Railroad Man Page 7

  I shifted on the divan. I had no intentions of remodeling Mother’s kitchen. She hadn’t even bothered to teach Flo how to cook. Besides, I had a strict schedule to meet during the week. I wouldn’t be spending my time off plastering walls when I could afford to buy a brand new house of my own. I attempted to introduce the idea to Mother.

  “It looks like construction is picking up. Jack bought a brand new house over in Decatur; new neighborhoods are sprouting up all around.”

  Mother lost interest and turned back to her secretary. “That’s nice, dear.”

  The black nose of a Decapod locomotive stared at me from the magazine cover. The headline read, Say So-Long to Steam. Guys at the station talked diesel day and night. Men threatened to leave. They said, “The Golden Age is over. Nothing will ever be the same.”

  At thirty-three, I had a long way to go in my career. The steam engine was all I knew. I worried about the change to diesel and how it would affect my future. Selling the timber would allow me to buy that house in Decatur before they retired my engine and possibly get rid of me, too. I had been a good son, helping Mother and the girls financially for almost ten years. Mother and Sadie’s attitude toward my wife was poor payment for my generosity. I decided to talk to the man alone. Maybe sway the transaction in my favor without Mother’s greed and interference.

  I turned on my way out the door. “Uh, Mother. May I have that letter? I’ll give the man a call from the station.”

  Mother stuffed the letter back in its envelope. “Thank you, Son. I can always depend on you.”

  I stuffed the letter in my pocket and smiled as I walked to the bedroom where Flo waited.

  The next day, I called the man at the Federal Building downtown before I left on my scheduled run. He agreed to see me on Friday at noon.

  Friday morning, I checked into the YMCA to bathe and change into my best suit of clothes. I felt small climbing the wide steps leading to the Federal Building, small and anxious. I hoped that the RFC would pay Mother enough money for the timber behind the home place to set me free.

  The receptionist met me with a sexy smile and directed me to the third floor. Mr. Jones, a small frail man with spectacles, sat behind his desk in a white shirt and red striped bowtie. He gave me a surprised look.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  I checked my pocket watch that kept railroad time, 11:55. “Mick MacDonald, here. I have an appointment.”

  The little man checked his roster.

  “I’m here about the forty-five acres of timber in Lawrenceville.”

  The man stood and extended his hand, the top of his head barely reaching my shoulder blades. “Of course, Mr. MacDonald, forgive me, it’s been a very busy day. I’m Joad Jones. Please sit.”

  Mr. Jones settled back into his seat. “We sent a letter to every property owner in the state who had a tract of twenty acres or more of timber. You can imagine the response we’ve received.”

  I sat forward and twirled my fedora. “How much are we looking at?”

  Mr. Jones shot back. “What do you have?”

  “Well, there’s oak, maple, and poplar mostly, full grown as far as I can tell.”

  Mr. Jones leaned back in his chair. “We’re paying top dollar, Mr. MacDonald, twenty-two dollars an acre.”

  Nearly a thousand dollars, I thought. That’s more than I put into the household in a year. Mother should be pleased with that. Now it was time to turn this deal in the right direction.

  “That sounds more than fair, Mr. Jones. You see, I’m here on behalf of my mother, Mamie MacDonald. Mother is a country woman, unaware of business affairs. She asked me to make the necessary arrangements, considering her lack of knowledge in such matters, if you please.”

  Mr. Jones smiled, tight-lipped. “Of course I understand, Mr. MacDonald. After all, a woman’s place is in the kitchen, not here on Peachtree Street. I’ll prepare the papers for you, and you can pick them up later today.”

  I shook hands with the man and moved on to my next stop. I walked up Peachtree Street to the Federal Home Loan Bank. The bank teller behind the iron bars met me with a handlebar mustache and smug smile. He led me to the clerk sitting behind a desk.

  It was Mr. McCoy who shook my hand this time and asked me to have a seat. I gave him the address of the house I wanted to buy. He pulled out a cardboard chart.

  “Mr. MacDonald, the house at 64 Edinburgh will run you about $3,900.”

