Dear Grace,
It was both unexpected and wonderful to receive your letter. I admit that it sat unopened for quite a few days until Walter (gently) admonished my faint-heartedness. After reading it, I told him my tears were of joy at hearing from you, which he believed, sweet man that he is. Then I quickly retreated to my room where for the first time in years, I sobbed like a child. I suppose I’ve spent the better part of three decades blurring my lens into the past, or at least giving a softer hue to my part in the darkest of those days. But your questions—well-grounded and reasonable—unearthed forgotten details as if I were developing a roll of film. Your small, delighted face pressed against the train window, mother dabbing that tattered hanky against her damp forehead, our final hours together. You deserve honest answers and I will do my best. Though many details emerge like photographs, a few are a bit hazier, on which I blame the shock. How young we were, and how impossibly unprepared.
________
We left Sandy Hook April of 1907. I stared out the train window, clouds scudding across the sky like white claws. Beside me, you pressed your little cherub face into the glass, hot breath blooming in short intervals. We covered our ears at the cacophonous orchestra of squealing steel and steam as we hurtled forward, shrieking with the thrill of it! It was, of course, our first time venturing beyond our town of 86 people—or possibly 85 given how feeble old Mr. Edmonds had been the last we’d seen him.
The novelty of new faces and sounds was intoxicating and I strained to absorb everything. The smell of leather and lemon oil, passengers chattering indistinctly, a sturdy woman with a pinched face in a linen checkered dress beside a broad-shouldered man with a bushy mustache. I clearly remember the squawks of children followed quickly by irritated shushing, the intermittent drafts of warm air, your lily-white curls dancing as you peered out the window. Fiery red maple groves flashed by, then a calf lurching at its mother’s udder, then open fields that stretched to the horizon.
Father had wandered off with a squat, dark-haired man the moment we’d boarded and with Mother quietly curled up across the aisle, it felt briefly like we were traveling just the two of us. With all the commotion, is it a wonder that I missed her labored wheezing? In the days leading up to our departure, she’d dismissed shortness of breath and pallor as exhaustion. Her once springy blonde curls sagged listlessly around her shoulders, but could it have been the heat? The piercing blue of her eyes had notably dulled, but could it have been the grief? We were all mourning Stanley, stillborn, just weeks prior. We’d kissed his blue cheeks, surprisingly warm and damp, before Father placed him in the ground. I’d squeezed your clammy hand to keep you from wondering aloud why he was being covered in dirt. Mother, still draped in quilts, held a hand over her mouth. She rocked silently back and forth, perhaps already resigned to abandon her graveyard of children.
After many hours huddled together on the train, the initial delight of traveling gave way to ennui and hunger. Mother’s inhales grew shallower, punctuated by wheezy barks that jerked her shoulders forward. You had fallen asleep finally and so I slid in beside Mother to inspect her more closely. How damp and peaky she’d grown. Only slivers of her blue eyes were visible, too watery to focus. Her lips parted slightly, admitting shallow breaths. I held myself upright at an angle away from those fraught lungs, as if the distance could protect me from understanding what I knew was happening. I did the only thing I could, pray. And fiercely so, begging God to save our young mother. I imagined myself back home, gathered at her feet as she read to us from the big picture Bible, weeping reverently, and ending every lesson with Lord, make my little girls vessels of honor unto yourself to which we all responded, Amen. Even Father on the rare occasion he was home.
Mama, I whispered. A tiny whimper in response.
I pressed my hand to the side of her arm which was wrapped beneath a shawl despite the ambient warmth.
Mama, again, slightly louder this time, the pitch thinner.
What’s wrong? You joined us, hand on my leg, eyes wide and lips downturned as you looked from Mother to me.
I was short with you. Mother’s resting, it’s okay. Go sit down, and guided you firmly back to your seat.
Another wild hack jolted us. Mother’s lungs clambered for air, her long lean body curled into itself, eyes squeezed shut and moisture collecting at her temples. Mama, we pleaded when the spell finally subsided, tears welling.
