Under the El Tracks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Leonard Kress

Under the El Tracks

By Leonard Kress

What I so clearly remember From the years we lived beneath the el tracks, Or just blocks from them, were the freezing Waits for the train and the hopelessly long Walks through the neighborhoods—Harrowgate, Torresdale, Fishtown, the bums and crosswalk prophets

We ’d encounter. Always the same: what will it profit A man, if he gains the whole world? I remembered Meeting one preaching outside the shut gate Of a half-demolished art-deco theatre. He tracked Our arrival, our baby strolled deep in her long Afternoon nap, questioned our wisdom—letting her freeze

Like this. My wife with her camera busily freezing The twisted steel beams, drooping finials, scenes a prophet Might relish, beads of gilt debris melted in the long History of midnight fires, crack, and rats. What we won ’t remember In the rush to rebuild. This was the place beneath the tracks Where prostitutes sheltered all winter, their gate-

Way to cruising cars, one by one, with that skirt-hiking gait, Raising 5 or 10 fingers, like figures in an ancient Chaldean frieze. Everyone takes them in: walkers, drivers, passengers on trackLess trolleys—you might wonder if they ’ re the harlots the prophet Ezekiel railed against: Oholah and Oholibah as they remember Their Egyptian lovers, whose members were as long

As those of horses, those sisters who continued to long For the orgies of their youth, before the city shut its gate To them. Officers with girded loins remembered Even in exile, even in the heat of this deep freeze. They crowd around, cooing over the baby—the prophet Isn ’t paying attention, -losing track

Of time and money to be made under the El tracks. It seems they ’ ve been doing this for so long

You ’d think they ’d learn by now. Forget the prophet Ezekiel’ s rant, listen to Isaiah instead. Enter the gates Of the city. Take your harps and sweet songs. Don ’t freeze. Sing that you may be remembered

Leonard Kress has recent work (poetry and fiction) in Barn Owl Review, Passages North, Harvard Review, New Orleans Review, River Styx, Atticus Review, and Philadelphia Stories! Most recent poetry collections are Braids & Other Sestinas, The Orpheus Complex, and Living in the Candy Store. He lived in Philadelphia for 45 years before having to relocate to the midwest.He currently teaches philosophy, religion, and creative writing at Owens College in Ohio.

John enters the bathroom. Before I can ask him why I’ m standing by the sink, he begins to put toiletries into clear Ziploc baggies.

“That’ s my stuff, silly, ” I say, as he dries my toothbrush before bagging it.

“I’ m helping you pack. You ’ re going away, Nan. Your flight’ s this morning. ”

“I remember. ” I turn away. I can ’t watch him packing my cosmetics like an aide.

A woman ’ s face looks at me from the mirror above the sink. Her forehead is aged. I recognize the Marrero crease between her eyebrows. Her nose, full cheeks, and unsmiling lips are familiar. I saw them on Liam ’ s face. Those features were beautiful on him.

I forget why John and I are in the bathroom.

Parking Lot C Newark Liberty International Airport, NJ 10:32 a.m.

I agreed with John that leaving for the airport after 10 a.m. would leave time to catch my flight. It took 15 minutes just to get through the construction outside of our building. Take-off is in less than two hours. We ’ re still in the airport parking lot. The web sites for Newark Airport and Continental Airlines both strongly recommend checking in two hours before domestic flights. We should have left earlier. We ’d already be inside the terminal. I might already be sitting at the gate with a coffee.

John takes my wheeled carry-on from the back of our truck. He rests one hand on the rear gate and pats his coat with the other.

“Yes, the keys are in your pocket. Hurry up, ” I want to yell, but it’ s too cold to uncover my face. My hat and hood muffle the slam of the truck’ s rear gate. John reaches out his hand to me. I hold his arm like an anxious elderly aunt. I watch my feet and the ground. Pebbles of Ice Melt crunch under our treads.

