The Magic Bus

The Magic Bus

Sally DeAngelis

The old man could whistle. Real whistling, real songs. Old timey tunes. Ah, her Dad would like that.

She couldn’t whistle until she was nearly 15. Before that, only on the inhale, which didn’t count. Now, her whistling was the breezy, tuneless type. She liked it just fine and whistled around the house until she heard her brother-in-law say to her sister, “Oh no, not that again.”

She and the old man were way out on Route 7, waiting for the bus to take them back into town. It was an in-between weather day, typical of March, a day it was very hard to know how to dress. She had on her snow boots (too hot ) and her thin, green rain jacket (too cold). She would have liked to remove the snow boots and turn the fleecy insides into a shrug for her shoulders. Her stomach was uncomfortably warm, covered by an extra 15 pounds.

According to the schedule taped on the plastic lean-to, the next bus would arrive in 17 minutes, a lifetime. Her stomach growled. She fished in her bag for something: a mint, a piece of gum.

The whistling stopped. “Would you care for an apple?” the man asked.

“Yes, thank you." He held out a perfect red Cortland, her favorite. 

“Welcome,” he said and went back to whistling.

She smelled it first. It smelled like an apple, all right. She bit in. The skin gave way into the sweet white meat, a bit sour at the corners. She chewed it slowly, realizing she had taken an apple from a stranger. It could be poisoned. Stop, she thought; it could be magic. Either way, it may have been the best apple she ever had. She took another small bite and put it down on her lap. She closed her eyes when the sun came out from behind the clouds. Stay there, she thought. Please don’t move. She sighed deeply and felt a release in her right shoulder. 

Whistling. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes. She smiled. Her ex sang it like this, “Smoke gets in your eyes; cheese gets in your pies.” He sang this when he made his lasagna as they drank wine and laughed. Later, in bed, one could whisper “cheese” or “pie,” and the laughing started again. It could be the middle of the night, laughing. Those were the days, my friends. And the nights.

Then, her heart raced right there on Route 7. Just took off. Thump, thump, da thumpa thump thump, then a lull, then thumpa da thump thump thump. 

“How often does this happen? Seldom, sometimes, frequently?” The doctor, the emergency room nurse, the therapists asked. 

“Sometimes it happens frequently; sometimes seldom,” she answered. 

“How long has this been going on?” They wanted to know.

Not sure; maybe when my heart broke, she didn’t answer.

Poor thing, an injured bird, wings flapping. Flap, flappa, flap. Not getting anywhere. Flappa, flap. Nope. Flap. This bird cannot fly. Please place it in a softly padded shoebox and give it some water and bits of bread. Put the cover on, and make sure there are plenty of holes in it. Many, many holes, —poor little thing. One hand went to her heart and rubbed gently. 

The sun went behind a cloud, and she opened her eyes, looked down the road, and then at the old man. He was staring straight ahead at the forest across the street, still whistling. 

Something new. It took her a bit, and then she got it. I’m Always Chasing Rainbows. These were the songs she grew up hearing. She nearly missed the songs of her youth, but in junior high, she turned herself over to the greatest hits, the long-haired bands, the weirdos, as her Dad called them. Her parents were older than most kids her age, and they called everyone weirdos or hippies or punks. She tried on a little of each, but she always returned to the songs of the 30s, 40s, and 50s. Their songs.

Why hadn’t she put on some records when she was with her parents? They still had their stereo system, state-of-the-art at one time. Put the needle on the record. That would have probably helped get through the two hours. It was their first visit together in quite a while at the prodding of her sister.

"Why should I visit them?" she asked at first, like a sullen teenager. Her parent had stopped asking for her and about her, as far as she could tell. 

"Because they are old," her sister said. "Get your ass out there." But she didn’t until her sister finally said, "Go, or you have to move out."

How had it come to this? Beholden to her sister for a place to live, no car, barely working, 49. She felt ancient. She knew how it had happened.

Her Dad had been stone-faced most of the visit. Her Mom cried in the kitchen when they were making coffee. “I just don’t know,” Mom said, “I don’t understand. Nothing like this has happened in our family before."

She didn’t cry; she hadn’t cried all day, a minor miracle. A small, shocking miracle as her tears had been a constant companion these last years - and now, watching her mother’s eyes fill up — nothing.