Her complexion had further paled into a neutral, milky color. I glanced around at the other passengers, unsure of what to do and wishing Father would appear. A plump older woman in a tan linen dress, hands folded over a small handbag, was nodding off. Her head would slump forward, then she’d startle and look around, only to do it again within seconds. Beside her, a little boy of maybe seven bounced in his seat, wispy brown bangs rebounding in time, knobby legs jutting out beneath knee length shorts. He turned around just as I was staring and we made eye contact. I felt repelled by his joy and looked away.
Tears spilled hotly down my cheeks. I clamped a hand over my mouth to muffle the whimpers. Mama, say something.
Clara, what’s wrong? You again, voice quivering this time, your little hands intertwined beneath your chin. You could have been a figurine, one of the angels in the nativity scene at church left up all year collecting dust. I shushed you and opened my arms into which you climbed and clung, hot breath against my neck.
So? Father said, stumbling suddenly through the train car passage, grabbing each seat back as he teetered toward us. His auburn hair oily and gray eyes sunken.
He motioned for us to get up, which we did, then heaved himself beside Mother. He leaned close to her face for a few seconds, then burst out, No! His large mouth opened wide as he rocked silently, then cried out in gasps, face buried in his palms, heaves escaping, whispering No. Then, No no no with long sobs. From across the small aisle, we watched, stunned. I’d never seen Father cry. In truth, he was rarely around but for Sundays and holidays since he spent his weeks working oxen away from home. Your body tightened in my arms every time he wailed. I could feel my own features shriveling beneath an invisible grip. Mother’s head swayed gently in his trembling hands but her stare was blank and broad, unmoving. He adjusted the tattered blankets around her shoulders with a tenderness so uncharacteristic that I flushed at the intimacy of it. At last, Father whispered something against her cheek as he draped a palm over her eyes, closing the lids. Then he collapsed into her lap, arms wrapped around her legs, his weeping muffled.
My heart stopped.
Behind Mother’s slumped head, light reflected against the metal sill, spangling it.
Time blurred like the red maples flashing in and out of view, pulling into a train depot in what seemed like only seconds later. Two men in black uniforms arrived and began gathering Mother, one younger and the other with a grizzled beard and grim expression.
Wait here. Father slurred over his shoulder, voice thin and tinny as his side glanced off the doorway.
I heard anguished yowls and turned to you before realizing that they were coming from my own mouth. I clutched your hand as we stood and watched the two men carrying Mother down the aisle, her feet dragging, then down the steps onto the platform, retreating out of view. Father shambling in tow.
Where are they going? You finally whispered. I had no recourse but to hug you, and, though usually a squirmer, you surrendered. I felt like we were marionettes, arms loosely intertwined, tangled strings, forsaken and waiting to be performed. I didn’t know how to move without Mother.
Just then the little boy with the wispy brown hair appeared.
Was that your mom? Is she dead? Then without pausing, My mom and dad are both dead. In heaven, Grandma says. That’s how come I’m with her now. We’re going to live with my uncle and the Indians. He emphasized the last word, lowering his chin and raising his eyebrows.
In Indiana. From her seat a few feet up, his grandmother corrected, not even turning around. Not with the Indians. How many times I gotta tell you that. Leave them be.
Sighing, he stepped closer. I’m Charlie. Then, You hungry?
You were and said so without pause.
Follow me, he whispered and grateful for the clear instruction, we did.
The train whistled several times and shuddered its hulking body into motion. Through the window I could see Father scrambling across the platform, bottle in hand, lurching from wall to railing until he reached the slowly moving steps and cast himself aboard. I’d learned early on not to test his ill-tempered limits. Better yet, to make myself scarce when the firewater appeared, as Mother called it.
