Last Bus to Coffeeville

by J. Paul Henderson

  The dumping ground for all such information was the town’s Chamber of Commerce, a small shop front located on Main Street and staffed by volunteers and part-time employees on minimum wage. Merritt Crow belonged to the latter category and had few qualms about leaving the office thirty minutes early. He stuck a notice to the inside of the glass door apologising for any inconvenience, grabbed his cane and set off in the direction of home. It was only a short walk and took less than ten minutes. He stopped at the entrance to his driveway and looked down. ‘Goddamn son-of-a-bitch!’ he muttered, and then walked to the rear of the house.

  ‘Goddamn, Merritt! You look like a muthafuckin’ elephant! What happened to yo’ ears, man?’ Bob exclaimed.

  ‘Is that any way to greet an old friend, T-Bone? Now come here and give this man a hug!’

  Jack’s explanation of the facts of life was still fresh in Eric’s mind, and on seeing the two men embrace he turned to his older friend. ‘Are they happy?’ he mouthed quietly.

  ‘I should think so,’ Jack said. ‘From what Bob said, they haven’t seen each other for forty years.’

  ‘No, I mean… are they happy men, those men who…?’

  It suddenly dawned on Jack what Eric was talking about. ‘The word’s gay, Eric, not happy, and no, they’re not gay, not a chance of it. It’s okay for men to hug each other. It’s the other stuff…’

  ‘I see your conversation with Eric went well,’ Doc said.

  ‘At least I had the conversation!’ Jack responded. ‘I didn’t hear you volunteering.’

  ‘Hey! Come an’ meet Merritt Crow,’ Bob called to them. ‘An’ don’t go mentionin’ his ears, neither – man appears to be sensitive ’bout ’em.’

  Merritt smiled and asked them to follow him to the front of the house. Eric couldn’t take his eyes off the man’s ears and from a safe distance again whispered to Jack. ‘Have you seen the size of his ears?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Jack whispered back. ‘They look like ping-pong paddles, don’t they?’

  Merritt’s ears were the same size they’d always been. When Bob had known him, Merritt’s hair had been long and covered his ears. Bob had only ever seen their tips and had been completely unaware of the giant icebergs lurking below.

  ‘Why we not usin’ the back door?’ Bob asked.

  ‘I want to show you something,’ Merritt explained. ‘Get your opinion on it.’

  He stopped at the entrance to the drive at the same spot where he’d hesitated only a few minutes earlier. ‘Look at this shit, will you?’

  The six of them gathered around a large pile of excrement and stood there like mourners at an open grave.

  ‘Why we standin’ here lookin’ at a pile o’ horseshit, Merritt? This a new touris’ ’traction or somethin’?’

  ‘Every day a guy rides by my house with a towel on his head, and every day his horse takes a dump here. The one time I saw it happen, I grabbed hold of the horse’s reins and gave the man a piece of my mind, asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. I told him he should carry a shovel with him, stick the shit in his saddle bags and take it home with him. If he’d been walking a dog he’d have had to have done that, and that horse of his drops the equivalent of two months’ dog shit at a time!’

  ‘Who’s the man an’ what the towel ’bout? He an Arab?’

  ‘No, his name’s Spencer Havercroft. He’s one of the realtors in town and a vain son-of-a-bitch. Every morning he washes his hair, wraps it in a towel and rides into town to get it blow-dried and waved at one of the salons. They shape it into something like a surfing wave that’s just about to break – a bit like that guy in Hawaii Five-O.’

  ‘Jack Lord,’ Nancy said absent-mindedly. ‘I don’t remember him riding a horse, though.’

  ‘Maybe he rode seahorses, Mrs Skidmore,’ Eric suggested helpfully.

