Rachel's passing did nothing to slow the traffic of hungry travelers and gossipy neighbors, and Buddy salved his loneliness with long hours in front of the stove, flipping blueberry pancakes in the morning, hamburgers in the afternoon, T-bones in the evening. In his wife's memory, Buddy kept an outdoor forty-watt bulb burning twenty-four hours a day.
It was that single lonely orb of memorial light that would guide Mary on her last mile, and she stood high on the stirrups to look for it, craning her neck for a view. But for now there was only darkness, thick and moist. The smell of the saddle and other leather riding accoutrements mingled in her nostrils with the misty summer air as Mary guided Star along the right side of the road. The only bar in town closed at ten, and in a farming community like Ray, no one ever stayed out later than when the last bar closed. At this time of night, life was so quiet and dead one could almost take a nap in the middle of the highway without fear of being disturbed.
Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.
Sound works in mysterious ways when it has no competition. The late-night world of northwestern North Dakota was so quiet that the drumbeat of Star's horseshoes on asphalt resonated for hundreds of yards. And every insect or bird that flew, every animal that walked, made their presence known.
Mary gave Star a few soft pats on his long, coffee-colored neck. “Almost there, boy. Almost there.”
Coming over a small rise, Mary could see in the distance the small number of scattered homes and buildings that made up the town of Ray. She could not remember seeing the place so quiet, so dark, so desolate. As Rachel's forty-watt light came into view, Mary took an instinctive look over her shoulder, half expecting to see her father chasing after. She gave Star a gentle kick with the stirrups.
“Let's pick it up, boy.”
Mary held the saddle horn with her right hand and squeezed it tight, anxious for the events of this night to somehow move faster. Her burlap “suitcase” was tied to the saddle horn and swung back and forth in rhythm to the horseshoes. None of her brothers or sisters had felt any urge to attend college. With this surprise dead-of-night escape, Mary would be forever remembered as the black sheep of the Sherman family. And the means of that escape would be the same method of transportation that had allowed her to cross the river and begin her education eleven years before.
Mary checked her watch: 2:40 a.m. Not wanting to risk even the slightest chance of missing the bus, she had given herself plenty of time. Still, there were occasions when speed was preferable.
“Hyyeeahh!
Mary gave Star a stiff kick with the stirrups, and he obediently turned their leisurely trot into a full gallop. The remainder of the ride was exhilarating, and in short order she brought her horse to a stop outside the diner. The dull yellow bulb glowed just above a bloodred Coca-Cola machine. Mary dismounted, tying Star to the soda machine's rusty door handle. A few feet away, a pay phone was mounted on a post, around which more than two hundred cigarette butts littered the ground—a semicircle of memory marking territory for all the lonely souls who had sought solace and redemption through a telephone line.
One of the diner's two windows was crisscrossed by a lightning-strike pattern of thick tape, sealing the cracks left from a long-ago brawl. A small sign propped in the window read “OPEN”—an error that would be self-corrected in about four hours. Painted on the second window were the words, “TRY OUR HOME COOKING.” Just below the window and to the left was an old wooden bench. And covering everything like a blanket was the discordant buzz-buzzing of Rachel's dying neon sign—the very first neon sign to be installed in Williams County. It was a fascination with Rachel's sign, and the high-voltage electroluminous property of neon, that had been one of the things that had piqued Mary's interest in chemistry. Buddy had purchased the sign four years previous from a traveling salesman who had promised that neon signs were not only the wave of the future, but that they would “last forever.” A decade later, Buddy would discover the true shelf life of the new technology when the bright reds and purples of his sign, which had originally read RACHEL'S DINER, evolved into: ACHEL NE.
Mary pulled out a pen and paper from the burlap sack, then sat down on the bench. She began to write.
Dear Bud: Remember how your daughter Emily has been bothering you for years about wanting her own horse? I'm going away for a while. A long while. I want to give Star to Emily. She's old enough now. There are three bags of feed at my house. Tell my father I said you could have them.
Mary signed her name, then slipped the note under the restaurant's front door. She peered through the window at the glass cupboard filled with fruit pies, then returned to the bench.
Mary waited.
She checked her watch.
Time passed. The air seemed to get colder.
Ten minutes later, a truck passed.
More time passed.
Mary waited.
Then a car—a white 1945 Ford. She was surprised when it slowed, then gravel-crunched its way off the pavement and toward the diner. It certainly wasn't her father, since the only vehicle their family owned was the truck. But could he have called someone else to pick her up and take her back to the farm? Mary's heart rate speeded up, and she briefly considered running.
As the ’45 Ford entered the light of the forty-watt bulb, Mary resumed breathing. The car was being driven by someone she knew and trusted—Dagmar Gudmund, a local farmer, and the husband of the woman who had taken her picture almost ten years before. In the passenger seat was his son Bjoern. He and Mary had graduated from Ray High School together the previous evening. The car stopped and both of them got out.
“Hi, Mary!” Mr. Gudmund seemed pleasantly surprised. “Wasn't expecting to see you here.”