We hurried past Charlie's grandmother without making eye contact and heard, Boy what have I told you about prancing around this train? You best believe I will get out my belt if I have to… Her voice trailed off as we unlatched the door and collected in the enclosed vestibule between cars. We hadn’t moved since boarding. When I imagine the warm air snapping through my hair, the whir and hustle of the wheels cascading along the trains, I mostly remember feeling overwhelmed. How it smelled strongly of dust and grease, of creosote, like burning wood and hot metal. How I grabbed your hand as you sidled up to the edge and peered over. How you let out a wild cry and then I screamed too, my body beginning to shudder uncontrollably. I gripped the railing and shook, heat spilling down my spine. What may have lasted only a minute stretched in time like hours. I wailed, letting the wind whip into my mouth and over my face and carry with it the shattered, feral pieces of my grief.
In those minutes between cars, howling like a child being born or mother bearing one, I stepped between selves and emerged a different twelve year old. Steadier, somehow, bearing the weight of anguish. It wasn’t the way I’d begun to fill out my dress, or how the farmhands seemed to gaze at me with more interest that intimated the subtle shift from childhood to adolescence. It wasn’t even the moment that Mother died, when if anything, I felt like a newborn swaddled in my own cavernous ineptitude. All the chores and prayers and lessons, even the scoldings and lashings, none of it had prepared me to feel like both an orphan and a parent, to you.
If Charlie had been alarmed by the racket, he didn’t appear so. Perhaps a tacit understanding of loss? And also, young boys love to make a lot of noise, I knew this. Come on! He said as he unclasped the latch to the connecting car and leapt inside. I helped you up the step and slid the lever closed behind me. We followed him as inconspicuously as possible, moving quickly without running. Three more cars, hearts racing as we scurried. I could feel eyes on us but no one said anything.
This is the dining car for rich folk, he whispered, eyes shining, as he pulled the latch to the fourth car.
Are we allowed? I asked, suddenly concerned at how furious Father would be if he knew we were sneaking around. I cringed, recalling the last time I’d gotten the oxen whip, barely able to walk without wincing for two days after.
I’ve been before, he said, which wasn’t really an answer but I was struck with hunger. We hadn’t eaten anything since a breakfast of sulphured apples, and it must have been at least midday. You looked pleading and I felt a new resolve and pluck surge through me. I was in charge. Following him inside, we were greeted by red velvet upholstery, buttoned with brass rings, the smell of moist mahogany and fried hand pies, steaming sausage, the quaint clinking of glass and murmur of pleasant conversation. We stood, you and I, our scuffed leather booties bolted in place, starkly contrasted by the plush cream runner. Even you gathered how out of place we were and scooted closer to my hip, hiding your face slightly but still peering out.
That’s how we found Amelia. She looked up from her large wide brimmed cartwheel hat, her hazel almond-shaped eyes softening as she saw you. Her lips parted, butter knife held frozen in her delicate hand, exhaling a gasp I thought I could hear from across the car. She never looked up from your face and I moved a protective hand around your shoulder, startled.
A rangy, middle-aged train attendant with auburn hair approached and curtly said, Excuse me. You can’t be in here. He issued a few sharp clicking noises with his tongue and fluttered his hands so as to shoo us back out the door.
Wait! Amelia’s bell-like voice rang out. She slowly stood from her table, causing her husband to turn around and follow her gaze. His clean-shaven chin pressed against the high round collar of his white shirt, as he looked from her face to ours. They were as handsome a couple as I had ever seen. She pressed one hand against her belly, the pale pink silk blouse puckering against her fingers in an otherwise flawless silhouette. A shadow of pain flitted over her face before she smiled at you, then her cheeks blushed, her warmth emanating so near to us that my breath caught in my throat. As she glided closer, a few tendrils of blonde hair escaped a low pompadour. When only a foot away, she knelt down, her dark olive gored skirt elegantly ballooning around her. It’s alright, she said to the attendant, whose lips pursed tautly as he bowed his head in acquiescence and then with a supercilious glower in our direction, turned and strode to the front.
Hello darling, she said to you, nearly singing, her voice so mellifluous. Only then did she glance up at me and then Charlie. How intoxicating to be huddled around such a beautiful woman, reminiscent of Mother, if only a more a sophisticated, satin-adorned version. Candid kindness was their shared language, the way Mother smiled when I finished knitting my first shawl, missed loops, straggled ends and all.
