Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus

by Joyce Magnin

  Henry and Humphrey followed her through the back porch and into her bright kitchen. It made Henry feel instantly at peace.

  Mrs. Caldwell washed her hands and then sliced into a lemon meringue that already had a slice missing. “Hear from your mother?”

  “Uh-hum, she’s still out West but getting closer. I worry about her though. Hate that she’s traveling alone.”

  “She’ll be fine. She has a cell phone, right?”

  “She does but still …” Henry swallowed a bite of pie. “Get this. She rode part of the way in the sidecar of some snake-handling preacher man in Kentucky.”

  “Get out.” Mrs. Caldwell’s eye grew wide.

  “Nope. It’s the truth.”

  With that Mrs. Caldwell busted into a laugh that Henry was certain could be heard around the neighborhood. “That’s wonderful. My goodness, your mother is a riot. I cannot wait to meet her.”

  Mrs. Caldwell could hardly contain her giggles. “Oh, Henry, I can’t tell if you’re proud of your mother or upset. Seems to me she is handling things pretty well. She’s being quite resourceful, don’t you think? You know, Henry, she’s a big girl. She’ll make it.”

  “I know.”

  Mrs. Caldwell sat at the kitchen table. “What’s really bothering you?”

  “Oh, it’s … it’s silly.”

  “No, it isn’t. Seems like there’s another reason you want your mama out here.”

  “Are you always this perceptive, or is it just me you can see through?”

  “Nah, I see through everyone. You don’t live as long as me and not learn a few things about human nature.” She cut Henry another slice of pie.

  “Well, Prudence would skin me alive if she knew I was telling you this, but … I guess I was hoping having her here would inspire Prudence to …” He looked away. “I shouldn’t say. She wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  “That’s fine. I don’t need to know. But, Henry, dear, you need to be the one to inspire Prudence. Not your mama. Don’t put that on her. She’s at a time in her life when all she needs to do — should do — is enjoy it as best she can. As she sees fit, don’t you think?”

  “I guess.”

  Henry finished his pie. “Thank you — for everything.”

  “Now go finish that book and let your mother find her own way home.”

  Harriet boarded the California Zephyr bound ultimately for Emeryville, California, at 11:00 p.m. after spending a rather uneventful day in Salt Lake City. Oh, she enjoyed buying the salt and pepper shakers and seeing some sights but she was thankful to be settling into a comfortable train seat once again. The train didn’t arrive in Reno until 8:30 the next morning. She was excited about sleeping on the train again and thought it was the most relaxing way to sleep in the world. It would be kind of like being cradled and rocked in huge arms. But unfortunately Harriet had a terrible night. She slept off and on, but mostly off. It wasn’t that the train was uncomfortable. It was just her thoughts keeping her awake. She kept going over all she had seen and done, and now it seemed her adventure would be coming to an end. According to Amelia, Grass Valley was only one hour and thirty-nine minutes from Reno.

  But as the sun rose so did her spirits. She was served a lovely breakfast aboard the train — eggs and fruit, toast and potatoes, coffee with real cream. And she remarked to the conductor on his way past how nice the trip had been.

  The Reno train station was not so exciting and mostly underground — or so it seemed, so when she emerged onto the street and into the brightness of the morning she felt elated. The town was nice. It still had a Western feel to it but also a glitzy appeal with bright lights, tall buildings, and people walking about. But the most spectacular sight of all was the famous Reno Arch. Now Saint Louis had their arch and Harriet thought it was nice, but the huge neon arch that spanned one of the main drags in town nearly made Harriet swoon. She stood gazing upon it. The word RENO so tall and bright and under that the words THE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD.

  “My goodness. I’m … really here.” She swiped at unexpected tears. She knew she still had a short leg of the journey left, but as she looked at the Reno Arch she saw perhaps for the first time since leaving Philadelphia that she was in a whole new world.