She had cried everywhere and with everyone: on airplanes, in stores, at the dentist, at her desk, in meetings, at parties, with friends, acquaintances, family, at the donut shop. What shocked her then was that she didn’t disappear, and those places and people didn’t disappear. Nothing changed. Sure, friends and family usually comforted her, and some strangers. But most of the time, as it went on, no one did or said anything. Had she ever seen someone cry in public before the way she did? She didn't recall. If she did, now she knew what she would do. She would slowly make her way near that person and stand or sit by them. You’re not alone, she would say, I see you. I hear you. I get it.

The last time she had been with her parents was the summer before at a family cookout. Her Dad was getting ready to grill, and she and her sister were setting out paper plates and napkins, ketchup, and mustard. 

"Mary will be here," her mother said. Her cousin, Mary, was recently engaged and sported a blinding diamond ring. Her mother informed her how the fiancé saved for a year to buy it. "It cost two months' salary," she said proudly. 

"People still do that?" She was incredulous. 

"Well, yes, of course," her mother said, incredulous herself. “Some people still do that.”

That caused her to crack and cry as she unscrewed the relish jar. It wasn’t about a goddamn ring, really, it was about being far, far away from everyone. Alone, broken.

"Do you know how hard you make it for everyone?" her mother asked. 

And that was it; she ran off, crying, which was not that easy. She still had her car then, the piece of shit, and she managed to get her keys and bag from the kitchen and drive off. She didn’t drive far, she couldn’t, because she couldn’t see straight. She pulled over, and her crying stopped, but her legs and arms felt like they weighed 100 pounds each. 

She wished she would sink into the car and fall through the bottom and into the ground and down, down, down. She may finally be able to rest, to sleep down there. Her head would turn off, and she could hibernate.

Her head thought, though, and it thought this: your relatives will drive by on their way to the cookout, and they will see you. And someone will stop. And someone else will call her parents. And the person who stopped will come over and ask what's wrong, and you won’t be able to answer. They will ask you to open the door, open the door, open the door. Maggie! Open the door! And you won’t be able to. 

And then what? Would they call the fire department? She laughed at this out loud, so loud she startled herself. She laughed and laughed and laughed. She couldn’t stop. She could not. It was terrifying. It went on and on until, amid a ha-ha-ha, with no warning, no transition, she was crying, tears running down her face. That broke her limb paralysis. She was able to move her arms and legs and her hands and her feet, and she put the car in drive and steered back onto the road. She drove slowly, but surely, into town and onto the highway, slowly, slowly. She got off four exits away for no reason and kept going until she found a motel. Somehow, she managed to put together the words and actions needed to check in and walk to the room and put her key in the door. She stayed for three days.

Where was that bus? Had any cars even come by? Maybe not; maybe everything had stopped except the whistling man. Then he stopped. “It’ll be by in a few,” he said. 

“Okay,” she said, “thanks.”

“Welcome.” 

“I like, I like the songs you are whistling,” she said.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. He started whistling again. It was on the edge of familiar and then skidded away. Oh well. She took another bite of the apple. Make it last. It was so very good.

“Are you—,” she said, “Oh, excuse me.” 

He stopped, “No excuses needed.”

“Okay,” she said, “Are you from around here?” Not really what she wanted to ask. She wanted to ask if he was a professional whistler, but that seemed too weird. 

“Yes,” he said, “my whole life here in this town. How about yourself?”

“Kind of,” she said, “I was here until I was about 9, and then we moved away for a few years. We came back. My parents still live here. I was visiting them.”

“Nice,” he said. “Good day for a visit.”

“Yes,” she said. What if he asked who her parents were? Then he would know; he would know about her. About her colossal breakdown, the police, the hospital, and then, since she hadn't apparently learned any lessons: her weird thing with Dr. Stuckley, the town’s eye doctor. He had to close his practice and leave town. A wave of heat came over her, and she stood up, remembering the apple just in time, and clutched it. She looked down the road. She wondered if she should start walking. It was 12 miles to town. It would be good to walk. Come on, she said to herself, start walking. Instead, her legs sat her down.

“The name is Sam, Sam Fuerbringer,” he said. She turned her head. He was looking her in the eyes, and he nodded his head. “How do you do?”

Maggie,” she said and left off her last name. “It’s nice to meet you.” She held out her hand, and they shook, an actual handshake, firm grip, two or three pumps. 

“You know how the handshake came about?” He asked.

“I do not.”

“Well, in medieval times, the world was an unsavory place," he said. "People often concealed weapons in their hands. The handshake was a way of showing and knowing that neither you nor the other party you were greeting was carrying anything intended to harm.” 