  Merritt looked confused for a second, but continued. ‘He’s a tightwad, too. All his money and he still washes his own hair to save himself a few bucks at the salon…

  ‘Anyway, he won’t apologise and he won’t change his ways. He told me I should pay him for his horse’s trouble; how horseshit’s a valuable commodity these days and I should put it on my roses. I asked him if he saw any roses in my garden. He said he didn’t, but then told me I should go and buy some and brighten the place up. He said my house was letting the whole town down, disgracing the community. “If you ever decide to sell it,” he said, “let me know and I’ll send in the bulldozers.” I told him he could fuck off, and then the horse reared and knocked me over. That’s how I sprained my damned ankle,’ he said, pointing to the bone with his cane.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got a councillor coming round tomorrow and I’m going to take the matter up with her… Shall we go inside?’

  Entering Merritt’s house, for Bob, was like entering a time capsule: the room was smaller than he remembered, but otherwise absolutely nothing appeared to have changed. A guilty thought crossed his mind: Merritt’s living room was little different from Fred Finkel’s.

  ‘Surprised?’ Merritt asked, noticing the expression on Bob’s face.

  ‘Kinda,’ Bob said, ‘I thought it mighta changed some.’

  Merritt smiled at him. ‘Oh but it has, T-Bone. The house has been completely reconfigured. The room we’re standing in now is for show. It’s where I receive unwanted callers, and this is where I’ll receive the council woman tomorrow – even though it’s me that’s asked her here. Remember that door there?’ He pointed with his stick to a door on the far wall.

  ‘Sure I remem’er. Leads into the backyard.’

  ‘Not anymore,’ Merritt replied.

  He opened the door and revealed to his guests a large open-planned living space. Its style was modern and its furnishings expensive: large couches, comfortable armchairs, metal framed tables with glass tops, polished oak floorboards and oriental rugs. Two life-sized crow sculptures stared down on the room from roosts close to the ceiling, one carved from bog oak and the other assembled from pieces of felt, leather and metal, and a large ceramic hippopotamus stared languidly from a corner position.

  To one side of the room was a kitchen area with a tiled floor, granite worktops and state-of-the-art appliances, and leading from it – and back into the original building – a hallway with doors to three bedrooms and a marble-floored bathroom.

  ‘It’s Italian,’ Merritt said when he saw them admiring the bathroom floor. ‘Cost a small fortune but worth every cent. Laid it myself.’

  ‘Okay if we take a shower, Merritt? None of us has showered fo’ two days, an’ though I b’lieve my own scent to be a thing o’ natural beauty, I ain’t so sure ’bout Gene an’ the others.’

  ‘Sure, it’s okay. And take any clothes you need laundering into the utility room. Decide amongst yourselves who’s going to sleep in the bedrooms and who’ll take the couches. I’ll go get some towels.’

  It was decided that Doc and Nancy would sleep in one of the two available bedrooms, Bob in the other, and that Jack and Eric would remain on the bus.

  ‘Y’all go ahead,’ Bob said. ‘I’m gonna talk to Merritt an’ find out what he done to my damn house while I been away – and, more to the point, how the hell he paid fo’ it all.’

  Merritt grasped the opportunity to explain the new spatial arrangements with both hands: it had been a labour of love that had taken him more than twenty years to complete. ‘I had some help in the early days, but once the structural work was completed, I pretty much did it on my own. It took a while, but I enjoyed doing it and it kept me occupied.’

  After Bob had left Crawford for Seattle, Merritt had set up a small building services company and found work easy to come by. He’d built extensions, made renovations, installed bathrooms and kitchens, repaired roofs and painted houses. His rates had been reasonable and his reputation had grown by word of mouth. He’d made a good living. His needs had been few and he lived frugally; the money he saved he invested in his own property, never once stinting on the quality of materials
used and never cutting corners. The only thing Merritt wished for now was that the house was located elsewhere – some place other than Crawford.

  ‘You done good, Merritt, ‘specially fo’ a man who don’t look strong enough to lift a hammer. I fixed up an ol’ cabin in the Klamath Mountains, but it ain’t near as well finished as this. If I’da knowed you was this good, I’da hired you myself.’

  Doc walked into the room. ‘That’s an excellent shower you have there, Merritt – blew the cobwebs right off. The bathroom’s free now, Bob, if you want to get cleaned up.’

  Bob went to the bus for his wash bag and then to the bathroom. The sound of his voice carried over the noise of the water: Drove into Crawford, I got them Crawford blues, Drove into Crawford… ‘Quite a tunesmith, isn’t he?’ Doc said to Merritt.

