Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus (12 page)

“It’s been an arduous trip for Steve,” Laura had said. “So we’ll just say our good-byes.”

Harriet had the distinct impression that Laura would have liked to stay and hear the rest of her story.

“And now here I am,” Harriet said. “I hope to reach Maggie Valley tomorrow.”

Sterling clicked off his recorder. “This is great stuff,” he said. “I’m going to go straight home and write it up. I’m sure it will run in Wednesday’s
About Town
section.”

“About town?” Harriet said. “I’ll be long gone by Wednesday.”

“I’ll make sure you have our contact info,” Dana said. “And
when you get to Grass Valley, be in touch and I’ll send you the paper.”

“That will be spectacular,” Harriet said. She yawned. “What time is it?”

“A little past six,” Chaz said.

“Really?” Harriet said. “Well, I think I’ll go to my room and write to Max or read. I have a long road tomorrow.”

“Breakfast?” Dana said.

“I’m not sure of the time,” Harriet said. “I should get the local bus to, well, I’m not sure where. I need to work around bus times.”

“No trouble,” Chaz said. “I can check the local routes online for you and let you know in the morning.”

“That would be great. Amelia’s a big help. Couldn’t have done it without her.”

Sterling laughed. “That’s great. My readers are going to love this story. I wouldn’t doubt it if it goes viral.”

“Viral?” Harriet said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Chaz said. “Stories can spread like a virus sometimes thanks to the internet. One news agency picks it up and then another and before you know it … Harriet Beamer is a national sensation.”

Harriet had to sit back down. “Oh, for crying out loud, I don’t think I want to be a national sensation.”

“Don’t worry about it. You won’t have to do anything,” Sterling said. “But before we say goodnight, I would like a picture or two.”

Harriet stood. “Picture? But I look a fright. Maybe I could just slip into my dress again.”

“Actually,” Sterling said, “I think you look great in your jeans and red high-tops. In fact, maybe you could get your tote bag and suitcase and I’ll take the picture of you all ready to set out on the next leg of your … your —”

“Adventure,” Harriet said. “Okay. I’ll just get my bags.”

Harriet returned to her room. She snagged her bag, took a
quick peek at herself in the mirror, brushed her hair, and went back to the dining room.

“Just stand near the door, the front door,” Sterling said. “Maybe put one hand on the knob and hold the suitcase with the other.” Sterling stepped back and then said, “What’s that on your suitcase? A bumper sticker?”

Harriet let go a chuckle. “Yes. My friend Martha gave it to me. Imagine that, California or Bust. She’s a riot.”

“Well, turn it toward me so the camera can see it.”

Harriet stood with her shoulders back and her head high. She felt a wash of pride sweep through her as she smiled. Sterling snapped three pictures and then took a couple of Harriet with Dana, Chaz, and Melba.

“Please send me a copy of the picture when you send the article,” Harriet said. “One with Melba.”

“I will,” Dana said. “And I think if it’s okay with you, I might just have the article framed and hang it on the wall there. You’re going to be famous, Harriet Beamer.”

“Famous? Oh, I sincerely hope not. That wasn’t in my plans. I just wanted to collect salt and pepper shakers and see some of the country.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Dana said. “Chaz, go get Harriet —”

“What?” Harriet said.

“He has a set of shakers for you. They’re antique and … well he wants you to have them.”

“Oh my,” Harriet said. “That’s so precious of him. Thank you.”

“Want me to mail them for you, Harriet?”

“Yes, that would be perfect. Why, I believe I’m leaving my own little trail of bread crumbs … I mean, salt and pepper shakers.”

Chaz returned with a set of Porcelain shakers in the shape of boy and girl bakers. Pepper had a red chef’s hat with two holes in it and salt wore a white hat with two holes.

“These are lovely,” Harriet said. “I’d say circa 1958. Probably made in the United States.” She turned one over. “Yep, here’s the stamp.”

“That’s incredible,” Chaz said.

“You can tell a lot about a generation by the salt and pepper shakers they used. They tell society’s story.”

A
FTER ANOTHER LONG SOAK IN THE TUB TO EASE HER TIRED
muscles, Harriet slipped into her fuzzy pink nightgown, which she had rolled into a ball and shoved into the corner of her suitcase to force it to fit. She plugged in the charger, then retrieved her journal from the tote and sat down on the bed to write.

She closed her Moleskine and tucked it back into her tote. She let her fingers grasp the book for a second or two longer. How she missed her Max. That was when she decided to call Martha, even though she had just spoken to her a little while ago.

“Martha,” she said, “you will not believe it.” And then she proceeded to tell Martha all about the newspaperman.

“No kidding?” Martha said. “Wow. So you’re like a celebrity in the small town. Make sure they send you a copy of the article.”

