The Wayward Bus (25 page)

“It's a funny trip,” Mildred said. “We're on our way to Mexico. Everything's gone wrong from the start. My father wanted to see the country. He thinks we might settle in California some time. So he wanted to take the bus to Los Angeles. He thought he could see the country better.”

“Well, he can,” said Camille.

“He can see too much of it maybe,” Mildred said. “But did you ever see such a collection of people as we've got?”

“They're all about the same,” said Camille.

“I like Mr. Chicoy,” said Mildred. “He's part Mexican, you know. But that boy! I've got a feeling he'd climb all over you if you weren't careful.”

“Oh, he's all right,” Camille said. “He's just a little goaty. Most kids are like that. He'll probably get over it.”

“Or maybe he won't,” said Mildred. “Did you take a good look at that old fellow, Van Brunt? He didn't get over it. It just ingrew. That's a pretty filthy man in his mind.”

Camille smiled. “He's pretty old,” she said.

Mildred went into the little cubicle and sat down. “There's something I wanted to ask you,” she said. “My father thinks he's seen you somewhere. He's got a pretty good memory. Did you ever see him?”

For a second Mildred saw the hostility in Camille's eyes, saw the tightened mouth, and she knew she'd touched something sore. And instantly Camille's face was placid again.

“I think I must look like somebody else,” she said. “This time he's made a mistake unless he saw me in the street somewhere.”

“On the level?” Mildred asked. “I'm not trying to catch you now. I just wondered.”

The friendliness, the companionship, the relaxation, slipped from the room. It was as though a man had entered. Camille's eyes stabbed at Mildred. “He made a mistake,” she said coldly. “You can take that any way you want.”

The door opened and Mrs. Pritchard came in. “Oh, there you are,” she said to Mildred. “I thought you'd wandered off.”

“Oh, I broke a strap on my slip,” said Mildred.

“Well, hurry up. Mr. Chicoy's back and there's quite an argument going on—Thank you, dear,” she said to Norma, who had moved away from the basin to make room for her. “I'll just moisten my handkerchief and take a little of the dust off—Why don't you have a lemonade?” she said to Mildred. “That nice woman doesn't mind making them at all. I told her she'd be quite famous if she just served pure fruit juices.”

Suddenly Camille said, “I wish we could get something to eat. I'm getting hungry. I'd like something good.”

“So would I,” said Mrs. Pritchard.

“I'd like a cold cracked crab with mayonnaise and a bottle of beer,” Camille said.

“Well, I've never had crab that way,” said Mrs. Pritchard, “but I wish you could have tasted the way my mother fried butterfish. She used to take an old-fashioned cast-iron skillet—and the fish, it had to be very fresh and very carefully trimmed. She'd make a batter with brown toasted crumbs—bread crumbs, not cracker crumbs—and she'd put a whole tablespoon—no, two tablespoonfuls—of Worcestershire sauce in a beaten egg. I think that was the secret.”

“Mother,” said Mildred, “don't start on the butterfish recipe.”

“You'd better have a lemonade,” said Mrs. Pritchard. “It'd clean up your skin. A good long trip makes a person blotchy.”

“I wish we'd get moving,” Mildred said. “We can get lunch in the next town. What's its name?”

“San Juan de la Cruz,” said Norma.

“San Juan de la Cruz,” Mrs. Pritchard repeated softly. “I think the Spanish names are so pretty.”

Norma took a long, astonished look at herself in the mirror before they went out. She drooped her eyes. It was going to take practice to remember to do that all the time, but it changed her whole appearance and she liked it.

CHAPTER 13

Juan sat on a stool drinking a Pepsi-Cola and rubbing the shiny end of his amputated finger over the corduroy ridges of his trousers. When the women came around from the back and entered the store he looked up at them and the rubbing of his finger became a tapping.

“Is everybody here?” he asked. “No, there's one missing. Where's Mr. Van Brunt?”

“I'm over here.” He spoke from behind the counter on the grocery side, where, concealed by a stacked wall of canned coffee, he was inspecting the shelves idly.

