by Tim Greaton
I wondered if there was something more I could have said to help Jenny through the guilt she was feeling. It did occur to me how ironic that thought was. Who was I to be doling out guidance or support? God knew I hadn't been much of a shepherd over my family or myself.
It was late afternoon and the temperature was already beginning to fall as I made my way back to the bus depot. A city worker stood about twelve feet up on a ladder and was checking the Christmas lights on one of the large lighted bells that hung high from one of the sidewalk light posts. "Should that cord be unplugged?" I asked, pointing to the loose wire dangling about eight feet above my head. The man looked over at it and down at me. He chuckled.
"Thanks, buddy," he said. "I unplugged it to fix the harness and for the life of me haven’t been able to figure why it wouldn't come back on."
"Glad I could help."
"Thanks again."
"You're welcome." I continued on past. I was shivering now. If the cold of the last few nights had been any indication, the mercury would hit in the single digits here in Albany tonight. Thankfully, I would be sleeping in a warm bus and not on a cold doorstep. Come to think of it, I would never have to sleep in the cold again. Suddenly, doubt filled my mind. Was I doing the right thing? Maybe I should sleep in the cold every night right up until I'm one hundred years old. Was I taking the easy way out?
I smiled grimly. I knew I was trying to talk myself out of this again. It wouldn't work, though. I intended to follow through. Soon I'd be in Gray Vermont and I'd do what had to be done.
The bus station looked much neater than it had earlier. The spray paint was all gone, and the broken strings of Christmas Lights had been hung back up around the eaves of the roof. Even the colorful Christmas wreaths over the windows had been returned to their proper positions. It surprised me how the cheerful decoration brought a smile to my lips.
It was just four o'clock when I walked through the double swinging front doors into the lobby. It had been only eight hours since I'd been here last, and I was five hours early for my bus. At least there was no chance I'd miss it. I walked up to the service window. The woman from earlier was gone. A man sat there, instead. He was wearing a red Santa cap with a white pompom on the end. It was completely out of place atop his gaunt face. Too thin for a Santa and much too stern for an elf, he had angular cheeks and a chin that jutted out like jagged sculpture. He stared at me with thin lips and narrow eyes. I easily imagined his face hadn't seen a smile in months, maybe years.
"Hi," I said and handed him the discount ticket.
He looked at it and then me with skepticism. "This discount was for you?"
"Yes."
"And your complaint was regarding...?" His question drifted off as his eyebrow raised at me.
"I have no intention of getting into that again," I said forcefully. I didn't want to get the woman from this morning in trouble, and I desperately needed him to accept the discount offer. Without it, I wouldn't have enough money for the ticket. At least, I didn't think so. I hadn't actually opened Jenny's envelope yet. "Do you intend to help or not?"
His eyebrow fell. "You don't have to be rude."
"No? Your company didn't offer to replace my lost clothes, did it? Nor my wallet?" I allowed my voice to rise. "You think these last three days have been fun?"
I paused, gauging the reaction I was having on him. The narrow eyes had disappeared and his thin lips had smoothed out. "We lost your luggage, sir?"
Up until now I had been careful not to lie. His assumptions had filled in the blanks from my comments. "I told you at the beginning I'm not getting into this again? Do I need to call your main office?"
"No. No. Not at all, Mr—," He glanced down at the discount ticket, "Mr. Ralstat." He shook his head fervently. "There's no need at all. I'm very sorry for everything." The gaunt man's left eye had begun to twitch and his voice trembled.
I felt bad. "It's alright. The discount has been a help." I pointed at the ticket.
"Can I do something more for you on the price?" He was almost begging.
"No. I'm fine, thank you. The first discount will be fine." I opened the envelope. As I'd imagined, Jenny had given me more than I needed. I handed him her fifty dollars.
"Very well, Mr. Ralstat." A few computer keys were pushed and a quivering hand passed me the ticket.
"Thanks," I said. "It's not everyone that would have asked about my trouble."
He visibly relaxed and gave me the first smile I'd seen from him. It suited him, melting some of his harsh angles. I smiled back.
