Commuters (9 page)

In the past month, Jerry had transferred ten thousand dollars,
twice, into a new account that Rachel had set up. On one of her first visits to 50 Greenham, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, Rachel had disappeared with Jerry into his office upstairs, while Winnie showed Lila and Melissa the secret dumbwaiter that she herself had only just discovered. They took turns loading laundry into it, and then funny things—a single shoe, a dozen apples—to rappel up and down three flights of stairs to one another. Then, Winnie had found a pack of index cards, and while Melissa made flash cards for French class, she and the girls had switched on the television to catch the end of
Rebecca
. Both Lila and Melissa snorted at Mrs. Danvers, thinking the performance over the top and silly, whereas Winnie always found Judith Anderson truly terrifying in this role, icy, slowly unhinged. She tried not to keep glancing toward the hallway leading to the stairs, and just as Manderley burned to the ground, Rachel slid in next to Lila and gave Winnie a calm nod. So, everything was fine. Why hadn’t she expected that? What was the lingering unease she felt, while the credits rolled and a debate about pizza ensued?

Since that Sunday, Rachel and Jerry were in cahoots about all sorts of things. Winnie would stop by Hand Me Down and begin to tell the story of the upstairs fuse blowing twice in one night the week before, for no rhyme or reason—and of course her bedside flashlight batteries were dead—only to have Rachel interrupt, saying that Jerry had mentioned it. And then there was the peculiar way the two of them were about the money, never making light of the loans exactly, but referring to them all the time (except for when the girls were around), the tax issues and investments and debt, all with no awkwardness from either one, as if money was an interesting subject in and of itself, as if Ra
chel and Jerry were merely puzzling out the best recipe for bread dough…

This instant connection between the two of them—well, it delighted Winnie. (Erica Stein ushered her to a folding chair near the podium.) It
did
, she insisted to herself, watching Rachel, in the audience, lean casually in toward Jerry and point something or someone out to him. But it was complicated, in a way she wouldn’t have predicted. Rachel was using her hands, those long-fingered, strong hands that reminded Winnie of George, tracing something in the air—a box shape?—that Jerry tried to follow with beetled brows. Winnie guessed that Rachel didn’t know she was seated on Jerry’s bad side, that much of what she said would be lost to him, because he would be too proud to ask her to repeat herself. But there was delight in seeing her daughter there, and her comfort with this man, neither of them paying any attention to her up here on the stage—delight, and anxiety, and satisfaction, all at once.

Rachel
did
like Jerry, didn’t she? Just for who he was? Winnie told herself to avoid what was coming, but the searing question arose anyway: it wasn’t just about the
money
, was it?

Stop it,
she told herself. She was just rattled by this news about Annette. Winnie looked once more at Jerry and Rachel. She wouldn’t be sitting cozily next to
her
new daughter-in-law anytime soon.

As Erica gave the opening remarks, Winnie exchanged greetings with the gentleman at her left. Wizened and practically deaf, he somehow let her know he lived with his son in Mount Morris and his cousin—or his late wife’s cousin?—had been the photographer for several of the images displayed.
Lord,
Winnie couldn’t help thinking,
they’re really dragging everyone out of the woodwork.

Now a woman was speaking—a different one, from Town Hall—saying something interminable about the rise of the “bedroom suburb” in the tristate area, the social history of rail stations, and notable architectural features of Hartfield’s own. Winnie had heard it all before, and couldn’t imagine anyone who hadn’t, especially among this retiree-heavy crowd.

“Red Janson, Hartfield stop’s first-ever station agent, was not only dispatcher and ticket seller: he was a postmaster too, and also the town’s locksmith. When you needed those new eyeglasses, Red would tell you if they had arrived. He was known to run card games out of the back office, when things were slow, and would let boys toss pennies onto the tracks—he’d also chase them away if they got in the way. One thing Red never did was hold a train. Not for anyone, not for any reason, big or small. ‘God and the Timetables,’ read a sign over his desk, as you might have seen in one of the photographs—though perhaps Red would not have considered them quite in this order.”

