Excerpt: The Love We All Wait For

Chapter 3

My mother, Josh, Annie, and me, along with Jimmy’s mom Mrs. Emmons, the waitress, were the only occupants of the Depot Café that Sunday morning. We had been sitting at the table by the window eating breakfast for at least an hour. Josh was to be the only passenger to get on the southbound Greyhound this morning. The bus was scheduled to arrive in Imperial Beach at ten that night, a thirteen-hour trip. Outside, Main Street was quiet except for an occasional empty migrant bus.

The Greyhound Bus, like the train in Tristes, had never been on time. In the time we’d been waiting, Josh had read the Tristes Gazette cover to cover while devouring a stack of pancakes and three scrambled eggs. Now he was on his second order of bacon. Annie was still picking at what remained of the pancakes she’d drowned in strawberry syrup. I wasn’t one bit hungry. Big goodbyes stole my appetite. Still, I’d managed to swallow most of the toasted English muffin Jimmy’s mother had brought me.

My mother, who for years had lectured us on the importance of eating a healthy breakfast, was chain-smoking and drinking coffee. The yolk of the untouched sunny-side-up eggs on the plate next to her elbow had a congealed sheen. She looked at the Depot Café clock over the food pickup counter and asked Josh if he had everything.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve asked him that,” I said. I picked at the lacy edge of the paper placemat.

When Mrs. Emmons came over to refill coffee, my mother waved off the pot. There were half-moons under Mrs. Emmons’ eyes. Her faded print dress looked as tired as she did.

“I’m jittery as it is,” my mother said, rubbing the butt of a cigarette into the overflowing ashtray. “Charlotte, you’re working too hard.”

Mrs. Emmons smiled and said, “Rosie has a cough, kept us up all night.” She picked up Josh’s mopped-clean plates. “You were hungry.”

“The Marines don’t feed their recruits,” I said to her. “It’s a training technique.”

Josh let out an exasperated sigh and checked the new watch on his wrist, a parting gift from Sally Fratti.

“It’s all the excitement, makes you burn calories,” Mrs. Emmons said. She looked at my mother’s plate. “Alice, you should eat.”

“Mommy’s too sad,” Annie said, shoving the last forkful of pancake into her mouth.

“Wipe your face, Annie,” my mother said. She pulled a fresh napkin from the metal holder in the center of the table.

“Isn’t she the sweetest thing?” Mrs. Emmons said, looking at Annie, then turning to my mother. “I’d be the same way as you, mind you. Thank God Jimmy’s got Ingrid. She’ll keep him around after you kids graduate.” She winked at me. “One more year of school. I hope you don’t leave us too, Sheila.”

“I’m going to open a bar and restaurant,” I said. “Maybe in Salinas.”

“She’s kidding,” my mother said tiredly. “Aren’t you?”

“I might.” I shrugged. Who knew? I might fly to the moon too.

“I’d be devastated to lose my Jimmy,” Mrs. Emmons said, biting her lip. She steadied the stack of plates on her arm. “You stay in touch, you hear, Joshua? People leave Tristes and forget all about us. At least, don’t forget your mama.” She hurried away to deposit the heavy dishes in the kitchen.

My mother wiped a tear with the napkin from her lap. She wore no makeup this morning and had pulled her hair into a loose ponytail. The dull sadness in her brown eyes conveyed lack of sleep and Josh’s imminent departure.

“I refuse to cry,” she said.

“See how mean you are, leaving,” I said to Josh.

“He is not.” Annie stared at me. “He is thinking of his future.”

Josh’s mouth trembled. He was trying not to laugh at Annie pretending to be so grown-up.

“Straight from the horse’s mouth,” I said, rolling my eyes at my mother. “It’s amazing how well she mimics George.”

“That will be enough, Sheila,” my mother said. She poked a fork at the yolk of one of the untouched eggs and frowned at me.

“Sorry,” I said.

Annie pouted. I ignored her.

A few minutes later, the bus groaned into the station. Josh stood up, and my mother asked Mrs. Emmons for the check. Annie stuck her tongue out at me, and I returned the gesture. All was well again between us. I needed Annie on my side right now.

The sharp odor of exhaust filled the café. The bus rumbled at the curb where two other passengers who hadn’t come into the café were waiting. The engine snorted, then died.

The driver, a pasty-looking man with a potbelly, came in and asked Mrs. Emmons for a medium-size coffee, extra cream, two sugars. The buttons strained against his uniform shirt.

