Greyhound (20 page)

“I wondered where you had gotten off to. I saw you searching the overhead bins when we got off.”

“I got you this,” I answered, as I handed him the Trailways pillow.

“Alright, a souvenir!” he replied, happy with the gift. The two Navajo men were stoic, both grasping their coffee cups. The way they both had fixed their gaze on me made me feel nervous.

“Nice gift,” the old man noted, nodding his head yes.

Marcus shoved the pillow on the seat beside him and continued staring at the menu and stirring his coffee.

A man in a white shirt and black pants came over to the table and set a menu down in front of me.

“You want something to drink?” the man asked me. “Juice, milk, something in a toddler cup?”

I didn’t know what he meant by that or even if he was serious. They were all looking at me now, waiting to see what I was going to say.

“Coffee.” I didn’t even say please. The old man must have caught all of it, because he chuckled under his breath, bobbing in his seat a little.

“That stuff will either keep you up all night or close to a toilet,” he informed me, concerned.

“No one ever let me drink coffee before. I kind of like it.”

“It will make you into a man, fierce and alert. It is a gift from our Grandfather in the far away South,” the son spoke earnestly.

“Well, you’ll definitely be alert, that’s for sure,” Marcus remarked. “What time does your bus leave?” he continued.

“We pull out of here in thirty minutes,” the son replied. “We should be in White Earth by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you taking a different bus?” I asked naively.

“We must all take our own paths,” he said.

“There’s such a place called White Earth?” I wondered.

“There is such a place. My sister is getting married the day after tomorrow to a Chippewa. There will be a lot of good food and dancing.”

“I’ve never heard of White Earth,” I said, fascinated by the name. It sounded mystical, like the center of everything or where another world might exist.

“We are all living on a White Earth,” the old man replied with a sort of halfway grin. “A land where real magic is pushed into the ground and forgotten. When you’re a man, they’ll sell you back your dreams that they’re about to steal from you now.”

“You can say that again,” Marcus remarked.

“We’re all living on a White Earth,” we all repeated in unison like a knee-jerk. It was late, and we were all partially delirious. When the waiter came, I ordered a BLT and fries. The coffee was stone cold in my cup, and after one sip I had no desire to finish it.

“What’s wrong?” the younger man asked. He was sitting directly across from me and had noted my grimace when I sipped it.

“The coffee’s cold and I think it’s burnt.”

“For someone who’s not allowed to drink coffee, you sure have a good tongue for it,” the old man spoke. They were all looking into my coffee cup for the answer.

“You’re not going to drink that, are you?” Marcus asked.

“I don’t think so…”

Marcus raised his hand and got the waiter’s attention. Within a minute he appeared at our table with the same pot of cold coffee.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Coffee’s cold. Have you got any hot?” I spoke just above a whisper. I thought he was going to ask me to repeat myself, but he just stared at me. He looked thoroughly annoyed and made a sound. Marcus nudged me under the table and cleared his throat.

“Can you make some more?” I asked.

“Okay, I’ll make a fresh pot,” the waiter whined, turning away and taking his cold, burnt coffee with him.

“Good job,” the son praised me. “You’re paying for it. Make sure it’s worth it.” The old man grunted something and agreed. No one was drinking their coffee now. I thought maybe I was just being picky and difficult.

When the waiter appeared the third time with our food, not only had he brought fresh coffee out, but he had four new cups as well. After he had put everything down and poured everyone a cup, the old man told the waiter that he was very thoughtful for replacing the cups.

“It’s okay, just doing my job,” he replied. “Besides, it’s not often we get a visit from the United Nations,” he said. They all laughed together, but I didn’t get it. At least not right away. I got the distinct impression, watching the whole thing unfold in front of me, that maybe what had happened was supposed to have happened. It was something that I was supposed to see. Had someone served Charlotte and Dick cold, burnt coffee, they both would’ve flown into a rage. Instead, everyone stayed calm and it was easily remedied.

Traveling made me hungry. I had been eating more food than ever before. I wasn’t prone to eating so much, so often. I wasn’t complaining, though. It was a nice change being able to eat whatever I wanted and not having to worry about going without, or only ordering a peanut butter and jelly sandwich because someone wanted to buy cigarettes with what little money we had. It was always that way whenever I ate with my mother and sister. I ate my fill and wasn’t afraid to eat something different every time. I paid with my café vouchers and slowly sipped my coffee as we all waited for our buses and digested our food. Listening to the overhead music in silence was more than enough.