“That is interesting," was all she could think of to say. 

“Interesting enough for a bus stop,” he said. “Here she comes.”

Indeed, the bus was right in front of them: poof! She opened her bag. Hadn’t she put the dollar right inside, waiting? No. She checked her pockets. Where?

“Allow me,” Sam said. “It’s a pleasure to treat you to a lovely ride on our municipal transportation.”

“Oh, no, I have it, somewhere,” she fumbled more. She felt hot again, aware of the bus driver, waiting. “I’m sorry, just a moment.”

“Maggie,” Sam said. “Have a seat; I got this.” His voice pushed her gently, and she slowly walked down the aisle.

“Afternoon, Sam,” the driver said.

“Good afternoon to you, Bill,” Sam said and dropped quarters into the dispenser. “How is Jeannie feeling?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“Give her my best.”

“You bet,” the driver said, pulling the door closed. “Any preference today?”

“Oh, surprise me,” Sam said.

The sound of a piano came into the air, from every direction. Then, an alto sax. She gasped and stopped in her tracks.

“Maggie, you all right there?” Sam asked, by her side, lightly holding her elbow.

“Yes,” she whispered. “You Go To My Head.”

“Indeed,” Sam said. He guided her about halfway down to the middle seat of three against a window. He sat next to her. That seemed right. Neither spoke for the four minutes 14 seconds as the song wound around them.  

At the end, Sam said softly, “Yes, it is a song worth some tears.”

Yes, she was crying. It was easy crying, no ugly face, no sounds, just delicious salty tears running down her face. How long had it been since she heard this song? 

“We have ourselves an Art Pepper fan here, Bill,” Sam said. He patted her elbow. She wanted to reach back and put her hand over his. 

“Great news,” Bill said, and that was all he played. One after the other. Imagination, Patricia.

The bus had the best sound system she had ever heard, certainly on a bus, maybe ever. She closed her eyes. Surely, she would open them, and they would be in a dark club, seated at a small round table, stumpy glasses of whiskey with big ice cubes. Art would be there, back from where he was now. A dream. She felt dreamy. Was she dreaming?

The bus did not stop to pick up anyone. It was the three of them, riding along in her dream. She didn’t want it to end. For the first time in a long while, she did not feel the need to change her position, to squirm, to stand up and sit down. She was restful. Not tired. Not weary. Full of rest

The bus slowed down, even slower than its slow, easy pace. She opened her eyes. They were at the big fork in the road. They would be downtown too soon. “All good times must come to an end,” she heard her mother say in her head. A truly lousy and true statement. It was commonplace on Sunday nights when she began to fret about school the next day. She tried not to show her mother this anxiety because she did not want to hear the words. It felt like a heavy curtain coming down fast.

Soon, she would have to get off the bus and wait in the station for a train to take her downtown to her sister’s. The thought of sitting there alone, without the music, without Sam, panged her.

“Okay, there, Maggie,” he said. “Easy does it.”

Of course, she thought, what could be simpler? Three words. Easy. Does. It. She smiled, she smiled at Sam. He smiled back. He was missing a tooth, one on the side. His hair was a bit long, a bit curly, silvery gray. His hazel eyes. The hazel-est eyes she had ever seen. 

“Easy does it,” she said and nodded. She wanted, with all her might, all her lip might, to kiss him, then rest her head on his shoulders. It would be a divine kiss, an angel kiss, innocent, pure, renewing.

The bus stopped. “Sorry, folks,” Bill said. “Here we are.”

“Thank you, Bill,” Sam said. They rose together; he guided her down the aisle and the stairs.

“Thank you, Bill!” Maggie said. “That was the best ride ever. Thank you!”

“You bet,” Bill said. “Come back anytime. You keep going. You keep on.”

As it happened, the train was there in the station. Sam walked her to the train; his stride matched hers. “Maggie, what a delight,” he said. 

“Sam, thank you,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough. I can’t even explain it.”

“None needed,” he said. 

“I’ll see you next time,” she said, "right?".” She put her hands on his shoulders. “I see you, Sam.”

“Maggie. I see you,” he said. He patted her hands.

“I’ll see you in my dreams,” she said.

He bowed.

She got in the train, hurrying to get a seat so she could watch him as they left. Corny and she didn’t care. She might even wave. The train started. Halfway down, she sat and looked out the smudgy, dull window. He was gone. She sat down and bit into the apple.