by Ron Rash
The MAGIC BUS
After changing out of her church clothes and helping cook noon dinner, after the table was cleared and the dishes washed and put away, Sabra went to the high pasture above the parkway to watch the cars pass. She had done it as long as she could remember. In past years her brother, Jeffrey, tagged along. They would choose any state except North Carolina and wait to see which car tag went by first. Jeffrey always picked Tennessee or Florida, so he most always won. Jeffrey had tired of the game years ago, so now Sabra went alone. A girl near sixteen is too old for such nonsense, her mother had said in June, but Sabra kept coming. Sunday afternoon was her only free time and she’d spend it however she liked.
She heard the truck’s engine and looked down at the farmhouse. Her parents and Jeffrey were headed to Boone for an ice cream and then on to Valle Crucis to visit Aunt Corrie for news about Sabra’s first cousin Jim, who was in Vietnam. They’d be back around six, but before then Sabra would need to start supper. Dust billowed behind the pickup until the county road dead-ended at a gray wooden sign that said BLUE RIDGE PARKWAY. The truck turned left, passed the pull-off and its picnic table, and disappeared. Sabra sat down and pulled her knees to her chest. Cars went by in a steady procession, which was no surprise, since it was two days before the Fourth.
One tag blurred into the next, but Sabra always knew the state. A few were tricky, especially North Carolina and Tennessee, which were white with black letters and numbers, but even then she could tell them apart. But Sabra hardly paid those any mind. It was the far places like New Mexico or California or Alaska, whose tags had blues and golds and reds in them, that she looked for.
Each time one passed she imagined what it would be like to live there instead of a gloomy farm where days dripped by slow as molasses and she did the same thing all week beginning at daylight milking a cow and ending at night putting up the supper dishes. Even Sundays, the best day, since her father didn’t make her and Jeffrey do farm work, mornings were spent hearing about the world’s wickedness, how everything from drive-in theaters to rock music was the devil’s doing.
Once September came and school started back up, things wouldn’t be much better. Sheila Blankenship, Sabra’s best friend since third grade, had quit school in May to get married. There would still be afternoon and weekend chores, including, come fall, harvesting the tobacco, the hardest and nastiest job there was. Resin not even Lava soap got off would stain her hands and gum her hair, have to be cut out with scissors. Sabra had seen thirty-seven states when the minibus lurched into view. Flowers of different sizes and colors had been painted on the sides and top. On the back window, in large purple letters, were the words THE MAGIC BUS. The minibus made it to the pull-off and sputtered to a halt.
Two women got out. The taller one opened the hood and both women disappeared as steam billowed out. When the haze cleared, they and the minibus were still there. The radiator would need water, Sabra knew. She hesitated only a few moments before she stood and dusted off her blue jeans, walked down to the house, and took a milk pail from the porch.
As she came down the slope onto parkway land, Sabra saw that it wasn’t two women but a woman and a man, both with long hair. The woman, who didn’t look much older than Sabra, wore a loose-fitting brown dress made of soft leather. She wore no bra or makeup, but her neck was adorned with strands of beads. The man was older. He wore a red bandanna, ragged blue jeans, and a green army shirt with cutoff sleeves. A button pinned on the shirt’s lapel said “Feed Your Head.” He’d not used a razor for a while. Hippies, that’s what they were called, though her father used worse names when he saw them on TV. Sabra stopped at the edge of the pull-off.
They were both barefoot but this hadn’t stopped the woman from wandering into a blackberry patch, her fingers stained by berries she dropped in a paper cup. The woman hummed to herself as she moved to another bush. The man stood beside the minibus.
“You ain’t supposed to pick them,” Sabra said. The woman turned and smiled.
“Why not?” she asked softly.
“The park ranger says because it’s federal land.”
“That’s all the more reason we should be able to pick them,” the man said, looking at her now. “This land belongs to the people.”
Like the woman’s voice, his voice had a flatness about it, like the newsmen on TV. Sabra shifted the milk pail to her other hand.