  She also knew that Reno was kind of like Las Vegas, famous for casinos on every corner, and at first she thought she would avoid going inside one. But after a few minutes of walking around town, avoiding the bus ride into Grass Valley and the necessary phone call to Henry, she poked her head inside a casino. Then she let her whole body inside, and my-o-my, but it was the most colorful, brightest place she had ever seen. Even with no windows it was spectacular. She had never seen so much purple and red and blue and yellow in her life. It reminded her of a cartoon come to life.

  Then she spotted a man sitting alone on a bright purple bench.

  Now the reason he caught her eye was that he seemed to have only one arm and a guitar case at his feet. His sleeve was pinned up at his shoulder and he seemed terribly distraught. Harriet took a deep breath. She said a prayer. “Lord, I just have a feeling I need to talk to that man. So here I go. Protect me, and please don’t let him be some kind of psycho.” She moved toward him and got within a few feet, thought better of her decision, and turned around. But it was like she had walked into a brick wall. She had no choice but to turn around and talk to the young man who now held his head in his hand.

  Harriet sat next to him on the same bench. “Mind if I sit here?”

  With his head still in his hand he said, “Free country.”

  “And a big one,” she said with a chuckle. She tucked her suitcase to the side of her. “I know. Boy, do I know that.” She slapped her knee. “Huge. Huge country with so many things to see and do you could never do them all, not in one lifetime — believe me, I know —” She stopped talking, realizing she had started to babble.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Harriet took a deep breath. She thought it was like talking to a statue, but she had to try again. So she took a breath and dove back into conversation. One-armed man, one-sided conversation. She accepted this for the moment.

  “You kind of remind me of my son, Henry. I’m on my way to see him, well, more than that, move in with him and his wife, Prudence.”

  “Why? Does he have one arm?”

  “Excuse me? What?”

  “You said I remind you of your son.”

  “Oh, oh, no, I’m sorry. I hadn’t really … noticed, well lookee there, that sleeve does seem to be a little … empty.” By now Harriet had figured she embarrassed herself so much it didn’t really matter if she just kept talking. She had no dignity left.

  She took a breath. “No. My Henry has both his arms. Leastways he did the last time I saw him, which was last Christmas when all this —” She stopped talking again. “I babble when I’m nervous. Now look, do you mind if I ask —”

  “Birth defect.”

  Harriet thought about that a second or two. “Defect? Now that is no way to describe yourself. What makes being born with one arm a defect? You were born just how God Almighty intended you to be born, no two ways about it.”

  “Look, lady, I’m not interested in all that mumbo jumbo. Could you just go away, please?” He picked up a cowboy hat that was on the floor and set it on his head.

  “Now, look, I would like nothing more than to go away. I didn’t want to sit here in the first place, but I felt a kind of nudge to sit, and here I am. I try to pay attention to certain nudges in life, and besides I’d rather talk to you than spend my money in those ratblasted machines.”

  “That’s how I lost all mine. Was hoping to … win.”

  “Why? Why do you need to win? If you come to these places thinking it will make your life better … well, that’s not the reason you should come.”

  The man grew a little fidgety.

  “That your guitar?” Harriet asked.

  “Yep.”

  Harriet had to think a moment before speaking. Then she couldn’t
contain it anymore. “Here’s the thing, son, I probably got no right asking this, but how on earth do you play the guitar with one arm? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  The man looked away for a second. “I don’t. I play with my feet. My bare feet.”

  Harriet had to hold back a chuckle. The images his words brought to mind were comical, but she managed not to laugh, seeing how if he was telling the truth it would be insulting. “No way. How do you do that?”

  “Just do. Been playing that way since I was eight years old when I found my granddaddy’s guitar in the toolshed.”

  “I think that’s amazing. Well, if we weren’t sitting here with all that noisy casino stuff going on, I’d ask you to play me a tune.”

  The man laughed. But it was not a happy laugh. More like a derisive laugh. A laugh that told Harriet that this fella had given up playing.

  “Been thinking about pawning the guitar for more money so I can play some more.”

