Random cotton candy clouds stretched as they arose from slumber and then gently pulled apart to create translucent, unfettered fantasies—one shaped like a poodle, another like a lamb. Encouraged to move on by occasional claps of thunder, a night of torrential rain had bowed out of Dickinson County, but not before Jinny tossed, turned, and beat her pillow into submission. In full retreat, even the woolen blanket had fallen to the floor. Father time had passed on, leaving only Jinny’s Timex still ticking—all this transpired just as it had long ago on the night before Jinny’s first day of kindergarten.
She stood on the roadside watching and waiting, unaware that morning sunbeams danced a jig on her still-wet, brunette pony-tail. Her chocolate brown eyes, occasionally shuttered by long lashes, rolled first in one direction and then the other, taking in paired yellow stripes, centered on the asphalt and disappearing in both directions. Jinny glimpsed eternity and then checked her watch. “Kansas sure is flat. I hope the bus hasn’t gotten one.”
Scenery sanctified by a brilliant blue sky played host to a circling convocation of seagulls. Imitating Congress; their dissonant voices counseled and cawed, unable to agree on anything, even on where to stop for a continental breakfast. Otherwise, tranquility ruled the rural Abilene winter morning.
A parsimonious pigeon nervously anticipated the departure of a friend. He fluttered, flinched, bobbed his head, and looked down from atop the blistered Bus Stop sign before running out of patience. The White Homer capitulated to severe homesickness, lifted off, retracted his landing gear against an empty belly, and—dropping bombs along the way—lit out for the O’Dwyer barn without looking back. Jinny raised a hand to wave goodbye, but alas—too late. She stood alone but didn’t feel abandoned. Twin puffs of a single breeze tickled and tousled her hair. It was short, too short.
The bus was long, too long, but “right on time—bus time—ten minutes and thirty-three seconds late.” Jinny shielded her eyes with an ambidextrous hand and choked the handles of the green duffel bag with the other. The Silver Bullet trolled to a stop; air-brakes exhaled, sighed a familiar shish, and the doors do-si-doed. Simple symmetry.
A smiling, barrel-shaped driver—clad in a plaid shirt, bolo tie, jeans, cowboy boots, and with a chaw of something in his cheek—sprang from his seat, bounced down the steps, and crowed, “Good Morning soldier! May I stow your bag in belly of the beast?”
Jinny mirrored the smile and nodded. “I hope this beast doesn’t have indigestion, too.”
She surrendered a MEPS voucher for her ticket and took a seat without glancing across the street toward home. She shielded her eyes. Only Gemma, thinking herself hidden from view, brooded behind the screen door. She stiffened as whirring wheels ceased whirring and then moments later rolled on and on, soon out of sight. Cried goodbyes had already soaked in. Jinny had vanished but not vaporized.
Jinny closed her eyes, relaxed, bowed her head as if bundled in prayer, and ping-ponged back and forth: “Dare I doze, or should I stay awake?” The turn-signal blinked an audible, “click-click, click-click, click-click.” The bus geared down and entered the I-35 South on-ramp. The clicking stopped. The silence returned.
A voice harped:“STOP THE BUS! LET ME OFF! I’M DONE.” Startled, Jinny sat up, coiled against the window, and cocked her knees ready to kick. Before the driver could activate the emergency blinkers, persuade the diesel to throttle back, and guide the bus safely to the shoulder, a clean-shaven, ruddy-faced redhead jumped to his feet. He teetered, regained his balance, grabbed the polished seat hand-hold, stumbled forward one-two-three-four-five rows, and collided with the stainless-steel rail behind the driver’s head.
“You scared me! What’s wrong, son?”
“I ain’t your son, and I’m just done. End of the line. Let me off this bus!”
Sitting directly behind Jinny, a shapely, wigged-out woman, dressed in jeans and sweatshirt, grabbed her companion’s cast-iron right arm. “Mag! What do we do now? Is he armed? Will he kill us? I’m scared.”
