Read Tied to the Tracks Online
Authors: Rosina Lippi
Tied to the Tracks (8 page)
Outside her windows Ogilvie was so still, though she had opened the window to listen. In the distance she heard the sound of a radio tuned to a talk show, the voices indistinct, cajoling, indignant, amused. At two in the morning Hoboken was as alive—more alive, sometimes—than it was at noon; here it was full dark at ten. Somewhere out in that dark John Grant was reading or watching television or talking on the telephone.
The best thing would be to get right to work. Get set up, start blocking out a shooting schedule, lining up people to interview, places to visit, get acquainted with the facilities on campus, go grocery shopping. After two or three days of running full out, then it would be time to see Miss Zula, and after that was taken care of, John Grant.
Then she would be able to smile at him and shake his hand and say something just friendly enough to set his mind at rest. She was here for the work, and nothing else. Given a few days, she would figure out a way to tell him that. She might even come to believe it herself.
FIVE
Ogilvie Bugle
NEWS ABOUT TOWN
NEWS ABOUT TOWN
Mr. Harmond Ogilvie, Chairman of the Ogilvie College Board of Regents, tells us that the university has brought a company of three documentary filmmakers to town for an extended stay. Angeline Mangiamele, Rivera Rosenblum, and Anthony Russo of Tied to the Tracks Films (Hoboken, NJ) are newly arrived to begin production of a film about the life and work of our own Miss Zula Bragg. They will be staying at Ivy House, and working out of offices in the English department on campus. The Regents ask that the good citizens of Ogilvie extend every courtesy to our guests and cooperate with them as they go about their work. If you have a story or memory about Miss Zula you’d like to share, please stop by the public library and write it down in the memory book the filmmakers have made available for that purpose, or contact them at Ivy House.
By noon on Sunday Angie had ticked off most of the to-do items on the long list she had written Friday night: they had unpacked and stocked the kitchen, found their offices and the film and video editing suite—Tony was still slightly in shock, and Angie had rarely seen Rivera so enthusiastic—and met the neighbors. The van had been resuscitated by a mechanic named Carlos who seemed pretty much unfazable, and they were ready for the first, all-important meeting with Zula Bragg on Monday morning. Sunday afternoon they would spend at a birthday party for Miss Junie Rose, an invitation issued by her eldest daughter, Harriet Rose Darling, and accepted by Tony for all of them. Angie was wondering if she could plead exhaustion when the doorbell rang.
Tony, shaken for once out of his usual languor, raced upstairs with Rivera just behind him.
“Miss Zula is here,” he said. “She just dropped by.” He pushed both hands through his hair so it stood on end.
“She’s got a half dozen relatives with her,” Rivera said. “It’s like oral exams all over again. What if they don’t approve of us? Can they fire us?”
“Calm down, winkie,” Angie said. “That won’t happen. Miss Zula just wants to establish who’s in charge; that’s good, in a way. This isn’t the way we planned it, but it’ll be okay.” She took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Give me your first impression.”
Rivera closed her eyes and then opened them. “Daunting. Regal. Inscrutable.”
Angie nodded. “We expected that, right? And we’re up for it. We better call and make apologies about the birthday party.”
“Not necessary,” said Tony. “Miss Zula and Miss Maddie are on their way there, too, they said so.”
The Braggs had come from church, the women in dresses and hats, the men in suits, their shoes highly polished. Zula Bragg was a small, strongly built woman with a willing smile, but her eyes missed nothing at all. If she meant to put Angie on guard, then her sister Maddie was there to offset that effect. Miss Maddie might have been Zula’s twin in body and face, but she was the kind of older woman who clucked and petted and cooed and most probably never said a bad word about anyone. She had brought them an applesauce cake, which was a relief, as they had nothing to offer visitors but beer, coffee, cold pizza, and a half pack of stale Oreos.
The rest of the Bragg contingent was made up of three nephews, the sons of Zula and Maddie’s elder brother, who had died in Korea—and two grandnieces in their thirties. Martin Bragg was a minister, Joseph an accountant, and Calvin was a physician. All three were big men, barrel shaped with high foreheads and deep-set eyes. The two women, both Calvin Bragg’s daughters, issued a long list of invitations: to dinner, church, tours of the campus and town and countryside, while their uncles hummed agreement and encouragement. Through it all Angie felt Dr. Bragg’s sharp gaze observing, weighing, and coming to conclusions. It was best to turn the tables in a situation like this, so Angie produced her brightest smile for him.
“Do you have any specific questions for us, Dr. Bragg?”
He looked not so much surprised as satisfied. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “we do.” He had the deepest voice and the most melodious southern accent, so that the overall effect was almost magical. Rivera caught her eye, and Angie knew they were wondering the same thing: whether they might be able to talk Dr. Bragg into narrating some part of the documentary. The idea was so intriguing that she almost missed what he had to say.
He was asking, “My brothers and I have been wondering, what exactly were you thinking when you named your company Tied to the Tracks? Has it got to do with the old films, or is there some deeper meaning?”
“I hope you can answer that in two sentences or less,” said his daughter Marilee. “Because once these three get to talking about books you had best hunker down for a while. And we have got to get going.”
“Now, child, we can spare a few more minutes,” said Miss Maddie. “And besides, I want to hear the answer to this, too.”
They were all looking at her, but Miss Zula’s gaze was the sharpest, and Angie had a sudden and uncomfortable flashback to school.
“Well,” she said slowly, “our view of things is that everybody finds themselves tied to the tracks at some point or another, and that’s where the story is. We tell stories.”
