CHAPTER NINETEEN
A minute before our bus pulled out of the station, I heard a shout coming across the tarmac. The driver, who had already latched shut the baggage compartment doors and slipped into his seat, now sat up again and, with a great big sigh, descended the narrow steps down to the pavement to help a last-minute traveler on board.
I shrank down in my seat and averted my eyes, hoping the old man heaving up the stairs and now walking the narrow passageway between the seats wouldn’t choose the empty spot next to me for the long journey down to Chicago. But as luck would have it, the sound of a throat clearing forced my attention.
“Good day to start a journey, ain’t it?”
My eyes met with the crinkly smile of an old Indian man with two long braids that dangled halfway down his chest. They were fastened with small leather patches embroidered with small turquoise beads. Indeed, his heavy silver jewelry – a thick bracelet circling his left wrist, a tie-like necklace and a large middle finger ring – was encrusted with the turquoise typical of Navaho workmanship. A wide-brimmed cowboy hat sat haphazardly on his head and he never took it off, not even when he plopped down in the seat beside me, not in the least phased by my lack of response.
Damn. There goes my chance to stretch out for a nap, I thought bitterly, trying to ignore the pungent aroma of tobacco that permeated his clothing. There were still a few empty seats peppered throughout the bus – why, of all of them, did he have to choose to sit here?
I forced myself to smile and looked out the window, hoping against all hope that he wasn’t a chatterbox, one of those insufferable bus or train companions who talks your ear off about their cats or grandkids whether you care to hear it or not. But no sooner than the bus roared toward the freeway that I heard my companion’s crackling voice again.
“Boy, am I glad I made it in time. Next one’s not until tomorrow.”
“Hmm,” I grunted in agreement, kicking myself for being too polite to ignore him.
“Yep, don’t know what I’d have done if I didn’t make it to Chicago by tomorrow night.”
My heart sank. Was he really going to be my travel companion the entire way? Damn. With the bus stopping in than a dozen cities along the way, what were the odds of this happening? I fought the urge to desperately crank my neck around to spot a new, quieter seat where I could catch up with sleep. Instead I sighed, resigned to make the best of it until the next stopover. I’d get off to use the restroom and conveniently take another seat when we boarded again.
“May as well introduce myself, little lady. They call me Chief Roberts. Going to pick up my son. Haven’t seen him in say, coming up on eleven years now.”
I gave the old man a puzzled look. “You’re picking him up and coming back here?” I bit my lip before I could ask, Why doesn’t he just get on the bus and save you the trouble of going all the way to Chicago and back?
He laughed. “Seems strange, doesn’t it? Well, I do have to take care of a few personal matters on his behalf, pack up his things, and then we’re heading back to the reservation, my boy and I.”
He said that wistfully, and something in his expression made me take a closer look at him. His face was grizzled with white stubble, and he had the weather-beaten, leathery tanned skin of a rancher. But it was his eyes that were startling – deep and mournful despite the smile that he was giving me, they were the eyes of a man who had lived through more than his fair share of troubles.
“He ran off to the big city a long time ago. Said to me, ‘Daddy, I ain’t ever coming back here again, or so God help me.’ Didn’t even write me for the longest time. Took up with some rough crowd, made money fast by selling drugs, got into a heap of trouble.”
“But you’ve worked things out now?” I asked.
Chief Roberts looked down at me with sad eyes. “We’ll never get that chance now. The county coroner called last night, said my boy was knifed to death in an alleyway. I’m going to Chicago to get his things and bring him home.”
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered.
The old man’s lips twisted into a bittersweet smile. “My biggest regret, truly, is that we were both too stubborn and foolish to sit down and try to work out our differences. And now it’s too late.” He glanced at me again. “And how ‘bout you, girl? You get along with your daddy?”
“I haven’t seen him in nearly a year,” I said quietly. “He lives in Massachusetts. My mother dragged me to LA after my parents divorced, and I’ve only spoken with him twice: when we first arrived, to let him know I was okay, and after I graduated high school.”
