Tied to the Tracks Read online

  Rob said, “The regents never eat at the faculty club. Thomasina’s. And come right back after,” he added, making herding gestures toward the door. “You’ve got a one o’clock with the registrar.”

  “Hey,” John said, “I got here three months early specifically to avoid a panic. Why the rush?”

  Rob snorted. “All these years in academia, you should know the way things work. Where there’s a free slot in any schedule, a meeting will be created to fill it. Nature abhors a vacuum and all that.”

  “In other words, I’ve landed in a black hole.”

  “You wouldn’t be happy any other way,” Rob said, opening the door. “And you know it.”

  Patty-Cake Walker stood there, and just beyond her, Miss Zula Bragg and her dog. Miss Zula, who had once seemed the tallest woman in the world, had begun to fold in on herself with age, but the expression in her eyes was as alarmingly astute as ever.

  “Miss Zula,” John said, sure that his voice must crack, “what a nice—”

  “John,” said the old woman. “A word, if you please. Louie.” She pointed with her cane, and the dog trotted into the office ahead of her.

  Patty-Cake said, “Dr. Grant, I tried to tell Miss Zula that you have an important meeting—”

  “Not that important. Come in, Miss Zula, please. Rob, would you get some tea and call the dean to reschedule? Thank you, Ms. Walker, that will be all.”

  Patty-Cake drew in a sharp breath but she slipped away without protest, Rob just behind her. That left John alone with a seventy-five-year-old woman who had once been the bane of his existence, and who promised to take up that role again, now that he had come back to Ogilvie.

  She said, “You’ve gone and thrown your little brother to the lions, John.”

  John pulled out one of the deep leather chairs for her. “Rob can take care of himself. I was planning to come by to see you this afternoon. I haven’t been here forty-eight hours yet.”

  Miss Zula ignored the chair and walked to the couch, where she settled herself with her gloved hands folded over the head of her cane. Louie jumped up beside her. He had one blue eye and one brown and a companionable way about him. Miss Zula’s dogs always did; she would no more tolerate a surly dog than she would a whining undergraduate.

  For a long moment she studied John. Silence was her usual response to excuses; it was amazing how a remorseful student would respond to it by digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole. It was an excellent trick, one of many John had borrowed from Miss Zula to good effect in his own teaching career. But he wasn’t a student anymore, and he couldn’t let himself be intimidated by her, not if he wanted to make a success of this job. That meant working with Miss Zula, who had never found the right moment to retire from teaching, although her doctor—who happened to be her nephew—was constantly after her to do just that.

  She said, “Bubba’s waiting for you, is he?” Miss Zula was the only person John knew who dared to call the head of the board of regents by his boyhood nickname.

  “I’m not concerned,” John said.

  Miss Zula snorted softly. “You’re as bad a liar now as you were as a boy, John Grant. Of course you’re worried. You have to go in there and tell them that I don’t want anything to do with their party.”

  John’s eyes strayed to the posters pinned to the board behind the couch and just above her head. There were ten of them, one of which would be chosen as the official announcement for next spring’s celebration. The undergraduates had already come up with their own name for it: the Bragg Bash. A hundred fifty years for the university was not nearly as interesting as the fact that next June would be the fiftieth anniversary of Zula Bragg’s graduation from Ogilvie. Its first black woman graduate, its brightest star, the recipient of every literary prize ever given, this elderly black woman with beetle-dark eyes. In her flowered dress and straw hat and white gloves she looked more the part of a church organist, but she had produced some of the country’s greatest literature.

  The Regents were so busy contemplating the media attention, the free publicity, and the bump-up to the endowment that they had forgotten to reckon with Miss Zula’s dislike of fuss.

  “It’s the nature of the beast,” John said. “I disappoint them, and they cut my budget. Sometimes the order is reversed.”

  She pushed out an irritated breath, her brow drawn down to a deep V. “Do you think you got this job because they have the idea you know how to deal with me?”

  John laughed at that. “Not even the regents are that blind, Miss Zula. You’ll do exactly what you want. You always have. And I got this job on my merits.”

  “But why did you want it to start with, that’s the question.” She was looking at him closely, her eyes slightly narrowed, as if with enough effort she could see into his head.

  “People keep asking me that,” John said. “I don’t get it. Why shouldn’t I want to be here? I’ve got family and friends in Ogilvie, I like the town, and I love the college. I think I can do some good things for this department. I like the students.”

  “And there’s Caroline.” Miss Zula wasn’t smiling.

  “And there’s Caroline,” John agreed. “I’m thirty-six, you know. It’s about time I settled down.”

  “You sound like Patty-Cake Walker,” Miss Zula said. “Life isn’t a cake recipe, John. Following the rules somebody else sets out for you won’t get you any prizes.”

  “Why, Miss Zula,” John said, grinning. “You know I’m not about to pay Patty-Cake any mind, not with you close by to advise me.”