Mag’s taciturn reply sizzled from behind clenched teeth: “Bella, just shush. Don’t overact or you’ll ruin our gig.” Across the aisle a trembling old man ducked to the floor in front of his seat; behind him someone pumped an inhaler; but in the rear of the bus a lightly bearded man hadn’t budged; he seemed oblivious to the on-board commotion. A capped, half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sloshed back and forth in his lap; a plaid fedora rested on his nose and almost hid his Logo Lenses; twisted ear-bud cords disappeared under the lapels of his wrinkled, grey, pin-striped business suit. He wore a thin black tie.
As the bus latched onto the ramp’s shoulder the exigent red-head again lost his grip, tumbled into the stairwell, crashed into the symmetrical doors and—like a pocket knife—folded in half. He felt very small. Necks strained hoping to detect the soldier’s demise, but he was laughing—or crying. Air-brakes exhaled in relief as the bus lurched to a stop. The rattled driver levered a handle, manually opened the doors, and pitched the twenty-seven-year-old head over heels onto his back.
“Ugh.” He lost his laugh, shook his fist, and slowly picked himself up off the ground. “It’s all your fault mister! I have half a mind to . . . “
The driver, name-tagged Rick, interrupted: “Half a mind won’t get you very far in this life, lieutenant.” The soldier doubled his fist, but Rick, unafraid—or, if he was afraid, it didn’t show—climbed down and stormed past the muscular veteran. “I’m pulling your bag from the storage compartment, so hold on and cool your jets, junior.”
“Name ain’t Junior, old man. And for your information, I know three soldiers who only got half a mind. . . or none at all. Do you hear me? THREE soldiers.”
Convoluted nostrils pressed against the windows on Jinny’s side of the bus and fogged the glass as wide-eyed passengers demanded that the driver knock the traitor out or hold him for the MPs. Those still seated and minding their own business covered their ears and wished they were someplace else; that is, they wished the self-appointed circuit court judges were someplace else. Only the man wearing the wrinkled grey suit and sitting in the middle of the last seat–and Jinny–remained unflappable.
The soldier dead-lifted his camouflaged rucksack from the ground, heaved it over his shoulder, lost his balance, and fell to his knees. Hard. The gravel cut into his knees like shards of glass. “I hate you, Mister. I hate the Army. I hate the nightmares. I hate . . . oh, Rachel . . . Rachel.” He grabbed and flung a handful of gravel at the bus and then staggered to his feet. His knees bled through the torn uniform; saliva and tears mingled and dripped from his chin; his rucksack— choked at the neck—dragged behind him down the ramp toward Chauncey Road. Jinny wanted to rescue them both.
Rick retrieved and slapped dust and moisture from a large, sealed, manila envelope. It bore the stamp of a combat boot and read, Morrison. Since abandoning his seat on the bus the lad had diminished in size. Rick watched him exit the on-ramp and haplessly wander into traffic. Tires squealed. A woman screamed. Morrison’s life ended. Horrified, Rick gasped, his jaw dropped, and he backed against the bus.
“Hey driver. Yes, you. Let’s get moving. You can lollygag when we get to Lawton.” Rick straightened up and without a word climbed behind the steering wheel, belted-in, and pumped the pedal. The diesel rallied, the doors collided, and the bus lurched onto the concrete and rumbled forward. Rick studied the wide rear-view mirror above the windshield, searched for, and eyeballed his detractor, then took a deep breath and numbered his passengers.
“Seventeen. Sorry ladies and gents. Wish I could say that was a first. I probably should have stayed till the cops arrived.”
The man seated in row nine and emboldened by the rows between them, pointed a finger and barked, “You screwed up, Ricky baby. That dude oughta have your foot on his chest and be pinned to the ground waiting for the cops to arrive and haul him away.”