“Ah,” said Reverend Bragg. He sent a satisfied look to his brothers. “Didn’t I say? They’ve updated Tolstoy’s unhappy families to suit the vagaries of the digital age.”
“I didn’t hear her say anything about Tolstoy,” said Joseph, looking affronted. “You are up to your usual tricks.”
“Our Calvin,” said Martin, “is a veritable compendium of logical fallacies.”
Tony let out a hiccup of a laugh, and the three men looked at him.
“I could listen to you talk all day,” Tony said, holding out his hands. “Really. My uncles argue about baseball statistics and sausage.”
“Be that as it may,” Miss Zula said, “you boys will have to come back another time to argue literary theory.” She used her cane to lever herself to a standing position, giving one of her nephews a look that said she did not want, and would not welcome, his help. “Miss Junie asked me to come by early, and you know how she is before a party.”
“I hope you will come back,” Rivera said. “I’d like to hear more of this.”
“She means it,” Tony added. “If it’s a debate you want, Rivera is your girl.”
On the way out Marilee and Anthea Bragg pulled Angie aside.
“Auntie Zula is a lot stronger than Daddy gives her credit for,” said Marilee. “I happen to know that for a fact, as I’ve been her physician for the last six months, since Daddy cut back on his practice.”
“They’re just protective,” added Marilee. “But the good Lord never put a woman more capable of speaking her mind on this earth. You make Auntie unhappy or push her too hard and you’ll hear about it.”
Miss Maddie patted Angie on the cheek and smiled. “Aren’t those boys something? I blame Zula for reading philosophy to them when they were still in diapers. Logical fallacies.” She gave a delighted laugh. “Don’t you be worrying about our nephews. They do like to growl but they don’t hardly ever bite. Now, I’m looking forward to Junie Rose’s birthday party. I expect to see y’all there, and so does Zula.”
Caroline said, “You can’t spend the entire weekend working.” And: “It will be fun.”
Neither of those things was strictly true, but there was another fact, a bigger one that John didn’t have to hear her say. Junie Rose’s seventy-fifth birthday party wasn’t something a man could just stay away from. Not if he wanted to stay on good terms with the Rose girls and the rest of the population of Ogilvie, most especially Miss Zula Bragg, who was Junie Rose’s closest friend.
Mostly John didn’t mind these kind of family parties and hadn’t been worried about this one until he picked up Caroline from her wedding dress fitting. For the entire ten-minute drive, she had anticipated disaster in vivid detail.
“. . . a nice cardigan, the kind she likes, pink. The card’s right here for you to sign.”
John put the car in park and turned to her. “I got her a card, and a present. You don’t have to do my shopping for me, you know.”
Caroline blinked at him. “You got Mama a present?”
“And a card.”
He watched her face as pleasant surprise gave way to worry. “What ever did you get her?”
“Just wait and see.” John leaned forward and wiped an imaginary bread crumb from the corner of Caroline’s mouth, felt her startle and then relax. She had a slow smile, even a timid one, and it was hard work coaxing one out of her.
She started to say something, and then her gaze fixed on an old Chevy parked at an angle in the driveway.
“Uncle Bruce is here.”
“I would guess so,” John said. “It’s his sister’s birthday, after all.”
“You’re not hearing me,” said Caroline. “Uncle Bruce and the boys. Here, together.”
“Oh,” said John. “Well, lead on. I’m prepared for anything.”
Established in the shade in the gardens at Old Roses with her third glass of wine, Angie concluded that the Roses would have made an interesting subject on their own if Tied to the Tracks didn’t already have Miss Zula to deal with.
Old Roses was a huge Victorian-era house of brick and stucco surrounded by live oaks, azaleas, and magnolia trees. The garden, as large as it was, seemed hardly big enough to contain the entire Rose clan. In addition to cousins and friends, Harriet Darling and three of her four sisters were here with their families. The husbands grazed the far end of the lawn, where a grill sat on a concrete apron; the sisters had retired to the opposite end of the garden, where they had a good view of what their sons and husbands were up to, although it seemed the pile of bridal magazines on the table between them had most of their attention.
Angie was content to watch. She raised her wineglass—empty again—to Tony, who saluted and then went back to his viewfinder. He was wandering around the property with cameras slung around his neck and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, too involved in work for once to get into trouble. And still Angie had the idea that when the stills were developed a large proportion would turn out to feature Harriet Darling, who was holding up a full-color spread of a wedding cake frosted with purple roses for her sisters to see.
Far more important than Tony and his cameras was the fact that Rivera was sitting a few yards away between Miss Zula and Miss Junie in the middle of a crowd of older women, her sleek dark head swiveling back and forth. Old ladies liked Rivera; she was just irreverent enough to keep them on their toes, but her interest in their stories was real.
Angie found herself so completely relaxed that she might have gone to sleep right there with a plate of food on one knee and her glass on the other, but one of the grandsons was walking toward her in a way that brought junior high school socials to mind. He ducked his head and looked back over his shoulder at the men around the grill. When he came to a stop in front of Angie she thought for sure he was going to ask her to dance. He was about sixteen, tall for his age and awkward with it, a scattering of pimples on his forehead but with a bright look about him.
“Miss Angie?” he said. “I’m Markus Holmes, Eunice’s oldest boy?”
His eyes skittered in the direction of the picnic tables and back again. Angie shook the hand he offered and asked him to sit down, a question he seemed to overhear. Then he turned his smile on her, and she could see that he had resolved to ignore his cousins and the teasing that would come his way.
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