  Harriet nearly gasped. “Now that is the dumbest thing I have ever heard in my life. You are going to pawn your guitar for what, twenty minutes at the slot machine. That’s just stupid, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Well, I do mind. It’s my guitar and my business.”

  Harriet let her pot simmer down before she spoke again. “That’s true. That’s very true but, look, I’d rather give you money than let you do that.”

  “Really?”

  “But not to gamble with. You look hungry. I could buy you lunch or dinner or whatever. I can’t even tell what time it is. They keep these places dark and windowless on purpose, I suppose. Keep you off center, that’s what they do.”

  “Not hungry. I might just go —”

  “Go where?”

  “To my room.”

  “You got a room in this fancy hotel?”

  “Comped.”

  Harriet nodded like she understood what that meant.

  “Means it’s free,” said the cowboy. “They give you free rooms when you gamble a lot.”

  “Uhm. I see. It kind of keeps you spending money in their casino that way.”

  The cowboy looked away and nodded.

  “Will you at least tell me your name?”

  “Bernard Weston, but folks call me Buddy. Buddy Weston.”

  Harriet shook his hand. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Harriet Beamer.”

  Buddy swallowed and looked out onto the casino floor. “Lady, I’m starting to wonder who’s more crazy. Me or you.”

  “Guess we’re both crazy. I just crossed the country on public transportation. And you … you’re sitting here all dejected for some reason you won’t tell me and claim to play your guitar with your feet. I think both stories are crazy.”

  “I do play. And sing. I’m pretty good too. It’s just … just that … ah, forget it. I got no hope.”

  “Hope? Of course you have hope. Hope never goes away. It’s like a little bird that sits in your soul and just keeps right on singing and singing no matter how bad the storm.”

  Harriet looked into Buddy’s eyes. They were soft and sad and missing something.

  That was when Harriet got her dander and her nerve up. “Now, you tell me straight, Buddy Weston, are you planning to do something stupid and insane like kill yourself on account of you can’t play your guitar with your feet and make money doing it?”

  He stood and made like he was going to leave. “Look, lady, I didn’t ask you to help me. I never told you to sit down next to me and start yakking about your stupid son and your stupid trip across the country. You’re just a rich old woman trying to tick off her daughter-in-law by taking your idiotic trip. What good is it doing? What good is anything?”

  “I only wanted to help.”

  “You can’t. Nobody can.”

  He grabbed his guitar and vanished into the crowd.

  Harriet felt terrible. She stared down at her red sneakers. Maybe Buddy was right. What good was the trip? Was it really necessary?

  Harriet opened her notebook.

  Oh, Max, I met a young man who I think is fixing to do away with himself. I want to stop him, but I don’t know how. Seems to me someone determined to die is going to find a way. I wish I never came here.

  Harriet looked toward the lights and sounds of the casino. She heard a couple or three cheers.

  I guess all those people are having fun over at the games. But in the real world? A man is trying to end his life. It’s not fair. And here I am, almost home and what have I really accomplished? I helped a little along the way. I learned it’s okay to dream. I found courage I never knew I had. But when it comes down to a man living or dying I can’t make a difference.

  She thought about going after Buddy, but he didn’t want her help or her friendship. How could she keep a man that bent on self-destruction from doing what he wanted? She looked skyward. “You got me into this. You took me all those miles for this? To not be able to stop him? I know you sent me here … now what do I do?”

  Harriet looked around at the blinking machines. It seemed of all the places she’d seen, this was the saddest in many ways. It was noisy but not with conversation. It was noisy with noise.

  Harriet made her way back to the street. It had grown cold and overcast, just like her mood. She could take the bus and be in Grass Valley before bedtime or she could stay and help Buddy — somehow. If she could find him.

  That was when she heard the words of Kitty Bloom just before they said their good-byes in Pueblo. “You go, Harriet, your life is your own.”

  But then just behind those words, in the back of her mind, she heard a deeper voice say, “No, Harriet, your life is not your own.”