“I’m just saying it so you’ll know,” she said. “That ranger comes by most every hour.”
A station wagon passing the picnic area sign flicked on its turn signal, slowed, then sped up. Children’s faces crowded the backseat’s passenger window, their eyes wide.
“Better than seeing a bear, scarier too, at least for Mom and Pop,” the man said, watching the station wagon disappear around a curve.
The woman came out of the blackberry patch and offered the cup to Sabra.
“Have some,” she said.
“You can come closer, we’re harmless,” the man said, and walked over to stand beside the woman. “Like the song says, we’re just groovin’ on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Okay,” Sabra said, and stepped nearer.
The woman shook five berries into Sabra’s free hand, did the same for the man. The berries were full ripe and their juice sweetened Sabra’s mouth.
“My name is Wendy,” the woman said when they’d eaten the berries, “and this is Thomas.”
“I’m Sabra, Sabra Norris. I live across the ridge.”
“Sabra, what a beautiful name,” Wendy said.
“Very exotic sounding,” the man said.
“Anyway,” Sabra said. “I figured you to need this pail. There’s a creek yonder side of the parkway.”
“Where?” Thomas asked, taking the pail. Sabra pointed to a stand of birch trees.
“That’s kind of you,” Wendy said. “The best thing about being on the road is meeting so much love and goodness.”
Thomas crossed the parkway and went into the woods. Wendy sat on the pull-off’s curb, motioned for Sabra to join her.
“My cousin Jim is in the army,” Sabra said. “Was Thomas?”
Wendy looked puzzled.
“Oh, you mean his shirt?”
“Yes,” Sabra said.
“No, Thomas is into peace, not war.”
“He must have got a high lottery number,” Sabra said. “Jim’s was thirty-two.”
“Thomas is thirty years old,” Wendy said, “so he was before the lottery. They still had a draft but he didn’t get picked. Is your cousin in Vietnam?”
“Yes,” Sabra said.
“Why wasn’t he a conscientious objector?” Wendy asked.
“What’s that?”
“It means you don’t believe in hurting other people, especially in a war we shouldn’t be in.”
“I guess Jim figured it his duty,” Sabra said, “same as when Uncle Jesse went to World War Two and my daddy went to Korea.”
“Well, I hope we get out of Vietnam soon,” Wendy said. “That way your cousin and all the rest can come home.”
A car hauling a silver trailer went by, a line of cars behind it. Several drivers stared as they passed. Probably figure I’m with Wendy and the bus, Sabra thought. The notion pleased her, and she wished that she wasn’t wearing a checked two-pocket cowgirl shirt.
“He must miss being away from this place,” Wendy said. “It’s so beautiful here.”
“It’s not always so pretty,” Sabra answered. “Lots of times there’s fog so thick it feels like you’re being smothered, and the rain can last for days. Summer’s the only time you get days like this.”
“San Francisco’s like that too,” Wendy said, “but I love those gray days. It’s like the world wraps a soft blanket around the city. It makes you feel cozy, safe and snug. On mornings like that Thomas and I will stay in bed half the day.”
Sabra glanced at Wendy’s left hand.
“Have you known Thomas a long time?”
“A year come
this September,” Wendy said.
“How did you meet?”
“My first semester of college I took a long walk one Sunday, just to see the city. It was obvious I didn’t know my way around. Thomas came up to me and volunteered to be my guide.”
“So you didn’t grow up there?”
“Missouri.”
“Do you still go to college?” Sabra asked.
“No,” Wendy said. “I’m learning a lot more from being with Thomas.”
“Like what?”
“How people need to do things instead of just talking about doing them. Like this trip. One day Thomas said we should do it and two hours later we were on the road.”
Thomas came out of the woods, the pail in his right hand. As he crossed, water sloshed over the rim, darkened the parkway’s gray asphalt.
