Caren Gussoff Sumption
All Left Turns
Clayton Calvin crapped his drawers.
I didn't know if this was a first time, or an established pattern. And I didn't want to know.
Also, I didn't want to marry him, and said so. "I'm not marrying him." I flashed Ma the brown streak down the seat of the jockey shorts before dumping a whole cup of washing powder on them.
"Can the sass" Ma answered. "No one's asked you today." She eyed the extra powder. A waste. "The Calvins pay us good money, half as a favor, for their laundry. It's honest work."
I dunked the underwear into the tub for soaking. "Good, honest, clean work."
If Ma laughed at all anymore, she would have. The best she managed these days was a tired little smile. "Go on inside, Violet," she said. "I'll finish up."
Usually, I'd argue. But, I didn't. I went inside and pretended to read the day old newspaper, watching Ma hang the Calvins' whites on the line like a hundred flags of surrender.
It was full days' work, and she hadn’t even started the mending.
At that moment, I hated my Pa. And the moment after, I decided to go.
I'd bobbed my hair weeks ago in preparation. Ma made her small smile, said I looked like she did at my age. She was only a year older when she met my Pa. She was a flapper, ready to leave home. But she took only left turns, she said, and wound up home, right back where she'd started.
But even as I sawed off my ponytail, even as I'd timed the whistles of PRR trains slowing to pass through Cresson and Johnstown, I hadn't quite settled on going. I could change my mind. But now I knew I was going to go, and I was going to leave that night. No left turns.
I went into my room and pulled the letter from under the mattress. I'd never hidden anything from Ma before, not a broken vase, not a note from school. Not even a thought.
This was different, though. I knew she wouldn't approve. She wouldn't even understand. Even if I explained the good reasons to do my bit -- defeat fascism, work for peace, and not have my own best bets on a pants-shitting crumb, even one with a family fortune -- Ma would say no soap.
Because it'd mean I was leaving her. No reason would feel like a good reason, no injustice or wrong or abuse could be wicked enough for her to be all alone.
The letter was on onion-paper to save postage. "Dear VM Bennett: Thank you for your correspondence regarding our call to volunteers for action in southwestern Europe. It is a necessity for us to support, financially and physically, our brothers and sisters in their struggle against oppression, and in response to your inquiry regarding nurses, there is, indeed, definite opportunity. Unfortunately, we can only offer passage from our office to France and then across the Pyrenees for training. Please let me know your intentions and arrival date. Your comrade in peace, Cecilia James, Branch Secretary, Industrial Workers of the World, New York City GMB."
I liked the sound of the words as I whispered them: opportunity, Pyrenees, comrade. Then the house creaked, and I stood perfectly still. Ma was still outside; if I listened carefully I could hear her singing hymns. I folded the letter and placed it back in its hiding place and threw on a shawl.
I should've been afraid of riding the rails. Nearly every day, the paper, including the one I'd pretended to read yesterday, warned about the crimes concocted by drunken vagrants and wild boys bumming their way across the country in search of the vulnerabilities of god-fearing working people. But I'd met the ones that arrived daily at the family farm of my school-friend Evangeline Smith, and the few that made way to our house.
They weren't to be feared. For every brute, there were three family men, or one entire family. Brothers, uncles, sons, cousins. Even fathers.
Only a thin creek separated Evie's house from the yards, where as ours was a good way in. Evie and I spent many summer afternoons looking for the cat symbol that had to have been drawn somewhere on the farm, directing the desperate and hungry to the Smiths instead of the Linds, whose house was even closer.
I walked outside. "Ma, going to Evie's for a spell. Home to cook supper."
Ma heard me; her mouth full of clothespins, she held up one hand.
I found Evie in the small garden, squatting down. "I don't know why I squabble so hard with this blight," she said in greeting. "I don't even like squash." She stood up and brushed off the back of her skirt.
Not only was Evie the nicest girl I knew, she was a fine piece of calico. She had more pickings than Clay Calvin, though none richer.
"That squash looks fine," I said, then nodded my head at the big barn behind us. "You have any men today?"
"Three," she said. "Came in this morning. Pop has them patching fences." Then she raised a brow. "Why?"
As much as I wanted to tell Evie, say a proper good-bye, I couldn't do it. I loved her. And if hands were crossed, I don't know that I wouldn't tell her mama on her. "No reason. We haven't had any come by our place in a while."
"Well, your place isn't so fine that hoboes won't offer you a handout," Evie joked.