The flat landscape of the parking lot

is alien. I see three men in the distance. They ’ re sexless in thick coveralls, insulated from the 18 degree temperature. They push Ice Melt spreaders around the lot. I’ m afraid they ’ll spatter me. John guides me past the parking lot barricades, assures me it’ s okay to cross the three car lanes, and we continue into Terminal C.

The terminal lower levels are dim. The escalators are slow and catch as we

ascend. I remind John to stand on the right side of the escalator so others can pass. I don ’t laugh at his comment that I’ m usually one of those left-side sprinters.

“It’ s a joke, Nan. It’ s good you ’ re standing still. ”

The concourse level opens around us at the top of the third escalator. Light comes through the walls of windows and the ceiling soars three levels above us. The sounds of wheels, on luggage and clinking carts, slip inside my hood and into my ears. I hear beeps, pages and soft-toned announcements. There are monitors and directional signs to show where you are and where you need to go. I see an airline employee, a young man, smiling and chit-chatting with the woman in the wheelchair he pushes. She ’ s white, very heavy, spilling over the edges of the seat, and holding a tote on her lap. She ’ s smiling, too. She looks

nothing like me. I had been giggly with anticipation when the young Filipino man wheeled me to the maternity and delivery ward. I put my mitten over the scarf covering my mouth.

“Are you okay?” John asks. “Are you going to be sick?”

I shake my head. Port Authority officers walk through the terminal, carrying semiautomatic weapons. The back of my throat tastes sour. I hope silently that they won ’t notice me, just continue walking.

There is no safe place for terrible mothers. Only a monster leaves her baby in the ground on a February morning. Officers on motorcycles escorted us to Holy Name Cemetery that day. They held traffic at intersections. The morning was flash-explosion bright. I saw the cops ’ faces through my reflection in the limo window. One looked so young, his boy face red from the cold. The windows were tinted, but he knew I was in

Chicago Lights 3 by Michelle Ciarlo-Hayes © 2012

there. Baby killer, I read on his face. Only monsters give birth to dead babies.

“This is too much. ”

John lowers my hand and scarf from my mouth, pulls back my hood, and takes off my hat. I’ m puffy as a marshmallow in my coat, like a theme-park character without the oversized head. “There. Maybe now I can hear you. ”

“It’ s almost eleven o ’ clock. I can ’t miss my plane. ”

“It’ s only 10:40, ” John begins, but I’ m already approaching the Continental Airlines kiosk.

The screen blinks. “Please wait as your boarding pass is printed. ” I pull at the pass as soon as an edge appears.

“Okay, check the departures, ” I announce and walk to my right.

“Nan, this way. ”

“I know!” I turn to the left.

“Departs to San Juan, 11:57 a.m. Status is on time. I need to be at Gate 36. ”

“Did you want to get a coffee?”

I inhale, and look over my shoulder.

“There ’ s no time now, John. Please. I need to go through security to get to my gate. ”

There is only one ticket agent checking boarding passes and IDs by the sign that reads “Only ticketed passengers allowed beyond this point. ” The line of travelers snakes around repeatedly. John and I stand four deep from the entry. I sweat like I’ m already in the tropics.

“I told you we should have left earlier. There ’ s not enough time. ”

“You have plenty of time. ”

“No, I don ’t. Can ’t you see?”

John pauses before he answers. “Don ’t start. ”

“What? Don ’t start what?”

John glances around, then looks at me with his swollen eyes. They ’ re just like Liam ’ s. “Get in line if you ’ re worried about time. ”

I step into line before an approaching clump of women. John and I stand behind four spring break types, female undergrads in Montclair State University sweatshirts and shorts with “Juicy ” and “Pink” printed across their butts. The group immediately behind us doesn ’t sound like they ’ re from the Northeast. They are excited about their first trip to “Perderico. ”

“It could become the fifty-second state, ” one of the women announces.