  She flapped her handkerchief at him, but there was a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t talk nonsense. Now, what are you going to tell Bubba about his anniversary party?”

  John considered. He had one card left to play, and his time was limited.

  He said, “I’ll tell him you’re not willing to take part, but I hope you’ll reconsider. A fiftieth anniversary shouldn’t be ignored, Miss Zula. It would be rude.”

  Her chin trembled, and then something surprising happened: she giggled. Miss Zula giggled like a young girl, and then she laughed.

  “You just cost me five dollars, John Grant. Maddie was right, and I was wrong.” She slapped her knee and bent forward, her shoulders shaking. She took out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes and Louie sat up straight and wagged his tail.

  “Give Bubba what he wants, then. They can put my name up on their poster if it means so much to them.”

  John held himself very still. “You mean it?”

  She gave him a severe look. “I never say a thing I don’t mean, you know that. Now, if you had spouted a lot of nonsense about doing the right thing for this old pile of bricks”—she gestured around herself—“then I would have said no, and I would have meant that, you can count on it. I’m not an old table to be auctioned off to the curious. But you didn’t trot out those sorry excuses. Rude.” She laughed again.

  John said, “I have this feeling there’s another shoe about to drop, directly on my head.”

  “Perceptive as always.” She put her handkerchief away and settled her hands on the head of the cane again. “Let me be clear. I will give a reading, as requested. I will attend the ceremony and the dinner and even the reception—”

  “But you don’t want the documentary.”

  She fixed him with her most severe stare.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I interrupted.”

  “You most certainly did. All those years among the Yankees has had a detrimental effect on your manners, John. I did warn your mama.”

  “I am sincerely sorry.”

  Her mouth twitched. “Under certain conditions I will allow the filming of a documentary.”

  John waited, trying to look interested but not particularly worried. It was the documentary that had caused the rift between the board of regents and their prize alumna to start with. They fantasized about film festivals and Oscars; Miss Zula had rejected the idea of a strange crew of discourteous men with cameras following h
er throughout her day.

  She said, “I don’t like that Simmons fellow, and I won’t have him.”

  “Film people are often single-minded, Miss Zula. I know you two got off to a bad start, but he’s won a great many—” He saw her expression and stopped.

  “Prizes don’t impress me,” she said, holding herself very erect. “And neither do his films. Sentimental twaddle and overextended metaphors. And Louie didn’t like him.”

  Louie raised his head and let out a single low bark of agreement.

  From the purse that always hung from her right arm she drew out an envelope. “If the board will agree to hire the film company that made this documentary, then I will allow them the access they need.”

  There were a hundred questions he might have asked, but he knew from experience that she would answer none of them.

  “It’s called L&N 1915,” Miss Zula said.

  “L&N. The old Louisville and Nashville Railroad?”

  “Yes,” she said shortly.

  “But—”

  “I’m not here to tell you the story, John. Watch the documentary and you’ll understand why I want this particular film company.” She leaned forward. “I have done some research. I have consulted friends and colleagues who are knowledgeable.”

  “And this documentary was recommended to you.”

  “It was. In the highest terms. It is thorough and thoughtful and there’s a sharp edge to it that is missing in most of what I looked at.”

  “Edge.” The word came out in a croak.

  “Yes. I believe I can trust these people not to romanticize me. I won’t be presented to the world as a quaint old colored lady who scribbles. If the board will agree to this—and by that I mean, if they will offer reasonable terms to the film company—you may go ahead with your plans.”

  John took the envelope she was holding out to him, and then he helped her to her feet.

  “I’ll expect a call from you later today with the details. I want to see the contract you offer them before it’s made, and I would like it to happen quickly. If it is to happen at all.”

  John looked down into the small face, the bright eyes, and saw a deep satisfaction there. Miss Zula might have lost five dollars to her sister today, but she had won some other wager, one she wasn’t telling him about. The real wager.

  He said, “Gambling is your only vice, Miss Zula, but it does have a grip on you.”

  That earned him another smile, a mysterious one. She patted his arm.

  “Maddie asked me to invite you for supper on Sunday. You may bring Caroline Rose.” She cast him a sharp glance that said if you must.

  He had seen that look a few times from Miss Zula, most particularly when she returned a piece of work to him that she considered less than his best effort.

  “Miss Zula, why don’t you like Caroline?”

  She pursed her lips at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. Caroline is my goddaughter, of course I like her. I love her dearly.”

  That was a relief, but only a little one. There was something else Miss Zula was not saying, and would not say, no matter how he thought to ask.

  At the open door she paused to wave off Rob and his tea. She said, “You boys be sure to give your mama and your stepdaddy my love when you next talk to them on the telephone. And don’t forget supper on Sunday. You come along, too, Rob, and bring that pretty little wife of yours.”