“Good morning, sir.”
Bjoern removed two shiny new suitcases from the car's rear seat, then set them on the diner's first step. He nodded a hello to his former classmate as his father shook her hand.
“Where you headed?”
“College, sir.”
“Really. Which one?”
Mary hesitated. Though she had graduated at the top of her class, far ahead of Bjoern, the Gudmunds had money the Shermans lacked. She knew what was coming. “DeSales College.”
Mr. Gudmund hesitated just long enough to cause embarrassment. “I'm afraid I've never heard of it.” That was followed by another embarrassing pause, then, “Bjoern's been accepted to NDU.”
NDU—North Dakota's version of an Ivy League.
“Congratulations,” said Mary, and she meant it.
“Yeah. Bjoern here's gonna be a lawyer. We're all really proud of him.” Mr. Gudmund looked around, then back at Mary. “You here all by yourself?”
“Parents couldn't make it.”
“Uh, huh.” He turned to his son. “You want me to wait around till the bus comes?”
Bjoern smiled. “Mary will keep an eye on me.”
Everyone laughed, then dad and son gave each other a warm good-bye hug.
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Mr. Gudmund pointed to the horse, looking at Mary. “Is that yours?”
“Yes. I'm giving him to Mr. Farnsworth's daughter.”
Mr. Gudmund nodded. “Well, have a safe trip.” He waved good-bye to both, then got back into his car. The engine started, then Mr. Gudmund leaned out his window for a few last words to his matriculating son.
“Write often. See you at Christmas.”
And with that, the Ford backed up, crunched more gravel, and headed back up the highway. After the car's lights had vanished, Bjoern took a pack of Luckies from his jacket pocket, and tapped a cigarette into his hand.
Mary was surprised. “You smoke?”
Bjoern nodded as he lit a match. “Want one?”
Mary shook her head. “No thanks.”
They sat there quietly for a few moments, Bjoern smoking and Mary doing her best to stay warm. Bjoern noticed her shivering.
“You should've worn a warmer jacket.”
Bjoern nodded as he inhaled. “The two-seventy-three'll be here soon. It'll be warmer on the bus.” He held out the cigarette pack. “Sure ya don't want one?”
“I'm sure.”
“Help keep ya warm while we're waiting.”
Mary shook her head, and Bjoern set the cigarette pack on the restaurant step. Mary looked left and right, willing the bus to arrive. She reached into her burlap sack to check, for the hundredth time, that her money was there.
Bjoern opened one of his suitcases and removed a navy-blue jacket, handing it to Mary.
“I have two. You can have this one.”
Mary shook her head. Mother does not abide presents.
“Take it. It's a little too small for me, anyway.”
Grateful, Mary took the jacket and put it on. Her body began to warm up almost immediately.
“Here she comes.”
Mary looked west, and sure enough the large headlamps of American Flyer #273 came into view. Even from this distance they could hear the gears grind as the driver downshifted twice, slowing for the stop. Mary gave the driver an enthusiastic wave, concerned that he might pass up such a little-used whistle stop as Ray. The brakes squealed, the diesel engine coughed, another gear ground its teeth, and the bus pulled into the diner's parking area. Mary removed her money from the burlap sack and held onto it far tighter than necessary as the bus came to a stop.
The bus driver stepped down from his seat, took their fares, and stuffed the money into his breast pocket. Then he loaded Bjoern's two suitcases into the bus.
“I'll hold onto mine,” said Mary, clutching her sack.
Bjoern snuffed out his cigarette and climbed into the bus.
Mary stood there, her body still and unmoving. The open door of the bus was like the gaping entrance to a monstrous dark cave, full of unknowns. Everything up to this moment had been mere prologue and planning. The execution of that plan would start now—or not at all. It was not too late to change her mind—she could easily climb back into Star's saddle and return to the farm before anyone awoke, thereby avoiding the cave's unknown dangers. No one would ever know about her little midnight adventure. But the moment she stepped on that bus everything would be different, everything would change. No more cows to milk, no more creamers to clean, no more focusing on what others wanted.
No more older brothers teasing and hurting me.
There was some guilt, of course. Not guilt about leaving without telling anyone—her parents and brothers did not deserve anything better. No; the guilt was all about her little sister, Elaine. Mary would be leaving her alone, a child amongst wolves. There would be no one to stand up for her, to protect her. Once they awoke and discovered Mary had run off, they might even insist Elaine add Mary's farm chores to her own workload. They were like that.
Eventually everyone has to live their own life.
Still, it wasn't too late to turn back.
Then Mary remembered: she had written the note to Buddy and slid it under the door. Even if she returned home now, Buddy would still find the note when he opened the restaurant. Like it or not, she was committed—there would be no “take-backs,” as her sister Amy liked to say.
“Are these yours?”
The question broke Mary from her reverie, and she turned to see the driver holding Bjoern's pack of cigarettes. Mary reached out and took them, placing them in a pocket of her new jacket.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Go ahead and find a seat, young lady.”