Mr. Pritchard said, “I want to know when we can get started. I have connections to make.”

“I know,” Juan said gently, “and that's what I want to talk about. The bridge is not safe. I can probably get across it. But there's another bridge and it may be out, or it may go out. We can't get any news about it. If we get into the bend of the river with both bridges out, we'd be caught, and nobody could make any connections. Now, I'm willing to take a vote and do anything the majority of the passengers want to do. I'll make a run for it and take a chance, or I'll take you back and you can make other plans. It's up to you. But when you make up your minds I want you to stick to the verdict.”

He raised the bottle and drank the Pepsi-Cola.

“I haven't the time,” Mr. Pritchard said loudly. “Look, my friend. I've had no vacation since the war started. I've been making the implements of war that gave us the victory, and this is my first vacation. I just haven't the time to go gallivanting all over the country. I need a rest. I only have a few weeks and this is eating them up.”

Juan said, “I'm sorry. I'm not doing it on purpose, you know, and if you got caught in the bend of the river you might lose a lot more time and I might lose the bus getting it across. The bridge is strained to the breaking point. It may come down any minute. The only other choice is to go back.”

Van Brunt came from behind the stack of coffee. He had a two-and-a-half pound can of sliced peaches in his hand. He crossed the store to Mrs. Breed. “How much?” he asked.

“Forty-seven cents.”

“My God! For a can of peaches?”

“The profit hasn't changed,” she said. “We've just got to pay more for them.”

Van Brunt threw a half-dollar violently down on the counter. “Open 'em up,” he said. “Forty-seven cents for a mean little can of peaches!”

Mrs. Breed put the can in a wall opener, turned the crank, and stopped just as the edge raised. She passed the can over the counter to Van Brunt. He drank off part of the juice first, then reached in and picked out a yellow slice with his fingers. He held it over the open can to drip.

“Now I heard what you said,” he observed. “You think you can waste our time. I've got to get in to the courthouse and I've got to get in this afternoon. And it's up to you to get me through. You're a common carrier, subject to the rules of the railroad commission.”

“That's what I'm trying to do,” said Juan. “And one of the rules of the commission is don't kill the passengers.”

“It comes of not knowing the country,” Van Brunt went on. “There ought to be a strict law that you've got to know the country before you can drive a bus.” He waved a slice of peach and flipped it into his mouth and picked up another slice between his thumb and forefinger. He was enjoying himself.

“You said there was only two things to do. Well, there's three. You don't know about the old road that was there before they put in those damn-fool bridges. It goes right around the outside of the bend. The stagecoaches used to use it.”

Juan looked questioningly at Mr. Breed. “I heard about it, but what condition is it in?”

“Stages used it for over a hundred years,” said Van Brunt.

Mr. Breed said, “I know it's all right for a couple of miles, but I don't know it beyond that. It goes up the side of the mountain to the east, there. It might be washed out. I haven't been over it since way before the rains.”

“You've got your choice,” Van Brunt said. He waved his piece of peach, flung it into his mouth, and talked around it. “I told you it was going to rain. I told you the river would be up, and now, when you're stuck, I tell you how to get out of it. Do I have to drive your god-damned bus too?”

Juan bawled, “Keep your pants on and watch your language. There's ladies here.”

Van Brunt tilted the can and drank the rest of the juice, straining the peaches out with his teeth. The thick juice ran down his chin and he wiped it off with his sleeve. “God, what a trip!” he said. “Right from the beginning.”

Juan turned and faced the other passengers. “Well, there it is. My franchise says I'm supposed to go on the highway. I don't know the old road. I don't know if I could get through or not. It's up to you to decide what you want to do. If we get hung up I don't want to be to blame.”

Mr. Pritchard said, “I like to see things get done. Now, I've got to get to Los Angeles, man. I've got airplane tickets for Mexico City. Do you know what they cost? And the planes are booked solid. We've got to get through. Let's get some action on this. You think the bridge is dangerous?”