John looks distant, standing right next to me and holding my luggage. We ’ re silent, just as we were on the drive to the airport. That’ s the thing about losing a child: There are no words. I get angry when John speaks about Liam ’ s death. I talk about “being in the hospital. ” It makes other people less uncomfortable. No one has to say, “When Liam died. ” Those words don ’t make sense.

The line barely moves. A man to my left talks on his cell phone to his administrative assistant. He guides her stepby-step through his computer ’ s directories and folders to find his urgent presentation. I want to tear out of my skin.

“Aren ’t you hot?” John asks.

“No, ” I answer, shivering. “How can they only have one person up there? How can they not be prepared?”

“They ’ re professionals. They can handle it, I’ m sure. ”

It’ s ridiculous. The agent greets each passenger individually. She looks at the face, the boarding pass, the ID, then the face again. I can ’t believe she ’ s allowed to waste time like this. She should concentrate on her job as intently as I’ m staring at her. The sign states clearly everyone must be prepared for their turn with documents already in hand. If John wasn ’t with me, I’d tap the shoulders of those undergrads ahead of me and tell them to be prepared.

John interrupts my thoughts. “Was that you as a kid?”

He points toward a boy, maybe middle school-aged, standing ahead of us. A minor traveling alone, wearing a lanyard with an ID around his neck like I did every summer when I was growing up.

“Kind of. Except my parents would hover till the last minute when they had to hand me off to the stewardess. They would have escorted me onto the plane and buckled my seat belt if they could. ”

John snorts. I’ m almost forty years old, but my family will be waiting on the other side. They ’ll stand right in front, where I can see them, like they ’ ve done since I was little Nancy. I envy that kid. He ’ s as casual as if he ’ s in line at McDonald’ s, engrossed in his texting, and backpack straps hanging off his bent elbows. He looks Puerto Rican, honey colored and curly haired like me. I imagine there ’ s family on La Isla preparing for his arrival, too: an uncle grumbling about traffic to the airport; an aunt preparing arroz con gandules frescos to keep warm on a stove top. I’ ve joked with John that my childhood summer visits to the island were the family sponsored Fresh Air Fund, coordinated so little Nancy could escape the projects and inner city.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“You have time. ”

“Could you just tell me what time it

is?”

John looks at me. It is not gentle. His eyes are red. I don ’t know when or if he ’ s slept.

“Never mind. ”

“Good. ”

“I just don ’t want to miss my plane. ”

“Nancy, ” he says and takes his hand from his pocket. I barely feel his touch through the sleeve of my coat. “Believe me. I’ll get you on that plane. ”

I don ’t ask for the time again. I can see the watch of the woman to my left, a full line length ahead of us.

“Any big plans while the wife is gone?” I ask, to make conversation and ignore that it’ s past eleven o ’ clock.

John shrugs. “Just work. ”

“Will it be busy?”

“Busy enough. ”

“How ’ s the trial going?” I ask, though I know. John and his client were on the front page of The Hudson Journal just last week when the judge denied the multipersonality defense. The man faced capital punishment until it was repealed in New Jersey. Now he faces life. I know John will visit his client at the jail as he does twice every week. He ’ll speak with his client’ s doctors, make sure the man is taking his medications, and provide the only genuine interest the man gets. It’ s

typically the calm personality who ’ s present during John ’ s visits, but I worry. The man has a very violent side. I insist John call me at the end of every visit.

“The work just keeps going. You know how it is. It’ll be going for a while. ”

Two additional employees join the original agent. The line stirs, and the momentum worries me, like a current might sweep my feet from under me. I remember the advice the guide gave me and John when we went white-water rafting a few years ago.

“Keep your feet up. ”

“What was that?” John leans toward me.

“Nothing. I was just thinking of when we went rafting that time in Frenchtown. ”

“That was a while ago. ”

“Yeah. ” I remind myself I’ m not in a river. My feet won ’t get caught in a tree limb nor my body weighted by my down coat.