“Are you heading over for a visit?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m trying to get to New York to find a friend, but I only had enough to get to Chicago.”
“So what are you going to do?”
I shrugged. “Hitchhike the rest of the way, I suppose.”
The chief scrutinized me sympathetically. “But what about your daddy? When you planning to talk to him again?”
I looked down to my lap. Truthfully, I had no idea. My thoughts flew to my poor father, alone in his studio, likely marking student exams under the yellowish light of his desk lamp. Just another old man, like Chief Roberts beside me. Nobody there to rub his shoulders or bring him a sandwich in his old age.
The chief nodded to himself. “Sometimes you’ve gotta swallow your pride and make whatever amends you need to make. Life is so short, and nothing ain’t more important than those you love. Nothing.”
Town and country melted into one another: the parched brambles of Mojave desert bushes and skeletal yew trees soon gave way to bridges, lakes, miles and miles of cornfields, which in turn gave way to industrial yards, tiny little towns with not much more than a gas station and a local greasy spoon diner, apple orchards, wheat fields and more wild raspberry bushes growing by the roadside. In the flurry of greenery that flew past me, I gazed at my own reflection in the mirror and wondered how well I knew her, that young girl with the determined chin and the straggly blonde hair.
What was I going to do in New York City? Until Rosario actually started performing at the Winter Garden Theater, I had no clue where in that sprawling metropolis she could be found. Since her opening night wasn’t to be until the weekend, nearly a week away, I was to make do on my own until then.
I glanced furtively at Chief Roberts, whose chin had fallen into his chest as he snored softly, and it dawned on me how much I really missed my own father. If I could have, I would stop in Boston and go see him. I’d tell him about all the things that mother had done to me. He couldn’t have known; who knew what kind of lies she might have told him about me by now to justify why I hadn’t telephoned him in all these past months.
My poor Daddy. Alone in that great big empty house in the suburbs, all by his lonesome self. My chest tightened at the thought. How I wished I could see him! Had I the money, I would have been able to drop by for a visit before catching Rosario’s opening night act. I could have held his hands and told him the truth about myself.
As it turned out, I spent the next day chatting with Chief Roberts about everything from falling in love to the meaning of the universe. We talked about mystical things such as how we come across those we love, and he told me that when something feels right in our gut instinct, we shouldn’t ever let it go. “It’s the voice of our spirit guides telling us what is right,” he said. “Trust it, always.”
It was easy to trust him with my story, minus the fact that Rosario was a girl. Both my grandfathers had died before I was born – one during the Great War, the other while I was still in my mother’s womb. But if either of them had still been alive, I wished that they’d been a little like the chief – kind and good-humored, generous to a fault. He bought me a Monte Cristo sandwich and a bottle of spring water from the stopover diner off Route 66 just before it turns into the exit for St. Louis, and we ate as we circled the bus a couple of times to stretch our legs.
When we got back on, I managed to keep chatting until we cr
ossed state lines again before I felt my eyelids grow heavy and before I could stop myself, I’d nodded off with my head heavy on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of fresh tobacco mixed in with the tanned pelt lining of his cowhide vest.
“Miss, wake up miss. Time to debark, we’ve arrived.”
I tried to ignore the insistent, irritating voice behind my ear, but the grip on my shoulder grew harsher. “Excuse me, miss. We’re here.”
My eyes finally snapped open. I blinked a couple of times, staring up into the pinched face of the man I recognized as our bus driver for the last two days. I sat up in my seat abruptly, shaking my head to clear the fogginess of sleep. Why hadn’t Chief Roberts awoken me to tell me that we were here? Surely he couldn’t have left without saying goodbye? Had everybody disembarked already?
The driver sat back on his heels, shaking his head at me, and I could tell he probably thought I’d had a few too many cocktails at our last stopover but I didn’t care. Grabbing a tight hold of my purse and sweater, I turned up my nose and strode past him haughtily, trying to keep the last shreds of my dignity intact.