When the first boarding call went out for the 2326 to Minneapolis, the two men got up to leave and headed out to the bus platform. Marcus said he wanted to smoke, so we all got up together and drifted back outside. We were met once more by the sprinkling of rain on our faces and the chilly night air. It didn’t feel like May at all. I looked up and saw the light rain passing by the overhead lamps that hung down from the awning, illuminating the fine misty spray. Nighttime on the bus was easily the best time. Everything slowed and became quiet. The world became dark and didn’t seem to exist past what I could see. Everything felt smaller, safer.

I stood staring up the platform at the long row of buses that were all simultaneously in the terminal. It was the most buses in one place I’d seen thus far. Signs in the top left portion of the wind-shield listed their destinations or the next major terminal. We were standing next to a bus that was going south to Dallas. You could read the lit signs easily from the platform:
Minnesota, Tallahassee, Omaha, Columbus
. Columbus was our bus; from there, a change was necessary to get us to Pittsburgh, which was only a few hours later. After leaving Los Angeles, our bus had periodically changed its sign—from Phoenix to Albuquerque and then to Oklahoma City. Finally seeing Columbus like that gave me a sense of relief. Home was no longer out of view, at the other end of the world. It was somewhere a lot closer than before and getting nearer. Oklahoma City was well past the halfway point, and we were already into the third day.

As the three men stood there conversing and smoking cigarettes, I took notes and busied myself with my thoughts. A feeling of dread overtook me as I began to worry once more about the luggage. I wished the cases had burned up in the fire, but I wasn’t destined to be so lucky.

“2326 to Minneapolis. Now boarding aisle 11.”

“You two have a safe trip, and enjoy the ceremony.”

“I’m just looking forward to the food,” responded the old man, stomping out his cigarette butt on the concrete platform below.

The son straightened his hat and looked around, taking a final assessment of the rain. “Should stop by tomorrow,” he said. “Good luck on your journey to your grandmother’s. Go safely,” he spoke to me, concerned and thoughtful. The thought entered my mind that maybe that was how a father spoke to his departing son.

“I will. Thank you,” I answered. He shook my hand and grabbed my shoulder at the same time. He looked directly at me, bent down a little to face me, and said
“Aho!”
loudly. The old man said the same thing, almost as if it was an answer or an echo.

“Aho!”
the old man repeated.

“Aho!”
I stated.

“You’re learning,” he said again, nodding his head. They both headed off down the platform and disappeared up inside the bus to Minneapolis. After they had left, I realized that I had never once asked their names. I forgot to ask the old man how he knew about the bus as well. I never got the chance, but every time there was an opening in the conversation, I felt too intimidated to bring it up. I had never met anyone like them before, and I never would’ve guessed that I would have been eating dinner with them in the middle of the night either. So far, the majority of the people that I’d met on the trip had all been very good to me. The conversations with my mother were very different and often ended in her getting upset or angry, and arguing was always her way of explaining everything.

When the boarding calls for the 1364 began again, I was happy to get back on the road and continue putting down miles. For the first time, the bus started to fill up, and a lot of the seats were now occupied. Even being after midnight, it was a lot noisier and even a little warmer, despite the air-conditioner going full blast and it being a new coach. Marcus and I had been the first to get on, and yet again the driver gave our tickets the once-over.

“You the boy traveling alone?” he asked.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Well, sit up front like you’re supposed to so I can keep an eye on you. Regulations.”

“No, thanks. I’m sitting in the back where I’ve been the whole trip,” I answered, defiant. I even shocked myself.

“Fine, get on,” he replied curtly. Maybe he meant well, I don’t know. I didn’t have any desire to be bossed around or babysat. After we reclaimed our seats in the very back, Marcus started laughing.

“You sure weren’t going to take any funny business from him, huh?”

“No way am I sitting up front. No thanks.” I was adamant about it. As far as I was concerned, Marcus and I were traveling together from now on. The new Greyhound man could go to hell if he didn’t like it. Maybe I was supposed to feel this way now that I was twelve. I knew that I had different responsibilities to myself. Being bossed around by strangers had ended.

