Tied to the Tracks

by Rosina Lippi

  ELEVEN

  By rights I might have been Miss Maddie’s brother-in-law, because my eldest brother Moses intended to marry her. He told Daddy so just before he went off to Korea, but he didn’t come back. Ever since the two sisters have kept house together. If you can get Miss Maddie to invite you to Sunday dinner, I’d be pleased to come along too. I’ll bet I can get her to tell some stories she keeps for special, and I’ve got a few of my own to share. Some of them are even true.

  Your name: Alfred White. I took early retirement from the railroad on account of my bad knees, so most days you’ll find me on the Liar’s Bench outside the barbershop.

  At three o’clock on Saturday afternoon, just when Angie was starting to believe that she might actually survive her hangover, the doorbell rang. Rivera, who had fallen asleep on the couch with a book on her lap, didn’t even flinch at the sound. Angie might have ignored it, too, but then an image came to mind of a still-drunk Tab Darling come back to find Tony, this time with a shotgun.

  She unfolded her legs with some difficulty and made it to the door, where she found Rob and Kai Grant. Until that moment she had forgotten completely about Kai’s car, but the keys were still on the windowsill where she had put them.

  “Come for your Mini?”

  “We have an invitation for you,” said Kai, lifting herself up on her toes in her excitement. “We are having an opened house. Will you come?”

  “We just bought a house,” Rob interjected, grinning.

  “Time for a celebration,” Kai agreed.

  Angie said, “Now?” And: “Oh, I don’t—”

  “Come on,” said Rob. “It’ll be fun.” He took the keys that Angie offered, tossed them in the air, and caught them again.

  The two of them reminded Angie of kids on their way to a prom, which was both a little unfair and oddly right. More than that, she had the idea that they would come across in exactly the same way when they had been married fifty years.

  “Right now?”

  “No time like the present,” said Rob. “We’re paying rent until we can close, so the place is ours. You got something better to do on a Saturday night than come to a party with old friends?”

  Angie heard Rivera’s feet hit the floor.

  “Party?”

  “Oh, come along, too,” Kai called. “Please come to our opened house, it will be good fun.”

  “I never say no to a party,” said Rivera.

  “But I—” Angie started, and felt Rivera’s hand on her shoulder.

  “—and neither will Angie. Can we ride with you?”

  Rob took off in one direction in the Mini and the three women got into his old Volvo, Rivera in the front and Angie spread out on the backseat.

  “We’ll stop at the liquor store,” Kai announced, then she hit the gas and they were off, roaring down the street. Angie didn’t know if it was the idea of more alcohol or the way Kai was driving, but she was just about to lose the little bit she had eaten when they pulled, screeching, into the parking lot of the liquor store, which was called Dewey’s Package for reasons Angie hadn’t been able to pinpoint.

  Kai was kind enough to park in the shade, and the breeze was cool. The smart thing to do, Angie decided, was to spend a few minutes lying right where she was. She propped her head on a book called Complex Algebraic Surfaces, put an arm over her eyes, and tried to remember how to breathe while she contemplated the evils of alcohol.

  “Pardon me, miss?” The voice was deepest Georgia, baritone and hesitant. She moved her arm and opened one eye, squinting into the bright.

  From this angle the guy looked to be seven feet tall and built like a refrigerator. Blond hair, green eyes, deeply tanned; Angie decided he could have been the model for every prince Disney had ever drawn, right down to his smile, which made him look like a sweet if somewhat dim ten-year-old. And he was a cop, by his uniform.

  Either he was after Kai for her driving, or Angie was violating some local law, sleeping in the backseat of a car. In any case she could hardly work up any real worry, because the cop was smiling at her in a way cops in New Jersey never smiled unless you were related to them.

  “Yes?” She couldn’t quite make herself sit up, but she did manage what she hoped would be taken for a smile.

  “Are you Angeline Mangiamele?”

  She sat up after all while he kept talking. “I thought you must be, I’ve heard you described so often. I’m Winfield Walker? Win to my friends. I called and left a message with your coworker—”

  “Rivera,” Angie finished for him. She reminded herself not to stare at the man they had been calling Reverend Win behind his back.

  “I just wanted to introduce myself,” he said. He stuck his hand through the open window, and Angie shook it. Firm, warm, but not sweaty, big. And Patty-Cake’s nephew.

  “I think I had you confused with somebody else. I thought you were a preacher.”

  He ducked his head. “You’re thinking of my cousin Walker. I might go for a deacon one day, but I don’t think I’ll ever be as hard-shell as he is.”

  Angie thought, Is that good or bad? and What a waste, which made her a little ashamed of herself, which didn’t sit well on an already uneasy stomach.

  “Wait,” she said. “Let me—” She reached for the door just as he opened it. She managed to get out without falling on her face.

  “You’re looking a little green around the gills,” said Win Walker. “Can I get you some water?”

  He had other things to offer, too: aspirin, his grandfather Winfield’s recipe for hangover, and a ride home.

