The bus slows down and veers off the interstate. One block later, the Greyhound makes a sharp turn into a parking lot, and the passengers begin to stir.
Sedushia snorts and opens her eyes. The cards fall from her hand and land in her lap.
“Hands off, fella,” she sneers, then jumps slightly when she sees me.
“Yes, well, we’re here. Are you okay? You look flushed.”
I stretch and yawn. “I’m fine. Just starting to get sleepy.” I stand up and drape my arms through the straps of my backpack, adjusting it onto my shoulders. Sedushia hands me the cards and puts on her coat.
“Aren’t you going to wear a coat? It’s cold outside.”
“No. I’m hot.”
“We have to walk two blocks. You sure?”
I nod, wondering what it is that’s two blocks away.
The bus depot is located in downtown Des Moines. A group of teenagers with spiked hair stand just inside the door warming their hands underneath a NO LOITERING sign. We walk past them out into the dark. The two long blocks take us past weathered stone buildings. The air feels good at first but soon turns frigid.
After about five minutes, Sedushia heads to the side of one building. Shivering, I follow her. She takes out a key and inserts it into a big red door, then holds the door open for me.
We enter a narrow hallway with fluorescent lighting. Mailboxes are lined in a row along one wall.
“Where are we?” The concrete floor is littered with paper and discarded flyers.
“My place. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Sedushia leads me up a stairway. We pass a bare window that looks out at another building less than three feet away.
At the top of the staircase, Sedushia opens a heavy metal door and leads me down a dimly lit hall. She stops in front of another door.
Suddenly, I have second thoughts about Sedushia. I hesitate, trying to think what to do.
“This is it.” She fits a key into the door and opens it. The smell of fresh paint leaks out. It’s a small apartment. The kitchen and living room are separated by a narrow counter. A fold-down table with two chairs is wedged between the stove and refrigerator, and a pantry shelf built into the wall is covered by a red plaid curtain. Cans of tomato soup and tuna peek out through the fabric.
“I have to use the bathroom,” Sedushia says as I linger in the hallway. “I try to avoid using the one at the depot. Plus, I like to check on the place when I’m in town and make sure it hasn’t burned down. Come in and make yourself at home.”
She disappears, and I walk into the kitchen, leaving the front door open. I check the time on the clock above the stove; it’s a cat with a ticking tail whose eyes move back and forth. We have fifteen minutes left before the bus leaves. I shift back and forth on my feet. I can’t miss that bus.
I walk into the darkened living room and see pleated curtains and a matching sofa. There’s an antique chair in one corner and a wooden curio cabinet in another. In the cabinet are pictures of a smiling round boy with black curly hair. On another shelf there’s a black-and-white photo of a younger Sedushia in a sequined costume and tap shoes. A sash across the front of her dress reads “Miss Tap Award.” She wears a lopsided crown, and a wide smile lights up her face.
A yellow telephone sits on a small end table. I stare at it for about ten seconds, contemplating calling Dad. Another look at the ticking clock convinces me not to wake him.
A moment later Sedushia returns.
“You’re a great decorator,” I tell her as she approaches.
“Thanks, but I have a confession.” She opens a drawer in the kitchen and pulls out Good Housekeeping magazine. Her hands flip to a creased page, which looks identical to her living room. “I sit at night and dream of having these rooms.” She turns to another picture of a luxurious bedroom. “This is next, when I get the money.” She puts the magazine away and picks up her purse.
“Are those pictures of your son?” I nod toward the cabinet.
“Yeah. That’s Boomer. Wasn’t he a chunky little one? I don’t have any recent photos, but I hear he’s a hefty guy.”
She bites down on her lip. “I mean, he’s still big.” She pauses a long moment, twisting the straps of her purse between her fingers. The cat’s tail ticks in the uncomfortable silence.
Sedushia looks at me. “You can probably guess that I don’t see him much. I haven’t seen him on a regular basis since he was twelve. A few visits every now and then, visits that weren’t welcomed.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter softly.
She waves her hand away like it doesn’t matter, but her voice sounds forced. “Water under the bridge. In my line of work I expect as much. Boomer’s father didn’t help any. He never supported me.”
“He wanted you to quit dancing?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “Claude wanted me to give up something that gave me joy. I’ve never been one to apologize for my love of dancing. A few years ago I danced with a woman from Taiwan. Did you know that in Taiwan exotic dancers perform at funerals, and even some weddings? It’s classier than it sounds, and the money can be great, once you get a few regular customers and learn to pole dance.”
I’m intrigued. This certainly wasn’t in the career opportunity brochure at Central High.
“I’ve been on my own since I was your age. I met Claude at a nightclub where I danced. He was a regular. I kept dancing till I got pregnant with Boomer. Then we decided to get married and I quit for a few years.” She sighs. “I tried a regular job. I worked in the shoe department at Sears for a while, but I couldn’t take the smelly feet and early-morning hours. I wanted to dance again. There’s more to it than that, but the short version is that Claude divorced me and kept Boomer.”
I point at the photo of her. “You used to tap dance?”
