Free Power in the Blood by Greg Matthews Page A

The paradox depressed her even further, and Zoe spent her final minutes on the platform staring into the air, seeing nothing she could name.
    When the 2:20 westbound rolled in and came to a clanking halt, she stepped up into the nearest car without a word and took a seat on the far side, away from sight of the Hassenplugs who, for their part, departed the platform before the drive wheels began to spin and grab at the rails. Wister’s Landing receded, and Zoe did not look back.
    Within minutes the woman she had seated herself beside began making conversation with Zoe.
    “Now, that wouldn’t be your baby, would it?”
    “Why not?”
    The unintended brusqueness of Zoe’s reply made the woman hesitate to continue. “Well, it’s just you’re so young.”
    “She’s my baby sister,” Zoe said. “We’re going to Springfield to see our ma. She sent the money. We were at Aunt Lucy’s, but now we’re going home.”
    “That’s a long ways for a young girl to go alone, and with so little a baby. How old is she, two months?”
    “Three.”
    “How is it that your ma’s all the way to Springfield, and this little one’s just been born? Why isn’t she with your ma?”
    “She’s sick, our ma is. She sent us away so we wouldn’t catch it too.”
    “She sent a slip of a thing like you all the way to your aunt’s on your own?”
    “No, ma’am. My brother Clay, he came too. He went back yesterday.”
    The woman believed not a word of this. She peered more closely at the baby, looking for a resemblance to the plain-faced girl at her side, and noticed the birthmark.
    “Now, there’s a shame, but you know, blemishes and suchlike respond to lemon juice applied two times weekly till it goes away. I had a second cousin, Rosalie, with a strawberry mark on her chin, and it went away by the time she was nine years old. Well, almost. You could still see it in direct sunlight, but not so’s you’d notice unless you looked. She didn’t care a bit. Lemon juice, fresh squeezed, just dab it on. Of course, Rosalie’s mark was smaller, and not so dark, more of a deep pink than blue.”
    “It’s her blue tear,” Zoe declared, “for all the sadness in the world.”
    “Oh, my, but that’s so poetical! I can tell you’re a girl who’s been to school.”
    Zoe didn’t contradict her.
    “I’m Mrs. Ringle. Don’t you have any baggage at all? You must have a bottle at least, for the baby.”
    “No, ma’am, I’ve got nothing.”
    “Well, didn’t your ma provide you with such things before you left? Or your aunt, for the trip home?”
    Zoe shook her head and looked out the window to avoid Mrs. Ringle’s eyes. Mrs. Ringle knew she had encountered a small tragedy in the making, or more likely the second or third act of that tragedy. “Little girl,” she said, leaning closer so the nearest passenger, a gentleman apparently asleep against the window frame, couldn’t hear. “I want you to know I’m your friend in need, if that’s all right with you. Everyone needs a friend, someone to trust. If you feel the need, you can tell me anything at all, and I’ll listen and tell you what you’re maybe needing to know.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
    Less than an hour later, Zoe rose from her seat with crying Omie and took herself away to the car platform for some time. Mrs. Ringle knew she was out there with the flying cinders and scenery, giving suck with her little girl’s titties to her own little girl, and it made Mrs. Ringle sad to think of such things happening in a Christian country.
    Stepping down in Springfield the following day, Zoe waved to Mrs. Ringle, who had taken herself out to the platform to say good-bye. Mrs. Ringle was continuing on to Saint Louis, where her brother owned a draper’s; she had been asked to join him when her husband died back in Chillicothe, Ohio.
    She passed Zoe a scrap of paper bearing her brother’s address, and told her to go there “if things don’t work out the way you expect,