“I will. It was so weird though, answering all those questions. He said the story could go viral. But I doubt it. I mean who cares about me and my adventure?”

“Probably no one,” Martha said. “Look, I’m just glad you’re still breathing and haven’t busted a leg climbing in and out of buses yet. Now that’s the real news.”

“You’re right about that,” Harriet said. “And it’s the strangest thing. I haven’t fallen down once. It’s like that last fall from grace straightened me out.”

“Don’t jinx yourself, Harriet.”

“Now, you know I don’t believe in that sort of mumbo jumbo. Anyhoo, tomorrow I’m planning on going to Maggie Valley. My Indian, excuse me, Native American friend, David Prancing Elk, told me it was one of the finest places to stargaze. I hope he’s right. I hope the Cherokee take kindly to a middle-aged woman traipsing across the country.”

Martha laughed. “Leave it to you, Harriet. You’ll be one of them before you’re through. An honorary member of the Cherokee Nation.”

“Do they do such things?”

“I don’t know. Just be careful, and thanks for the postcard. That station is gorgeous. Make sure you send me some from Maggie Valley.”

“Oh, I will. I hope they have some with stars on them.”

“Harriet,” Martha said. “I need to tell you something.”

“Oh dear, what is it?”

“I’m proud of you.”

Harriet swallowed. “Really? Why?”

“Why? Look at what you’re doing. Look at the people you’re meeting. Harriet, you might not want to admit this, but I do believe you’re starting to find God’s pleasure along with your salt and pepper shakers. Remember when we talked about that?”

“I think about it every day, and you know what, Martha? You’re right. Why six months ago I would have never spoken to the people I am — like Thomasina — she was a woman on the bus. Drug addict, I think, and a mommy on her way to see her child. I just wouldn’t have had the nerve.”

“Really? I’m so proud of you. But you’re right. A few months ago you would have been nice to her, smiled but …”

“I wonder if I would have encouraged her the way I did.” Harriet had to take a breath and swipe a tear that rolled down her cheek. “I wonder why it took me so long to … well, to be the person God wanted me to be. I kept myself cooped up in the house. I didn’t even know there was more to me than cookies and bingo.”

“The point is you’re doing it now.”

“I sure am, Martha. But I better catch some Z’s. Big travel day tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Harriet. I think I can sleep now also.”

“Goodnight, Martha. I love you.”

The next morning, Harriet sat down to breakfast at around 7:30 with Dana and Chaz. The innkeepers had peculiar smiles on their faces — this made Harriet a little nervous. Chaz was quick to tell Harriet what he had discovered about traveling to Maggie Valley.

“The trouble with local transportation,” he said, “is that once you travel out of the city limits, making a connection is almost impossible.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Harriet said. “I’ve had to take a train or two.”

“Well, here’s the thing,” Chaz said. “To reach Maggie Valley, you’d need to find your way through several small towns, most of which have no public transit other than buses for people with disabilities.”

“Oh dear,” Harriet said over the most scrumptious eggs Benedict
she’d ever eaten — actually it was the
first
eggs Benedict she’d ever eaten. “How will I get to Maggie Valley?”

“Wait until you hear,” Dana said. “Chaz has worked the whole thing out for you.”

“Now it’s your choice, Harriet, you can grab the Greyhound —”

Harriet shook her head. “No. I am determined to do this my way, but if I can’t get a local bus I guess I’ll need a taxi.”

“Not necessarily,” Chaz said, his eyes twinkling like stardust. “Here’s what you’re going to do — thanks to Sterling.”

“Sterling?”

“Yes, he stayed awhile after you went to bed last night, and we couldn’t help talking about your trip. We spent more than an hour online trying to get things figured out when Sterling got this brilliant idea.”

Dana refreshed everyone’s coffee. “Sterling can pull strings when strings need pulling.”

“And these strings weren’t even that hard to pull to enlist the aid of some A.T.”

By now, Harriet’s excitement level had heightened along with her heart rate. She attempted to surreptitiously take her pulse. “A.T.?” she said, trying to hide her concern.

“Yep,” Chaz said, “alternate transportation.”

Harriet pushed her plate away. Her stomach had gotten wobbly. Although the cherry pastry did look inviting. “Maybe just one pastry,” she said, looking at Dana.

“Of course.” Dana handed one over.

“Here’s what you need to do,” Chaz said. “You can take the local Greenway bus as far west as it will take you — I believe it’s the Ashfield Apartment complex. When you get there my friend, Milford —”

“Milford?” Harriet raised her brow.

“That’s right,” Dana said, “and don’t ever call him Millie. Most folks call him Ford.”

“Anyway,” Chaz said, “Ford will meet you at the stop. You’ll
know him because he’ll be driving what looks like a cop car. It’s not really a cop car — not anymore. Ford is retired, but he likes to drive the car. He’s a big bear of a man — used to play football.”