  I let out a slow, meaningful whistle. I pulled the Southern Railway card out of my pocket. “I’m a railroad man, you see, an engineer, going on ten years now. How about giving me a loan on that house?”

  Mr. McCoy held the card and flashed a toothy smile. “It is our pleasure to serve you, Mr. MacDonald.”

  When I walked out of the bank, I held the keys to my new home and a payment of thirty-five dollars a month for ten years. I lined the front wheels on the concrete strips that led down to the car garage. The car garage was the first place I looked. Lifting the wooden door, I could look straight through the sturdy building at a four-pane window in back. A line of shelving ran under the window. Outside the car garage, I noticed a small door leading to a basement I hadn’t seen before. I used the skeleton key to open the door.

  A basement, I never imagined that I’d have a basement. Windows in back of the house gave light to a half-basement, half-crawlspace. A steam-producing boiler furnace sat in the middle. The boiler furnace fascinated me, having had experience with boilers in the train engine. I climbed the stairway behind the boiler that led to the main floor.

  I entered the house in a hallway that connected two bedrooms and a washroom. The house was fresh, bright and airy. I circled the hallway from the formal dining room to a roomy living room with a fireplace and bookshelves, and a third bedroom in front. The kitchen was cozy and compact compared to Mother’s rambling kitchen. I walked out through a large pantry that led to a metal fire escape and the backyard below.

  I look around, amazed at my brand new brick home. I thought, Flo will be so surprised.

  ***

  I drove back to Atlanta and picked up the papers for Mother to sign. Later, I was relieved to find that my assumption was correct. Mother jumped at the $990 offer from the RFC. I left Mother in the parlor sharing her good fortune with Sadie.

  I stretched out on the bed with Flo. Lying in bed with Flo had become my favorite pastime. She usually had the radio on while I touched her silky skin. The fact that Flo liked attention didn’t hurt my chances of getting underneath her skirt.

  “I have a surprise for you, Kitten,” I said, running my hand up her thigh.

  Flo knew my track record of delivering nice surprises. I had given her dresses and hats, fancy bedcovers and organdy curtains, expensive perfumes and a diamond wedding band.

  Flo nudged my shoulder with her fist. “What? What is it, tell me?”

  My eyes concentrated on her bare thigh. “You know that nice house you liked in Decatur?”

  “The house? You mean we’re really going to live there?” Flo squealed and jumped on top of me, causing the bed to bang against the wall. I worried that Mother would knock on the door. Suddenly, I was lost in Flo’s delicious kisses and forgot about everything but her. She braced her arms. Her beautiful face hovered above mine.

  “I have a surprise, too.” Flo rolled over and revealed the lump I’d failed to notice. She covered the small lump with her hand and smiled at me.

  Flo and I bubbled over with excitement at dinner that July evening. Sadie and Sophia sat solemnly after the week’s long circuit ride from school to school. Mother was unusually quiet and sullen. Her moods changed with the wind in those days.

  I cleared my throat and stifled a laugh. “Mother, Sadie, Sophia, Flo has an announcement to make.”

  Flo glowed when all eyes fell on her face. She beamed perfectly and said, “I’m going to have a baby.”

  Sophia clapped her hands, delighted. “Oh Flo, I’m so happy for you—and you, too, Mickey. Having a little
one in the house will be exciting.”

  Mother stabbed the food on her plate, not looking at Flo. “Well, I just hope you’ll take care of it. I’m in no condition to be rocking a baby all night.”

  Mother’s comment crossed a line. She had a lot of nerve ruining our special moment. I threw my napkin aside and said, “Well, Mother, that brings me to my surprise. I bought Flo and me a brand new brick house in Decatur. We’ll be leaving as soon as it’s ready.”

  Mother dropped her fork. She sent me the hurt, disappointed look that used to unnerve me. Mother’s looks had no control over me now. I stayed after dinner to help Mother stack the dishes on the butler’s cart. She brushed by me and bustled around me like she didn’t want me there.