  ‘It’s a damn sight more melodic than his humming,’ Merritt laughed. ‘He just about drove me crazy with that buzzing noise of his when he lived here.’

  ‘And I’ll bet he always denied he was humming, right?’

  ‘Always did,’ Merritt said. ‘Beats me how he ended up with a good-looking girl like Marsha. I’m figuring she’s deaf or something.’

  Doc laughed. ‘I appreciate you putting us up, Merritt. I don’t know if Bob’s told you, but Nancy’s not doing too good. She has dementia, so her behaviour’s a bit unpredictable. Don’t take any notice if she says mean things to you: she won’t intend them.’

  ‘There’s nothing to thank me for, Gene: I’m glad of the company. And don’t go worrying about Nancy, either. I’ve had a couple of friends go down the same hill she’s going down, so I know the drill.’

  ‘I wish I did,’ Doc replied solemnly. ‘I’m still trying to figure out her medication but, touch wood, I think we’re heading in the right direction. She’s had a good day today… Can we take you out to dinner tonight, by the way?’

  ‘No need, Gene. I’ve got a ham baking in the oven and you’ll be my guests this evening. Maybe tomorrow night.’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ Doc said.

  ‘What’s a deal?’ Jack asked. He and Eric had just entered the room.

  ‘Life,’ Doc replied.

  Alex with a Kiss

  After the others had retired for the night, Bob and Merritt poured the remaining wine into their glasses and moved into the living room.

  ‘You got the marijuana?’ Merritt asked.

  ‘Yeah, medicinal quality, too: courtesy o’ the state government of Oregon. But how come you cain’t get it here no mo’? Used to be easier ’n gettin’ a carton o’ milk.’

  ‘The place has changed, T-Bone,’ Merritt bemoaned. ‘It used to be a frontier town but not anymore. It’s all law-abiding now, cleaner than Caesar’s wife. A bunch of new people moved in and took over. They know about the town’s past, but they don’t want anything to do with it. They’ve eradicated everything that made it special. Said it was bad for business, bad for the town’s image and the community’s future.

  ‘Community’s the big word ’round here these days. I hate that fucking word! We’re supposed to care for each other and be able to put a name to every face we see. In our day, everyone used to keep to themselves and mind their own business, and that’s the way I liked it. No one pried, asked you for your life story or your five-year plan. People had secrets to keep, pasts they’d rather forget and they figured that other people did too. Now it’s all gone topsy-turvy, and we’re expected to tell everyone our business and spill our goddamned guts to complete strangers.

  ‘These days the place is chock full of do-gooders and busybodies, doing their own kind of good and interfering in peoples’ lives without a person’s say-so. If I was younger, I’d move, but it’s too late for that so I guess I’ll just have to die here and hope to God I inconvenience them – not that any of them here believes in death. They seem to think that perfumed candles and a bunch of wrist bands will keep them going for ever. Fucking idiots, the lot of ’em!’

  ‘Man alive!’ Bob said. ‘An’ all I was thinkin’ was it bigger.’

  ‘It’s bigger, too,’ Merritt said. ‘Once was I could just reverse into the road and not worry about colliding with a passing car. Nowadays I’ve got to look before I back out of the drive. I tell you though, I’m sorely tempted to wait for that Spencer guy and just slam my damn car into his horse – plead senility or deafness or something. If I did do that though, you can bet your bottom dollar they’d have me in a nursing home before either of us could blink. My disappearance would be just another part of the beautification process.’

  ‘That’s what they did with Nancy,’ Bob said. ‘An’ all she did was leave her house door open an’ go fo’ a walk. You kill a horse an’ they’ll more ’n likely strap you in a chair an’ shoot bolts o’ ’lectricity through yo’ body. You don’t wanna go endin’ yo’ journey that way. Ha!’

  ‘I hate that fucking word, too’ Merritt said.

  ‘What word?’