Harriet swallowed a bitter cherry and winced.

“Ford is going to drive you to the Foothills Regional Airport —”

“What are you talking about? Airport? I am not getting on an airplane and flying to Grass Valley.”

Dana grabbed Harriet’s hand. “No, no, not a plane. A helicopter.”

Harriet’s stomach roiled like a blender puréeing a banana. “No, I am not getting in or on or whatever a helicopter.”

“Just to Asheville,” Chaz said. “From there, you’ll be on your own to get to Maggie Valley.”

“A helicopter?” Harriet felt tears well in her eyes. “You sure it’s the only way?”

“No,” Chaz said, “but it’s the only way we could come up with.”

“How long is the ride? I mean, how long will I be up there with those egg beaters going
whop whop whop
?” She twirled her finger in the air.

“Not sure, but I don’t think very long. It’s not that far to Asheville. Come on, Harriet. You’re a brave woman.”

“Brave. Maybe. Stupid? Most definitely. I wonder what Henry will say.”

Harriet boarded the Greenway bus to the Ashfield Apartment complex. It was a nice modern bus, mostly white with lovely green trim. Very clean. In fact the cleanest bus Harriet had ridden since she boarded the first bus to West Chester, Pennsylvania.

She chose a window seat. She nestled back into the vinyl, which was very comfortable for the short ride. But she couldn’t help but feel just a wee bit nervous about the notion of taking a helicopter
ride. She thought about writing to Max about it, but that was when a middle-aged man wearing a three-piece suit plopped into the seat next to her. He did not appear happy. He rested his mahogany-colored briefcase on his lap. He drummed on it nervously. Harriet’s imagination often ran away from her. And so she wasn’t surprised when she had concocted an entire short story about the man in the gray suit carrying a bomb on board the bus.

Harriet stared at him, the briefcase, and at his fingers nervously
drum drum drumming
as the bus rolled along the busy city street. She tried to pry her eyes away and look out the window like any good passenger would. But no, she kept getting drawn back to his fingers, which were long and thin and unexpectedly well manicured. A detail she thought could be important should there be a blast and she needed to inform the police of her observations. She also noted the paisley tie he wore — green and yellow swirls. It was ugly.

Harriet pulled her phone from her pack. Now that Chaz had planned her route there was no need to bother Amelia about it. But it was handy in case she needed to call 911.

Bump.
The bus lurched and the man leaned into her for half a second. Harriet jumped a little. “Excuse me,” he said and went back to his drumming. That was when Harriet noticed his shoes. One brown, the other black. Either he was color blind or had gotten dressed in the dark — or worse, he checked himself out of the hospital and really was a mad bomber.

“Excuse me,” Harriet said. “But are you okay? You seem a bit nervous.”

The man glared at her as if to say, “Not your business.”

“Just asking,” Harriet said. “It pains me to see a fellow human being in distress, and that incessant finger drumming is an indication that you just might have something on your mind.”

The man stopped drumming and looked at his hands. “Sorry.”

“You can drum,” Harriet said. “If it helps.”

“Quit smoking,” he said. “I really want a cigarette. That’s why I ride the bus. Keeps me from smoking.”

“Good idea,” Harriet said. “Well, I will pray for you. I will pray that you can lick that nasty habit. What’s your name?”

He looked at her. Then looked past her out the window. “William.”

“Okay, William. I mean it. I will remember you in my prayers.”

The man stood at the next red light. “My stop. Thanks.”

A few minutes later the bus came to a stop in a residential neighborhood of ranch homes with wide, spacious yards. She stepped off the bus and looked around for Milford. When she didn’t see anything that resembled a cop car, Harriet’s knees began to shake. “Oh dear, Milford.” And for the first time since all this started Harriet was frightened.

“What if it was a joke?”

She looked around and saw cars parked in driveways and a woman hanging wash on the line. She looked okay. Next she saw a man tooling down the street on an old bike. She walked a few paces and saw the apartment complex. A couple red brick buildings with white pillars in the front. She saw window air conditioners and bushes, but no Milford in a cop car. That was when she realized she didn’t even know his last name. And then all of sudden she heard a siren come whooping and hollering down the street. She jumped.

But lo and behold the car, an old brown and white Crown Victoria, pulled up with lights and sirens blaring. The passenger door opened. “You Harriet?”

Harriet leaned down and looked into the car. A man her own age, wearing a red and green flannel shirt with hair so gray it was nearly white and large aviator-style glasses, looked back. He smiled and exposed a set of teeth more yellow than Harriet’s corn bread.

“Are … are you Milford?”

“Hot diggity,” he said. “The one and only. Climb aboard. You’re about to take the ride of your life.”