I found my small suitcase on the concrete pavement beside the bus’ open cargo door, next to a few as-yet unclaimed shipping crates. Keeping myself stead on my feet, I headed toward the washrooms, hoping to wash the sleep from my face and freshen up a bit before I would decide what to do next.
At the washroom counter, I looked a mess. My hair was a rat’s nest of tangles and sticky curls matted the sides of my forehead. I fished around my handbag for my small comb when I stumbled upon a foreign item: an item I was certain I’d never put there: a long white envelope.
My fingers shook as I tore through the sealed lip of the envelope, and I couldn’t suppress a gasp when I laid eyes on what rested inside: several crisp, brand new twenty dollar bills. A small stack of them, actually – and suddenly I knew, in the deepest recesses of my heart, that it was more than enough to get me from here to my father’s house.
Tears brimmed behind my eyelashes. I rushed out of the public toilet and took a few quick steps toward the sliding doors that spilled out onto the avenue, hoping that I would catch a glimpse of Chief Roberts, but he had vanished. I knew he would, just as I well I’d never see him again. That wasn’t the point; if he were here, he’d surely tell me that it was the moment that counted, and the moment was here and now.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Diana – just accept those wondrous, magical things the universe slips into your open arms and do not question how or why something falls into your lap. It was all part of the unexplained enchantments that course all around us, invisible streaks of love and tenderness that flow between ourselves and those we love.
I wouldn’t question the Chief’s gift; doing so would go against what he would wish for me – that I be whole, and make peace with those I loved. He gave me a chance to experience what he himself would never have, and to describe myself as grateful would not begin to describe the warmness I felt in my heart toward what that sad, wise man had done for me.
Mouthing a silent thanks, I walked over to the central ticket kiosk and bought a direct ticket to Boston. The remaining change was enough for a large bottle of water, a toasted baguette sandwich and a bag of crisps, plus the tram fare to get me from the bus depot across the river to Cambridge and my father’s house.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The bus pulled into Boston a little after eight in the evening. I caught the tram outside the central Greyhound station to my old neighborhood, where I stepped out under the cover of night. A light drizzle had started to descent over the homes blanketed by darkness, and the street lights illuminated a golden glow over that oh-so-familiar sidewalk that I could follow blindfolded. Indeed, even if I closed my eyes I could readily imagine that I was still a child back in grade school, skipping back to my house, and none of the events of the last year had ever taken place.
The smells were the same perfumes of my childhood, from the lavender bushes in Miss Pettigrew’s front yard, the muffins baked by Susan Mayfair, the loveliest mom on the street, the mulberry trees that dotted several front yards. Grief caught in my throat, threatening to choke me: to think that I lived here, all these years, apart from Rosario, all the while feeling an inexplicable void in my heart, an ache for a girl I had not met yet but whom I’d been waiting for all of my life.
The key to the front door was still under the flower pot nestled next to our entrance. Dad used to joke that at least it wasn’t as much of a cliché as placing it under the front step mat, but mother begged to differ. Either way, I was relieved that it was still there, unmoved and cool in the palm of my hand. My dress had soaked through from the drizzle but nobody had come to the door, even after I rang the buzzer twice and encountered no noise, no sign that my father was home. But that faithful key was all I needed so I promptly pushed it in the keyhole, turned it to the right until I heard a click, and slipped inside the darkness of our entranceway.
I placed my suitcase on the ground next to the umbrella stand and slipped out of my shoes, feeling my thin nylon stockings grow icy against my feet as they met with the chilly touch of the cold porcelain tiles.
My fingers reached for the wall instinctively, probing around in the general vicinity of the light switch I knew was there. Finally, contact. My thumb impatiently flicked the knob up, illuminating the foyer with a flood of amber light that bounced off the wallpaper….and came to rest on the bare chest of a half-naked young man.