  She swiped the cleared table furiously. “I’ll tell you one thing, Mickey. You will be a hungry man when you leave this house.”

  I scraped the plates and stacked them neatly. “We’ll be fine, Mother. Don’t you worry.”

  Mother grabbed the cart handle and moved toward the door. “Why should I worry about you and her? The two of you obviously aren’t worried about us.”

  I quickened my step to keep pace with Mother and opened the kitchen door for her. Inside the door, I gently held her arm and led her to the kitchen table. She faced me, impatience and frustration written across her face.

  I held her hands across the surface of the old wooden table and talked to her downcast eyes. “Mother, the check from the RFC will be more than enough to carry you through for a long time. Times are changing, and Sophia has a full-time job in the county school system now.”

  I looked around the room. “You know what you should do? You should have a telephone installed here. I’ll be just a short call away. I hear that President Roosevelt is planning more reconstruction projects in Georgia. You have more timberland to offer and plenty of land to sell if you need to.”

  Mother lifted her eyelids. “Mickey, I worry about Flo taking care of a baby. There’s no telling what will happen with you gone all the time.”

  I straightened my back, saying, “Ah, give her a little credit, Mother. She really hasn’t had the opportunity to be a mother yet. What was it you always said? Don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater?”

  Mother got up and gathered the dishes into a wash pan. “Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen, literally.”

  Chapter VII

  Dottie

  1940-1945

  Flo and I spent the next few months furnishing our new home. I was proud of the tasteful window blinds and draperies, wool rugs, and kitchen necessities Flo found at Sears and Roebuck on Ponce de Leon. We took our time setting up housekeeping while our baby grew inside Flo’s belly and planned to move into our new home after the baby came. When I saw the special interest Flo took in setting up the child’s room, I knew that she would be a good mother.

  I took no chances with the birth of our child and Flo’s health this time. I found a top-notch specialist at Grady Hospital to monitor her and deliver the baby. The doctor predicted that Flo would give birth in January. He suggested that she spend the last three weeks of her time in the hospital. I drove Flo to the hospital the first week of 1940. Weekends, I camped out at the YMCA, visited Flo, and worked on the house. As Flo’s time came closer, I slept in the hospital waiting room.

  Our little girl’s life began on January 23, 1940, during the biggest snowstorm in Atlanta’s history. Travel in the city, including rail, died under ten inches of snow. Nobody had anywhere to go, and I was satisfied to stay where I was. I opened the hospital room door, balancing a potted poinsettia left over from the holidays on one arm. Later, Flo said that poinsettias always reminded her of that day.

  I felt a blush of heat rise in my face at the sight of Flo sitting up in the narrow bed, holding my little angel. “Hey there, little Mama!”

  Flo was alert and smiling. “Oh Mick, come see! She’s dark and handsome just like her daddy.”

  I set the potted plant on the side table. My large frame hung unsteadily, half on, half off the tiny bed. Flo was right. She had my olive skin tone, and her eyes were dark brown like mine.

  “Mick, I want to name her Dorothy Lamour. You remember that movie star in The Jungle Princess.”

  I had never seen Flo look as beautiful as she did that moment. Her eyes sparkled with tears when she looked at our little daughter and then back at me. She was clearly a woman filled with love and pride in her family.

  “Sure, Little Kitten. Anything you want.”

  Flo looked back at the baby who drifted into sleep. “My Dottie, someday you’ll be tall, dark and handsome just like your daddy and Dorothy Lamour.”

  ***

  I didn’t write off Mother’s comments completely. I hired a colored lady named Rosalee to come in and help Flo with the housework. Rosalee rode the streetcar to our doorstep to and from work. Colored people in the city didn’t act like my friends, Lewis and Miss Sara. Rosalee rarely spoke and if she did, she mumbled. Her downturned lips stayed frozen in place when I laid a five dollar bill in her hand every Friday.