"Aww, go soak your head." I couldn't help but catch Evie's smile.
Then she laced an arm in mine. "Come," she said. "We have too many eggs."
***
I was home, full of lemonade and already missing Evie, when Ma came in from the washing. I started frying the Smith eggs with stale bread.
"You're happy," Ma remarked. "Fun with Evie?"
I nodded. "And we have eggs for supper." I loved eggs for supper, and said so. "I love eggs for supper."
Ma smiled her small smile. "You were born at the right time, then, Violet."
For once, that felt true. I was nervous and sad to leave, but excitement was getting the better of me. I poured Ma some coffee, and refilled my own mug.
We ate fast, like we did when Ma was tired. I finished up the coffee, and said, "I'll do dishes, Ma."
Usually, Ma would argue. But, she didn't. I worried for a second that she knew something was up, but no, she was just that tired. She pretended to read the paper like I had, glancing up only once to say, "Mind how much coffee you're having. You want to sleep once this century?"
"Maybe once," I said. And I hugged her then, too tightly until I realized, and then loosened up. If she noticed, she didn't say anything.
She sat down with the mending, radio on. I had a terrible hand at stitching. I refused to get better, either. It was a stupid, small thing that I fought, and watching Ma squint over her needle gave me a pang. But she quickly fell asleep, a seam half done on her lap.
I walked her into her bed. I needed a clear path to the door. But more, she needed a good rest.
The coffee kept me through until it was late dark. I wore my galoshes because they were the sturdiest of all my shoes. I packed a change of underclothes and more socks than anything else because the galoshes made my feet perspire. I wrapped it all in an extra shawl. On my way out, I left Ma the letter, unfolded and flipped to the back, where I'd scrawled, "I LOVE YOU, MAMA."
The night was still, chilly but stale. Walking was harder work as my feet scooted around in my galoshes, but I felt revived when I made it to the Smiths'.
A string of smoke pulled upwards from behind the barn. Three men sat around a small fire. They were quiet, almost dozing upright, as I looked from man to man to what I think was another man -- the third was hard to make out, strange and pale with a large oval head. The first two were overgrown and rumpled, and thinner than when they had started, judging by the hang of their clothes.
I stepped on a stick and they all came to. Seeing my shape, they jumped to their feet.
"Night, ma'am," the first one said, with the second echoing just after. The third just looked down into a hat he held in his one hand. The other arm ended too early.
"I was hoping one of you would be leaving tonight," I said.
"Ma'am?" the second asked.
"I need to get to New York City," I said.
The first one stepped forward. "On a train, ma'am? You want to take a train? To New York City? Alone?"
"Not alone," I said. "With one of you."
The first one scratched the stubble on his chin, then gave a big grin. "Aww, get out," he said. The second one joined in laughing. The third just looked up from his hat.
"I'm serious," I said.
The first one then waved a hand at me. "Well, then, respectfully, ma'am? You're all wet."
"Rails are no place for a lady," the second agreed. "You'll get cut or hurt or dead or worse."
"Besides," the first one said. "You're outta luck. Mr. Smith's promised us at least three days of work. We're staying put." He sat back down by the fire. "Why you want to go to New York City anyway?"
"None of your beeswax," I snapped.
The second one gave another laugh and a low whistle before joining the first back by the fire. The third one followed suit, but seemed disappointed, like he preferred standing.
"I have good reasons," I said. "I want to join the army. For Spain."
The first one looked at me with interest. "Not our army," he said. "FDR's made that pretty clear."
"You a Communist?" the second asked.
I shook my head.
"You ever been in a fight?" the first one asked.
I bit my lip; it was obvious I hadn't.
Then the third one stood back up, seeming keen on the opportunity. "I will go," he said.
At that, the first one was back up too. "Hold on a moment, now," he said to his companions. Then, he motioned for me to join him off to the side. I got close enough now to see the features on his face. He had a nice face, like someone's brother or favorite cousin. Or father. "Ma'am," he said quietly. "I wouldn't go with Wiggy. I mean, he's alright--" he glanced over his shoulder at the third man, who still stood holding his hat, "--but we named him Wiggy for reasons."
I looked at the one they called Wiggy.
"And he won’t say how he lost that arm," he added.
It wasn’t the missing arm that struck me. It was how the firelight sucked all the blood from him, leaving him as white as paper. Or an egg.
Then, I thought of the shit-stained drawers, and the old newspapers, and Ma, and it took me a minute to say anything at all. He took that as decision.
