Having Two Nickels to Rub Together

Alma sat on bench at Union Station next to an information booth for tourists closed on Sundays. Her lower back and legs ached, a pinching reminder of the extra weight she was carrying. She had no purse, toting a canvas bag of yarn as a lifeline to work at, keeping her hands always busy as her mother taught her.

Trains came and went through Columbus, but Alma had never traveled farther than 50 miles from her hometown. She was born in 1906, in a rented house on the west bank of the Scioto River. In sleepy quiet dawns and sweat-soaked August nights, Alma remembered hearing train whistles, but these did not figure into any imagination of a future.

Alma never dreamed of faraway places. She wanted a husband to care for, a home to keep clean, and a family of her own. Like her mother, she never learned to drive. Her father and brothers drove. After, she was married, she depended on her husband.

It didn’t matter when they could no longer afford to keep a car. To get where she needed to go, she did not mind walking and enjoyed it even more when pushing a baby carriage or holding the hand of her own child as she made her way.

Alma was content to sit and rest her feet, even if it meant minding her crazy father in law.

“We shouldn’t have come, I tell you. I woke up this mornin’ with a bad feeling.”

“You just drunk too much last night, Burche. That’s all there is to that.”

Her father-in-law, once a young man of means was now just a mean old man.

“Lyin Bitch! Was Branch who killed that bottle off. He come to bed too limpwicked to bother with you, I dare say.”

Alma sighed, knitting a few rows more of a baby blanket to add to her growing layette while keeping her eyes on her immediate family directly in front of her.

Her husband of seven years stood close to the tracks like a rooted tree with their two children extending from each outstretched hand. Branch was big-boned, with a strong chest and broad shoulders, sturdy and fit; he was a proud man and Alma was proud of him, proud to be his.

Alma’s brother, Joe, a switchman, told Branch of a new machine for cooling passenger cars being demonstrated. Branch had keen interest in seeing this sight. Trained as a master plumber, Branch got distracted by his love of gadgets and machinery. He dreamed of becoming an inventor, dabbling at air conditioning designs for years.

Seeing this newfangled contraption to cool passenger train cars proved fascinating to Bo, but its mechanical marvel was of little interest to Bitty. She was biding her time, dreaming of her turn on the mechanical pony ride outside the dime store across the street.

“My son will die young. A voice told me: Today’s the day.”

“Today’s the day the Lord has made. I trust He’s watching over us, Burche.”

Branch, was the only son of Burchell Stiles, who sat beside Alma, a broken man.

Once the owner of a plumbing supply company, Burche lost everything in 1929, when his trusted bank failed. He began listening to the voices and followed their advice to burn his house down before it was foreclosed. He was committed to the state hospital for a time.

“Go on and don’t believe. But it was foretold to me the crash was comin’.”

“You was foretold a boy ‘when I had Bitty and a girl when I was carryin’ Bo.”

“I got them crossed up but this one comin,’ I know for sure. My voices say, you’ll lose this child.”

“You say such things you’ll be locked back up before our baby comes.”

Alma was relieved to see Branch walking toward them with the children. They had planned this outing to include a special treat and she was ready to get on with it.

Unfortunately, Branch was distracted from best-laid plans once again.

“There’s a guy over yonder selling broke-open bags of rice three for a nickel.”

“Mice has got into ‘em and left a pile of shit.” Burche hooted.

“Probly so, Pap, but there’s good left. Trust Alma to cook the shit out of it.”

“Wish’ed we had us a nickel.” Burche lamented.

“We got two, Pap.”

Alma gasped, “You promised those nickels to treat our kids to a pony ride and Hershey bar.”

“Six pounds of rice. You’re eating for 2. Can’t pass it up.” Branch kissed Alma’s forehead and patted her belly. “I’m rubbing our two nickels together to keep you satisfied.”

Alma felt his fingers creeping into the front pocket of her maternity dress to snatch the handkerchief they were tied into. “We’ll need your tote bag to hold the rice.”

“Aren’t all of us goin’ home together?”

“There’s loading work. We might get in a few hours earnings.”

Alma doubted they’d get work. The foreman would pick his favorites and the rest would remain idle, throwing dice to win a swig from some bottomless jug. That might be just the thing Branch couldn’t pass up.

As Alma gathered up her knitting to leave, a woman traveler approached.

“Excuse me, but where did you get that knitted football? I want to buy my boy one.”

“I have no money to buy such. I made it.”

“I see you’re clever with a needle.”

“It’s my husband who’s clever. And, my mother who taught to make rice dolls.”

“I’d give half-dollar for that football.”

If Branch kept his word and brought her six bags full, there would be enough bad to make Bo another football even bigger.

“I’d take two nickels to please your child. That’s all I’d need to please both mine.”

Alma trusted Bo would soon forget about this temporary loss given a mechanical pony ride and chocolate bar to remember much longer.

She was no inventor but she knew how to make right things happen out of wrong.