The audience chuckled. Winnie restrained herself from reaching up to touch the darkened patch near her jaw. To distract herself, she read the blue and white cloth banners tacked up to the rafters—state finalists, track and field, 1969. league champions, girls’ soccer, 1976, 1977. Someone, unable or unwilling to locate blue felt, had added 1978 with a marker, the numbers squeezed unevenly into the very corner. Winnie recognized a few names hanging there, above her, from families who had been around Hartfield as long as she had.

Last week, while the man from yet another tree service—four so far, each one eventually declining the job—measured the sycamore’s trunk and took some digital photos, Winnie’s new neigh
bor Vi Greenberg strolled across the street and stopped to watch. Winnie had waved her in, and Vi had walked slowly across the long, sloping front yard.

“It’s not mealy worms, is it?” she called, as she got closer. Winnie had known Vi and her husband, the retired Judge Greenberg, for years and years. George used to treat the judge for hypertension, and Vi’s mother, in fact, had known Winnie’s slightly—Vi had once shown her a leather guest book with Delia Easton’s name carefully inscribed in her familiar hand. Now Vi’s grandson was a chaplain in the army, serving in Afghanistan; at church, they prayed for him weekly. His wife, on a base in Florida, was pregnant with Vi’s first great-grandchild. “They were in our boxwood, last summer. You just spray this nasty stuff—he’ll know the name of it, I’m sure.” Vi nodded at the tree man.

“No, it’s not mealy worms,” Winnie said. She held her smile steady. “They said Indian summer, but you could have fooled me.”

Vi stared up at the branches that arched wide and high above the two women, in their matching tan pants and weekend shoes. “Aphids?” she said. “This early freeze should take care of those critters.”

The tree man was walking toward them, with his clipboard. Winnie took a deep breath. “Vi,” she began.

“Have to check with my boss,” the man said. “We don’t usually—”

“That’s fine,” Winnie said. She nearly ripped the yellow sheet out of his extended hand. “I’ll be here.”

“It’s just that with something this size—”

“Fine, fine,” Winnie said, urging the man back to his truck.
When she turned back, Vi Greenberg had fixed her with a cool and level gaze.

“You remember when we got a bit of Hurricane Caroline?” Vi said.

“Of course I do, Vi.” That was late summer, in 1986. Lila was a baby, and Winnie had spent the night in the spare room at Rachel’s, the window rattling hard against its four silver duct-taped
X
s.

“The Harrison’s maple went over—” Vi pointed to the house next to hers. “And then electrical wires set off a fire on the top of two pines, down by Mina Sullivan.” Winnie dug her hands into her pockets, pushing the crumpled estimate down deep. “All I could think, that night, was please don’t let the sycamore go. Any tree on our street but that one. Nobody even lived here then, so maybe I felt I had to stick up for it. In the morning, there were branches everywhere, big ones blown up on our porch, even—”

“I
remember
, Vi.”

“But when I looked out and saw it still standing, I felt foolish.” Vi let her gaze travel up the tree’s broad trunk, deliberately not meeting Winnie’s eyes. “I thought, who am I to worry about this old warrior? Why, this tree was around before I was born! What an insult, to even picture it coming down.”

Winnie’s cheeks burned a little, up onstage, the way they had when she could say nothing, there under the tree with her neighbor. Vi had smiled then, and pretended to shiver in the cold, and then hurried back across the street to her own house. Winnie tried to push it out of her head, tried to pay attention. The little old Mount Morris man had been introduced, and he bowed his head, one hand raised, for the applause.

Now Erica was speaking at the podium, her voice high and excited: “—as part of the high school’s
permanent
collection, which I’m very pleased to announce tonight.” This drew the appropriate murmurs and applause, while Winnie tried to figure out what she had just announced. That some of the photos would be hanging in these classroom hallways, for good? For generations of young people to ignore or jostle, or splash soda on, as they ran by? Winnie wanted to laugh out loud, but now Erica had turned to her with an expectant smile…right. She was supposed to say something, on her father’s behalf, and so she took her turn at the podium.

“My father would have been very touched by all of this. Actually, by now he would have been asleep. This is far past a railroad man’s bedtime.” Winnie paused for the obligatory laughter. She wanted to search out Jerry’s glance, but the lights were brighter than she expected and the microphone intimidating.

