Railroad Man Page 11

  Marianne watched the pottery wheel turn and nodded. “That’s right. Let’s get started.”

  She threw handfuls of clay on the washboard next to the sink. She sprinkled water on the clay and kneaded it like dough until it was pliable. She flattened the clay with a rolling pin like a pie and made a small indention in the middle. She poured sand from a pitcher into the hole, worked it into the clay and said, “I add the sand a little at a time until the mixture is even.”

  I added, “Kinda like you make those delicious biscuits.”

  She grinned. “Yeah, kinda like that. Now we’re ready to put it on the wheel and shape it. I’ll show you how and then you can try.”

  She put the prepared clay in a finished clay pot with a lid. Marianne kicked the big wheel with her foot and threw the clump of clay from the pot on the spinning disc. Her long, tapered fingers skillfully molded the clay. She placed her thumbs in the center of the mound of clay, and the bowl began to grow taller and take the slender shape of a woman’s body. Then she let go and the bowl fell back into the original clump of clay on the spinning disc.

  “Now you try,” she said, giving me her spot at the wheel.

  I kicked the wheel to make the disc turn faster while Marianne washed her hands at the sink. “Huh, that was easy.”

  I gathered the clay in my hands as the wheel turned. It spewed up like an avalanche over my hands and dripped into a puddle around them. The clay molded me instead of the other way around.

  Marianne giggled. “Here,” she said, offering me a towel.

  I wiped the mud from my hands. “It’s harder than it looks.”

  Marianne smiled. “Maybe you don’t have the feel of it just yet. You can wash up over here.”

  “It won’t clog up?” I asked.

  She flashed a warm grin that made my heart leap. “No, it’s made not to do that. I’ll show you the weaving room. Then we’ll come back, and I’ll show you how it’s really done.”

  Marianne opened the door to a smaller adjoining room. Strands of clear, fine wool fiber hung from pegs attached to the weatherboard walls. A square wooden frame she called a warping board lay on a table built across the back wall. Above the table, an open cabinet with built-in cubbyholes displayed large spools of yarn in many colors.

  She sat on a brown leather bench in front of a wide wood frame. The fine wool strands were strung tightly across the wood frame. The loom filled the open space in the room. Its pedal-like feet fed the wool up through the wood frame like the strings on a piano. The fibers were strung tightly on a vertical frame that fed the strands onto the flat surface where she sat.

  Marianne used a wooden bobbin she called a shuttle to weave color into the clear wool. Her hands moved quickly, throwing the shuttle from one hand to the other, wrapping the clear thread base with the colored yarn, and then pulling a horizontal lever toward her to form each row of fabric. As she added one row after another, a large spool in back of the loom rolled the finished product away neatly as she worked. Marianne showed me how she loaded colored yarn to form the diamond-pattern for the rug and her shawl.

  Her hands flew as she worked. The fabric rolling onto the pin behind the loom was red with a gold stripe along each edge. “This will be another rug, a runner for the hallway. The loom is four feet across so I can make the runner in one piece. I had to sew the sections of the rug together for the sitting room.”

  “You look right at home sitting there.” I observed her capable hands at work and said, “Marianne, I don’t know if I could have given you the opportunity to explore your talents the way you have back here in these woods.”

  She stopped weaving, turned around, and looked out the window. “I think you’re right. Time and seclusion feed my creative spirit. If I’d lived in Atlanta, I may never have explored these crafts. I would have had no reason to. I may have been more like Flo.”

  I stifled a mock cough. “No, I could never see you spending your days at the beauty parlor thumbing through movie magazines.”

  She laughed. “No, I guess not. Do you have hobbies, Mick?”

  I leaned against the window sill and thought for a moment. “Not lately. Mother and I used to watch the birds, the way you and I did at Tern Lake. We’d play a game to see who could identify the species and gender first. That was fun and relaxing. I haven’t done anything like that in a long time.”

  Marianne tucked her legs in front of her and wrapped her long arms around her knees. “You should have a hobby at home, something that is just for you. What do you like to do other than bird watching?”