  Caroline and Kai together at the table; that was one kind of problem, but there was a bigger one, and John held it in his hand. A square envelope exactly the size to hold a DVD case, with a label in one corner. The logo showed stylized railway ties in black and white and in scarlet script: Tied to the Tracks Productions. Hoboken, New Jersey.

  “John?” Rob looked from the envelope to his brother and back again. “You look like Miss Zula took a bite out of you. What is it?”

  “Nothing much,” John said. “Just the end of the world as I know it.”

  TWO

  Tied to the Tracks. Independent. Full-service documentary film & videography, digital storytelling. L&N 1915 (full-length doc) Finalist, International Documentary Film Festival, Stockholm; Honorable Mention, Orson Welles Film Festival; Judges’ Choice Award, IG Film Festival. Angeline Mangiamele (producer, writer, editor), Rivera Rosenblum (photographer, editor), Anthony Russo (photographer, sound).

  1221 Washington Street, Hoboken, NJ. [email protected] “Young Blood on the Rise: Ten Independents to Watch” www.indieindie.com

  In many ways this particular summer morning at Tied to the Tracks was nothing unusual. Angie had seen it all before: the air conditioner on strike, the telephone company ready to cut off service, and the reserves of everything from paper clips to videotape alarmingly low. That was the way most small documentary film companies operated: short on everything but panic and adrenaline.

  And dedication, Angie reminded herself. It would take that much and more to get them through this oddest of days.

  They were, all three of them, in the office at ten o’clock in the morning. Tony was here because he had been sleeping in the storage room since his latest girlfriend kicked him out; at almost fifty he preferred the discomfort of an old army cot to showing up on his mother’s doorstep. Rivera was another matter. Angie couldn’t remember the last time Rivera had been out of bed so early, but there she was, kneeling in front of the ancient fax machine like a supplicant before the pope.

  “Come on,” Tony whispered. “Come on, come on, come on.”

  “I’m gonna faint,” Rivera said. She ran her hands over the slick black veil of her hair, grasped the sides of her head, and rocked it. Rivera Rosenblum, who had the looks and bearing of a Cleopatra, was wiggling like a puppy.

  “Oh, please. You’ve never fainted in your life,” Angie said.

  “We’ve never been this hungry before.”

  Angie looked at the damp, crumpled cover sheet in her fist and realized that she wasn’t handling this any better than her partners. The phone call late yesterday afternoon from the office of the president of Ogilvie College had been brief and to the point, but she hadn’t quite been able to believe it. Not until the fax machine had sputtered to life right on schedule and the pages began to appear, black on white.

  Rivera had her face right up to the machine now and she was reading out loud.

  “The board of regents of Ogilvie College . . .”

  “Ogilvie, Ogilvie, Ogilvie,” chanted Tony. His long, thin face, normally pale, was flushed with color, and the shock of black hair stood up in spikes. The jitter in his hands said he needed a cigarette, but for the moment adrenaline was holding him steady.

  Rivera read: “. . . join me in extending this invitation . . . pleased to offer . . .”

  Tony burst into the air like a startled pigeon, both fists pumping the air. “Yeeeee-ha!” Then he grabbed Rivera and they began a crazy polka, bumping into tables and knocking over chairs.

  Angie caught the page as it cleared the fax machine. Her eyes ran down the smeared print.

  “It’s such a huge commitment.”

  She might have pulled out a gun for the reaction she got. Tony and Rivera stopped in mid-spin. They exchanged a look that was not lost on her, and then Rivera marched over and took the sheet out of Angie’s hand. It was at times like these that Angie noticed that she was more than a head shorter than Rivera, who had played center on Smith’s basketball team.

  “We’re doing it.”

  “Well, of course,” Angie began, but Rivera cut her off as she took the next sheet from the fax machine.

  “This is Zula Bragg we’re talking about. The elusive. The ungettable. Complete access—”

  “Sufficient access, it says here. Don’t go overboard.”

  “It’s national exposure. It’s artistic control.”

  Tony thrust his face so close that their noses almost touched. “It’s real money.”

  Rivera said, “We can’t pass this up because you don’t want to run into an old boyfriend.”
<
br />   Tony pulled up short. “Boyfriend?”

  Angie took the next page from the machine and turned her back on him to read.

  “Now you’re looking for loopholes,” Rivera said.

  “No, I’m looking at the budget. It’s . . . generous.”

  Tony leaned over her shoulder, his eyes running down the page. “Oh, man,” he said in a low voice. “Oh, man. Who ponies up that kind of money?”

  The chair of the English department could pony up that kind of money. But the time wasn’t right to bring up John Grant, so Angie kept that thought to herself. She said “The endowment? Rich alums? It doesn’t matter to us where it comes from.” She kept her eyes on the paper, but even so she could feel Rivera’s attention fixing on her.