"OK," he said, standing aside. "Safe travels."
The one they called Wiggy turned from the fire and started walking into the dark trees at the edge of the Smith property. I almost tripped catching up in my galoshes, but he matched his pace to mine once we started over the creek. It was more of a rushing trickle than a body of water, but I was glad of my rubber shoes.
"I'm Alice," I said, when we reached the other side.
"Are you?" he asked.
Something about the way he asked made me want to say the truth. "No," I said. "I'm Violet."
"Violet?" he repeated.
"Like the flower," I explained. "Or the color."
"Yes," he answered. "Light. Between 375 and 450 nanometers."
I sort of knew what he was talking about. Science. Math. We looked at the spectrum once, through a pyramid of glass. It was pretty. "What's your name?"
"They call me Wiggy," he said.
"That wasn't nice of them to call you that," I said. "They didn't mean it well."
We made it through the hem of trees and out to the tracks. The sodium lamps gave my companion a yellow glow. His eyes looked a muddy gravy color, with lashes and brows so fine they looked like they weren't there at all. He blinked at me, and it wasn't smooth like most blinks; they were stuttery and nervous to close, then quick back open.
"What would you call me then?" he asked.
His skin had a powdery, ceramic look, and was covered with fine, long whiskers, the same color as the light. His head still looked like an egg to me. So I said so. "Egg," I said.
Egg put on his hat and held out his one hand to shake. I took it. His long fingers nearly wrapped around my whole hand. His skin was slippery smooth, overly warm, and a little raised, like one big scar. He shook it two, three, then four times, more like he was pumping a lever than touching a girl. Then he returned my hand to my side like he’d borrowed it.
Egg looked to the sky. The lights overpowered the stars, but he studied the position of the moon. "The train will be here in less than one hour," he said.
Then he just stood. I stood next to him for a few minutes that seemed like forever, looking out at nothing and not doing anything. Under a tree, close to where we'd come through, hunched a half circle of big rocks, obviously dragged there for sitting. I went over and sat down on one.
Egg looked straight ahead for a bit, aware that I'd gone and sat down, not wanting to join me, but then gave in and sat awkwardly, uncomfortably next to me anyway.
"Thank you for volunteering to accompany me," I said.
"No need to thank me," he said. He tried folding a leg over, then under, shifting his weight. "It’s what I do."
"How long have you been travelling?" I asked.
Egg looked back at the sky. "On the trains, not very long. Maybe 180 days. But I left home a very long time ago."
"Why did you leave home?"
"I didn’t have a choice," Egg said. He reached down and touched the ground with his palm.
"Is the train coming?"
"Soon." He turned back to me, looked at me like he was seeing me then for the very first time. "You are small," he said.
"I'm sitting down," I said.
Egg pulled his lips into a line. "No," he said. "I mean, you are small. Not an adult."
"I am too," I snapped back, and stamped a foot.
Egg smiled a tight smile, something like Ma's smile. "That is how the small act," he pointed out.
I didn't know what to say to that. He was right. We watched the dust settle back down around and on my galoshes, every grain visible in the sick yellow light.
"So what could you have done to be sent away?" Egg rubbed his face as he spoke, and left streaks of dirt across his lip and chin.
"No one's sending me," I said.
"It isn’t punishment?"
"No," I said. "I want to go."
"You want to go to a war?" Egg asked. The dirt on his face made him look more like an everyday guy, not as pale and strange. "So, this is not a punishment? There was no trial, no sentence?"
Something about the way he asked made me want to explain, and so I did.
I told him about Ma and the quiet in the house. I told him how the galoshes, and even the newspapers, were hand-me-downs. I told him about Clayton and the shit in his drawers, and the power in his face when he brought over the galoshes and the newspapers, and a few dollars wrapped in wax paper for doing his family's laundry.
I told him what I knew about Spain. I told him that I wanted to go to college, and I wanted to make something of myself, and I wanted to make my mother laugh again. I started to tell him about my Pa, and that I talked to Pa the way I was talking to him, but then Egg felt the ground again. This time, I felt it too. A steady rumble through the bottom of my feet. The train was coming.
Egg motioned for me to stand next to him, closer to the tracks. The rumbling grew stronger, then became a noise. "When it comes, start running," he said. "Tie that pack to your waist."
I knotted the ends of my shawl over my belly button.