“Just a moment.” She trotted over to where Star was watching, his forlorn brown eyes searching for some meaning in this odd late-night escapade. It was so out of character for his all too predictable master.
“Good-bye, Star. I love you. I'll miss all those mornings you would so faithfully take me to school. You're my best friend—I'll never forget you.”
Mary zipped the jacket, then boarded the bus. It was almost empty—an elderly couple about halfway down, a young black man a few seats behind them. Mary thought about taking a seat across the aisle from Bjoern, but decided against it. Had she been like most girls who were leaving home for the first time, Mary would have taken a seat at the back of the bus so she could swivel around to the large rear window, waving happy good-byes and blowing teardrop kisses to friends and family. She would cry and wave and cry some more as the bus moved on and the image of her waving loved ones retreated into the perspective horizon. But Mary was not any girl—for her the only seat was the front seat. And as she took that seat she glanced out the windows in every direction, nervous that someone or some power would suddenly appear, knife its sharp, carnivorous teeth into her legs, and drag her back to the farm.
Her legs. As Mary sat, patiently waiting for the driver to climb aboard and whisk her away, she ran her petite fingers down her legs. The physical scabs and scars of all those penitent switches were gone, but the internal scars would never go away.
The bus driver had allowed the diesel engine to idle during his stop. Now he took the two steps up to the driver's seat and took his position. The engine accelerated a few times, first gear chattered like a woodpecker, then the bus was moving. Mary could feel the vibration of the gravel underneath them, then moments later the smooth roll of the blacktop. She grabbed the chrome-plated handrail in front of her and breathed easier. She could not prevent her thoughts turning yet again to her little sister, and the feelings of abandonment Elaine would go through a few hours from now. But Mary had a life to live, and nothing was going to stop her from living it. As the driver shifted through the gearbox, American Flyer #273 picked up speed and soon transformed Ray, North Dakota, into a memory.
“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”
—BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
In 1935 a group of Jesuits made a very difficult decision: to permanently close the university they had struggled for ten years to build. It was a one-building school called St. John University, and it was located just outside Toledo. Like a million other schools, organizations, and businesses, St. John had failed to survive the financial earthquake, and aftershocks, of the Great Depression. Even the voluntary work of the teaching Jesuits was not enough to save it.
A year later, a group of nuns from an order called the Sisters of Notre Dame decided to make an attempt to succeed where the priests had failed. Occupying the same building the Jesuits had vacated, the Sisters of Notre Dame founded a school.1 They named it DeSales College, after Francis de Sales, a sixteenth-century bishop and writer. Francis de Sales was well educated, because of receiving special treatment owing to the fact he was the first born in his family. The Sisters of Notre Dame felt that de Francis's education, his scholarly writings, together with his position as cofounder of the women's group Order of the Visitation of Holy Mary, made him the perfect choice as their university namesake.
Like its Jesuit predecessor, DeSales College struggled for survival from its very first day. It had so much trouble attracting students that two-thirds of the student body was made up of novitiates, sisters, and priests. The sisters tried everything to lure a lay student body, but a one-building Catholic college with no scholastic history (and no cafeteria) was a tough sell. So when the valedictorian farm girl from North Dakota applied for admission, they granted her a partial scholarship as an enticement.
Mary sat on a step just outside the St. John Building, picking away at the small lunch she had brought with her. She wore an ankle-length plaid skirt, a white blouse, and dark-rimmed cat's-eye glasses, and her brunette locks were pinned up high in a conservative fashion. Her financial condition could be read in the torn, ragged cloth shoes she wore. In front of her ran a wide sidewalk, its entire length cracked by the seasonal freezing and expansion of ice during the legendary Midwest winters. It reminded her of the chemistry class she took in high school. A teacher had asked the class a question:
“Why does water expand when it freezes? Very few substances do that. What's so special about
water?”
No one raised their hands.
The teacher called on Mary, and she took an educated guess. She knew a few things about hydrogen and oxygen atoms, and how they form special molecular arrangements.
“Water forms a crystalline structure when it freezes,” she said. “This probably causes empty space, and therefore a greater size.”
“That's correct.” The teacher then moved on with the lesson. The other students, of course, were not impressed. Most of them had learned long ago that Mary Sherman seemed to always have the answer.
Mary looked up and down the street. It was quiet, empty. Wartime gas rationing was in effect, and people drove their cars only when necessary. The quiet was disturbed by the sound of a door on the north side of the building opening. She turned her head and saw two nuns from the Order exit the building and head up the street toward the convent.
Mary enjoyed attending DeSales; she felt comfortable studying alongside so many priests and sisters. She was beginning to rediscover the religion of her childhood, and there was no better place to be for that than DeSales College.
Mary checked her watch—ten minutes until Dr. John Thornton's chemistry class.2 Chemistry was still her favorite subject, though it was difficult to explain why. Mary herself was unsure what the attraction was. She had an aptitude for science and math in general, but her mind just seemed to fire on all cylinders when the subject was chemistry.
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