© Copyright 1999 James David Pearce
NIGHT BUS
Boweaver's mother put the toothbrush and an extra handkerchief into the little blue bag and zipped it shut.
"Boweaver," she said, "are you sure this is all you want to carry?"
"Yes, mama," he answered. "They probably won't let me keep that much."
"Are you sure you don't want me to walk down to the bus station with you?"
The boy looked at his mother, then looked away.
"No, I really don't, mama. I'd rather just go by myself."
"Will you write to me as soon as you can?"
"Don't worry, mama. I'll be fine."
"It's bad, you going off so long and in the middle of the night like this."
Boweaver swallowed. "Mama, don't worry. I'll write to you a lot, and I will do right. Everything will be okay."
"Goodbye."
The bus was due in at 11 p.m., and the night air was chilly. Boweaver felt cold inside.
No one was around the service station where the bus was to stop. Boweaver sat on the bench in front, pulling up his legs and squeezing the little travel bag in his lap.
He felt again in his pocket and found the ticket he had purchased earlier in the day. He released it quickly because his hands were damp with sweat and he was afraid he had handled it so much already that it would not be usable when the bus came.
He studied the sign on the gas pump. Gulf N-O-N-O-X.
He liked the way it spelled N-O-X.
The bus hummed up the street and pulled into the station. Boweaver stood where it would stop with the door open.
He had to step back from the door. A man in a soldier's uniform was coming down the bus steps. He was using crutches and swinging his right foot as he maneuvered through the door.
The soldier reached the ground and, leaning on his crutches, turned to take a suitcase handed him by the driver. The soldier glanced at the boy going up the steps.
Boweaver hesitated a moment at the front of the bus, handing the driver his ticket and staring out the window at the man in uniform, silhouetted on his crutches in the dim light from the single bulb inside the service station.
He moved halfway down the nearly empty bus and decided on a seat next to a window. He tossed his little bag onto the overhead rack, and pulled himself over to the window seat.
The bus began to move, and under a low, dim half-moon, the soldier, the town, the fields, the woods and the memories of the Great Depression slowly began to fade away.
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The fields, the woods, the memories
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