THE LAST STEAM ENGINE

The Norfolk and Western Railroad crosses the Big Sandy River on long black pilings, joining the eastern hills of Kentucky with the green mountains of West Virginia. The tracks skirt the edge of a small town, dividing it from the outlying hills.

We are an Appalachian family. A hollow between the hills is home for me, Sissy Donnelly. Every Sunday my older brother, Wil, my sister, Patty, and of course, me, go to Sunday School in Happy Hollow. Those Sundays are so special. They are filled with fun and music. Our Grandma is the church pianist. Sometimes she plays my favorite hymn, "His Eye is on the Sparrow," drawing it out until the preacher clears his throat, a sure sign that he is ready to begin the sermon. Every now and then, we go into the city for music, and always, after Sunday night supper and baths, we gather on the front porch to sing.

Taking our usual places on the last day of summer, we sing our songs, that perfect harmony that is the blending of family voices.

A low moon is shining through the silver maple and in the dark thick grass along the creek, the crickets sing their own song. Wild roses creep along the gray painted porch. I sit against the porch post, gathering the rose petals in my skirt and wishing the evening would never end. I promise myself that I will never ever forget this moment, years and years from now I will remember the fireflies lighting up the garden, my mom rocking Jon-Jon, and daddy in the swing with Willy and Patty next to him.

We call our mom Nellie, encouraged by my dad, who thinks it's funny to call our mom by her given name, but continues, I think, because we love the sound, the softness of it. It suits her. Nellie never sings with us. Daddy says she has no ear for music. I've heard him say it many times, each time as though he's just discovered it.

Nellie says it differently, "I can't carry a tune in a bucket," she says as though it's newly discovered by her as well, but she doesn't mind the discovery. We sing the ballads and folk songs of her Kentucky childhood. We sing for her.

Daddy is our director, he selects the songs and keys us into the harmony.

He starts "Goodnight Irene, I'll See You in My Dreams." We all groan. It is always the last song, the bedtime signal.

"It's that time, pumpkin," my mom says, placing her hands on my waist. I wrap my arms around the porch post, "It can't be, I don't want it to be," I yell.

Laughing, she takes my hands away and leads me inside. I think she loves the every day routine of child rearing almost as much as she loves us.

Lying still and quiet, I wait for the story. It is one I've heard before: Nellie and her sister on a Sunday drive with her grandmother in their old touring car. Her grandmother sings as they drive, the tempo of the song matching the pace of the car. Nellie drives fast then slows down to demonstrate her control of the music. Once, on our Sunday drive, Patty and my cousin, Mat were carousing in the back seat and Patty fell out of the car. I think my mom blamed Mat but Grandma Donnelly blamed my mom.

The songs always vary but the ending stays the same, ice cream for all. She tucks me in, sweeping unruly strands of hair back from my forehead. She will use the same gesture to wake me.

I lie awake for hours, too excited to sleep. Imaging myself in a room, not yet seen, smiling at children, not yet met. I imagine myself in the new dress Nellie has sewn and the matching ribbon for my auburn hair. Our school has only four grades, kids from the hollow go to school in town for grades five and six. Tomorrow I will be a fifth grader.

A light sleeper, I hear Nellie raise the shade and feel the morning sun streak through the room. Pretending to be asleep, I breathe slowly and deeply. She reaches down gently and I take her hand, "Did I fool you?" I ask.

"You should be on the stage," she says.

The sun-warmed linoleum feels good on my bare feet. I pad across the kitchen to Jon-Jon,

who sits precariously in the middle of his favorite blanket. Jon-Jon is our Downs Syndrome baby. I scoot in close to steady his new sitting position, and feed him his cream of wheat. My job now that Patty leaves early for high school.

I throw on Patty's hand-me-down slip and lace up my new saddle shoes, wishing I could wear my black patent leathers, but they are for Sundays only. Nellie buttons my Dan River gingham and ties the ribbon into my wild hair.

"Lord, you're rambunctious, Sissy. Calm down, we have loads of time."

Our '52 Chevy idles in the graveled drive. Daddy will drop Nellie and me off on Main Street on his way to the city. We leave Jon-Jon with a neighbor and drive down the dirt road, slowly, dodging holes and keeping down the dust.