  And at that moment she felt relieved. She was much better off thinking that her life was God’s, for him to do with what he wanted, not what she desired. Or thought she did.

  She walked a little farther with one eye trained on the buildings, concerned she’d see Buddy about to leap from fifty stories up. But no, he was staying at the casino. Maybe she should go back.

  Harriet turned around just as the local bus pulled up. The door opened and three passengers stepped off. It was heading west, just like her. Maybe it was a sign that her journey had come to an end. Harriet looked at the driver, then at the passengers.

  “Come on, lady,” the driver said, “you getting on?”

  “Um, no, I have something else to do.”

  Harriet pulled out her suitcase handle and made tracks back to the casino talking to herself. “If that Buddy Weston thinks he’s going to end it all just because he has one arm and has to play his guitar with his toes and has no singing record deal he’s gonna answer to me first. Lord, help me.”

  She arrived at the casino and looked around. It was a huge place, and Buddy could have been anywhere — including his room, knocking back a bottle of Oxycontin or whatever the younger folks used for pain these days. She went to the hotel front desk and asked them to ring his room.

  After a few moments, the desk clerk looked up. “I’m sorry, ma’am, no one is answering.”

  “I failed.” She flopped down on a comfortable chair in the lobby. “Oh, Buddy … if you die, it’s my fault.”

  “You lookin’ for me?”

  Harriet looked up. It was Buddy, and he was still carrying his guitar case.

  She jumped up and nearly fell flat when she tripped on her suitcase. “You bet I am looking for you! You had me worried sick. I was afraid you were gonna take pills or jump off the building or hang yourself with your guitar strings.”

  “I was … but not the hanging part. Hard to do with one arm. But I got to thinking about you, and, well, you remind me of my mother, and that made me think about how much she wanted me to sing and play the guitar and make a name for myself.” He settled himself into a chair nearby and waved to have her join him.

  “I’m glad I found you, Buddy,” she said, sinking back into her chair.

  “Yeah. My mother was all I had, and … now I got nothin'. She kept me f
rom being alone.”

  “Maybe you could visit her,” Harriet said. “You could use some good old-fashioned family time. Home-cooked meal and, frankly, someone to do your laundry, son. What about your mama? Where does she live?”

  Buddy glared in Harriet’s eyes, making her feel uncomfortable. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I said my mother was all I had. She … died. Breast cancer. She had it bad. I took care of her right up to the end. But I wasn’t there the night she … she took her last breath. I was out playin’ some gig in some rundown two-bit taproom.”

  “Oh, Buddy. I’m sorry. It’s hard. I know. You need someone, though, someone in your life to cheer you on.”

  “I got you.”

  “But I’m leaving, probably today.

  Maybe tomorrow.”

  “You can’t,” Buddy said. His voice grew cold and severe. “I won’t let you.” He grabbed Harriet’s wrist. “Buddy, stop, you’re hurting me.” “Just come with me.”

  “No.” Harriet yanked her arm back. Her heart pounded. “Buddy. Stop. People are watching.”

  “If you keep quiet no one will care. If you scream, I’ll … I’ll do something. Now come with me. And don’t holler. I can’t stand hollering. And don’t cry, neither. My mom cried. I hated to hear it.”

  Harriet tried to take a breath, but she couldn’t. She looked into his eyes. They weren’t the same crystal blue eyes she saw earlier. Buddy’s desperation frightened her to her core. His eyes weren’t like the young purse snatcher.

  She wanted to panic and scream, but she couldn’t make a sound or a move. The casino was so busy yet no one noticed them. Not even the security guard gave her a second look.

  “Don’t make a scene,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just come with me.” He took her arm again. “Keep walking. Out to my truck.”

  “No. I don’t want to go.” Tears spilled down Harriet’s face. She tried to plead silently to the passersby. But they ignored her. She even heard one man say, “She must have lost big time.”

  Once they were outside the casino Buddy forced her to a parking lot. “That’s my truck over there. The blue one with the gray fender and the Confederate flag.”