Sedushia nods. “We all start out with high hopes. I guess that’s as close to Ginger Rogers as I’ll ever get,” she says with a smirk. “But you gotta do what you gotta do. Right? Come on.” She moves toward the door. “We don’t want to miss that bus.”
We run the two blocks back to the depot, Sedushia keeping up with me the whole time, even in heels.
The bus is full. Most of the people stayed and slept.
We settle into our seats as the bus turns onto the interstate. It’s one thirty in the morning and I’m starting to get what I call the sleep headache, the kind that buries itself just below the surface and nags at you like an overbearing itch that won’t go away. I hadn’t thought to bring Tylenol. I take out Mockingbird. Sometimes reading helps me feel better. But after several minutes I press my fingertips into my temple.
“Have a headache?” Sedushia asks.
I nod.
“Here.” Sedushia opens her purse, which could pass for a traveling pharmacy. She pulls out six bottles filled with vitamins. Then she places eight prescription containers on her lap. Finally, she opens a huge bottle of Tylenol and hands me two tablets.
“Thanks.” I swirl them in my mouth with watered-down Coke.
She gathers up the drugs and sticks them back in her purse.
“Do you use all of those?”
Sedushia shrugs. “At one time or another.” She lets out a small laugh. “I’m not as limber as I used to be. Dancing is hard on a body that’s my age.”
“You don’t look that old,” I say with too much enthusiasm, a half-truth that doesn’t quite come off sounding natural.
Sedushia smiles in the dim light of the bus. “I can top that one. You don’t look like a runaway.”
Chapter Six
Interstate 35 South March 14, 1986, 2:00 a.m.
“Don’t worry, Scout.” Sedushia pats my arm. “I’m not going to turn you in or anything. Who would I talk to if I did?”
But I am worried. What if someone heard her? I look around at the sleeping passengers.
What a dope I’d been to think I had her fooled this whole time. I slump over, defeated and embarrassed. “How did you know?”
“
I’m not in line for the mother of the year award, but even I know it’s strange to send a kid on a trip in the middle of the night, especially with all the stops we make. Besides, I ran away myself at sixteen. I know the look.”
I straighten up. “What look?”
“The look of someone who’s left everything behind. I’ve seen it lots of times on the bus. Some of them are way younger than you. Lord knows you’re old enough to know what you’re doing. At least you think you are.”
“I’m not sure about that anymore.” My eyes feel moist.
“Does it have to do with your mom?”
“My mom?” It seems like Sedushia knows so much about me even though I’ve told her so little.
“It’s just that you haven’t mentioned her at all. I’ve heard you talk about your dad. But not your mom. You’re not close to your mom, are you?”
“Not really,” I confess. “My parents aren’t together.”
“Oh.” She nods as if she understands.
I feel the sudden need to come clean with the truth. “Actually, my mom is dead and my dad is getting remarried.”
“Gracious me. I’m so sorry.” Sedushia puts her arm around me.
“It’s okay. I don’t remember her. She died when I was a baby.”
“And you have a problem with your dad getting remarried?”
I shrug. “No. Well, maybe.”
Sedushia sighs. “I can relate to that. My ex remarried when Boomer was just eight. I get compared to Joyce all the time.” Sedushia leans over and says in a nasal voice, “She has a respectable job. She’s a bank teller.”
“Susan is okay,” I add quickly. “My dad has been dating her for three years, so it’s not a big shock or anything. My brothers love her, and I think she’s nice. She’s just not … my mom.”
“Hmm.” Sedushia thinks for moment. “Have you talked to your dad about any of this?”
“No.”
“What about grandparents? Can you talk to them?”
“My mom was from Ohio. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and we didn’t see my grandparents much. My grandma died when I was five and my grandpa died two years later. My dad’s relatives live in Chicago. They don’t talk about my mom, probably because it makes my dad sad. I have to sort things out on my own.”
“And where are you going to do that?”
I hug my book tightly as more truth spills out. “Monroeville, Alabama. Except I don’t have a grandmother there. I’m going to meet Harper Lee.”
“That author? Do you know her?”
“Not exactly. I feel like I know her. Have you ever done something on the spur of the moment? Something crazy and radical?”
Sedushia laughs, and the woman across the aisle moves around a bit. Sedushia doesn’t seem to notice and laughs again. “Erin, you just pegged my whole life.”
“So you’re not going to try to talk me out of it or anything like that?”
“Would it do any good?”
I look down at my book before answering. “No.” My voice is determined.
Sedushia nods knowingly. “But you need to hear something I failed to learn when I ran away.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s never too late.” She enunciates each word as if she’s talking to someone who reads lips.
I nod as if I understand, but I don’t really.
Sedushia reaches over. Her bright red fingernails tightly grip my hand. “It’s a hard lesson. I never did get the knack of it.”
My hand feels numb. “If it’s never too late, then why don’t you call your son?”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant it’s never too late to go home.”
“But it’s the same thing,” I insist.
Sedushia’s face twists into a smile. “You’re awfully smart for a kid. You’re right. But it’s been ten years since I’ve seen him. And like I said, I never did get the knack of that lesson.”
I rub my eyes, stifling a yawn. “You’re too proud,” I state as though it’s a fact.
