“Nana, where are we going?” “On the bus, lov.” “Where on the bus?” “To America.” “You can’t go to America on the bus.” “Sean, you weary me with questions.” “I want to know.” “We take the bus to Galway. Sail on the Shamrock to Boston.” “Will I like the boat?” “I’m sure I don’t know. ‘Tis a rocky bit. My sister, Margaret, was sick all the way.” “I wont be sick. I’m strong and mighty.” Sean imitates a super hero. “A mite you are, but a good lad.” “Why can’t we stay? Grandpa said: ‘Never sell the farm.’” “Grandpa’s gone. It’s time to leave. Ireland eats boys.” “Like bits of cheese and ham.” Sean laughs. “No, they drag them into English hating, to throw rocks, hide… “Won’t I ever see Jamsey or Uncle Pat?” “I don’t know child. Hush! Take this pence, buy a scone, fill your mouth with it now.” An old friend appears and asks, “Are you sure you want to go?” “Michael Gorman, what are you doing here?” “I met Pat. He said, ‘Delia is leaving today.’ You didn’t tell me? She shrugs. “Why?” He asks. “Irish women in Boston make lots of money raising the children of the rich.” “If I had money I would ask you to stay.” “Ah, it’s not money. It’s Ireland.” “I wish I could go to America.” “And what would The Cause do without you?” Michael lowers his head, watches her hands fidget her rosary beads. “I’m sorry Michael, I mean no offense.” “That’s why, the boy.” “Yes, the boy, The Cause can’t have him.” “His father was a patriot. He should know.” He’ll know childhood, school books, a night’s sleep without being afraid.” “And what the English did?” “His father died of influenza.” “You can’t run away, live a lie.” “He’ll not b e a messenger. Get killed for The Cause.” Delia, you can’t escape. There is no running away. You have to stand your ground, fight.” Delia sighs. “Michael, we’ve had this argument so many times.” “You’re so convincing. I almost believed it when I was young.” Michael nods, takes her hand. “When we were young.” Delia shakes her head, slips her hand away. “But you always chose The Cause. No other life for you.” “We’ve paid so dearly.” “All those years you spent in prison. I waited.’ “Aye, they were hard years.” “Men died and went insane… and I waited.” “I lived for the day.” “And you came home.” “To you.” Michael takes a step toward her. “To The Cause.” “And you married Thomas.” “A good man… we made a good life.“ “I’ve always loved you.” “I know, but not enough.” “I couldn’t save your son. He was a born leader.” “I won’t lose again.” Michael reaches out to touch her but changes his mind and turns away. “God Bless, Delia. Have a safe journey.” Michael leaves. Sean returns nibbling a scone. “Nana, why is your face so red?” “Sure ‘tis warm in here.” “Who was that man?” “Just a man I knew when I was a girl.” “Is it almost time for the bus?” “Soon Sean, soon.” “I think I’ve seen the man standin’ outside the play yard. He always smiles.” “He has a smile like the divil himself. Come, the bus is here. Help me with the soft bag, there’s a good boy.” “May I have the window seat?” “Yes, I’ve no need to look back.” “Nana, the man… “ “Mr. Gorman.” “He is watching us. Should I wave?” “No.” The bus pulls away. “Sit back and relax. We’ll be in Galway in an hour.” After he clears his throat, the driver says, “I have sad news. It’s just come over the radio. The United States has declared war on Germany.” Delia gasps, “God help us!” “Will I go to war, Nana?” “God Forbid. It’ll be over long before you’re old enough to go.” “I think not,” says the man beside her. “I’m going to war,” says the boy. © 2004 P. Richards THE BOY ON THE BUS is my signature piece. It won first prize as a play on “FLASHQUAKE” in the fall 2001 issue. It was published as a short fiction in “New Century Voices” maiden publication in the year 2000. |
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| •THE BOY ON THE BUS •THE BAG LADY •THE SON |
The old woman stands just inside the entrance to the Lakeview Inn. Party- dressed in velvet pants, satin blouse, and mink stole, she carries a small gold shopping bag. She turns every time the front door opens and asks each new arrival, Are you here to meet me? The staff cringes; the guests on the way to the bar avoid her plea, sidestepping her question without looking her way. She paces the lobby. The grandfather clock strikes. An hour has past. Weary and dismayed, she takes a seat on the damask sofa. The one in the far corner. The youngest receptionist—taken by a wave of compassion—lights the gas fireplace. Thank you. It’s chilly in here. The fire warms the corner. Makes things seem brighter. I’m confused, you know. Maybe I have the wrong day. Someone is supposed To pick me up. I don’t know who. It’s a party. I’m invited to a Christmas party. She watches the fire. She turns toward the girl. Do you know where the party is? You don’t. I’d hoped you could tell me. Even that it might be here. So many parties at the inn this time of year. I’m alone now. Frank had such a good memory, always remembered dates and names. She hugs her mink stole. He had a way with words. She smiles at the girl. I’m Margery Weatherall. Does that mean anything to you? I’m Doctor Weatherall’s wife. I mean, widow. Did you know Frank? You didn’t. Frank was a lovely man. He died this past June. Last thing he said to me was, “I’ll be right back.” She twists her diamond rings thoughtfully. Sometimes I can’t remember he’s gone and other times I can’t remember anything else. Do you hear the music? Dorsey! Someone is playing the gramophone. Oh my! It isn’t called a gramophone anymore. Do you believe in life after death? You do. I’m not sure. Let’s talk about something else. She smoothes the frayed damask. I used to live in Palm Springs. Have you ever been there? Not like this dreary little town. Why, this inn is second-class. She waves her hand with an airy gesture, dismissing her surroundings. This lobby is in need of refurbishing. It’s nothing like the big hotels on the boulevard. She looks about. What time is it? So late, it will be dark soon, gets dark so early. Do you think I’ve missed the party? I used to give grand parties. Why, an invitation to one of my parties was… My shopping bag… Where is my shopping bag? You found it! Thank you. I’ll put it on the table… a hostess gift, you know… one of those tiny angels—gold with a bit of lace. They sell at the Wick and… I’m losing words. Not all the time, just sometimes. Nouns, not verbs. I wonder why that would be? Do you lose words? She laughs at herself. No, you wouldn’t lose words, you’re too young to lose words. So, you work here dear? What do you do? Ah… Receptionist. A ride home? Yes, I guess… it’s dark. You called a cab, you say. How thoughtful! Will he know where I live? You think he’ll remember… from last Sunday. Isn’t that nice? I’ll be on my way. What’s that dear? Give a party. Let the guests find me. She smiles. Why that’s a splendid idea! I just love parties. Perhaps Frank will come. © 2004 Pat Richards THE BAG LADY was published in “New Century Voices” in 2002. |
