CROSSING
the
TRACKS
CROSSING
the
TRACKS
BARBARA STUBER
MARGARET K. MCELDERRY BOOKS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people,
or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents
are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Barbara Stuber
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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Book design by Mike Rosamilia
The text for this book is set in MrsEaves.
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stuber, Barbara.
Crossing the tracks / Barbara Stuber.—1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In Missouri in 1926, fifteen-year-old Iris Baldwin discovers
what family truly means when her father hires her out for the summer as
a companion to a country doctor’s invalid mother.
ISBN 978-1-4169-9703-0 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4169-9705-4 (eBook)
[1. Families—Fiction. 2. Household employees—Fiction. 3. Missouri—History—
20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S937555Cr 2010
[Fic]—dc22 2009042672
To my grandmother
Ina May Baldwin Kohler
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My gratitude to the folks who inspired this story—the family members who have passed on and the characters I “met” through the magic of writing.
For excellent guidance and immense encouragement, I thank Judy Hyde, and also Laura Manivong, Elizabeth Bunce, Sue Gallion, Anola Pickett, Judy Schuler, Tessa Elwood, Victoria Dixon, and all the talented members of Heartland Writers for Kids and Teens.
Huge thanks to my kids—Anna for knowing Iris better than I do, Andy for his keen ear and good cheer when asked to listen to just one more chapter, and Austin for his incredible insight and humor.
Special thanks to my sister, Anne, for remembering and for having so much faith in me.
I am so very grateful to Ginger Knowlton for finding Iris the right home at Simon & Schuster, and to my editor, Karen Wojtyla, and to Emily Fabre, who so wisely walked Iris across the tracks.
Thanks to my dear friends for the power of their optimism and enthusiasm.
And, most importantly, love and gratitude to my husband, Jack, for the unwavering support, terrific ideas, patience, and loving kindness he has shown me from the very first moment I decided I wanted to write.
PROLOGUE
ATCHISON, KANSAS—NOVEMBER 1916
I’m under Mama’s coffin. My little house in the center of the parlor has silky black curtain walls and a hard ceiling that I can touch with the top of my head if I sit cross-legged and stretch my neck. They moved all the furniture against the walls except a little round stool right by the coffin box, so even short people can see Mama this afternoon. That’s why I’m wearing my scratchy church dress with the purple bows.
“Iris!” Daddy calls from the hall. “Where are you?”
I am invisible. I lie down with my knees bent. His footsteps scrape across the rug toward Mama and me. They stop right on the other side of the curtain.
“IRIS!”
I hold my breath and lift the hem. The shiny toes of his black boots are so close I smell shoe polish. My ceiling jiggles. The lid of the coffin creaks open. Daddy takes a deep breath and holds it forever. It’s so quiet. Just the three of us at home together, until the doorbell chimes and Daddy turns and walks away.
I reach under the curtain and pull the stool into my playhouse. I try to sit on it, but I’m too tall. So I drag it out, stand on top, and look into the creamy box with thick silver handles that has Mama inside.
She’s wearing her dark green dress with covered buttons. Her eyes are shut. I know she can’t play our game now, but I lean down anyway and blink at her like we did at the sanatorium when her throat got too sore for her to talk. I’d blink all different ways and she’d blink back exactly the same. We thought it was funny. You can just tell from a person’s eyes if they think something is as funny as you do.
When Mama got so sick that breathing made her cough, she quit that, too. I tried to stop breathing like her, but I couldn’t. A person can’t make her own heart stop beating either—God has to help you do that.
It’s good now because Mama isn’t coughing. She must be so glad.
Her fingers, folded on her chest, don’t move when I poke them. Her shiny hair, the same dark brown as mine, is tucked under her head. It looks lumpy to lie on, but I don’t tell her, because dead people can’t move anymore.
Her feet are under the part of the coffin lid that won’t open. I can’t see her shoes, which is bad because Daddy sells shoes. A person wearing the proper shoes for every occasion is real important to him.
I need to know which pair she is wearing for her walk into heaven. I sneak into Mama’s empty bedroom. A sachet of dead rose petals hangs by a silver ribbon on the wardrobe knob. I count her shoes—black pumps, black boots, tan and white, brown with high heels and elastic sides, gray, and ivory with buttons. All six pairs are here—one for every year since I was born.
“IRIS!”
My hand jerks. I knock Mama’s shoes from their neat row.
Daddy marches up to me, his watch chain bouncing on his coat. I smell his pipe. He closes the wardrobe almost before I can get my fingers out of the way. “You made a mess.”
I feel hot. I don’t look up. “Is Mama… barefoot?”
“The guests are here. Get off the floor.”
“But…”
Daddy turns and points at me with his pipe. “And be polite.”
CHAPTER 1
APRIL 1926
I pull my hand from our mailbox, the letter bent in my fingers, my mind reeling. An official letter for Daddy from a doctor. A bud of panic starts to grow in me.
