Railroad Man by Alle Wells Page A

history. Travel in the city, including rail, died under ten inches of snow. Nobody had anywhere to go, and I was satisfied to stay where I was. I opened the hospital room door, balancing a potted poinsettia left over from the holidays on one arm. Later, Flo said that poinsettias always reminded her of that day.
    I felt a blush of heat rise in my face at the sight of Flo sitting up in the narrow bed, holding my little angel. “Hey there, little Mama!”
    Flo was alert and smiling. “Oh Mick, come see! She’s dark and handsome just like her daddy.”
    I set the potted plant on the side table. My large frame hung unsteadily, half on, half off the tiny bed. Flo was right. She had my olive skin tone, and her eyes were dark brown like mine.
    “ Mick, I want to name her Dorothy Lamour. You remember that movie star in The Jungle Princess .”
    I had never seen Flo look as beautiful as she did that moment. Her eyes sparkled with tears when she looked at our little daughter and then back at me. She was clearly a woman filled with love and pride in her family.
    “ Sure, Little Kitten. Anything you want.”
    Flo looked back at the baby who drifted into sleep. “My Dottie, someday you’ll be tall, dark and handsome just like your daddy and Dorothy Lamour.”
    ***
    I didn’t write off Mother’s comments completely. I hired a colored lady named Rosalee to come in and help Flo with the housework. Rosalee rode the streetcar to our doorstep to and from work. Colored people in the city didn’t act like my friends, Lewis and Miss Sara. Rosalee rarely spoke and if she did, she mumbled. Her downturned lips stayed frozen in place when I laid a five dollar bill in her hand every Friday.
    Flo kept herself busy attending to Dottie’s every whim and never objected to the help. On Wednesdays, she rode the streetcar to the A&P and the dry goods store on Ponce de Leon. She would buy a ham, pork roast or beef roast for Rosalee to cook for the weekend. Flo bought almost everything else in a can: bologna, chocolate syrup, fish, fruit, meat, milk, soup, and vegetables. I learned to eat Kellogg’s Corn Flakes with the bottled milk dropped on our doorstep twice a week instead of my sister’s country ham, grits, and gravy.
    Eventually, Flo learned how to bake the hams and roasts the way Rosalee prepared them. She could make mashed potatoes, but not gravy, and preferred rice. I learned how to doctor the gooey rice with slabs of butter and salt until it tasted good. Flo did the best she could, and I tried to adjust. On Fridays, I’d stop by Sallie’s Bakery on Highland and pick up a coconut cream pie or some macaroons for a weekend treat.
    Flo dressed Dottie up like a doll baby and took her to the local photographer every three months. As Dottie grew, so did the touched-up portraits lining the living room wall behind the sofa. Her dark curls multiplied and plump cheeks grew with each new stage. Caring for Dottie was Flo’s life. Sometimes I felt a twinge of jealousy watching the two of them roll around on the pink quilt spread across the living room rug. But then, I realized that I had my friends at the railroad, and Flo was here alone. She had no one but Dottie whom she spoiled. Flo jumped to Dottie’s every need even before she asked. I sometimes worried about how Dottie was going to turn out.
    When Dottie was three, the circus came to Decatur. We had her picture taken sitting on a pony in a cowgirl dress. We had copies made, and I still carry that small picture in my wallet. I bought a new Chevy sedan in 1944, and we took Dottie to the beach. We spent my whole week of vacation at a cabin camp in Myrtle Beach, SC. The cabin had a kitchen and everything we needed. But Dottie screamed whenever we passed the frosty cone sign outside our camp. That little girl could eat ice cream until it ran out of her ears.
    Sometimes we’d ride out to Mother’s on Sundays and have dinner. One Sunday, Flo and Sophia huddled together on Mother’s old divan