“Welcome to the 1364,”
the driver announced. His voice crackled loudly over the PA system, brutishly interrupting my thoughts.
“Service continuing through to Columbus, Ohio. Please respect the no-smoking curfew on the bus. No drinking alcoholic beverages, no fighting or playing loud music. Please keep all children restrained and quiet at all times. No illegal substances of any kind. A violation of this policy will get you removed anywhere along the drive. My name is Germaine, and I’ll be your driver between Oklahoma City and Saint Louis. Enjoy the trip.”

Marcus rolled his eyes at the length and volume of Germaine’s message. “Germaine, huh,” he commented. “I’ve never met a ‘Germaine’ before,” he spat.

“Me neither,” I parried, siding with him in earnest. We both placed him in the category of Greyhound drivers we disliked. We were both well past rookies.

Once more, we pulled off into the night and out onto the highway. The rain immediately intensified. The sound of it crashing down on the roof and coursing past the windows obscured everything and fogged up the glass.

I did the only thing I could do and closed my eyes, hoping to get some sleep and possibly to oversleep, missing Mount Vernon in the process. I wasn’t looking forward to the morning. I sure wasn’t looking forward to meeting John F. Kennedy.

MAY 13, 1981…

The bus pulled off the main highway, twisting around the narrow, tree-lined streets leading directly into a small town square that was surrounded on all sides by ominous-looking red brick buildings. Each one had darkened windows and fading signs. The cast-iron streetlamps dotting the sidewalks still shone down a semi-visible glow as the sun started to rise somewhere off in the distance in the dark morning sky above.

The bus stopped in front of a small coffee shop, which was at that hour the only open business. The driver stepped down onto the pavement below and buttoned his yellow raincoat. The rain was sheeting down in buckets.

“This is it?” Marcus queried, peering out the window, trying to stir me from my seat. By the time I came around, he was already standing in the aisle, buttoning his jacket and slipping his backpack over one shoulder.

“Time to face the music,” I whispered, as I got up and followed him down the aisle of the bus. Most of the passengers were still sleeping, but a few people were awake and trying to figure out where they were.

As soon as we were off, we hurriedly stepped closer to one of the buildings and under an awning. I’d never seen it rain so hard before. The driver was under the compartment lid and reaching for my two suitcases. I hadn’t seen them since Los Angeles in the daylight, but seeing them again on the sidewalk gave me butterflies in my stomach.

“You’re disembarking as well? I only had the boy in the notes,” he shouted over to Marcus. The driver was a little flustered trying to avoid the rain and get the bags out lickety-split.

“I’m getting off here. Don’t worry, I don’t have any other luggage,” Marcus answered. The driver nodded and slipped away to secure the storage compartments. He slipped his key in the round locks, closed everything up, and moved with purpose. He stepped under the awning next to us and offered Marcus a cigarette.

“Smoke?”

“Thanks. It’s early, it’s cold, it’s wet.” Marcus listed off the various obvious complaints.

“It’s Mount Vernon,” the driver joked. “Rustic, quaint, and, well…” He just shook his head.

“Do you usually stop here?” I asked, trying to shield myself from the downpour.

“Only for five minutes. This is just a place I usually pick up some old granny either going to Springfield for the weekend or to Joplin to go buy another cat.”

“Is there another bus coming through here?” I rejoined.

“There’s a bus ‘passing’ in almost two hours, but he won’t stop here unless he’s instructed to. Someone getting on or off, that is.”

“Can you radio back and have him stop for us?” Marcus chimed in politely.

“This ain’t the end of the line for y’all, is it?” the driver asked.

“No. My family has a way of forgetting about me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that no one’s here yet.” I had to speak loudly to be heard over the intense downpour. I looked around the street for anyone at all, any sign of life. There was nothing but the cold and damp in the half darkness. “Are we late?” I asked.

“No, right on time. We picked up all our lost time slingshotting past Tulsa. I had to do eighty most of the way. I’ll get gas in Springfield and try to get ten more minutes ahead of schedule if I can, just to be safe.” The driver inhaled his cigarette like it was a piece of candy. He finished in a few short drags. Even Marcus watched him suck it back with gusto, a little shocked.

“We are both getting off in Pittsburgh. If you could holler back to the other bus, we’d be grateful,” Marcus announced.

“Will do. I’ll make sure he knows,” the driver announced. Marcus and I thanked him and watched as he climbed back aboard and closed the door. We stood there unmoving as we watched our old bus pull away into the cold morning without us.

“Well, I guess we had ol’ Germaine figured wrong, huh?” Marcus considered.

“I just hope he radios the other driver,” I answered.