Then the train sped into view, impossibly fast, even as it slowed for the interchange. It was a monster, and I admit, I was afraid.
But I started to run, tripping in my galoshes, my shawl flopping at my waist stretching the fringe with the strain. I could hardly make out the cars as they rushed by.
Then Egg had his arm around me, pushing me to run. "Reach out," he said, "and keep running."
I held out a hand; blindly, I found a hold. My foot pulled out of my left boot and pounded on gravel. But I kept running, grasping the train. I felt pain but couldn't pause to holler.
"Other hand," Egg said, and I magically found a second hold. It was like reaching into a cyclone.
Suddenly, we were in the air. I only knew it because rocks stopped needling my foot. Then we hit ground. A wooden floor, and we slipped to the far wall, like it was covered in ice. Egg was across me like a blanket.
We were inside a car. We'd made it.
Egg rolled off me, and let me figure out how to sit up, working with the swaying of the train.
"That last step was a real lulu," I said.
"Are you injured?" he asked.
I looked at myself. I was covered in powdered blood, all over. I panicked, then realized it was on the outside of my clothes, and I rubbed at the powder, smelled it. It reminded me of a flower pot. Dried clay. The whole car was covered in it.
Still, my foot felt wet. That I was sure was blood. "I lost my boot." I pulled my foot to my lap; the sock was shredded and so was the bottom skin. I untied my shawl and dabbed my foot with a corner. Then I extracted a pair of socks, and pulled both onto my torn up foot.
I pulled off my remaining boot and chucked it aside. No need for it, I guessed. It bounced in the empty car. I watched it ricochet, then toss itself out the open door of the car.
Egg watched it too. "Be cautious," he said. "Else that could be you. Particularly as the train rounds a curve."
I stood up. It was like standing in the ocean during a storm, or so I imagined. I'd lost my shoes, but I was on a train. I tottered on the edge between laughing and crying, and I sat back down.
The rocking overcame Egg's preference for standing, and he sat next to me.
"So, this is not a punishment?" he asked, repeating exactly what he asked before we jumped the train. "There was no trial, no sentence? You wanted to leave home?"
That pushed me over the edge, though instead of crying or laughing, I was angry. He hadn't listened to me. I'd poured out my heart -- onto the ground. "Didn’t you hear anything I said?"
"I heard it," he said.
I didn't want to be near him, so I slid towards the door. If I held on, I'd be OK. When I got close to the edge, I let my feet hang off the side. The cold air felt good on the hot cuts.
Then Egg was up, and dragged me back by the scruff of my neck. "That’s dangerous," he said. He looked angry; it was the first expression since his one smile that I understood. Red clay dotted his face like freckles.
And sure enough, the train hit a bump and tossed me up in the air. I landed less angry. "Is that how you lost your arm?" I asked.
"No. I lost it trying to hold onto something when it was time to let go." Satisfied I wasn't going to scoot away again, he let go of my neck. "I did hear what you said."
"Yeah. Sure." I reached around to the back of my dress where he'd grabbed me. It was torn. "You ripped my dress," I said. "I have no shoes and a ripped dress." I was going to show up in New York City looking like I'd already fought a war.
"It can be fixed."
"I can't sew."
"You should learn."
"Because I'm a girl?" And I was angry again. I could do more than just sew. I was set to prove it.
"No," Egg said. "Everyone should know how to put things back together."
It was a good point, but I didn't feel like saying so.
"I did hear you," he said. "I just cannot understand. I had a trial. A sentence. I was sent away. I did not have a choice."
He'd had a trial. A sentence. "Are you a criminal?"
Egg was quiet for a minute or two before answering. "I did not think so. I still do not."
"Are you on the lam?"
"The lam?"
"The run. Are they after you? Is that why you're riding the rails?"
He looked at the sky. "No one is after me, Violet. No one knows where I was sent. And there is no way to return."
"No way?" I asked. "None at all?"
He shook his head, sadly.
I should have been afraid, but I wasn't. If anything, I was tired, the coffee and the excitement worn off. If anything, I felt sad for Egg, who stared off into the distance as if willing himself to see something. There was no good reason I had to go straight to New York. The war wasn't going to end tomorrow. "If we just take left turns," I said. "We'll end up home."
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just something I heard," I said. "Let's get you home, Egg," I said. "Where is it?"
"Far."
"Europe? Africa? Australia?"
He shook his head at each of them. "Much farther."