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| •THE BOY ON THE BUS •THE BAG LADY •THE SON |
Gussie hangs up the receiver carefully. The party-line has the news on the wire by 6:45. Allen Richards was killed on an icy road last night on his way home from second shift. Gussie watches the ice crinkle on the kitchen window, must be zero or below. How many times did she and Frances Ingraham Richards walk to the one room school on a day like this? She dislodges a log from her meager supply and feeds the woodstove, one piece of ash and then another. Pulling on a moth-eaten cardigan, she sighs, difficult to keep warm on days like these… Gussie reaches for the old ceramic bowl, takes yeast cake from the refrigerator and puts it on the counter to warm. Taking a potato from the root cellar landing, she peels it and puts it on to boil. Say what you like, there will be nothing like the potato rolls at the gathering of the Richards after the funeral. Allen, Frances’ youngest was a sweet natured child—in contrast to the older brothers—hooligans. Then, there are the girls; Margaret, Wilma and Jean… much older. Humph! At forty-two, Frances deserved an easy-going child with blonde hair, huge blue eyes and a ready smile. Ah… kids! They all drive you crazy. Gussie warms the yeast in heated milk and stirs thoughtfully. Now, my Franklin, there was nothing gentle about him from day one—colicky, a rowdy youngster. Always bringing notes home from the teacher. She beats an egg into her mixture and slowly adds a cup of mashed potato. Allen was a favorite at Sunday school; good manners, perfect attendance, quick to memorize his Bible verses. She sifts flour. Good bread is in the blending, a half cup or less of flour at a time. The smell of yeast mingles with the smell of coffee. She pours a cup and places it next to her. He was drivin’ a new car, on an icy road, a week before Christmas… Gussie turns the dough out with a thump, pushing away her thoughts. Turn, fold, and press with the palms. She falls into the rhythm. How to knead bread isn’t something you forget even when you’re seventy-four and living alone. She sets the bread to rise, sips the black coffee while she waits, but it doesn’t warm her. Why is one son taken and another one left? Mother used to say, “’Tis the will of God.” She punches down the dough. Ah! The will of God! She punches it down again. So, God took Allen, leaving his two babies without a father. She starts a second batch of dough. God left Franklin. He abandoned his wife and four children for that whore in the post office. Gussie dumps a cup of raisins into the dough. “Shamed me, he did,” she cries out as she kneads in the raisings. “What kind of man did I raise?” She overturns the bowl creating a mound of dough on the table. Gussie tears lumps from the dough and forms rolls. Why does God take the good and leave the evil? The rolls make circles in the greasy pan. Wait till the mourners see these rolls. She’ll show those church ladies! Nobody out does my rolls. Those old biddies with their comments; How are you doing, Gussie? You shouldn’t be living alone. Would you be needin’ a ride to church? What they really mean is; Poor Gussie, she has no son to take care of her. Tch, Tch, Tch. She pushes the rolls into the oven. Takes out the butter—Myrtle Farrington’s real butter. She never skimps on her ingredients. Gussie shakes powdered sugar over the butter. Blends the butter and sugar into a smooth frosting. Hot Cross buns will be a treat to all those callers, especially those city children grown accustomed to store bought. Franklin had called a few times, but she’d hung up on him. Then there was the day he came into Morewood’s Store; when he’d started to speak, she’d turned away. Augusta takes the rolls out of the oven, places them on a rack, and slides the buns into the oven. In a week, the Virgin Mary will bring forth a child, and Frances Richards will mourn one… and she… Gussie takes a roll and butters it, adds coffee to her cup. No one will make better rolls. There’s a knock on the door. “Gussie?” “Here,” she pushes open the door. “Come in Ira, out of the cold.” “Thank you, brought the paper and the mail.” “Have a roll and a cup of coffee.” “Don’t they smell good? I always tell Mildred, Gussie makes the best rolls.” “Have two.” Gussie slips the burns out of the oven. “Sad about Allen.” “Nice boy.” “Calling hours tonight.” “So soon?” “Yes.” “Could you take the rolls over to Frances?” “Course, soon as I’m done plowing.” He leaves to plow the driveway. Gussie puts the pan rolls in plastic bags and crosses the red twister thoughtfully. Maybe Franklin will call for Christmas. I mean, he had a Christian upbringing and all. She frosts the buns. Places them in a Tupperware container. The Richards’ boys will rave about them. The buns were Franklin’s favorite. Liked the raisins, he did. She seals the lid securely. Her face flushes from the stove’s heat. “What kind of woman could turn away a son at Christmas?” she asks aloud. Everything is ready to send. Frances lost a son; Gussie has a reprieve—God willing. © 2004 Pat Richards THE SON was published in “New England Writer’s Network” in June 2000. |
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| •THE BOY ON THE BUS •THE BAG LADY •THE SON |