought with her to Ogilvie were basic: a dark dress for formal wear; a lighter, dressier one that she had worn to every wedding she had attended for the last three years; a single sundress; a straight black skirt; and a good white silk blouse. She couldn’t remember the last time she had bought anything new. When there was extra money she bought another lens for her Nikon or put something aside toward new equipment.

  She had never worried much about this particular failing until John had come along. John, who wore expensive clothes so casually and so well. He had an eye for line and color and he never asked, as other men sometimes had, if his shirt matched his pants. More than that, he had never, not once, said a word to her about her clothes, good or bad; he never seemed disappointed in what she wore, although she herself felt at a disadvantage walking down the street next to him. He was elegant and beautiful and strong, and next to him she often felt like a puppy that needed grooming.

  Angie thought of going home to change, or at least finding a store where she could buy a cap or scarf or something to cover her hair, but then she had no money on her, even if any of the shops along this part of Main Street would offer something so mundane.

  The merchants of Ogilvie, it was clear, catered to tourists who came for day trips from Savannah and to the wealthy parents of its undergraduates. She passed Thomasina’s, which seemed to be doing a brisk brunch business; an artisan jeweler; a crowded café-bakery; a clothing boutique with a linen sheath in the window that glimmered in the light. It was made for a long, thin woman who had no bust and no hips, and Angie would have looked like a sack of potatoes in it, which was beside the point: she couldn’t afford a dress like that, and she had no place to wear it. It was an elegant dress, for cocktail parties at the dean’s house or an evening in Savannah at the theater. An Audrey Hepburn, a Jackie Kennedy, a Caroline Rose kind of dress.

  Next came a shop called Shards, which advertised itself with a scattering of paper-thin china teacups over a tumb
le of black velvet in its single window. We buy antique china, porcelain, and glassware was written in fine calligraphy on a small card in the window, and under that: Con-stance Rose Shaw, Proprietor. Appraisals by appointment only. The Rose sisters might have the unruliest sons in all of southeast Georgia, but they were good at other things. Next to Shards was an antique shop, Re-Runs (Eunice Rose Holmes, Proprietor), and beyond that, Fat Quarters (Pearl Rose McCarthy). Connie, Eunice, and Pearl monopolized a full half of the choicest block on Main Street, directly across from campus.

  Angie passed a real estate office and an old-fashioned drugstore with large colored-glass vials in the window and then came to Ogilvie Books. A banner spanned the full length of the window: OGILVIE CELEBRATES FIFTY YEARS OF DIVERSITY.