Hello ma’am, you replied stepping away from my side. And there you were, a baby emerging into a child, guided by what I gathered was an innate longing of your own to be held.
Hello, she said again, and through an undiminished smile, tears welled up in her eyes.
Just then, her husband was beside us, a hand resting on her arm. Amelia, come darling. Would you children like something to eat? Of course we did. Yes, do join us! Amelia said giddily. To my surprise, you slid your hand into her open palm as if this were a routine affair and she, your trusted caretaker. While I didn’t fully grasp the reasons then, it stung. We both had dirty fingernails and tattered black stockings, but somehow you fit into her winsome world like a flaxen doll while my tawny complexion made me feel incongruous in this luminous place.
I’m Francis, but you can call me Frank. And my wife, Amelia. We slid into two benches, Charlie and I opposite Amelia and Frank with you between them. Just then, an ample woman approached, her black skin in astonishing contrast to the pressed white apron and collared shirt buttoned to her chin. Having only heard of colored folk, I stared even though I could hear Mother admonishing me for doing so. I watched her hand on the tongs lift a biscuit from a silver basket and place it on a small plate before me. When I turned to meet her deep round eyes, the whites like halos around mahogany discs, she lifted the corners of her plump lips slightly. Patiently.
I’m Charlie. That’s Grace and Clara, he blurted between mouthfuls, bits of jam clinging to his cheek.
Where are your parents? Amelia asked, studying each of us in turn.
They died, Charlie said without pause, reaching for a glass of orange juice and using both hands to carefully take a long sip.
Oh, Amelia whispered, lifting a hand to her mouth as if to resist saying more.
Grandma says they’re in heaven and we’re going to live with my uncle and the Indians, Charlie continued, repeating the fabrication as he shoveled down another biscuit.
Amelia turned to me. Is that so?
Charlie’s not our brother, I said quickly, affronted by his poor manners and making a point to spread a napkin across my lap. We’re going to Indiana. Staying with Mr. and Mrs. Moore while my Father looks for work. Our mother came as well… then she got sick.
Where is she now? Frank asked, brows furrowed slightly, hands clasped and forearms resting on the table.
They took her, you said, your chest rising and falling as you looked at Amelia.
She went to Heaven today, added Charlie ruefully.
Today? Amelia repeated, hunching down slightly to wrap a comforting arm around your shoulders. Oh darling. I’m terribly sorry. You leaned into her. How awful for you, she continued, stroking your hair. I clutched my clammy hands.
Frank waived the colored woman over once again and requested buttermilk tarts, honied ham slices and more fresh squeezed orange juice. My mouth watered. The steaming ham and sundry pastries arrived with baffling speed.
I was reluctant to eat at first, but after one bite, a depthless chasm of hunger couldn’t be sated quickly enough. We gorged, oblivious at the time to how Frank and Amelia continued to fill our plates. What a respite. When we finally leaned back, Charlie let out a belch, slapping a hand over his mouth in dismay. You giggled, which prompted Amelia to follow suit, and soon we were all in stitches. It was the first time I could remember laughing in so long that the release sent shivers through me. My sides shook, you clapped and squealed and Amelia’s bright smile animated her tidy features. When the spell subsided, my body sagged—exhausted, satisfied, and yet inconsolably heartsick.
I admitted we should find Father. Amelia’s face fell and she offered to tell us a story before we parted. Please can we stay here? You implored, but I didn’t want Father to worry about us and said so. Frank placed a conciliatory hand on Amelia’s arm, a frequent gesture I noticed, and conceded that we should go so as to not get in trouble. Please do come back for a late supper—or dessert, Amelia said to you then waved her eyes over Charlie and me. All of you, of course. It’s wonderful to have company.
Her silvery voice had a pleading lilt. She embraced you, her long fingers gently stroking your curls, your back. I could nearly feel the caress on my own skin and hairs of pleasure rose along my arms and neck. Mother had been loving, but affection had long given way to fatigue from scrubbing, sweeping, carrying wood, milking our sleepy heifer Lydia (do you remember her?), patching threadbare garments, and keeping us all fed.