“You need help, babe?” Wendy asked, shifting her hands to rise from the curb, but Thomas shook his head.
“I’ve never gone anywhere,” Sabra said. “The only time I’ve even been out of North Carolina was a school trip to Knoxville.”
“Your family never goes on vacations?” Wendy asked.
“Me and my brother, Jeffrey, have been begging to go to Florida long as I can remember,” Sabra said, “but my parents say we don’t have the money.”
“You don’t need money, not much at least,” Wendy said. “Thomas and I had fifty dollars when we left San Francisco six weeks ago.”
“But how do you eat, or buy gas?”
“You share things,” Wendy said, and touched the beads on her neck. “I make some of these every day. People give me money for them, or food, even gas. Thomas, he has things to share too.”
Sabra looked west toward Grandfather Mountain. The sun had settled on the summit where, like a fishing bobber, it waited to be tugged under. Her parents and Jeffrey had probably already left Aunt Corrie’s. Time to head back across the pasture, but Sabra didn’t want to. She wished the bus had come earlier, right after her family left.
Thomas slammed the hood shut and walked over to the curb but did not sit down. He held the pail out to Sabra and she rose from the curb to take it. Wendy got up too and Thomas wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her on the brow.
“We’re good to go, baby,” he said.
“But it’s so nice here,” Wendy said. “Let’s stay for the night.”
“A nice place it is,” Thomas answered, “but what about food, my lady?”
“We have enough bread and peanut butter left for a sandwich.”
Thomas groaned.
“We’ve got eighteen dollars. I was thinking we could stop in Boone and get a real meal.”
“I can get you a real meal,” Sabra said, “and it won’t cost you anything.”
“What a kind thing for you to offer,” Wendy said.
“What about your parents?” Thomas asked. “They might not like your doing that for strangers, especially ones who look like us.”
“I won’t let them know,” Sabra said. “They go to bed soon as it gets dark. You can have chicken, green beans, and corn bread, and I’ll make some potato salad. I can bring you fresh milk too.”
“That’s worth waiting a few hours for,” Thomas said.
“But you’d have to bring it all here,” Wendy said, “and in the dark.”
“You could meet me in the barn,” Sabra said. “I can show you where it is. Once it starts to get near dark, you can come there.”
“How will we get back here?” Thomas said. “We don’t have a flashlight.”
“I’ll get one you can use, or you can spend the night in the barn. Come morning, I’m the one that does the milking.”
“We like being outside and seeing the stars,” Thomas said, “but the food part, that sounds good.”
“Are you sure it will be okay?” Wendy asked.
“I really want to,” Sabra answered. “Like you said, it’s good to share what you have.”
Smiling, Wendy reached out and touched Sabra’s cheek, let the hand stay a few moments. Sabra felt the warmth in the hand.
“You would love San Francisco, Sabra,” Wendy said, “and it would love you.”
There was only time to make the potato salad before Sabra’s family returned. Jeffrey rushed in, grabbed his ball glove, and ran back outside as her parents entered the house.
“You go visiting and that boy gets like a coiled spring,” Sabra’s mother said.
“That’s how a twelve-year-old boy should act,” her father said. “I’d not want a son who acted different.”
They could hear the ball thumping against the woodshed now.
“Dammit, that reminds me,” her father said. “I need to fill the spray tanks for tomorrow.”
He went back out the door. The ball stopped thumping for a few moments, then resumed. Her mother came into the kitchen and put on an apron.
“You look to have been dawdling, girl.”
“I decided to make potato salad,” Sabra said. “It took longer than I thought.”
“Well, nothing to fret over,” her mother said. “That ice cream will keep your daddy and brother from getting cranky.”
While her mother floured and fried the chicken, Sabra put the beans on, mixed the corn bread, and placed it in the oven.
“How’s Aunt Corrie?” Sabra asked.
“Fine except she’s got this notion that Jim won’t come home alive.”
“Why does she think that?”