  “You should be in a dark room,” he said. “An air-conditioned, very dark room.”

  “For a Baptist you know a lot about hangovers,” Angie said.

  He ducked his head again, which may have been calculated to make him seem boyish and sincere, in which case it was a complete success. “I sowed my oats, and just about every other grain known to mankind, while I was at it.” Then he studied his shoes before he looked at her again. The beginnings of a blush were creeping over perfect cheek-bones.

  “Look,” he said, “you must know my aunt Patty-Cake has been after me to call on you.”

  “Yes,” Angie said. “That’s been brought to my attention.”

  “I’m sure you’re a good person and all—”

  “I’m agnostic,” Angie said. “And you’re not.”

  He had a great smile and perfect teeth. “I’m not one to be scared off so easy,” he said. “But truth be told, I’d just as soon not get wound up in whatever Patty-Cake is scheming.”

  “Me either,” Angie said. “But I’m finding her hard to avoid. She’s been sending my mail back as undeliverable.”

  “Well, damn.” He looked off into the distance, his jaw muscles working. “Leave it to Aunt Patty to mess with the mail.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We could call in the feds. Or would a stern talking-to satisfy you?”

  “Please, no,” Angie said. “I’ll handle the mail thing on my own. You just tell your aunt that we gave it a try and didn’t suit, and that will be the end of it.” And: “It’s not very nice of you to look so relieved. You could at least pretend to be disappointed.”

  “Oh, it’s too early to be disappointed,” said Win Walker. “I’m still planning on asking you out. Just so you understand it’s got nothing to do with Patty-Cake.”

  His attention shifted, and Angie turned to see that Kai and Rivera were walking toward them pushing a cart filled to overflowing with cartons and bottles.

  Kai called, “Win! I am so glad to see you. Will you come to our opened house?”

  It was a very nice house, simple in design, only a few years old, and blessedly air-conditioned, which suited Angie very well on this first day of July. For the moment it was furnished with a scattering of upended crates and a dozen mismatched lawn chairs, one of which Angie claimed and dragged to a corner, out of the stream of people pouring through the door. Her headache had begun to recede but would
be back howling if she pushed things.

  “Hair of the dog,” Rivera said, stopping by to press a plastic cup into her hand. Angie put it down where nobody would knock it over and thought of getting up to get water.

  Rivera was weaving through the crowd, talking to everybody. Parties were Rivera’s natural habitat, and this one looked promising. People came in bearing platters of chicken and cold cuts, bowls of salad, filled coolers, watermelons, Jell-O molds. Father Bruce showed up, peeking around a huge twenty-pack of toilet paper topped with a red bow. Everyone was talking to everyone, and loudly. Kai and Rob, both of them glowing with excitement and pleasure, moved back and forth from door to kitchen to stairs, eager to open closet doors and describe plans for the garden, the kitchen, the third bedroom they would turn into a study. All of this meant that Angie would be able to slip away within the hour, and maybe even before John showed up. She was gearing up for a long walk across town when Win Walker found her and hunkered down beside her creaky lawn chair.

  ““You’ve got to be dehydrated,” he said.

  “True,” Angie said. “But I’m not courageous enough to go looking for the kitchen.”

  “No need.” He handed her a cup of ice water. “Anything else I can do for you? Introduce you around?”

  “That would take all night. Is there anybody not here?”

  Win glanced around the room. “Kai and Rob are well liked. I think everybody in Ogilvie came to their wedding.” He looked at her. “Why do you look surprised?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not surprised. Just trying to figure things out. The whole South is a little strange to me, still. Probably would always feel that way if I stayed here the rest of my life.”

  It was an innocent enough thing to say, but Angie felt herself blushing. Maybe because Win Walker was looking at her so intently.

  “You know when I said before I didn’t want to get caught up in my aunt Patty-Cake’s scheming?”

  She nodded.

  He rubbed a thumb along his jaw. “That wasn’t the whole truth. I’m a little uncomfortable about people coming down here from way up north. I don’t see how you can make a film about Ogilvie, not with your background.”

  At least he was honest, which Angie found refreshing. She was sure other people must be thinking the same thing, but mostly they kept their worries hidden behind a heavy curtain of good manners and hospitality.

  “You might like it here, if you gave us a chance.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “I didn’t say that I don’t like it here. I like a lot of things about Ogilvie.”

  “Such as?”

  Angie rested her head on her hand and thought. “I like the way you all sit on your front porches and talk in the evening. I like the Liars’ Bench outside the barbershop, and I really like the men who sit there, the stories they tell. On Sunday mornings I like to watch tiny little old women with hats full of flowers—like parade floats, some of them—parallel parking huge old Cadillacs and Eldorados in front of the Assembly of God church. Like no-holds-barred bumper cars on the city street. I like spoon bread and grits and sweet tea. I like fried okra, but not boiled. I like pretty much everybody I’ve met. But I’ll admit to you that I don’t like everything.”

  He inclined his head, and Angie took a deep breath.