My father is sick.
I drift up our endless front walk, turn a slow circle on the porch before I open the front door. Up and down our street is empty and deathly still, like my heart.
I slide the letter under the mail-order catalogs on his desk and sit on the edge of the divan. He went to a doctor in another town to protect me from the bad news, to avoid the Atchison party line, the gossip. The gaping black hole of our fireplace stares at me. I stare right back.
My worst fear, that I am going to lose him the way I did Mama, is sealed in that envelope. I picture his coffin in the parlor, just like hers almost ten years ago. I squeeze my eyes shut to crush the scene and try to breathe.
A family of wrens chatters in our lilac bush, unaware that my family of two is about to
become one. In a moment I’m standing at his desk. I retrieve the envelope and hold it to the light, but I can’t see through. I reach for the letter opener. With one simple slice I could know the truth.
No, not yet. Not by myself.
I sit in the desk chair, my head down, and listen to Mama and Daddy’s old anniversary clock on the mantel chop the silence to bits.
“Leroy,” I whisper into the empty room. “I need to talk to you.”
I fumble out the front door, trip over my books still piled by the mailbox. I stop halfway to Leroy’s house. He won’t be home from work yet. He’s still delivering groceries.
God…
I stand—a scarecrow lost in the middle of the street.
Maybe I’ll go see Daddy at work, just peek at him through the window doing his normal things—talking up customers, ringing the cash register with a flashy grin, waltzing ladies and their pocketbooks around the shoe displays.
I turn toward town. Or maybe I’ll go in the store and say, You got mail today from Wellsford, Missouri. Or Do you know a doctor named Avery Nesbitt? He sent you a letter.
Or maybe I won’t.
I stop outside the store—my reflection mixed with the arrangement of two-tone spectator dress shoes and fancy spring pumps inside. Daddy stands alone at the open cash register, counting the day’s profits. His back definitely looks different—thinner and more stooped than when I left for school this morning. I step back from the glass. If I don’t move, keep glued to this moment, to this spot on the sidewalk, time will stop and there will be no future to lose him in.
He turns suddenly, squints through the window. He knows he’s being watched. I have no choice. I grab the handle and push the door open. The perfume of leather and glue and vinegar glass cleaner makes my eyes water.
“Hello.” I sound croaky, cautious.
He nods as he anchors a stack of receipts with a green glass paperweight. He does not ask what I’m doing here.
“How are you today?”
He looks up sharply. “Fine!”
I twist my hair, helpless for what to say next. The backroom curtain hangs open. Daddy’s shoe repairman, Carl, has left for the day. “Do you… uh, need help with anything?”
“Nope.”
“How are the new Kansas City store plans coming along?” I wince. The question is so out of the blue, so idiotic and phony-sounding.
He shrugs, which could mean Okay or Can’t you see I’m busy or Get lost, Iris.
I turn, bump the counter. Shoeboxes clatter to the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry, I just…” I straighten the mess, swipe my eyes. “I’ll see you soon—around five, then.”
He glances at the clock and says not one word when I walk out the door.
“Bye, Daddy.”
On the way home I plan how I’ll move the letter to the top of the mail stack so he can’t miss it. I’ll be right there to help him when he reads it.
I shudder. A long-ago scene pops into my mind. At Mama’s funeral he said “I’m sorry” to her doctor. I thought it was strange, even then, him apologizing for her not getting well. That’s why he got rid of most all her belongings except the secretary desk, as though her hatpins and stockings had tuberculosis too. To him, illness is weakness. He still stiffens when I sneeze, scowls at every cough.
My hands turn icy. I cannot imagine how he will ever admit that being sick could happen to him.
But now he will finally need me for something… to help him get well.
My eyes fill with tears. He has got to get well.
My father sorts the mail, gives me a glance when he spots the letter, but doesn’t open it. All through dinner—round steak and beets that I cannot eat—I long for him to ask me his usual string of tired questions: How is piano coming along, Iris? I don’t take piano anymore. How are your marks in ancient history? That was last quarter. But he just chews, dabs his whiskers with the napkin, and reads the classified ads neatly folded by his plate.
It’s maddening. But tonight, if he’d only ask, I’d answer his questions ten times in detail. I’d act interested in anything—used cars, the latest reverse-leather boot styles, profit projections, even his gaudy girlfriend, Celeste.
When the dishes are done, while I pretend to do my Latin homework, he sits at his desk studying the shoe section of a Sears and Roebuck catalog, complaining about “cheap mail-order shoes that don’t hold up to the elements.” Finally he slices the envelope with his brass knife. I cross my arms and wait. He reads the letter twice, moving his head ever so slightly back and forth as the news pulls him along. Daddy clears his throat and rubs his whiskers, his face flushed. He slides the medical report in his drawer, drums his fingers. “I’m going by Celeste’s,” he remarks without looking up. “I’ll be later than usual.” He scrapes his chair back and walks out.