“My father had just a small part in Hartfield’s station, which was the product of a lot of people’s hard work and the generous nature of the town’s founders. So in his honor, I’d like to thank the organizers of this very flattering exhibition—thank you, Erica—and…” Here Winnie faltered, forgetting completely, if she’d ever known them, the names of the other ladies on the committee, but her general wave in their direction was apparently satisfactory, because the audience went right ahead and applauded. Winnie was relieved. Most of the time, she thought, people knew what they were supposed to do.

“A question? Mrs. Trevis? Could I ask a question?”

Winnie was halfway back to her seat when she stopped, confused. She couldn’t see who was calling out, from the back, though it was a woman’s voice, loud and clear.

“Well, we hadn’t exactly planned on any Q and A…” Erica said. “But if Winnie wouldn’t mind? Just one or two, perhaps?”

So she was back up at the microphone. This time she found Jerry, who gave her a frowning, pleased nod. Rachel, next to him, was whispering to Melissa.

“Mrs. Trevis, hi. Over here.” Now she could make out the person that this bright, aggressive voice belonged to—a college student, perhaps? The girl had dark hair, pulled severely back, and a notebook tucked under one arm. She smiled widely and stopped waving when she could tell Winnie saw her. Then the girl’s clear voice rang out, loud and confident.

“I was just wondering why you plan to cut down the historic sycamore tree on Greenham and Franklin?”

Before Winnie fully understood, Erica Stein was beside her. “This is a photographic exhibit,” she said, shouldering her way toward the microphone.

“It’s a public forum, and I have a right to speak! Isn’t it true, Mrs. Trevis, that you—”

“If you have a question about the train station—”

“That tree is over a hundred years old! It’s a living thing!”

Four or five other protesters, in their twenties and thirties, each in a T-shirt that read tree tribe had stood up next to the first woman, and they were all shouting. Shouting at
her
.

“Shade! Clean air! Homes for animals!”

“Order, please, or we’ll have to get security! Order!” Erica was hammering at the podium with the flat of her hand, while Winnie just stood there. In her shock, she almost laughed. Was this actually happening, or had she conjured the whole scene by remembering the awkward encounter with Vi Greenberg? How did anyone
know about that old tree? Then she remembered: the permit she’d filed at Town Hall two weeks ago.

The audience, after its initial bewildered silence, flurried with movement—some members craning their necks to get a better view of the shouting protestors, others raising their own voices in dismay or disagreement. A hearty “Boo!” came from the little old Mount Morris man who had been seated next to her.

Now, as if on cue, the protestors quieted. Erica did too, wary and relieved. Now maybe they could get back to business.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the original woman said primly. Then a gleam came into her eye and Winnie realized it wasn’t over. “It’s just that she’s cutting down one of the biggest and oldest, one of the most beautiful trees in town—to build a
swimming pool
!”

At this, the crowd sucked in its breath, an audible gasp. The woman with the notebook and ponytail glared at Winnie, triumphant. You could hear people in the audience repeating the phrase
swimming pool
, their voices low with disgust, as if the woman had announced that Winnie planned to put a puppy mill in her front yard.

As if to capitalize on the mood in the room, the protestors were once again shouting, “Clean air! Shade! Homes for animals!” She saw Jerry, struggling to his feet. He was having trouble pushing himself up from the flimsy folding chair, and Rachel was doing nothing to help him get steady, because she was staring at the protestors. Bob, who had just arrived, was asking everyone, “
What? What happened?
” Winnie saw Melissa and Lila, frozen. It was the look of terror on Lila’s face, though, that made her act.

“Now just a minute, here.” She leaned in to the microphone, and ignored Erica, who said she would handle it. “How am I sup
posed to answer anything if you people won’t stop to listen?” Her own voice, amplified across the gymnasium, comforted Winnie—she could hear in it a trace of familiar exasperation, but nothing more. No sign of how rattled she felt inside.

“You’ve got questions—no. You have something to say. You’re unhappy about the tree. I understand that, and maybe we can find a way—”

The standing four paid no attention. They weren’t even looking at Winnie anymore, because they were busy shouting, “We speak for the trees! We speak for the trees!” Their voices clashed with hers. Still, one by one the other faces in the audience were turning back to Winnie, and she was the one with the microphone, after all.