Beside us, the neon sign of the coffee and donuts store blinked off and on in rhythm. A small metal sign with the blue-and-red Greyhound logo painted on it was attached to the brick wall above my head. It was the only thing that noted the location as a stopping point. Marcus and I each grabbed a case. I hefted mine with two hands and went inside, escaping the downpour.

“Good morning, boys,” spoke an elderly lady with dark curly hair and large glasses that made her eyes look wide and large like an owl’s. She was happy to see us and greeted us warmly.

“Nothing like the first customers of the day,” she continued with a beaming smile.

“Morning, ma’am,” we answered. I dropped my case against the wall just inside the door. The store had room for only a few seats, as the bulk of the floor space was taken up by glass display cases. It was intended just as a place to purchase coffee and donuts to go. A sign next to the cash register read
No Checks, No Credit, No Trouble.

Marcus ordered two cups of coffee and a half-dozen assorted donuts. Still aching and tired, we eased into chairs next to the front window. It was hard to let my eyes rest because of the busy décor surrounding us. The walls were covered with strange oil paintings of several different churches. None were the same, but they all had the distinct feeling of being painted by the same hand. They looked like paintings done by a child. The only problem was that there was something about them that made me feel compelled to stare at them. I scanned each one carefully.

“You like my paintings?” the old lady asked, as she set our coffee and donuts on the plastic gingham table cover.

I shook my head, nodding yes. “There sure are a lot of them,” I said, mesmerized and trying to figure them out, as if they were a puzzle.

“They’re all for sale,” she replied in an upbeat tone. “You two boys live near here?”

“No, ma’am. I’m supposed to be meeting my grandparents here this morning. They should’ve been here already,” I answered. Her curiosity was piqued.

“Oh, really? Who are your grandparents? Perhaps I know them. Mount Vernon’s not that big.”

“My grandfather’s John F. Kennedy. Do you know him?” I asked. I looked over to see Marcus smiling. He turned his gaze out the window and stirred his coffee.

“Well, not
that
John F. Kennedy, Marcus.” I laughed a little, seeing the humor in it.

“Old John? Sure, I know him. He’s a bit of an old buzzard. Is he your grandfather?”

“Mm-hmm,” I replied positively, with my face connected to my coffee cup.

“My, my,” she said, half under her breath. “Have you ever
met
your grandfather?”

“No, I haven’t. Why do you ask?” I responded. Marcus didn’t say a single word. He just sat quietly, taking it all in and biting into his donut.

“He knew you were coming too?”

“He does…or they do. My grandma as well,” I answered again. She had a lot of questions, but since she knew him, I was trying my best to be polite.

“Well, your bus was on time and he’s not here. You just want to wait for a while, I suppose?”

“Is that okay?” I questioned.

“Sure.” The old lady slipped back behind her counter and into the kitchen to continue sliding donuts around on trays. The whole exchange was a bit strange, but maybe she knew something I didn’t.

“She didn’t say anything good about your grandfather. You did notice that, right?” Marcus responded to her comments pointedly, and in a very low tone.

“That thought just occurred to me, actually,” I admitted. I wasn’t smiling, and I was beginning to be a little afraid of the prospect of actually having to meet John F. Kennedy. The clock on the wall said twenty-two minutes after five, and there wasn’t another soul to be encountered anywhere.

Marcus was gazing out through the huge window and trying to get a clue on our surroundings. “Is that a graveyard?” he asked under his breath.

“Well…our bus should get here just after seven if Germaine radioed back to the other bus,” he continued. My mind was already leaving town, even though my body was still firmly fixed in Mount Vernon.

“You didn’t have to get off, Marcus. I don’t think anyone’s coming, and I feel a little silly for even bothering,” I responded apologetically.

“No, don’t feel bad. I told you I wouldn’t leave you hangin’ in this place all by yourself. It’s a little too quiet.” His eyes darted to the sides, trying to be both funny and spooky simultaneously. I nodded in acknowledgment. Outside, the world was getting a thorough rinsing. The rain had been unceasing since Blythe and had followed us across the last four states. The thunder made its presence known somewhere off in the far distance. Almost six seconds later, lightning strikes cracked the earth. I didn’t know if I was supposed to count the thunder or the lightning. Either way, it probably didn’t matter.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s in those cases that are so damn heavy?”

“Clothes,” I answered, without missing a beat.

He laughed out loud. Not as loud as on the bus earlier, but loud enough that I knew he wasn’t going to be satisfied with such a simple answer.