I turned and glanced to the paper Santa mounted on one of the concrete block walls. The cheerful old legend seemed to be grinning at me. I winked at the likeness. It would be our secret.
I took a seat at a bench that overlooked the busy thoroughfare in front of the station. Vehicles of every conceivable size whizzed to-and-fro in a frenetic dance that almost seemed to make sense, but not quite. I thought of my wife and son and as the time passed was surprised that happy images of them came freely to me. I spent the next few hours reliving moments from the wonderful year we'd spent together. Even though we'd been married almost two years before Derek was born, it seemed that Tabby's and my love for each other, already strong, had grown a hundred-fold upon his birth. Even though I had worked a lot during that year, we spent many magical evenings and weekends together. They were like two angels who graced me with their time and their love. Visions of park playgrounds, the museum and even long drives along the ocean came back to me. I could feel the cool ocean breeze whipping at my hair while Tabby and the baby goo-gooed to each other from the front and back seats.
I remembered, too, some of the little things, like the time Derek had learned to first fling his food with a spoon. That first heap of mashed potatoes had landed squarely in the center of my forehead. Though maybe I should have scolded him, I simply laughed and flung the gob right back. Before another bite was taken, we had all three been reduced to toddler-style food-fighters, each one more covered with dinner than the next. We were forced to eat toast later that night, Tabby determining that Derek and I weren't as likely to begin flinging solid foods at each other. As it was, the little bumpkin did smear a bit of butter on my cheek as he climbed into my lap. I fought my urge to smear him back, but at some point a Dad had to be the example. So, I simply hid his toast on my head instead.
When the memories began to fade, my cheeks were streaked with tears of happiness at having spent time with those two magical people again. I had missed them so much and couldn't believe that months had passed since I'd remembered any of those things.
I wiped the tears and looked about me. I found that nearly five hours had passed. It was a few minutes to nine and the station was filled with crowds of people. I'd been so involved with my reminiscence I hadn't noticed the building filling up. Though every seat was taken and dozens were forced to remain standing, no one had opted to sit on the bench beside me. Such was the life of the homeless, or maybe it was simply the life of the unwashed. I knew I qualified on both counts.
I used my last fifteen minutes of wait time to pull a strawberry Pop-TartsTM free from its box. Though not the height of modern cuisine, it was good and filled the hole that had formed in my gut.
A woman's voice announced that the Albany to Montpelier bus was now boarding. As I got up and made my way to the gate, people were moving aside to let me pass. I estimated that at least twenty people in the waiting room had stood and were holding their bags. Yet, they all let me pass even though this was their bus, too.
I suddenly became aware of my unshaven face and dirty bedraggled clothes. Something about getting on a bus with people seemed more intimate than passing them on the street or brushing against them in a hallway.
I handed the gate attendant my ticket and hurried out the door and up into the Greyhound. There were a dozen passengers already on the bus, most towards the back. Even with the twenty or so people I'd seen getting ready inside, it would not be a crowded trip.
Ignorin
g the snort of an elderly woman near the door, I made my way about halfway down to the left before taking a seat. No one sat within two seats of my spot. Those same seats would probably stay empty all the way to Vermont. I'd have the next best thing to a private trip.
As the other passengers boarded, I could see many concealed glances my way. And, just as I had expected, the seats around me stayed clear. My privacy would be guaranteed unless the bus became so full that incoming passengers would be forced to sit closer.
Back when I had a life, I always drove or flew to wherever I wanted to go. As a consequence, this was the first time I had ever experienced the tortoise like, stop and go progress of a Greyhound. It seemed to take hours just to get out of New York, and the old saying about a bus trip being a never-ending journey became clear as every stop brought new passengers just as it disgorged others.
I only had to change buses three times on my way to Gray, and on that last connection I managed to get the back seat. For most of the ride it was dark outside, so I didn't see much of the countryside. It was the Christmas season, however, and decorative lights were sprinkled throughout every large and small community along the way.
I watched those lights with pangs of regret. Though I knew I was doing the right thing, my mind seemed to be latching onto the little pleasures and using them against me. I didn't sleep, couldn't have.
Chapter Seven
The Santa Shop