  “I don’t get this compulsion to put Coca-Cola into everything. Coca-Cola salad, what is that all about?”

  “I can see you’re not interested in a real discussion,” said Win Walker, “but I hope you’ll be fair, anyway, and not try to sell us to the world as another southern town full of crackers and rednecks.”

  He was a little angry, which made Angie tired and sorry she had ever got into the conversation. She also disliked being painted into a corner about a piece of work that was so early in its evolution. But it wouldn’t do any good—and it might do considerable harm—to leave Win Walker with the wrong ideas just because she was hungover and wasn’t feeling especially sociable.

  She said, “We’re not out to do a hatchet job, if that’s what you’re worried about, but we’re not here to make a tourist commercial, either. That’s not what documentary film is about.”

  For a long time they watched people walking by, though Angie could almost hear Win Walker thinking. Her irritation got the better of her, finally, and she turned to him.

  “Look,” she said. “I’ve been told that men down here don’t take well to criticism, but maybe you’re jumping the gun here a little, have you thought of that? A documentary is one way of telling a story, that’s all. We’ll work hard to get a clear picture and then we’ll tell it the way we see it. Good and bad. Bad and good.”

  There was a flicker of interest in his eyes. “So you’ll trot out the usual suspects, I guess. Racism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia. You’ll find all those things here, no denying it. But you’ve got them where you come from, too. Maybe people here are just more honest about their prejudices. Which makes it easier to chip away at them.”

  Angie said, “So how many gay people does your cousin Walker have in his congregation?” And then wished she hadn’t.

  He met her gaze straight on. “I don’t know. He’s not in the habit of discussing his parishioners’ private lives.”

  “How honorable. And convenient.”

  There was a burst of laughter on the other side of the room, the kind that meant someone was telling jokes, and telling them well. Angie caught sight of Father Bruce, who had one arm around Rivera’s shoulder. She was laughing so hard that tears ran down her cheeks.

  The last time Angie had seen Father Bruce was at Miss Junie’s birthday party. Behind his lopsided glasses his eyes were huge, sparkling, full of laughter. She wondered just then if Father Bruce, who had grown up in this town, knew about Miss Zula and Miss Anabel. If he had any idea about Rivera, and if he would care.

  “Maybe we should start again,” Win Walker said.

  Angie suddenly regretted pushing him. She was about to tell him so when the door opened and Caroline Rose came in. She was carrying a pie plate, and John was just behind her. Rob was right there to greet them, kissing Caroline’s cheek and then thumping John on the back, and then Father Bruce had come up to sniff at the pie. His put back his head and howled with glee.

  From the other end of the room an ancient stereo system hissed and then began playing “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.”

  “Y’all make room for dancing now,” somebody shouted. “Get out the way, Marcy has got her dancing shoes on.”

  Angie said, “I think what I need is some fresh air. Want to go for a walk?”

  Of all the odd things that had happened in the last day, John Grant thought, the oddest had to be the fact that it was Caroline who had insisted that they come to this party while he made excuses to stay home. He had given in, but standing just inside the front door of his brother’s new house, his strongest, almost irresistible urge was to back out and head for home.

  Caroline handed the sweet-potato pie over to Kai and took his hand. “Let’s dance.”

  “Let’s dance?” John let himself be pulled into the middle of the room. “What is up with you?”

  It was a question he had posed at least three times in the last few hours, and each time she had laughed it off, or found a way to change the subject. Now her cheeks were flushed with color and there was a strangely stubborn set to her jaw. Caroline wanted to dance, and for once she was asserting herself. Which was a good thing, of course.

  Except something else was going on, and he had the idea it had to do with Angie. Maybe Tab had told Caroline about finding him at Angie’s place, which was something he could explain easily enough. Nothing had happened, after all. As soon as the right words presented themselves, he would tell to Caroline all about it.

  I went over to Angie’s to settle things once and for all, he could say. I went over there to tell her—to convince myself—that what’s past is past. Those were exactly the words I was going to use, but somehow they never made it out
of my mouth. I went over there with the best of intentions—

  And that would be a lie, all of it would be a lie, so he had spent the whole afternoon with Caroline running errands, and hour by hour, it seemed more impossible to raise the subject. Instead they had made final decisions about floral arrangements and boutonnieres, gifts for the bridesmaids, and the menu for the wedding luncheon.

  Thomasina Chance was catering the luncheon, and so John found himself at the back of the restaurant at a table crowded with covered plates while Thomasina, her chef, and Caroline debated mahimahi with citrus vinaigrette versus roast pork tenderloin with a port wine demi-glace and St. Agur cheese. For an hour John tasted what was put in front of him: persimmon and pomegranate salad, apple wood-smoked duck breast, fennel and Stilton soup. Thomasina was a transplant from New Orleans, about fifty, well padded, with a big smile and large laugh, but she was dead serious about food. When somebody thought to ask John his opinion he gave it, but mostly he was happy to leave the decisions to Caroline. He would have felt guilty about this, if she didn’t seem to enjoy the whole process so much.