“I know it's dangerous,” said Juan.

“Well,” said Mr. Pritchard, “you say you don't know whether you can get through on the old road?”

“That's right,” said Juan.

“So you've got two gambles and one sure thing. And the sure thing don't get you through either. Hmmmm,” said Mr. Pritchard.

“What do you think, dear?” Mrs. Pritchard said. “We've got to do something. I haven't had a good bath for three days. Dear, we've got to do something.”

Mildred said, “Let's try the old road. It might be interesting.” She glanced at Juan to see how he would take this attitude, but already his eyes had moved from her to Camille.

Something about the recent association made Camille say, “I vote for the old road. I'm so tired and dirty now, nothing would make much difference to me.”

Juan looked down and his eyes sharpened when he saw Norma's face. She didn't look like the same girl. And Norma knew he had noticed. “I say the old road,” she said breathlessly.

Ernest Horton found a chair, the one Mrs. Breed ordinarily used when her legs swelled up in the afternoons. He had been watching the counting of noses.

“I don't much care,” he said. “Of course, I'd like to get to L.A., but it don't make much difference. I'll stick with the others, whatever they say.”

Van Brunt put the can down loudly on the counter. “It's going to rain,” he said. “That back road can get awful slippery. You might not make it up over the hill, to the eastward. It's steep and slick. If you mired down there I don't know how you'd ever get out.”

“But you're the one that suggested it,” Mildred said.

“I'm just getting all the objections down,” Van Brunt said. “Just getting them in order.”

“How would you vote?” Juan asked.

“Oh, I won't vote. That's the silliest thing I ever heard of. Seems to me the driver ought to make the decisions, like a captain of a ship.”

Pimples went to the candy counter. He laid down a dime and picked up two Baby Ruths. He put one in his side pocket to give to Camille when he could get her alone, and the other he unwrapped slowly. A wild, exciting thought had just popped into his mind. Suppose they went over the bridge and right in the middle the span broke and the bus fell into the river? Pimples would be thrown clear, but the blonde would be trapped in the bus. And Pimples dived and dived and he was nearly dead, but at last he broke a window and pulled Camille out and he swam ashore and laid her, unconscious, on the green grass and he rubbed her legs to get the circulation started. But better, he turned her over and he put his hands under her breasts and gave her artificial respiration.

But suppose they took the old road and the bus mired down? Then they'd be there all night, with maybe a fire going, and they'd be together and sit together in front of the fire with a light on their faces and maybe a blanket thrown over the two of them.

Pimples said, “I think we'd better try the old road.” Juan looked at him and grinned.

“You've got real Kit Carson blood in you, haven't you, Kit?” And Pimples knew it was a joke, but it wasn't a mean joke.

“Well, I guess that's everybody but one, and he won't vote. What's the matter? Do you want to be able to sue?”

Van Brunt swung around to the others. “You're all being crazy,” he said. “Know what he's doing? He's pulling out from under. If anything should happen he won't get the blame because he could say he only did what you told him to. No, he's not going to trap me that way.”

Mr. Pritchard cleaned his glasses on his white linen handkerchief. “It's an idea,” he said. “I hadn't thought of it quite that way. We're really giving up our rights.”

Juan's eyes glowed with rage. His mouth grew thin and tight. “Get in the bus,” he said. “I'm taking you back to San Ysidro and dumping you. I'm trying to get you through and you act as though I were trying to murder you. Come on, get in the bus. I'm sick of it. Since last night I've had my life turned upside down for your comfort and I'm tired of it. So come on. We're going back.”

Mr. Pritchard walked over to him. “No, I didn't mean that,” he said. “I appreciate what you've done. We all do. I was just trying to think clearly on all sides of the subject. That's what I do in business. Don't do anything until you've thought it through.”

“I'm sick of it,” Juan said again. “You had my bed last night. I just want to get rid of you.”

Van Brunt said, “Don't forget, it was your bus that broke down. It wasn't our fault.”