Free Crossing the Tracks (9781416997054) by Barbara Stuber Page A

to my ears. My fingers won’t release from the steering wheel. Mrs. Nesbitt watches from the porch, smiling and waving like we are her children going round and round on a carnival ride. Poor Marie is pooped. She’s worn a strip in the grass trying to chase us.
    I turn off the ignition and mop my forehead. I have been driving now for almost two hours and we haven’t left the driveway.
    â€œAt least we didn’t get lost,” I say.
    Dr. Nesbitt smiles. “You seem like a natural, Iris, truly. In a few days you’ll have this car climbing telephone poles.”
    I get out and slam the door. “Yes, sir… in reverse.”
    June 17, 1926
    Dear Leroy,
    Dr. Nesbitt is teaching me to drive! It’s actually fun. Maybe I take after Daddy a little—but not his reckless, show-off style.
    Driving is lots easier than cooking, which is something I can’t steer away from any longer. Help! The other night when we faced another sloppy bowl of limp cucumbers floating in vinegar, Mrs. Nesbitt said, “Why can’t any of the good cooks in Wellsford get sick.”
    With a cookbook and Mrs. Nesbitt’s help I’ve learned biscuits, oatmeal (big deal), and creamed corn, but so far, when I’m through the kitchen mostly smells like scorched potholders.
    When you visit (I think the Nesbitts would say it’s okay) we’ll take a chicken coop tour. I’m in charge of it now. No admission fee. Pee-yew and UGH… hens are crabby. I wonder if the art of cooking includes choking your own chickens?
    The girl at the farm “next door” has it out for me. Her name is Dot.
    Dot = hen + snapping turtle.
    Her mama’s gone. Dot claims she passed on, but really she ran off because her husband hit her. What’s worse—having your mama disappear in the middle of the night or pass on? I say getting left high and dry is worse. Maybe that’s why Dot’s so mean.
    Another “ugh”—Daddy is engaged to Celeste Simmons. I should have seen it coming. Everybody in Atchison already knows, right? Celeste is the opposite of Dot—too cuddly, with a giant helping of phony. Maybe she won’t last, just like all his other lady friends. I swear I am not going to think about it.
    Thank you for the postcard. If you don’t want the chickens and everyone else in the world to read them before I do, try a letter in an envelope.
    I miss you a whole lot—so there.
    ILB
    P.S. Please come. Chicken tour is optional.
    On Sunday, while most folks are at church, I’m back
in the driver’s seat. Dr. Nesbitt’s wearing old work pants anda straw hat. “It’s time to hit the road,” he says. I don’t tell him how last night when I couldn’t sleep I
drove
sitting on a dining room chair. The goddesses thought I was a talking octopus.
    I start the car and adjust the levers and pedals. We glide down the driveway. Thankfully I avoid picking off the telephone pole and the mailbox, and then I make such a sharp left turn, I wheel us in a complete circle. As we buck and hump along I feel sure an octopus could drive better than me. “I’m sorry,” I say without taking my eyes from the road. “I hope I don’t shake your teeth out.”
    Dr. Nesbitt is quiet a long moment. “Years ago, right before my father died, he taught Mother to drive. Dad insisted on it, knowing she’d have to be independent. I can still see them cruising around our old neighborhood—Morris and me cheering her from the curb. She needed a big pillow at her back so she could reach the pedals. Once you learn, Iris, I hope you two will get out.” He smiles. “Do the town!”
    We pass a walnut orchard and a thin dirt road leading to a white box farmhouse surrounded by trees. It seems to spin slowly to watch us go by. I steer around the Rawleigh man’s yellow medicine buggy and an abandoned truck with two flat tires.
    â€œIf Mother were here,