The paved road into town is cool and quiet. It will bubble with tar by noon. Sometimes I could press my bare toes into the black tar, leaving perfect toe prints.

Red lights flash at the railroad crossing and a black and white bar drops into place. We wait for the train. The distinctive sound of a bell sings through the air. It is a sound from the past. The train is moving toward us, the bell ringing its warning. It is black as coal, puffing toward us. A wide cow catcher stretches low across the front and a yoke shaped bell measures its swing to the rhythm of the engine.

My dad, exuberant as a kid, jumps out of the Chevy, pulling me with him. He kneels beside me, his arm encircling my waist.

"Look at that. Just look at that Sissy," he says. "it's a steam engine."

We watch in wonder as white puffs of smoke float lazily into the blue sky.

My dad muses softly, "It's an old Norfolk and Western. I haven't seen a working steam engine in years. It's beautiful, isn't it Sissy." It is beautiful. It is massive and thunderous and I move closer to my dad. He says, "That may be the last steam engine we'll ever see."

We return the engineer's wave. I am transfixed, watching the perfect circles drift above the train as it chuffs down the track toward the Big Sandy River.

Traffic on Main Street is light. Nellie and I get out of the car and walk the remaining blocks to the school.

Three-storied houses loom above white clapboard fences on Beech Street. A girl about my age stands by an open gate. She wears loafers, a shiny penny in each shoe, a pleated plaid skirt and a white frilly blouse. Nellie sees her too, and smiles approvingly.

I stop, wanting to ask her name and her grade in school. But her mom, oblivious to us, rushes through the gate and hurries her daughter down the sidewalk.

Her slingback pumps clop loudly on the pavement and her straight skirt fights to contain her steps.

Nellie, in contrast, floats along with long, slow steps. When she is in a hurry, she runs. Women in our family are quite tall. Shoulders back and head held high are frequent reminders. Patty and I can walk the fence rail with books on our heads.

Consciously, I slow my pace, raise up to my full height and shake the hair from my face.

The school, like the town, is old. The fifth grade room is near the back of an oil-swept hall. We stand at the door and peer into the room.

Rows of dark wooden desks fill the room. Each desk has an inkwell, a long smooth notch for a pen, and a wooden shelf beneath for tablets and books. The multiplication table lines the space above the blackboard. A portrait of George Washington hangs near the cloak room and the American flag stands by the teacher's desk just above and behind the West Virginia state flag. "Mountaineers Are Always Free," I whisper the motto.

We are early so Nellie takes me across the hall to meet the principal, Mr. Terry. An old family friend, he beams at us as we enter the office.

"What have we here?" he laughs. "Is this Sissy, all grown up?" He shakes his head, "Two peas in a pod, by golly, you are two peas in a pod. I taught your mommy when she was no bigger than you, Sissy. And a fine girl she was. I had your daddy, too. A very talented man, your daddy."

I already know that. My daddy can play the alto sax, the clarinet, and the piano. Sometimes on the weekend, we go into the city to hear him play in the concert band. He always winks at me from the bandstand and I rush up afterwards so everyone will know that he is my daddy.

Mr. Terry walks us to the fifth grade room. It is still empty. I find my name tag in a row near the cloak room, try it on and try out my new seat. Nellie laughs at me. I think she doesn't want to leave. Sitting at one of the student desks, she folds up her long legs and examines the room again.

We hear the chimes in the church tower. It is nine o'clock.

A short plump lady with tight, almost blue curls, enters to stand by the side of the desk. "I am Mrs. Palfrey," she says. Stretching thin, barely moving lips across her teeth. Gray unsmiling eyes stare at my mom.

She looks at Nellie, who is struggling to free herself from the small desk. Nellie offers her hand. The teacher looks at the roll book in her arm as though it prevents her from shaking Nellie's hand.

"I'm Nellie Donnelly," my mom says, "And this is Sissy."

"I know who you are," Mrs Palfrey replies avoiding Nellie's eyes. "School starts promptly at nine o five,"she says. "We require punctuality."

"Yes, of course," Nellie replies, "You can count on Sissy's punctuality. I would like very much to serve as a home room mother," she says groping into the pocket of her dress for the name and telephone number written out for just that purpose. Mrs. Palfrey holds out her hand, the palm extended toward Nellie, stopping the exchange.