Your drowsiness settled weightily and I had to carry you. If Father had been there, he might have carried us both as he had once when you were just a baby and I’d twisted my ankle running in the field. Charlie chattered in tow as we made our way back to our seats. I told ya we’d get fed. Wasn’t that something? All that ham! And biscuits! Don’t tell Grandma, she’ll be red hot mad if she knew I went back there.
But it wasn’t his grandmother’s temper with which we’d reckon. When we returned to our car, Father was hunched forward in his seat, narrow and unblinking eyes fixed on us as we entered. Charlie slunk beside his sleeping grandmother, what luck, and I tucked you behind me as made our slow approach.
Where ha’you been? He said, barely audible, the phrase slurred together into one word. A tangy odor stretched around him, sweat and whiskey. His dusty face was streaked with tear lines and his eyes were bloodshot.
I said, where you been? He growled, slow and low, and reached for my arm.
Alarm rippled along my skin, bilious and prickly. I stepped back, knocking into you. We went for a walk, I replied thinly. He grabbed my arm and yanked me toward him so abruptly that I felt a searing twinge along my shoulder. Don’t you lie to me.
I’m sorry Father! I blurted, trying to withdraw.
You don’t think I got enough to worry about? He hissed. It all happened so fast. His giant calloused hands enclosed my scrawny shoulders. He began shaking me with such vigor that my vision blurred and his words faded incoherently. I remember your ambient cries swelling as I descended into a tunnel of pain. Then darkness.
I thought of Mother. She would have ushered us outside in time. I could feel the dank ground beneath my bare feet as we sprinted, you and I, to hide in the bramble fort we’d built last summer beside the graveyard. Our toes in the cool branch water, making twig piles and pretending to be mud maidens until the sun finally descended and we wandered home in the pink dusk light. How we tip-toed passed him, snoring on the porch chair, into Mother’s outstretched arms. Her swollen bruised face pressed against our cheeks, our mouths nearly touching, as she whispered prayers to God, to which we all responded, in unison, Amen.
When I pried open my eyes, dizzy, clouds revolved out the train window. My right hip felt leaden and I lifted a head to see you curled against my lap, arms wrapped around my waist. A dull ache seethed from my neck down my shoulders, and my feet smarted and tingled from lack of circulation. Father was snoring across the aisle, flask still in hand, mouth agape and shirt disheveled.
Grace? I whispered, gently jiggling your shoulder.
You mumbled sleepily and then looked up at me through a moist veil of tears as if they’d continued to come even in slumber. Scooting closer, you tucked your head into my sore neck and we sat there for a long time in silence.
The train pulled into a platform, screeching and gasping to a halt. Father started, glancing around vaguely. His eyes settled on us, squinting into focus. He swayed slightly, licking at his cracked lips. He looked out the window behind us and then swiveled to peer out his. This is Wabash County, he said to me. My stop. Do you remember what to do?
I swallowed to clear my dry throat. Grace and I stay on for one more stop. We go into town and ask for Mr. Moore at the corner shop where we’ll stay until you come get us.
Father nodded then clenched his jaw. Be good. You hear me?
Yessir, we both said. I noticed a reddish imprint on your forearm, a trace of dark purple along one edge.
Then Father got up and tottered down the aisle out the back door of the car without another word.
You got whupped. Charlie appeared. My grandmother said I’d get a beatin too if I wandered off again. But she’s always sayin things like that. Doesn’t do nothin.
We didn’t say anything, just watched Father collecting a trunk outside and then trudging down the platform into a small swarm of people. Your father is big, Charlie said. Way bigger than my daddy was. Scarier too. Scary like my uncle—he’d get real mad. Once he beat my cousin so bad he nearly killed him. All for leaving the back gate open.
I looked at him, his words resonating throughout my aching body like a divine warning. I swore I felt you tremble. I longed for Mother, for her lemony smell and water-worn hands busy folding and stirring, for her to tell us a Bible story that would teach me how to act in God’s likeness. I thought of Amelia and how she’d stroked your small back and hair, imagining the softness of her fingers. How gently she’d wrapped you in her arms just minutes before Father’s great temper had swallowed us.