“ENOUGH,” Rick and Jinny trumpeted together. Staring into the mirror, Rick fingered the intercom: “Mister, that soldier was headed back overseas. Now he’s headed for . . . oh never mind. Just relax. We only lost five minutes . . . and one desperate hombre. Give him a break. Click.” Rick spotted Jinny, who mouthed, He’s already broken, Rick.
“Yep.”
Jinny grabbed her armrests when she heard, “Oh shoot. No, no, not again.” Bella from behind had jettisoned the contents of her purse on the floor. “Oh Mag, now look what I’ve done,” she chuckled and grunted. “I’ll bet you’re sorry you posted my bail.”
“Posted what?” Mag bent forward to retrieve Bella’s droppings, got stuck, grunted, and broke wind. Bella started to giggle. The giggle was contagious, the scent, intractable. Mag sniffed and broke out laughing. Soon beet-red in the face, both women howled and gasped for air.
“Ugh. Bella, enough, enough. You’re not helping. We could get fired, and besides, we don’t want everyone on the bus to know.”
“To know what? That my battery died?” More laughter. “You’ll find two new ones in the golden container with my Modafinil.”
“Oh stop. I said, enough.” Face to face, they exchanged wry smiles, rubbed tears from their eyes, sat up, leaned back against the doilied headrests, and sighed out loud. Mag chuckled again. “You put them with your what?”
“My Modafinil. Got it in Virginia.”
“Weren’t you afraid you might accidentally swallow it?”
“Swallow what? Virginia?” More giggles. “No, look, the pills are the same color as urine.”
“Bella. Bella. They look like roly-polys to me.”
“Here . . . hold out your hand. These will keep you awake ‘til we cross the border. By the bye, did you hear the girl soldier say, ‘the red-head is broken’?”
“I didn’t, but I must say, you’re . . . oh never mind. No, I’ll say it: In my twenty-three years of service you’re the first partner that’s made me laugh—at anything. I’ve had some who made me want to cry. But enough.” Conversation collapsed. Lashes fluttered. Silence prevailed.
Rain pitter-pattered against the window as if it hoped to be invited inside, but Jinny enjoyed having two seats to herself. She absent-mindedly stared at nothing, unaware that she was fooling with a loaded button on the armrest. The seat-back snapped forward. “WO. At ease, Private.” She sighed, yawned, nestled against the windowed wall, and watched the high plains drift by at seventy miles an hour. I had no idea property could move so fast. Guess Papa should have gone into real estate. I wonder . . . Her eyes caved to gravity, and her grin flipped upside down. “Oh Papa.” His leather tote in her lap, Jinny traced the embossed Irish name—Llewellyn—with an index finger; and then, not wanting to draw attention to herself, she slowly tugged on the zipper and remembered the mischievous look on Gemma’s face when she had zipped up the satchel, patted it, looped its strap over Jinny’s shoulder, and tittered, “Now remember, don’t open this until you’re seated on the bus, or it might just . . . well, let’s just say there’s a surprise inside, and leave it at that.”
“I hope Mama’s surprise doesn’t jump out and skitter down the aisle.” Jinny peaked inside. “So far so good. No spring-loaded booby traps. That would be Conor’s trick, but he’s at Fort Benning. But wait. Hold on.” A bag bearing the Target label was knotted at the top. “Mama, you wouldn’t really hide . . . or would she?” Jinny untied the overhand knot, peaked inside and, one by one retrieved five Ziploc bags. “Okay. Peanut butter sandwiches—good; crunchy potato chips—better; eleven Extra-Stuff Oreos—best. Lets’ see here . . . what else? A boxed Hawaiian punch drink; a bottle of water; a small package of Advil, and no trail mix!” She smiled. “Bless you Mama.”