"I will let you know," she says to Nellie dismissively. Nellie's cheeks flush the barest pink.

"I'm sure Mr. Terry will recommend me," Nellie replies holding her ground. I am so happy to have met you, Mrs. Palfrey, Nellie smiles candidly, her cheeks still flushed. She pushes my hair back from my forehead and says goodbye, pausing briefly at the door.

The school bell rings, and lines of kids led by orange-belted patrols enter the long hallway. The kids file into the room and stand by their desks. I jump up quickly and stand with the other kids.

"I am Mrs. Palfrey," she says scanning us row by row, nodding to the familiar, looking straight through the few of us who are new. She leads us through the Lord's Prayer and then the allegiance to the flag. Everyone seems to know the routine. She calls our names in alphabetical order. As she names them we answer "present" and sit down.

"Mary Louise Donnelly," she calls.

"Present," I say, sitting down gratefully.

"Donnelly," she says again slowly, stretching out the syllables. "Yes ma'am," I reply. "And you live in Chimney Hollow," she says drawing out the live.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm Sissy.

She looks at me for a long studied moment.

"Will you come forward please?"

I am unsure, maybe she knows my daddy. I look at her hesitantly. Slowly, she turns me toward the class, the tips of her fingers guiding my shoulders. She squints her eyes and peers at me. Peers into my hair. Her long pink fingernails rake across my scalp pushing the hair away from my ears and the nape of my neck. Loosening my ribbon, she parts thick tufts of hair pulling them taut against my head.

My cheeks burn. A rash creeps down my chest and arms. Two girls on the front row cover their mouths and whisper. I think I hear the word "lice." All eyes are on me. Standing stiffly, my arms against my sides, I press my thumbnail into the soft tips of my fingers to hide the real pain that threatens to explode from my chest.

"Alright, Mary Louise, you may go back to your seat." She holds my ribbon in the palm of her hand, slowly extending it toward me.

I shove the ribbon into my pocket staring at my brown and white saddles in an effort to avoid the faces staring at me. I slide into my desk, concentrating on the Mountaineers in the blue and gold flag, inhaling and exhaling lightly so as not to betray the cry in my chest and throat.

First day is mercifully short. Supply lists are handed out and we are dismissed. We fall into line with the other classes marching silently through the center hall, past the lower grades toward the square of light that shines through the front door.

I break from the line as we file through the playground, feet flying down Beech to Main, down the black top road to the railroad crossing at the edge of the hill. Tears stream down my cheeks, my stomach cries. I have never known such pain, such humiliation. Pushing through the briars and wheat grass, I find the place I want. It is a rock jutting out of the earth near the top of a hill. We call it our climbing rock. Sitting on its smooth surface, I can see my house in the hollow.

Jon-Jon lies on his quilt under the maple and Nellie gathers something from the garden, maybe late tomatoes. Moving down the rows, she examines each plant. She kneels by Jon-Jon, a basket of half-runners in her lap.

She waits for me.

It's her habit to wait for us in the front yard. She loves watching us walk up the road. She knows our mood by the measure of out step. She keeps glancing down the road for me to appear.

I trace the surface of the rock with my fingers, waiting for the tears to dry and the heaving in my chest to stop.

Shifting her slim back against the tree, Nellie snaps the green beans and tosses them into a bowl. She looks so fragile, her thick auburn hair falling across her shoulders, seated on a faded lavender quilt on a wave of green grass.

I want to race down the hill right through the weeds, the cow pasture and the narrow bridge that separates us. I walk instead down the back of the hill to the black top and up the dirt hollow where little clouds of dust form with each step. I attempt to skip, but is just isn't possible. I smile. That is easier.

"How's um Jon-Jon," I say, using daddy's phrase. My face must look awful. Concern flashes across Nellie's face, filling her beautiful green eyes with tears.

"Jon-Jon's fine. How's Sissy"? she asks.

I lie.

"I'm fine. School is good, too. We have a big playground, teeter-totters, swings and monkey bars. The kids are really really nice. I think I'm gonna' like it there."

She gazes at me, a long and questioning gaze. A gaze that sometimes sends the truth spilling out in torrents. I meet that gaze and hold it for a moment. I brush the auburn hair away from her forehead, reach into the bowl for a handful of half-runners, snap and string them.