  “I really like the trains. I love my job more with each passing year. The engine is where I really feel at home. When I’m leading the way down the track, I feel in control of my life like I’m in control of the engine. Nothing can touch me then, unless I allow it to.”

  She continued to stare out the window. “I know what you mean. That’s how I feel about this place. Sometimes I feel like an outsider when I go into town. The distance between here and the outside world makes me feel safe.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I can see that. Say, would you make a piece of pottery for me from that clay we dug up? I’d love to take a piece of this place home with me.”

  She jumped up quickly. “Sure. Let’s do it!”

  Marianne sat at the pottery wheel. “What do you want?”

  I gave her my best smile. “I like that one you were making before, curvy like a woman’s body.”

  Marianne turned up her nose. “Mickey, you embarrass me.”

  Then she curved her lips and said, “Coming right up! While I’m constructing this fine work of art, will you fire up one of the kilns with the wood stacked out back?”

  I brought in the wood and built a fire in the lower portion of the kiln. Marianne’s hands formed a tall vase with slender curves that dipped slightly inward the way I imagined her naked body would look. Watching her at the pottery wheel, I knew that I’d make love to her that day.

  ***

  Later, when I held Marianne in my arms, I felt more at peace than I had since the days I slept in my mother’s lap. Marianne’s body fit snugly with mine and made me feel whole. Making love to her was as easy as talking to her or sitting in perfect silence across a table from her. Her touch spoke to me, compassionately and truthfully. She made me feel accepted and cherished. She was the only woman I ever loved intimately. The bond between us was so strong, I felt like nothing could ever break it.

  The next morning, I woke with my arms wrapped tightly around Marianne’s body. I breathed in the fresh scent of her hair and ran my lips down her throat. She reached her arm around me and tickled my back with her long fingers. The feel of them made me tingle all over. Her green eyes examined my face as she caressed it gently and placed tiny kisses along my cheekbone.

  She whispered in my ear, “You want to chase a bird?”

  I braced myself on the pillow with my elbow and laughed. “Chase a bird?”

  Her full lips curved into a smile. “I promise adventure.”

  “How can a man say no to an adventurous woman like you?”

  Marianne and I bundled up against the cold air that had returned during the night. She slung a pouch over her left shoulder and let it rest on her right hip. She stuffed a Kodak folding camera and a pair of binoculars in the pouch. The sun was rising as we stepped out the back door. It was one of those clear, cold days when the sun shines but no warmth comes from it. We took a path that led into the thick of the woods.

  Marianne breathed deeply, taking in the cold morning air and said, “I love walking in the woods this time of year. Nowhere for snakes and worse critters to hide, and it’s easy to spot a bird among the bare trees.”

  I followed a few steps behind and teased her. “Are you saying that there are worse critters than snakes?”

  “All day long, my friend,” she smiled back at me. “The bird we’re looking for is a Pileated Woodpecker. He’s very big, very shy, and very loud. We’ll probably hear him before we see him.” />
  Marianne glanced at her wrist watch. “I usually spot him around seven-thirty which is coming up in the next couple of minutes. He’s always on time but not always in the same place.”

  She gave the binoculars to me and pulled out the camera. “I’ve never tried to take a picture of him. I usually can’t get close enough.”

  I heard a dog bark and looked behind us. “Did the dogs follow us?”

  Marianne’s body tensed up. “That’s the bird. Get ready to run.”

  I searched the bare trees for the bird Marianne described. The bark came closer. The bird’s noise filled the silent stand of leafless trees. “Should I run away from it or toward it?” I asked.

  “Follow him!” Marianne hissed as she took off running.

  I stood still trying to see what she saw. “Follow what?”