  Flo kept herself busy attending to Dottie’s every whim and never objected to the help. On Wednesdays, she rode the streetcar to the A&P and the dry goods store on Ponce de Leon. She would buy a ham, pork roast or beef roast for Rosalee to cook for the weekend. Flo bought almost everything else in a can: bologna, chocolate syrup, fish, fruit, meat, milk, soup, and vegetables. I learned to eat Kellogg’s Corn Flakes with the bottled milk dropped on our doorstep twice a week instead of my sister’s country ham, grits, and gravy.

  Eventually, Flo learned how to bake the hams and roasts the way Rosalee prepared them. She could make mashed potatoes, but not gravy, and preferred rice. I learned how to doctor the gooey rice with slabs of butter and salt until it tasted good. Flo did the best she could, and I tried to adjust. On Fridays, I’d stop by Sallie’s Bakery on Highland and pick up a coconut cream pie or some macaroons for a weekend treat.

  Flo dressed Dottie up like a doll baby and took her to the local photographer every three months. As Dottie grew, so did the touched-up portraits lining the living room wall behind the sofa. Her dark curls multiplied and plump cheeks grew with each new stage. Caring for Dottie was Flo’s life. Sometimes I felt a twinge of jealousy watching the two of them roll around on the pink quilt spread across the living room rug. But then, I realized that I had my friends at the railroad, and Flo was here alone. She had no one but Dottie whom she spoiled. Flo jumped to Dottie’s every need even before she asked. I sometimes worried about how Dottie was going to turn out.

  When Dottie was three, the circus came to Decatur. We had her picture taken sitting on a pony in a cowgirl dress. We had copies made, and I still carry that small picture in my wallet. I bought a new Chevy sedan in 1944, and we took Dottie to the beach. We spent my whole week of vacation at a cabin camp in Myrtle Beach, SC. The cabin had a kitchen and everything we needed. But Dottie screamed whenever we passed the frosty cone sign outside our camp. That little girl could eat ice cream until it ran out of her ears.

  Sometimes we’d ride out to Mother’s on Sundays and have dinner. One Sunday, Flo and Sophia huddled together on Mother’s old divan looking at the latest fashions in Flo’s movie magazines. Mother and I sat on the front porch watching the birds. Sadie took charge of five-year-old Dottie. Dottie wanted to climb the trellis that ran up the side of Mother’s back porch. Mother’s prized Clematis weaved its way in and out of the slats.

  Sadie ran toward Dottie and snapped, “No, no. Dottie, get down from there. You’ll hurt yourself and break Gamma’s flowers.”

  Dottie climbed higher and refused to come down.

  “No! I want to climb tree.”

  “It’s not a tree, Dottie, it will fall on you. Get down or I’m coming over there to get you.”

  The fragile lattice began to crack. The part holding Dottie broke off. Sadie reached out, caught the back of Dottie’s dress and pulled her out from under the lattice before it hit the floor. Dottie cried and
threw a tantrum. Wiggling out of Sadie’s hold, she ran in the house to find Flo. Sadie looked frazzled when she reached the front steps and told us the story.

  “Mickey, you’d better take a switch to that child and teach her to mind. If you don’t, she’s going to hurt herself.”

  Feeling satisfied after a good meal, I passed Sadie’s comment off as coming from an old maid who had been around too many children.

  “Oh, let her be. She’s just curious is all.”

  ***

  Flo was a stargazer. She loved movies and the people in them. She stopped at the newsstand on Wednesdays and stocked up on every movie magazine she could find. Flo had a three-legged table in the bathroom as high as the big claw foot tub. She kept her magazines stacked on the table next to a floor lamp. After putting Dottie to bed, she’d lie in a bubble bath and read her magazines.

  It was the hottest Saturday afternoon I can remember. Flo fanned herself on the porch. I sat across from her, admiring her figure in a pair of shorts, matching halter top, and sandals. I thought that Flo had to be one of the best dressed women in Atlanta as much as it cost to clothe her. When I looked at her sexy legs that day, my mind wasn’t on money. She became more beautiful over the years, or maybe her beauty had grown on me. Sophia had been right; I’d learned to love her. Our love for Dottie bonded us and made us a family.