“You ’ re almost up, ” John says. “Got your–”

“Yeah, ” I answer, pulling my driver ’ s license from my wallet.

John looks at the photo on my license. “Your hair was so long. ”

I don ’t recognize the woman in the photo. Everything is different about her. The photo isn ’t even two years old. I don ’t answer John and don ’t want to engage in small talk. We ’ re approaching the checkpoint, and one of those agents might decide I’ m not the woman in the photo. I have to remain calm and focused.

The original agent is still all smiles. The male agent to her right squints at the snaking line, and the woman to her left is humorless.

“Excuse me. Excuse me, ” says the male agent, too weakly to get anyone ’ s attention.

“Attention!” barks the humorless woman. “Everyone should have their boarding pass and ID in hand. Do not wait until it is your turn. Be. Ready. Now. ”

I do not want to take my turn with that woman. I count the number of people ahead of me, but there is no way to predict which agent will check my ID. The woman whose wristwatch I’ ve been watching gets through the male agent without incident. I look again at my license, then at John, who ’ s staring ahead.

The minor traveling alone is attended by the smiling woman. He waits to the side for another agent to accompany him through the metal detectors to the gate. I’ m getting closer. My tee shirt sticks to my back. I don ’t ask John how well-trained these front-line workers are in identifying unusual behavior. It’ s better if one of us can remain calm and natural.

The undergrads each take their turn. I stand behind “Juicy, ” and she gets waved forward by the male. The smiley woman is still wasting time grinning at everyone. I stand at the head of the line and hope she calls for me. The humorless one becomes free and stares right at me.

“Next!” she yells.

I wonder if I should let the women behind me, the ones who ’ ve never been to the future fifty-second state, go ahead.

“It’ s you, Nan. ”

“I know! Don ’t rush me. ” I try to act normal as I approach. John walks behind me with my wheeled carry-on. The agent’ s name is on the ID on the lanyard around her neck: Lorraine. Her photo is dated but the penciled eyebrows and hard-set jaw are clearly hers. I can smell the cigarettes on her clothes. I hold the boarding pass over my license.

“I need your, oh, you have it already. Hmm. Nancy Marrero-Twomey. ” She glances at the boarding pass, my license, me, the license again.

I’ll be taken out of line if she notes a discrepancy, escorted to a room and questioned. I don ’t know why that woman in the photo is not me. John is an attorney, but he can ’t defend me if he doesn ’t know why I’ m not that woman.

Lorraine hands everything back to me.

“Okay. Will it just be you traveling today?”

I nod.

“Did anyone pack your bag or give you anything to carry?”

A lump lodges in my chest. It’ s a trick question. I watched John bag my eyelash curler and eczema lotion this morning. Lorraine won ’t believe I’ m incapable of packing my own toothbrush. The woman in my license photo can pack her own bag, but I’ m not her. I stand in front of Lorraine, with John by my side, afraid she will ask more questions.

Lorraine breathes out loudly through her nose and looks upward. “Did anyone... ”

“Yo no se, ” I blurt.

Lorraine places both hands on the stand before her and leans toward me. “Excuse me?”

She could unravel everything, keep me from getting on the plane, keep me in New Jersey. I begin to pant, shallow, like a dog sensing thunder. Why did I let John pack my bags? He prepares his clients for questioning, why didn ’t he prepare me? If I had more time, I’d know what to do.

“My wife has trouble with English, ” John lies.

“Well, does she understand the question? Can she answer?”

I know John can ’t repeat any of this in Spanish. I grab his sleeve and say the few words I know he understands. “Si. Si entiendo. ”

“Okay, muy bien, ” he answers with the few words he knows and pats my hand.

“She understands. Yes, it’ s her bag. ”

“That’ s not what I asked. Does she understand the question?”

John steps forward. “She understands English. She doesn ’t feel comfortable speaking it. ”

I steady myself with John ’ s arm. My tee is sopped under my coat, and my