Let’s go get dessert! They said we could, Charlie said and you looked at me with wide eyes and said breathlessly, Please can we?
I agreed, wondering how much time we had before our next stop. Hot pangs sprung through my back as we hurried toward the dining car. The decor shifted from stark slatted wood and metal to gold textiles and lavish fixtures.
As if she’d never left, Amelia rose quickly from her seat when we slid open the door. She waved us to the table which already hosted a spread of berry tartlets and fresh cream. With childlike radiance, she cradled your face with her hands and remarked how precious you were, presumably to Frank but almost to no one in particular. Just like our Annabelle, she whispered with the same reverence Mother would speak of Stanley and the others. Like an angel.
Her smile vanished when she noticed the bruises on your arm.
Are you alright, Grace? She asked, concern pursing her brows.
Their daddy got real mad, Charlie said, then, Can I have one of these? He pointed to a pastry with blueberry syrup purling from the middle.
Yes yes. Frank slid the plate over. Then flashed a concerned look from me to you. Does he get mad often?
I shrugged, embarrassed at the question. Amelia glared at your arm, then looked closely at my neck and inhaled sharply, sitting upright as if to regain composure. No, she said softly, then repeated it louder. No, Frank. It can’t be. Mother gone and their father is…
The words dangled unspoken, gloom descending on us.
It’s unfair, she insisted. Even Charlie stopped chewing.
Amelia, darling. Please. Again, Frank’s reassuring touch, but she withdrew.
Annie’s old room, just empty, she said, dabbing a napkin at the corner of her eyes, then looked at you. Dolls and clothes, sitting there. You would love them. She lightly stroked the bruise on your arm and I saw you relax.
Don’t fret darling, Frank said mildly to Amelia. You need rest.
Yes, you’re right. I must. It’s been a long day. I’m not myself. She leaned back, taking a deep breath, and closing her eyes. You snuggled into her side which made her smile. And with that, the atmosphere shifted once again to a sweeter current. I shimmied another bit of rhubarb pie onto my fork, grinning as I chewed, the velvety dough and tart preserve dissolving all discomforts. The heat and sweets had their way with you as well and within minutes you were deeply asleep, Amelia’s arm cradling your neck.
Well we’re in Indiana by now, Frank said, his warm brown eyes meeting mine. What is your stop then?
I finished chewing with my mouth closed like a proper lady and swallowed slowly. I looked out the window at the sugar maples, their buds dangling in bright green clusters. Rays of sunlight spread from the clouds to the earth like a ladder to Heaven. As if Mother had whispered in my ear, I suddenly understood what I must do.
I should see about that, I said quietly. Can Grace stay while I check? She’s so tired. I wouldn’t want to wake her.
Yes of course, don’t worry, Amelia assured me. We’ll take care of her.
I’m still eating, Charlie said, grabbing another pastry to Frank’s amusement.
Thank you, I said, standing. I looked at your precious face, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, eyes flitting beneath heavy lids, curls collecting like a crown of lilies. Lord, make my girls vessels of honor unto yourself, Mother’s voice echoed, and I bowed my head goodbye.
My body felt shepherded through the cars, limbs guided by an unseen instrument. A sprawling river wound its way into view, geese roaming along the banks, dipping their black necks into the high water. I thought of the graveyard, slithering our muddy toes along the stream shoal, how we fancied ourselves swamp fairies. How you believed anything was possible.
The train slowed, its pneumatic brakes hissing stridently. Large painted white letters spelled “Fort Wayne County Train Depot” along an impressive red brick structure. With a final gasp, it came to a halt. I lifted the lever and slid open the door. I closed my eyes, feeling for your small hand in mine, Mother’s in the other, and stepped outside alone.
________
Grace, that’s how I remember it. You mentioned in your letter that you might visit in the summertime. I hope you do. It seems as though we have a lifetime to catch up on.
With love,
Clara
© 2021 Jessica Rounds.
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