  ‘Journey! I hate it almost as much as I hate the word community, or when some numskull mother refers to her daughter as her best friend. Every last one of these sapheads has been on a damned journey. They cross the road and they think they’ve been on a journey; they see some guy whittling a piece of wood on his porch and that’s another journey; and they pass some old crone taking a dog for a walk and they describe that as a journey, too. You and me, T-Bone, we’ve been on journeys; these people just rattle around inside their own empty heads and go nowhere.’

  Nancy slept well that night and woke refreshed. Doc’s sleep, however, had been more fitful than usual. The last time he’d slept with a woman had been the night he’d slept with Beth, and the following day she’d been killed. He hadn’t been able to relax. It wasn’t that he believed any woman he slept with would die the next day, but found himself forever looking over at Nancy and checking on her. Every time she moved or made a whimpering noise, he worried she would wake up and wonder who the hell he was, what he was doing in the same bed as her and start screaming.

  Over breakfast, Merritt broached the subject of rum buns. ‘I don’t suppose any of you knows how to make them?’

  ‘I know how to make them,’ Nancy said. ‘They’re easy as pie.’

  ‘You do? I don’t suppose you’d make some while you’re here, would you, Nancy?’

  ‘I’ll be glad to, Granddad,’ Nancy replied. ‘Let me take a look through your cupboards and see what ingredients you have and what you’re missing, and Gene and I will go to the store and buy what’s necessary. Is that alright with you, Gene?’

  ‘Sure. It’ll give us a chance to see the town. How do you know how to make these buns? I’ve never even heard of them.’

  ‘Arnold grew up in Washington DC,’ Nancy replied. ‘He loved rum buns.’

  Doc took hold of Nancy’s arm and they walked the short distance to the town’s centre. The day had yet to warm up and the temperature still hovered in the low forties. The sun looked more like a lozenge with the goodness sucked out of it than a potential source of heat. Nancy’s nose had started to turn red, but she was smiling. ‘What a beautiful day this is,’ she said to him. ‘It reminds me of Mississippi.’

  The streets of the town were dominated by studios that sold ceramics, jewellery, lutes, stained glass, textiles and wood carvings; and galleries that exhibited the work of local artists: acrylics, charcoals, oils, pastels and watercolours. Interspersed were coffee shops, bookshops, fabric stores and a large country store selling food and clothing.

  Doc and Nancy looked around several of the galleries and studios but didn’t buy anything – what point would there have been at their time of life? They stepped into a small restaurant and ordered coffee and cake.

  ‘I’m enjoying today, Gene. I like this town. Did Bob used to drive buses here, too?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. I don’t think they have buses.’

  ‘After all the unpleasantness the three of us went through, I wonder why he decided to become a bus driver. I don’t think I ever went on a bu
s again.’

  ‘You remember the trip?’ Doc asked.

  ‘It’s not something you easily forget, Gene. I’ve never been as embarrassed as when that driver came to look at our tickets and we didn’t have any. Do you remember how he made us get off the bus and then set it on fire?’

  Doc often found it easier to go with the flow than correct Nancy’s memories. They did no harm. He did, however, miss the time when he’d felt free to tease her and make jokes at her expense. But there was a mountain between now and then and, for him, these were only half conversations. He was as much an onlooker as an interested party.

  ‘Did you ever tell your parents about the bus ride?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘Sure I did, didn’t you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think my father was sympathetic to buses, but he never felt free to express his opinions publicly. I don’t think many people in Mississippi did, either. And, of course, Arnold hated them. He was concerned by the amount of gas they guzzled and said they were bad for the environment. That man! He was always concerned about resources.’

  ‘Do you think Arnold ever thought that perhaps you were the most precious resource in the world, Nancy?’

  ‘What a sweet thing to say, Gene. I really don’t know.’

  ‘Well you are, and never forget that. Now let’s go to the store and buy those ingredients. You have some baking to do.’

  They were the only customers in the country store. Doc took out the piece of paper Nancy had written on and read through the list with difficulty. They were looking for raisins, cinnamon, icing sugar, nutmeg and a bottle of Myer’s Rum – Jamaican dark rum blended from nine other rums. Nancy had insisted on this brand.