“No, it’s not that.” She shakes her head and her voice shakes as well. “You can’t call someone after ten years. I haven’t seen him since he was fifteen, after he told me he was embarrassed to have me as his mother. What would I say to him now? And what good would it do? He wanted me out of his life.”
“But he was just a kid. Maybe he’s changed his mind.”
“Maybe,” she says, a glimmer of hope in her voice.
“You should see him. What’ve you got to lose?”
“Oh, I have lots to lose. You’re not the only one with an imagination, Scout.” She fidgets with the zipper of her coat and looks out the window. “I have some dreams left, you see. That one day my son will come and find me. Sometimes, in my dreams, he invites me to live with him and his family. And of course I pack up and move in with them and spend my days playing with the grandkids. Then there’s the dream where he’s looking for me and we see each other on the street and we hug and the past is suddenly wiped away.” She stops and presses her hands together. “So if I visited him at his house in Kansas City and he told me that he hates me and never wants to see me, how would I be able to keep on dreaming those dreams? I’d have nothing left.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” I look down at my book. I wonder if there’s something in here that applies to Sedushia’s problem.
In Mockingbird, Scout’s father, Atticus, is an attorney who defends a black man accused of raping a white woman in the 1930s, even though he knows the case is lost before it even begins. Atticus feels that it’s the right thing to do.
I hesitate. It isn’t like me to push my way into someone else’s problems.
Sedushia is wringing her hands. I instinctively reach over and put my hand on hers.
“Maybe there’s a way you can talk to him without losing those dreams.”
Sedushia raises her eyebrows.
I think of Scout and it suddenly comes to me. The book rolls between my knees, and the cover glimmers in the faint light of the moon.
“Did I tell you I believe in signs?”
Chapter Seven
Cameron, Missouri March 14, 1986, 3:55 a.m.
Writing isn’t supposed to be easy.
Harper Lee spent two and a half years
rewriting Mockingbird.
And now, while reading one of Mom’s stories,
I see the pain of crossed-out words
replaced by other hard-thought ones
and I understand exactly how she felt.
For the next half hour I work on my plan. It isn’t a carefully thought-out plan, but it’s the middle of the night. At this hour, just the fact that I can still think is inspiring.
I tear out a piece of paper to make notes, leaning over so I can ask Sedushia questions without waking the other passengers. The whir of the engine and the swish of passing cars echo through the dim shadows of the bus.
“We arrive in Kansas City at four fifty-five a.m., and I have a two hour and twenty minute layover before the bus leaves again. Do you know where your son lives?”
Sedushia shrugs, then nods her head. “Actually, I’ve been past his house a couple of times. He got married last year and lives on the south side of town.” She adds, “’Course, I wasn’t even invited to the wedding.”
“How far is his place from the bus depot?”
She bites down on her lip. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a half-hour drive.”
“Great. That gives us plenty of time. Figure one hour for driving time and we still have over an hour left.”
“An hour for what?”
“To talk to Boomer.”
Sedushia brings her hand to her throat and gasps. “Lord, we can’t go to his house at that time of the morning. We’ll be there at five thirty.”
“Then we’ll be sure to catch him at home.”
“But we’ll wake him up. No, Boomer was always moody in the morning. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I pat her hand. “It’s
okay, Sedushia. You won’t be waking him up. You’ll be in the cab.”
She looks at me, puzzled.
“Can I borrow that picture,” I ask, “the one Boomer drew for you when he was six?”
She opens her purse and carefully takes out the drawing. “You won’t lose it, will you?”
“Of course not,” I assure her. I point at my book.
“In Mockingbird, someone leaves gifts for Scout in a tree hole. At first she thinks it’s some kind of magic; later she realizes her neighbor is leaving the gifts.” I point to the picture. “I’m going to leave this in Boomer’s door with a note. After he’s had a moment to look at the picture, I’ll talk to him. Then I’ll come back to the cab and talk to you.”
Sedushia looks at the drawing and nods her head. “I see what you’re doing. You’re going to be my bouncer, my go-between.”
I open a notebook, searching for an empty sheet of paper. “Well, let’s just say that I’m making sure you keep your dreams intact.”
“But what will the note say?”
I narrow my eyes, willing my brain to work despite a dull headache. “I thought I’d borrow an idea from Mockingbird. Something like how you never really know a person until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them. How that’s true for mothers as well.”
Sedushia looks in the air as if the words are written in front of her. She turns to face me and her eyes are soft. “I like it.” She puts her hand on my arm. “But Scout, don’t feel bad if it doesn’t work. I mean, I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
I rip out a sheet of paper and get to work.
Sedushia looks around the quiet bus. “You know, I’ve been riding the bus for twenty-three years. Used to be that people cared enough to talk to one another. Sometimes I’d have two men fighting over who’d sit next to me. Even the women who objected to my profession talked to me, if just to tell me I was a victim of male chauvinism or to push their bookmarks printed with Bible verses. But the last five years have been different. Sometimes I ride for two days without anybody saying a word to me.”
She flashes a quick smile. “’Course, I could tell from the start that you were different. I guess I’m going the roundabout way of saying thank you.”
In Search of Mockingbird Page 3