“No, no. I want the real story about what’s in them cases. Clothes? C’mon, man. Be straight with me.”

“They are pretty heavy,” I admitted with a grin. I stared into my coffee cup, fiddling with the handle. “I don’t know what to say, but I wish they had just burned up under the bus. It would’ve been easier.”

“Just tell it like it is,” Marcus prodded. “That’s all.”

“If I tell you, you’re not going to be mad?”

“You just asked me a question and put a condition on it. I can’t guarantee you how I’m gonna feel, but I’m probably not gonna lose it,” he answered. I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but I guess I was just afraid of what he was going to say.

“Both of those cases are filled with women’s clothes. Dresses, shoes, stuff like that.” It was better to just put it out there than sit there and fuss over it.

“Pardon me?” Marcus responded.

“I filled those suitcases with my mother’s dresses before I left. They had left the house for a couple of hours the night before they put me on the bus. I switched everything out then.”

“And why would you do that?” he asked, more confused now than before.

“She cared more about her dresses and her damn shoes than she ever cared about me or my sister.”

“Beanie,” he replied, still seeing the humor in her name. “It just seems a little strange that you would empty out your momma’s wardrobe and haul it across America.”

“I’m not gonna wear it,” I said. “If that’s what you’re trying to say.”

Marcus put his hands up in the air, backing away from the subject. “Take it easy, now. It’s not like that. You’d have to be pretty messed up for that. But what are you planning on doing with all of it?”

I scratched my head and didn’t respond. I stayed quiet as the old lady skirted the counter and approached us one more time with hot coffee. She very carefully refilled our cups, giving Marcus a long look.

“Thank you,” Marcus replied, motioning toward his coffee cup.

“Ain’t nowhere to go until Ben Franklin’s opens up just after nine, but you’ll probably be gone by then. Did you want me to call up to your grandpa’s house? His name is listed in the phone book.”

“What’s Ben Franklin’s?” I asked, still trying to catch up, distracted.

“It’s a department store that sells odds and ends, crafts mostly. It’s located just down the street and across the square. It’s the biggest store in town. You want me to make that call? You should let them know that you’re waiting,” she crowed, just above my shoulder.

Marcus seemed a little disengaged, as if he was watching me every step of the way to see how I was going to handle it, like it was a test.

“She’s probably right, big man. It’s all you now.”

“Ain’t no ‘probably’ about it,” she said, interrupting and chiding Marcus. “The phone book’s sitting right there on the side table.”

The pay phone stuck to the wall in the corner across the small café looked old but well taken care of. On a wire-rack table beside it stood a neat stack of phone books. One yellow and one white—both were about as thick as a
Reader’s Digest.
I took a seat on the stool next to the phone and thumbed through the white pages, looking for the name John F. Kennedy. I wondered as I flipped the pages if he got a lot of prank calls in the middle of the night. “
Hello, is this the President?
” I imagined it would probably start. I slowed as I got to
Keller
on the bottom of the page and turning, discovered the same exact name on the top of the next one. I ran my finger past several other names and settled on
Kennedy, John F., 24 Brooks Street
. I found a quarter in the pocket of my jeans and dialed the number. The storm was strong enough to hear the swooshing of the static as the phone seemed to idle in silence for an eternity. I thought the line had died, but as I lifted my hand up to cancel the call, it rang. The sound of the ringer was different and seemed far away. Not the probable five or six blocks that it was in real life. I felt my body freezing up inside, knowing I was required to speak. As it continued, the sound of the ringer became the loudest sound I’d ever heard. I thought my eardrum was going to pierce from the pain with every ring. I wanted it to stop, even if someone picked it up, but it just rang.

I looked over at Marcus and shrugged. I replaced the handset back on the metal casing in relief. I heard the quarter flop through the guts of the machine and meet an end at the coin slot. I collected myself and my money and went back to our table at the window.

“Maybe they’re on the way or something?” I suggested.

Marcus smiled. “Maybe…let’s see if they show up.”

“Let’s just be clear, Marcus,” I asserted. “I hope they don’t show up. I’d have some explaining to do if they did.” I motioned at the cases. “I’m sure my mother called them already and told them.”

“What are you going to tell them when they get here?” he asked bluntly.

“I don’t have any idea. Probably better not to say anything at all. I don’t think they care too much for me or my sister. Whatever happens, it’s not going to go well.”