I couldn't think of anyplace farther, in the world. A silly thought tugged at me, but I brushed it away. I may have been a shoeless teenager stolen away on a train with a strange man, bound to fight against fascism halfway across the world, but my life wasn't a radio show or a dog-eared copy of Astounding Stories handed down to me by Clayton.
Egg reached somewhere in his coat and pulled out a bandanna. Unwrapped, it held a hunk of bread wrapped around a fried chicken leg. "You must be hungry," he said, holding it out to me.
It wasn't much, but he hadn't eaten either. "We can split it," I said. He tried to refuse, but I wouldn't let him -- though he wouldn't show me his share when I was sure he'd given me way more than half.
He tried to balance his piece of chicken and poke around in his coat for something else. It was the only time I saw him struggle with his just one arm. I held his chicken -- way less than half -- as he pulled out a canteen. He took a sip, then I traded back his chicken for it.
The water tasted sweet, cold, like it was fresh. I thought about his arm, and said so. "Does it hurt? I mean, can you still feel it?" I blushed, but kept on. "I read one time about Civil War soldiers who lost arms or legs, and they said, sometimes they could still feel it. It's gone, but still there."
Egg motioned for the canteen. He shook it, then drank, taking his time. Then he said, "We all have something missing. We can all feel it. It is gone. But it is still there."
I waited for him to say something more, but he didn't. It seemed like a normal person would. But he just went to watching out the door, expecting something that didn't seem to come.
I was exhausted. Worse now with food in my belly. I hugged my pack, and fell asleep with my face in the shawl, smelling of wood smoke and washing powder and egg dinners and home.
***
I was on a platform. Egg was there. I looked down from high above him. He was clean again, and glowed silver.
He was guilty. It was done. He failed. He had to be sent away. He had to be sent away. I gave the order.
Then he was no longer Egg. He was my Pa.
I said guilty. I banged my gavel.
***
Morning light streamed into the car. A warm crosswind blew dust and clay powder up and around.
Egg was standing on the other side of the car, looking out again – or still. I couldn't tell how long I'd been asleep, but sun and my stiff neck suggested more than a few hours. I wondered how far we'd gone. "We must be almost there."
"Yes," Egg said. "We are almost there."
I pushed myself to standing from hands and knees. The bottom of my foot felt better. I picked my way along the car wall towards the door, skating on the clay in my stocking feet. When I got close, Egg steadied me on his arm, and I looked outside.
We were just outside Johnstown, not five miles from Cresson.
I could see the granary and the high school. Looking back, I could just see the clock on top of Calvin & Sons department store at the top of Main Street, and the American and Pennsylvania state flag at the bottom.
We’d been travelling all night. But we hadn’t gotten anywhere. The train pitched and hove at the same speed. But we were back home.
"How is this possible?" I asked. "Egg?" I held his arm and leaned out for a better look, like maybe it was a trick of the light. Wind stung my eyes, and they started to tear up. But I saw what I saw, though I didn't understand why.
Then Egg tugged me back inside again. My knees didn't seem to want to hold me up, so I sat down.
"How is this possible?" I asked, again. I looked at Egg. He stood next to me, rubbing his stump. Dust had settled in his colorless hair, the dried mud clung to his mouth, and the clay dotted his cheeks. Filled in, he had a real nice face. Like someone's brother or favorite cousin. Or father.
"Left turns," he said. "All left turns."
My mouth was open but I could not make a sound.
"I never answered you," Egg said. "I can feel it. My arm. My hand. It is still back there, back home. It's still there, holding on." He looked at me. He looked so much now like a man, but he wasn't. I knew he wasn't. "As long as I held on, there's was a chance I could go home. You understand?"
Something about the way he asked made me want to understand, and so I did. "Sure," I said." Then I asked, "What do we do now?"
"What do you want to do, Violet?"
I motioned for him to help me stand up, and he did. I held his hand and held it tight. "On the count of three," I said. "On the count of three, let's jump."
Caren Gussoff Sumption lives in a nest of books, knitting, and rescue cats, south of Seattle, WA. The author of 6 books (most recently, her postcolonial, deep space, far-future comedy of manners, So Quick Bright Things Come to Confusion) and more than 100 short stories, Caren received her MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and in 2008, was the Carl Brandon Society’s Octavia E. Butler Scholar at Clarion West. Caren is autistic, Romany, Jewish, and can't carry a tune (she tries anyway, gods help us all). Find her online at www.spitkitten.com and https://linktr.ee/spitkitten.