  She put her finger to her lips and pointed straight ahead at a black bird with a bright white stripe shining under its open wing. The bird, larger than a buzzard or a hawk, skimmed the tops of fallen logs about four feet above the ground. He flew fast and low, his wide wingspan enabling him to fly quietly with little movement. I picked up speed, following Marianne who was trying to keep up with the barking bird. He finally settled in the top of a dead tree and started to pound the wood with his powerful beak. When the bird stopped, he stayed put for a while. I zoomed in on him through the binoculars, closing in on the determined black eye set in a brightly striped red and white face. The pointed head with a plume of red feathers on top gave him a distinct mark of beauty. The elusive woodpecker was one of the most beautiful birds I had ever seen and worth the chase.

  Marianne seemed intent on getting a photograph of the bird. The woodpecker let out a loud call and moved on to his next stopping place.

  Marianne turned and said, “Well, that’s that. I don’t think the lens on this camera is strong enough to capture images at a distance.”

  I made a mental note to buy Marianne a better camera when I returned to Atlanta. We continued our walk down the lane we used to ride to Tern Lake. The breeze blowing over the cold water made me shiver. The bird activity on the lake was quieter than I remembered.

  “Where are all the birds?” I asked.

  “They’re gone for the winter. Woodpeckers and other woodland birds are the main attraction this time of year.”

  Marianne pointed. “But look, there’s one.”

  I held the binoculars on a small blue bird sitting on a branch that hung over the lake. He was trimmed in white and had a bright red crest on his head. I continued looking at him and asked, “Is that the woodpecker’s little cousin?”

  Marianne laughed. “That’s a Kingfisher. Watch him dive for a fish.”

  I lowered the binoculars and watched the small bird skim across the water and come away with a wiggling morsel in its beak.

  Marianne said, “He won’t eat the fish now. He’ll take it to his nest and kill it before he eats it.”

  I nodded. “Well, that’s nice. That reminds me, some grits and biscuits would taste mighty fine about now.”

  Marianne and I walked back down the lane where I’d kissed her for the first time a lifetime ago. We held each other as we walked in perfect step and perfect happiness.

  I stayed with Marianne the next week and the week after that. I looked forward to coming home to her loving arms and simple meals of winter root vegetables and Hoppin’ John. My training in Chattanooga was coming to an end. Since I was assigned to the Georgia-Alabama Line, I felt confident that my relationship with Marianne would continue. Flo and the problems I left in Atlanta seemed so far away, I found it was easy to ignore them.

  The third week into training, Ackerman grabbed my arm as I entered the station. I jerked around, ready to sock him. His holier-than-thou attitude was getting under my skin.

  Ackerman stepped back. “Hey, Buddy. Take it easy. You and me got some trouble on the home front. See, the women, they don’t get along so good.”

  I hadn’t thought about the house on Edinburgh in weeks. His comment threw me off guard. “What do you mean?”

  Ackerman waved his arms back and forth as he talked. “They just don’t get along, you see. I was wondering if you’d have a talk with your missus. Tell her to back off my Katleen.”

  Back off his Katleen? That woman could flatten Flo in one whack. But Ackerman was right. It was time for me to go back to Atlanta, pay some bills, and check on the house and Flo. Besides, Ackerman and I were assigned to work together as a team. As dicey as things were at the railroad, I didn’t need to throw any trouble into the brew.

  “Sure, Buddy. I’ll go home this weekend and talk to her.”

  Ackerman nodded. “I’m much obliged, Old Boy. We don’t need trouble, you know.”

  I patted Ackerman on the shoulder. “You’re exactly right, my friend.”

  That Friday morning, I reluctantly said goodbye to Marianne. She encouraged me to go back to Flo and do whatever I needed to do. We planned to meet on my first run back to Huntsville.

  Chapter X

  Edinburgh Drive

  1948

  I caught a ride from the station with Ackerman. We rode quietly, looking forward to a two week break before our first run on the diesel engine. The closer we came to Edinburgh Drive, the more concerned I became about what I’d find when I got home. I decided that I’d get a head start by picking Ackerman’s brain.

  “So, what’s going on with the women? Has Katleen told you what Flo’s been up to?”

  Ackerman twisted his face and pondered the question for a moment. “Hmm. She didn’t really say. But I know Katleen’s fit to be tied. I work real hard to keep her happy. I don’t like trouble with the women.”