I let out a half-squeal, half-scream as I jumped backwards, my spine meeting with the polished lever of the front door.
“What the…who are you?” I gasped.
The brown-haired young man’s forehead furrowed as he cocked an eyebrow. “Uh, who are you?” he asked in a light mocking voice. “Bernard, we have company,” he called out over his shoulder.
“I’m Diana Morris and this is my home,” I said, my fists tightening as I braced myself against this unanticipated intruder. “What are you doing in my house, and what have you done to my father?”
The young man’s face broke into an amused grin. “Well, sugar, it’s rather a question of what I haven’t done.”
My eyes took all of him in – the bulge behind the towel loosely-draped around his hips, the way he cocked his head as he looked at me from head to toe.
Could it be?...
As though he’d read my mind, the fellow laughed. “Relax, honey. He said you were away at school on the West Coast. What a lovely surprise.”
So it was true. I swallowed. “How long have you been together?”
More laughter. He was enjoying my discomfort. “We’re not together, honey. I just met the fellow last week by the public washrooms in Boston Commons.”
A slab in the hardwood floor creaked, making both of us turn around. My father had emerged from his study, drawing a bathrobe tightly around himself. He didn’t appear to wear anything underneath, and his hairy legs seemed skinner than I’d remembered them to be.
“Diana, is that you? My God, what….what in tarnation are you doing here?”
I took a few steps toward him but his lack of enthusiasm stopped in my tracks. Uncertainty dampened my joy. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
My father blinked, his mouth opening noiselessly, as if he was searching for just the right words. He stepped closer, but made no effort to cross the span of the great room to embrace me. “H-how have you been? I thought…I thought you were still in that…that place.”
It was my turn to stare back at him in shock. “You knew?”
He nodded absent-mindedly. “Your mother told me they were trying to commit you. I hadn’t realized they let you out.”
“Well, they did,” I said, closing my eyes. My throat tightened up. The shock I’d just experienced at the revelation that my father was a homosexual was nothing compared to the sense of betrayal that now flooded my consciousness.
Then I exploded. “You knew? You knew why mother locked me up and you didn’t think to step i
n and get me out of that awful place?”
His lower lip trembled slightly, and his hands, which hung limply to his sides, now twisted with anxiety. “What could I tell them? That you weren’t sick, that I shared your affliction? Speaking up on your behalf would attract unwanted attention to my own affairs. I couldn’t allow that. This isn’t a healthy lifestyle, pet. Don’t you think that if I had a choice to save you from this path, that I would not? It’s too late for me, Diana – I’m too sick. Too depraved. But you’re still young, you have a chance to have a future. To be normal.”
“You let them electro-shock me to ‘cure’ my homosexuality while you were picking up fellows in public washrooms, Dad? For the good of my health? Don’t you think that’s a bit of a double standard?” I spat those words at him, twisting the words sarcastically, enjoying the discomfort they caused him. “Were you going to stand by if they wanted to lobotomize me also, just so I’d turn out ‘normal’?”
A deep sigh escaped his lips. “You have no clue how much of my reputation is on the line. Coming out would be a terrible, dangerous thing –”
I cut him off furiously. “No, you don’t get it, Dad. You don’t have to hide in the bushes anymore. You don’t have to be afraid, or pick up lovers in a public toilet while slipping your wedding band back on your finger when you’re done.”
“Diana, I won’t be taking life lessons from you,” my father argued, his voice trembling with anger. “To think that an eighteen-year old is so presumptuous as to tell me what to do –”
I shook my head, blonde curls flying in my eyes. My voice rose to fill up the room, not that I cared one bit. I had finally found my own strength in being fearless, and now that I knew what was most important I wasn’t going to let myself stay unheard. “You could learn a thing or two from my generation. You have to get loud, to scream in their faces, to force them to accept you. You can’t allow anybody to define you as a pervert, a degenerate, much less come to believe it!”
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