The engine revs. The car door slams.
I burst into tears on the porch swing, my heart a knot.
“Meet me, Leroy, please,” I whisper into the phone minutes later. “Our spot.”
And he does.
A breeze lifts wisps of his messy red hair. He picks chips of dusty green paint off the picnic table we always sit on while I spill my story. “He just left to tell Celeste… first.” I bury my face.
“Who’s she?”
“You know… his latest lady friend.”
Leroy leans back on his elbows, studies the dusky sky. “You’re saying he just rushed out the door to tell his girlfriend that he is going to die?”
“Yes.”
“Uh… Iris?” Leroy bumps my arm. “How do you know it’s a medical report? Did you read it? I mean, you’ve already turned him into a memory!”
My insides feel wild. We sit silent a miserably long time. “You’ve got this all blown up. It could be something else.” He puts his handkerchief in my hand, swallows hard. “This death stuff you always dream up… you’re kinda morbid.”
The word settles over me. Something shifts inside. I swipe my cheeks. “Did I hear you call me morbid?”
“Yeah.”
“So just one stupid word explains me?” I take a sharp breath, wave my hands. “My father is dying, but oh… never mind, Iris is just being her old morbid self again!”
Leroy doesn’t move.
My words crackle between us. “Shut up about stuff you don’t know, Leroy. Maybe you forgot that I only have one person left to make a family with. Not like you.” I count on my fingers. “Let’s see—two parents, three sisters, dogs, rabbits, and God knows what else. So, of course, you wouldn’t get it. But in my family, everybody’s dead except Daddy. I have to care about him. He’s it!”
“Iris?” Leroy looks at me, amazed, and with something else… awe? “How’d you do it?”
I lash the word. “What?”
“Change so fast from morbid… to mad?”
“Shut up, Leroy.”
“Wow. I mean it. Mad’s good. Don’t you shut up, Iris. Stay mad. It beats morbid any day.”
We sit there staring at each other, but for some reason this silence between us feels strong and full and worth listening to.
“You’ve gotta read it,” Leroy says finally. “Maybe he’s a doctor of something else, like a reverend, and your dad’s getting married, or…”
A crow hops by pecking the new grass. It looks up at me with a beady eye, cocks its head—Iris Baldwin, go read that letter.
Leroy slides off the table, grabs my arm. “Let’s go!”
“Reading someone’s mail is a crime,” I whisper as we rush across my front porch.
“I know that.”
“So’s breaking into somebody’s desk,” I say, holding the front door open for Leroy.
He smiles down at me and says in a singsong voice, “Let’s do please shut up.”
It feels like a little crime just having him in the parlor. He has never stepped foot inside when nobody else is home. He seems taller in here than outside. His eyes sweep the room, rest on Daddy’s desk.
I pull the drawer h
andle. Without stopping to think, I open the envelope. A photograph of me flutters to the floor. I turn to Leroy. “Oh, my God, it’s not Daddy who’s dying, it’s me! The doctor could tell just from my picture.”
Leroy’s eyes are saucers. “Iris! You’re nuts.” He holds the picture to the light. “You don’t look sick, you look…” His neck turns pink, he points to the paper. “Just read it out loud.”
I take a deep breath.
April 21, 1926
Dear Mr. Charles Baldwin,
Thank you for your response to my inquiry in the Atchison Daily Globe. As stated, the position includes housekeeping duties, daily nursing care, and companionship for my elderly mother, who is ill and confined to a wheelchair…
My ears ring. I can’t hear the words. I turn the page over, certain I am reading the wrong side.
…room and board will be provided …
My voice wavers. Leroy touches my elbow.
Enclosed is the rail schedule to Wellsford and the photograph of Iris you sent.
Employment will begin June 1 and continue through Labor Day.
Cordially,
Avery Nesbitt, M.D.
I hear Leroy’s breath quicken, feel him watch me fold the letter and scrape the drawer shut. The words punch through the haunted fog in my mind. Daddy’s not sick. He’s not dying. He’s fine. He’s launched this secret plan so he and Celeste can go to Kansas City for the summer and open the new store without me.
In a flash I am outside and halfway down the block.
Leroy is right behind me, but I do not turn around. One sorry look, one wrong remark from him, and I’ll shatter. I dread that he’s going to try and cheer me up, gloss over the fact that my perfectly healthy father has mistaken me for a piece of furniture that doesn’t fit in his house, his life, anymore. If Leroy says one tiny nice thing about Daddy, I swear I will explode.
“Iris, slow down.”
I don’t. I could march straight across the Missouri River right now and not get wet.
“Iris. Hold up for a second.”
I stomp to the end of another block. Then stop with my back to him. I plant my feet—one, two.
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