  I chuckled. “I know what you mean, Old Buddy. I’ll take Flo out to one of those expensive restaurants she likes; maybe twirl her around on the dance floor. She’ll like that.”

  Ackerman shook his head. “Yeah, I only wish life with Katleen was that easy. She’s a hard woman to please.”

  Ackerman turned the car onto Edinburgh and pointed, “God Amighty! What’s that?”

  I looked past the next two houses and then at mine. The car was still rolling when I jumped out. Milk bottles, tin cans, a rusty bucket and chamber pot, all kinds of rotting food garbage, cracked eggs, chicken innards, and a couple of dead rats were strewn along my side of Ackerman’s fence. The stench was pungent even in the cold winter air.

  I stood with my hands on my hips, not knowing what else to do. Katleen Ackerman stepped out on her front porch.

  “What’s going on here?” I yelled.

  Katleen crossed her arms over her heavy bust. “Ask your old lady. She’s the one who did it.”

  “But why?” I asked as Ackerman walked around his car to inspect the mess.

  Katleen shot back. “Because she’s flat out crazy, sick in the head, that’s what she is. She calls it her spite fence. I told her that hell would freeze over before I clean up that mess.”

  “Don’t worry, Jim. I’ll take care of this.” Ackerman gave me a grim nod. I looked around for the car.

  Jim joined his wife on their porch. Katleen pointed her finger at my house. “By the way. She’s in there, but that car’s been gone for over a week now.”

  I set my workbag on the driveway and walked to the garage. I brought back a rake and our empty garbage can. I cleaned up the mess, getting madder all the time. What a fine thing for a man to come home to after working three straight weeks. I gave that woman everything, and she appreciated nothing. I agreed with Ackerman’s wife that Flo was a sick woman. I dragged the full trash can back to the garage. I looked up. She was watching me from the window.

  Inside the living room, stale cigarette smoke hung in the air and made the room look hazy. She stood by the side window with a cigarette dangling from her fingers, staring at the house next door.

  I was so angry that my body shook. The words from my lips came out like bursts of fire. “Have you lost your mind? I have to work with that guy. Then, you go and
do something like that. Do you want to make him mad at me, so maybe I lose my job? Is that what you want? If I lose my job over your foolishness, I guess you can just go back to where I found you. How would you like that? I give you a nice house and everything money can buy. Look how you repay me, by making a fool out of me and embarrassing yourself.”

  I ran out of steam. Flo hadn’t moved. She stood there dazed, staring at nothing. The ashes from her cigarette dropped on the emerald green carpet. Since Dottie’s death, my wife had become harder to reach and impossible to touch. Maybe she is crazy, I thought. Maybe I should send her away to an asylum.

  I went to my bedroom to unpack my workbag. A tall, azure vase etched in fine red lines and tiny engraved flowers lay on top of my clothes. I closed the bedroom door, sat on the edge of the bed, and held the vase in my arms. I thought about Marianne. Remembering my time with her calmed my anger and helped me reason through the problem. I knew that I needed to help Flo get back to normal so that I could get back to Marianne.

  When I closed the bedroom door behind me, Flo had left the living room. I walked by the ashtrays overflowing with butts, mounds of magazines, dirty dishes on the dining room table, pots and pans stacked high in the kitchen sink. A cold, half-fried egg laid in a clump of white grease in a pan on the stovetop. She’d left two empty bottles of gin on the kitchen table. I sat down and my shirtsleeve stuck to the tablecloth. I rolled my sleeves up and looked out the window. Two Cardinals hopped around the young pecan sapling I’d planted earlier that year. I watched the red birds and thought about what I would say to Flo.

  Flo slipped into the kitchen quietly and pulled a Coca-Cola from the icebox. I noticed that she had cut her hair to the nape of her neck and parted it simply on the side like the movie stars. She wore a pink satin robe wrapped tightly around her small frame and fuzzy pink scuffs.

  I pointed to the empty bottles and asked, “You been drinking, Flo?”

  She twisted her mouth as she popped the cap of the bottle. “What’s it to ya?”