“Burt,” Mrs. Emmons said. “I think I know your order by now.”

“You keep track of all the drivers?” he kidded.

“Only the ones who come inside for coffee,” she said, winking at the driver and handing him change.

The four of us watched the driver make his selection at the cigarette machine near our table. It was as if this stranger about to deliver Josh to his new military life had an answer to a question none of us had yet. Josh picked up his suitcase.

“Guess it’s time,” he said.

“Hold on a minute,” my mother said.

She went over to the cigarette machine and tapped on the driver’s shoulder. He straightened, keeping his finger on the Lucky Strike button he had just pressed.

“You take good care of my son,” she said. “Get him to Imperial Beach in one piece.”

“Ma’am?” he asked.

“That boy, my son,” she said, pointing at Josh.

The driver retrieved the pack from the machine’s tray and tapped it against his thigh.

“You enlist?” he asked.

Josh nodded and set down the suitcase impatiently. He looked at Annie fiddling with the pink ribbon she’d tied on the handle. She untied the ribbon and then retied it, double bows this time. Josh patted her head.

“You’ve obviously raised your boy right,” the driver said to my mother. “My daddy was in World War Two. He was darn lucky.” An easy smile gave his face a bit of needed color. “Rest easy, ma’am. I take boys from all along my route down to Imperial Beach all the time, ‘specially during the war. Nine times out of ten, they’re bawling before I’ve pulled out of the station.”

“Mom, it’s time.” Josh nibbled on his thumbnail.

“I’ll look out for your boy, ma’am,” the driver said. He grabbed his coffee from the register counter and went out to the bus. The four of us followed.

Outside, the warm sugar scent from the Mexican bakery across the street mingled with the diesel exhaust. Sunlight poured between the bakery and the post office. Part of this familiar world was about to get on the bus along with my brother.

Jumping in place on the curb, Annie recited “The Cow Jumped Over the Moon,” her first nursery rhyme. I remembered Josh teaching it to her when she was learning to walk. Annie would bounce up and down to the beat, her pudgy thighs like layers of dough. My mother and I had found this little dance adorable. Now, the red ribbon tied to the tail of Annie’s braid danced back and forth as the rubber soles of her blue Keds kicked the curb. Her white bobby socks slumped.

I reached a hand to her, but she refused to let me take her hand. Josh knelt down to hug her, and she threw her arms around him. I felt a twinge of jealousy. Goodbyes seemed easier for Annie.

“Promise to send postcards,” she said. “Or else I’ll never talk to you again.” She hiccupped, then giggled.

“If you promise to take care of King.” Josh kissed the tip of her nose. He stood and grabbed me. “Take care of Mom,” he whispered.

He smelled different, a new smell that seemed both faraway and close. Like the coast or a freshly opened paperback book. Not his familiar, vaguely cinnamon smell.

“See you when you’re bald,” I said, my voice thick with uncried tears and my eyes darting to the bus.

Behind the smoky windows of the bus, passengers peered out or slept. Some of them had families, some did not. Wherever they were headed, they were lucky not to be me, stuck in Tristes without Josh. Without Daddy.

The driver tossed his coffee cup into an overflowing trash can. The cup rolled off the heap into the gutter. The white of the Styrofoam looked too clean against the oil-stained asphalt. I swallowed.

“Go,” I said. “The bus is leaving.”

“Don’t tell me,” Josh teased. “You’re going to cry after all.”

“Oh, shut up,” I said, taking a half-hearted swing at his arm.

“Be good.” He gave me another squeeze. “And stay away from the southerner.”

He wrapped his arms around my mother’s narrow waist and swung her around. She pounded him with her fists, demanding to be put down. Her sandal flew off her left foot. It bounced off the rear tire of the bus, and the four of us burst out laughing.

Josh kissed my mother on each cheek. The driver took his suitcase and slid it into the luggage compartment. The door to the compartment slammed. Josh’s face crinkled into a broad smile.

“Call when you get there,” my mother said. Two tears rolled down her left cheek. “Now go.”

Josh turned away and boarded the bus. When the bus pulled out, Annie ran out to wave at him from the sidewalk. The laces on one of her shoes had come untied. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her to retie it. And my mother hadn’t noticed.

“There he is,” Annie shrieked, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Bye, Joshie. Bye, bye, bye.” She kept saying “bye” until the bus turned onto Main.

I handed the sandal to my mother. She put it on and tightened the strap, balancing on one foot, holding onto my shoulder with her other hand. The bakery clerk flipped over the closed sign in the window. My mother’s fingers dug into my skin.