Not yet hungry but still curious, Jinny returned the Ziploc bags to the satchel and retrieved a familiar manila envelope—her name, address, and serial number slapped across its face in smudged, bawling, black letters. The postmark, captured in a circle, read: Washington, D.C., A.M., December 25, 2014. But all Jinny saw was the bulge. Aha. My surprise. Hastily bending the metal clasps to clear the hole, she shook the envelope. Out dropped her orders and a bland, rumpled brochure: Welcome to Ft. Sill. Ballooning enthusiasm popped and shrank. Sigh. “Some surprise. Oh well, maybe it will help me get some shut-eye. Page one.” Jinny drew a ball point pen from her jacket, clicked the cap as she read, and looked for something worth circling. Rick seemed to hear the click, his microphone went live, and he cleared his throat.
“Folks, we’re coming up on Wichita. Yes, we’re still in Kansas. Time to gas up and stretch our legs.” The Silver Bullet geared down and exited the freeway; directional blinkers flashed; the bus splashed across the median and rolled to a stop. “Restrooms are in the back of the convenience store. I’ll honk twice when it’s time to board.” First off the bus, Rick was promptly accosted by a one-armed, green handled bandit: Diesel Fuel. $4.89/gallon. Pay before filling. “Talk about highway robbery.” He stretched all right, but not his legs. Ruffled by the recession, he stuffed a chaw of Red Man in his cheek and nodded politely at disembarking passengers. Everyone climbed down and sloshed toward the Food Mart—everyone, that is, except Jinny, the two women sleeping behind her and, way in the back, the man wearing the wrinkled, grey pin-striped suit.
Rick dropped the pump nozzle into the neck of the filler tube. Instead of gurgling gasoline, he imagined silver dollars splashing one by one into the black hole. “Who said I’m not a gambling man.” He pulled the jacket over his pate and, circling the bus, carefully inspected and kicked each tire in the shins. Jinny heard the thumps, rubbed her eyes, and yawned. “I’ll give the crowd five minutes to clog the toilets.” She gazed down and watched the rain pound, dance, and pogo to the asphalt from the hood of a parked station wagon.
“YIKES! You scared me, Mister. Oh, my g-o-s-h! You?” Without making a sound, the wrinkled, grey pin-striped suit had slunk down the aisle and slithered into the empty seat next to Jinny.
“Bye-bye, girly-girly,” he slurred. “With you dead, I git half. When you see Curly in hell tell him his old man . . .” Jinny resisted with both hands as in slow motion a loaded syringe plunged down, down, down and pricked her neck. She winced as a blurred object swished in a menacing arc, glanced off Huey Corker’s right ear, and snapped his wrist, catapulting the syringe into the aisle. Saved by a day-stick, Jinny crisscrossed her arms and tried to eject through the side of the bus while Corker rocked back and forth shrieking, “You broke it. You broke my arm.”
“You mean your wrist, Mister Magoo. Hold still, unless you want your pickled brain to decoupage the seat in front of you.” It was Bella, still in rare form. She put her gun in the hit man’s ear and flashed her creds in Jinny’s face. “FBI, soldier. We’ll take it from here. Get off the bus.”
“But . . .? “
“She said, GO. We’ll catch up with you at Fort Sill.” Mag slapped on the cuffs. Huey Corker cried out in pain. Jinny zipped up, shouldered her satchel, stepped over Curly’s drunk dad, lunged forward, leaped, and landed upright on the pavement—nose to nose with the bus driver.
“Miss, you don’t look so good.” Rick looked just like Caleb for about as long as it takes an old man to fall asleep in his rocking chair.
“I saw that dude move across the aisle and slide in next to you. Are you okay?” Glancing up at the window, he quickly added, “What’s all the commotion about? Maybe I’d better . . .”
“The FBI has the guy in handcuffs; there’s a broken syringe on the floor; but please believe me, I’ve done nothing wrong, except, well, I did want to punch him in the mouth. Please. Believe me.”
Rick gulped, swallowed his chaw, grabbed his throat and–trying not to show his distress–forced out: “Oh, yeah, I believe you, Miss. Why don’t you go do your business while I throw up? I’ll wait for you . . . a syringe, you say? I better get that cleaned up, too. Gag. What a day.”