26

The train leaves at seven-thirty, so we re up before light. My talk with Omie seems like a dream. With the other dream inside it.

“Morning, Miss Perritt,” Opie says when I come into the kitchen.

“Is it?” I ask, bleary-eyed.

“Your grandmother says you had to sit up half the night and talk. Womenfolks! Here, let me get you some coffee.”

He pours me a cup, takes a look at the toast in the stove.

“‘Don’t let it burn,’ your grandmother says, as if I had a handle on fire.”

“I’ll watch it.”

The pieces come out, golden and yellow.

“I’m going home today, Opie.”

“Really? I thought we were putting a package on that train.”

“I’m going to see Mama and Willie—”

“Fetch some of Omie’s preserves, please ma am.”

“And Daddy and Helen—”

“They’re in the pantry. Blackberry. In the jam jar.”

“I’m really going to see them, Opie.”

“You’d better eat up then. You won’t see them if we’re still here when it’s light.”

“That’s what I know,” Omie says, as she comes in wearing her robe. “I’m awfully slow this morning. If you don’t mind, Mandy, I’ll let Opie take you to the station. I’m getting too old to say good-bye.”

“Too old for talking till the sky pales,” he teases.

“You won’t mind?”

“No, Omie. I’m sorry I kept you up.”

“That’s all right, child. You can’t plan dreams.” She sets out plates. We eat quickly and Opie gets my coat.

“Button that up,” he says. “It’s cold as Christmas this morn-

“You write me now, Mandy,” Omie orders. “And tell Rena to let me know how she is. Tell her what I told you.” She straightens my collar. “And tell Jim not to make himself such a stranger. Surely he can come out of the woods long enough to say hello.”

“We’ve got to go, Anna.”

“And kiss that baby for me, and hug everybody who’ll stand still—”

“Anna—”

“And here’s some ribbon candy. For the trip.”

“Thank you, Omie. Thank you for everything.”

She hugs me close. Opie’s already headed for the car.

He leans forward to hurry us through the traffic. “Never saw a woman who could leave.” He wipes our breath off the windshield.

“Aunt Laura can. She just disappears.” No comment.

“Opie, would you tell her good-bye for me?”

“If she ever darkens my door.”

It wouldn’t have to be darkening, I want to say, remembering curtains and beads in the doorways of her house.

We’re coming up on Union Station now. Opie cranes his neck, hunting a place to park.

“And Opie—”

“What, Traveler?”

“Try to get to the ocean.”

For a minute he looks confused, and then it comes back. “I’ll try. But first I’ve got to get you on this train.”

While Opie checks the schedule board in the lobby, I listen: heels tap marble, clothes rustle, and conversations swoop by like birds. Then, a voice from the wall: “Passenger service now boarding on track nine for Chattanooga, Knoxville, and points north. All aboard, please.”

From behind a big woman in a yellow coat, Opie appears.

“That’s your train, Mandy. We’re just under the wire.”

He takes my hand and we snake through the crowd and down the steps to the concourse. Opie hails a porter.

“Have a safe trip and don’t stay away so long.”

“I’ll try not to. Thank you for having me.”

People push between us. I can’t tell if he says something else or if he’s just nodding.