“Because of that second boy from Valle Crucis getting killed over there,” her mother said. “Death always comes in threes, that’s what she told your daddy and me.”
Sabra grimaced.
“What is that look for?” her mother asked.
“It just seems everyone around here always expects the worst,” Sabra said.
“I don’t know that to be true,” her mother said. “Anybody would have worries if their child was over there.”
“Jim doesn’t have to be there,” Sabra said softly. “He could tell the army he’s not wanting to fight anymore. He could be a conscientious objector.”
Her mother stopped forking the fried chicken onto paper towels.
“Lord, girl, don’t let your daddy hear you talk like that. You know how he gets just hearing about such things on the news. No need for his own daughter to rile him up more, especially when he’s been extra sweet to you today.”
“How?” Sabra asked.
“Your birthday present,” her mother said. “I’m letting the cat out of the bag, but it’s only five more days so I’ll tell you. We went by Kmart and bought that record player you’ve been wanting.”
“But you said it was too expensive,” Sabra said.
“Your daddy argued we should figure in a couple of dollars for all the ice cream you’ve missed this summer. Anyway, it looks to be a good year for us. All that June rain will get us through this dry spell. We’ll have that barn filled with hay and curing tobacco come fall.”
Sabra’s mother poured the last of the grease into an old coffee can, turned, and smiled.
“See, that’s not expecting the worst, is it?”
“No, I guess not,” Sabra said.
“Then put a smile on your face and call your daddy and brother in to eat, and don’t let on you know about that record player. He wanted it to be a surprise.”
Once all the farmhouse lights were out, Sabra took the flashlight from under her pillow. She took off her bra and put on an orange T-shirt with TENNESSEE on the front, quietly made her way to the kitchen, and filled a grocery bag. How she’d explain the missing food tomorrow, Sabra did not know. Probably won’t need to explain it, she told herself, but I’m at least going to go see.
Sabra eased out the front door and headed to the barn, the porch’s bare bulb, and habit, guiding her. She was almost to the barn mouth when she saw the small orange glow, thought it a lightning bug until she turned on the flashlight. Thomas sat on the barn floor, his back against a stable door. Wendy sat a few feet aw
ay. A bright-yellow backpack lay between them.
“Daddy don’t allow lit cigarettes in the barn,” Sabra said.
Thomas smiled.
“Well, it’s not a cigarette, at least the kind he’s thinking about.”
The orange tip glowed as Thomas inhaled. After a few moments, he pursed his lips and let the smoke whisper out of his mouth. He passed what was in his hand to Wendy, who did the same thing.
“You ever smoked a joint?” Thomas asked.
Sabra shook her head and looked back toward the farmhouse. If the marijuana’s odor lingered long enough, her father would smell it. It won’t, Sabra told herself. You’re just thinking the worst.
“You don’t look like you much approve of it,” Thomas said.
“I’ve heard what it does to you.”
“Good things or bad?” Thomas asked, and took the joint from Wendy.
“Bad,” Sabra said.
Thomas exhaled again, let the smoke haze the air between them.
“And who told you that?”
“My health teacher,” Sabra said.
Thomas raised the joint and made a slow swirling motion as if writing something in the air.
“You think he’s ever gotten stoned?”
Sabra tried to imagine gray-haired Mr. Borders, who was a church deacon and didn’t even smoke cigarettes, inhaling and holding the marijuana smoke in his lungs, letting it out slow like Thomas and Wendy did.
“No,” Sabra said.
“Then he doesn’t know, does he?” Thomas said.
“I guess not,” Sabra said, freeing a horse blanket from a nail.
The joint was just a stub now, hardly enough left to hold. Thomas brought it to his mouth a last time and laid what was left on his pants leg, rubbed it into the cloth with his palm.
“All gone,” he said, raising the hand.
Sabra set down the grocery bag on the horse blanket, positioned the flashlight to cast the light before them. She took out two forks and two paper plates, then the Tupperware bowl and quart jar of milk.
