Tracks
by Jill Jepson
I will call her Caralee. I don’t remember her name. We lived in the same town and went to the same school, but I didn’t know her. I have no idea how many times I passed her on the streets of our listless farm town, or how many days we sat in the same classroom before she died.
Two things I remember about Caralee: broken-down shoes and Oklahoma vowels. Her parents must have come to Central California during the Dustbowl to pick crops, like many who came then to half-starve in squatter camps, drinking water from ditches tainted with outhouse run-off. By the fifties, when Caralee and I were in grade school, the squatter camps were gone, but her family and others like them still picked apricots, tomatoes, and beans, traveling with the harvests.
The rest of us, children of farmers, grocers, mechanics, and teachers clinging to the lower rungs of the middle class, belonged to the town, to houses with curtains in the windows and air conditioners in the walls, to small farms and businesses. But the Oklahoma kids belonged to the roads they traveled down and to the cycles of the crops that forced them to keep moving. The Oklahoma girls were outsiders. They never wrote for the school paper, joined Scouts, or acted in school plays. They never ran for class secretary or tried out for cheerleader. The boys could find a way in if they could run or throw a ball. But the Oklahoma girls weren’t allowed into the knitted cliques of town-girls with our ferociously guarded friendships. If Caralee hadn’t died, or hadn’t died in such a spectacular way, I might never have remembered that she existed.
She died on a foggy day in winter, walking home from school. It seems cliché now to say she lived on “the wrong side of the tracks,” but the railroad that ran down California’s Central Valley, carrying the crops we grew, the crops Caralee’s parents picked, served as the boundary between those-who-belonged and those-who-didn’t. Caralee had to cross the tracks that afternoon.
The morning after, class began without a word about her absence. The news of her death didn’t get around until recess. Then, the rumors vined across the playground. It was said that the train spread her body over the tracks like mincemeat. That the police collected bits of bone and brain with tongs. Two kids claimed they found a piece of her liver a hundred feet from the station, a toe a half mile down. Someone said they were there when her mother screamed, Why God?
The school made no announcement. The principal gave no address. There was no assembly, no class discussion, no moment of silence. Grief counselors were unheard of in those days. There seemed to be no need for them anyway. Caralee was merely there, then she wasn’t, a ghost to most of us even before she died. Nothing memorialized her. Except the jokes.
What do you call someone with their insides on the outside?
Caralee.
What does Caralee do at parties?
She gets smashed.
The carrot sticks served in the cafeteria were pronounced Caralee’s fingers. The mashed potatoes her snot. The slab of hamburger her tongue. We groaned and laughed at the jokes, breaking the monotony of our days for a few weeks, until a couple of high-school pregnancies took over the rumor mill. Then we never spoke of Caralee again.
In recent years, after experiencing enough grief for one lifetime, I’ve begun to wonder about Caralee. It has occurred to me that she must have had a friend in school. Some other child in that classroom, another outsider, must have looked forward to seeing her each day. She probably had someone to pass notes to, walk home with, share secrets with. Someone who smiled at her across the room and sat with her at lunch. Maybe someone loved her, held her hand, felt a tug in the chest when she looked their way.
Some child must have sat silent and heartbroken in that class the day Caralee died. I can only imagine what they felt when no announcement was made, when her chair was simply removed.
They must have heard the jokes.
What does a hungry dog do at the railroad tracks?
Lick up pieces of Caralee.
I don’t remember Caralee’s face or her real name, but somewhere, someone must. Some child in that classroom raged and grieved at her death and said nothing, or spoke but wasn’t listened to. Someone heard the jokes, each one a blister on the heart.
Two things I remember about Caralee: broken-down shoes and Oklahoma vowels. Her parents must have come to Central California during the Dustbowl to pick crops, like many who came then to half-starve in squatter camps, drinking water from ditches tainted with outhouse run-off. By the fifties, when Caralee and I were in grade school, the squatter camps were gone, but her family and others like them still picked apricots, tomatoes, and beans, traveling with the harvests.
The rest of us, children of farmers, grocers, mechanics, and teachers clinging to the lower rungs of the middle class, belonged to the town, to houses with curtains in the windows and air conditioners in the walls, to small farms and businesses. But the Oklahoma kids belonged to the roads they traveled down and to the cycles of the crops that forced them to keep moving. The Oklahoma girls were outsiders. They never wrote for the school paper, joined Scouts, or acted in school plays. They never ran for class secretary or tried out for cheerleader. The boys could find a way in if they could run or throw a ball. But the Oklahoma girls weren’t allowed into the knitted cliques of town-girls with our ferociously guarded friendships. If Caralee hadn’t died, or hadn’t died in such a spectacular way, I might never have remembered that she existed.
She died on a foggy day in winter, walking home from school. It seems cliché now to say she lived on “the wrong side of the tracks,” but the railroad that ran down California’s Central Valley, carrying the crops we grew, the crops Caralee’s parents picked, served as the boundary between those-who-belonged and those-who-didn’t. Caralee had to cross the tracks that afternoon.
The morning after, class began without a word about her absence. The news of her death didn’t get around until recess. Then, the rumors vined across the playground. It was said that the train spread her body over the tracks like mincemeat. That the police collected bits of bone and brain with tongs. Two kids claimed they found a piece of her liver a hundred feet from the station, a toe a half mile down. Someone said they were there when her mother screamed, Why God?
The school made no announcement. The principal gave no address. There was no assembly, no class discussion, no moment of silence. Grief counselors were unheard of in those days. There seemed to be no need for them anyway. Caralee was merely there, then she wasn’t, a ghost to most of us even before she died. Nothing memorialized her. Except the jokes.
What do you call someone with their insides on the outside?
Caralee.
What does Caralee do at parties?
She gets smashed.
The carrot sticks served in the cafeteria were pronounced Caralee’s fingers. The mashed potatoes her snot. The slab of hamburger her tongue. We groaned and laughed at the jokes, breaking the monotony of our days for a few weeks, until a couple of high-school pregnancies took over the rumor mill. Then we never spoke of Caralee again.
In recent years, after experiencing enough grief for one lifetime, I’ve begun to wonder about Caralee. It has occurred to me that she must have had a friend in school. Some other child in that classroom, another outsider, must have looked forward to seeing her each day. She probably had someone to pass notes to, walk home with, share secrets with. Someone who smiled at her across the room and sat with her at lunch. Maybe someone loved her, held her hand, felt a tug in the chest when she looked their way.
Some child must have sat silent and heartbroken in that class the day Caralee died. I can only imagine what they felt when no announcement was made, when her chair was simply removed.
They must have heard the jokes.
What does a hungry dog do at the railroad tracks?
Lick up pieces of Caralee.
I don’t remember Caralee’s face or her real name, but somewhere, someone must. Some child in that classroom raged and grieved at her death and said nothing, or spoke but wasn’t listened to. Someone heard the jokes, each one a blister on the heart.
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Jill Jepson is the author of Writing as a Sacred Path and the editor of No Walls of Stone: An Anthology of Literature by Deaf and Hard-of-Hearing Writers. Her work has appeared in The San Francisco Chronicle, A Woman’s Path: Women’s Best Spiritual Travel Writing, and numerous literary journals. She holds a Ph.D. in linguistics and lives in Ravenna, Italy.
Website: www.jilljepson.com |