“I hope he sleeps,” she said, looking at the space where the bus had been parked. “Otherwise, he’ll be tired when he gets there.”

“Mom, please buy me a cinnamon twisty,” Annie cried.

She ran over to us and tugged on the hem of my mother’s wrinkled white blouse that had actually been one of Daddy’s dress shirts. I hadn’t seen it on her in months. Not since she’d thrown out half her wardrobe and replaced it with crisp, bright dresses, skirts, and blouses, soft sweaters with feminine necklines.

“Mom, please.” Annie gave my mother’s shirt another tug. “Can I?”

My mother looked at her blankly. A stray mutt skittered past the bus station, sniffing the sidewalk for food. My mother watched the dog turn the corner. She let out a deep sigh, her eyes dry now. She smiled at me as I bent down to tie Annie’s shoe.

An empty quiet infused Tristes. Sunday mornings, people slept in or went to church or were up early mowing their lawns to beat the heat. But the quiet now was like an ache I couldn’t quite locate. It was in the haggard slump of buildings. In the stark, lonely quality of the light.

* * *

Annie tucked the giraffe that had belonged to me under her arm and crawled under the quilt. The upper half of the giraffe was limp, the stuffing having settled in the lower half. I had always insisted on carrying it by the neck.

“I thought Giraffe was too ratty,” I said, pulling the quilt up over her bare shoulders.

“I like her now,” she said. She blinked her golden-brown lashes to keep from drifting off.

“You’re fickle, Annie Bananie,” I said.

“Fickle-pickle,” she said, yawning.

Her round face relaxed. She rubbed her eyes. I nuzzled her hair, smelled strawberry syrup. When she wasn’t acting like a know-it-all, she was a sweet kid. I pretended to gobble her up.

I loved being in her room. Before she was born, Daddy had used it as his library. After dinner, he’d drink his whiskey and read. When Annie came along, he had to give up the room and his habit of retreating. That’s when he started going to the Hero.

He’d complained he couldn’t read his books there, that everyone wanted to talk to him about things he didn’t give a damn about. He wanted to talk politics, literature, the perils of religion and big business. Occasionally, he’d try to engage Will Fratti in a conversation about Camus or some other philosopher. But Will’s reading had never graduated beyond Louis L’Amour, and his travels hadn’t taken him farther than Fresno, and L.A. a time or two. Daddy had been to Paris, New York, and Barcelona by the time he was twenty.

“Let’s play night noises,” Annie said.

“You remember how?” I asked, letting her snuggle against me.

“Course I do.” She yawned again.

Outside, the chimes tinkled. Annie sat up and cocked her head. In the night-noises game she would listen for a noise, and I would say where it had come from.

“Chimes,” she said.

“Chimes under the pomegranate tree,” I said.

It felt good to hold her close. It had been months since I’d tucked her in. Tonight, George had taken my mother to the movies to help keep her mind off Josh. So it was just us. Me missing Dad and Josh, and sweet Annie about to drift off after a long day.

“Marigolds,” she murmured, settling under her quilt again.

“Silly, marigolds don’t make sounds,” I said.

“They do so--when they open,” she said. Her eyes flew open. “Listen.”

I listened to the night, heard nothing.

“If you say so,” I said.

“Stars,” she said, yawning.

“You can’t hear stars,” I said. “I’ve listened hard many times, and they don’t make a peep.”

The spruce tree under the bedroom window rustled.

“Sparrow,” she said, sighing and closing her eyes.

“Sparrow in the hedge,” I said.

We listened, but the bird had fallen silent.

“Is Joshie there yet?” she asked.

“Not yet,” I said.

Then we heard it. The whistle blew, long and determined. The ground began to shake. The window trembled.

“Train,” Annie murmured.

“Train in the night,” I said. I held my breath. When it had passed I let out a deep sigh, and the windows were still. Annie slept.

I used to sulk over the loss of pomegranates we’d never had, and Daddy would make a special trip to the grocery store in Salinas that carried exotic fruit. I had sucked on the teardrop seeds on two occasions I can remember. The juice was neither pink nor red but certain to stain my dress.

A crescent moon blinked in the gap in the curtain. The chimes tinkled. But no sound came from the pomegranate tree, or the train, now long gone, past Greenfield, soon to pass through King City, then leave the valley entirely.

© 2008 Lee Doyle, All Rights Reserved

TOP