Waiting

REEDSY.COM  22MAY2020

Writing prompt #191

Write a story that ends with one character waiting for the arrival of another.

Waiting by clcronan 2020

“Hey, old timer, what’s with the lady at the bus stop?” Ben asked as he spun around to face the lunch counter. “She’s been on that bench every time I come here, and she’s still there when I leave.” “What’s your interest in her, mister?” the man replied.

The old man seemed to study his customer, as if writing up a police report in his head. For his part, the man having lunch thrust out his hand and said, “Name’s Ben.” After a beat, the older man reached out slowly and shook Ben’s hand. “ Bill,” he replied. “Well I sure don’t mean to harm her, that’s for sure. I just assumed there must be a story there and it might be far more interesting than talking about the weather.” In a silent response, the man behind the counter shook his head in a barely perceptible way and his eye brows rose and accented the furrows in his brow. He turned to look out at the bus stop. Darla. Everyday. That pitiful old woman just could not be distracted from her duty. That’s what she called it; her duty.

“If you feel like talking about that old woman, then Carl is the one you want to talk to, not me.”

He tipped his head toward the table at the rear of the diner. The man, presumably Carl, was quite a sight. Head hung low so his nose was just inches from the table top, hair, long, dirty, matted and a ball cap that looked like it had been kicked around, a lot. His clothes completed the ensemble so as to create such an exaggerated appearance that Ben couldn’t decide if the man was just homeless or maybe also mentally checked out, or worse. He noticed that Carl’s coffee cup was empty, so he figured that was his in.

“Say, Bill, can I borrow that pot there?” Bill understood Ben’s intent, so he handed over the full coffee pot and made a shrug as if to indicate, “This is all on you pal, leave me out of it.”

“Hey, buddy, could you use a refill here?” Ben asked in his friendliest voice, balanced between saccharine sweet, dry and disinterested, and warm and inviting. 

The rumpled man lifted his eyes slowly, then his head, but just enough to see who spoke. He looked down at his empty cup, over at the steaming pot in the strangers hand, and then back up at the Ben’s face. His expression never changed.

Ben began pouring the aromatic brew, “Mind if I join you?” he asked as he took a seat in the bench opposite the strange man. As he swung himself around to sit, he noticed the man’s left leg was jutting out into the aisle, but was at a strange angle. He also noticed the man wipe a bit of drool from his mouth where a very deep scar kept his mouth from closing completely. The man removed his grimy cap, swept his hair back from his face and tried to capture it under the cap as he jammed it back onto his head. Ben saw the scars that disfigured the man’s hands and arms. He wondered just how much of this man was scarred. The man still hadn’t made eye contact.

“I heard you.” the man said, his voice like gravel under truck tires. A bit bewildered, Ben replied, “I beg your pardon?” Still uncertain about the mental state of his companion, Ben did not know if the remark was directed at him or some imaginary presence. “I heard you asking about Darla.” Due to the scarring, it sounded more like, “Ahh her ya ackin bout Darra.”

Ben wished the proprietor had been a lot more generous in his willingness to chat casually about a person of interest but no real consequence. He also wished that he himself were less inclined to go fishing around for a good story. This man had the appearance of Quasimodo, or Igor, or even John Merrick, and a voice that said he didn’t want to talk. The man took a long slow pull from his coffee cup, rested the cup gently back on the old, yellowed, worn formica table that had probably been here since the turn of the century. He took a deep, slow, wheezy breath, rolled his eyes up to look at Ben. The eyes shifted and seemed to be looking at something that wasn’t in the room. Then he began to speak.

“She’s waiting. She’s been waiting. She’s been waiting for nearly 70 years. She’s there everyday from the time the first bus rolls by in the morning until the last one rolls by at night.” He slowly inhaled til his lungs were full, then just as slowly he exhaled that breath. He rolled his eyes up took look Ben in the eye, held there for just a moment, then as he dropped his eyes, his head and his rounded shoulder back toward the table, he gestured with a flick of his wrist, that Ben should go. He’d said enough, he’s worn himself out.

Ben went back to his seat at the counter. Bill pushed his lunch order across the counter top to him, gave him a half-grin and asked, “ketchup with that?” Ben shook his head, then finished his lunch without another question. The exhaust fan back in the kitchen hummed, the ceiling fan clicked, the traffic outside repeatedly ran over a loose manhole cover and made a loud clank. Ben stayed lost in his thoughts until Bill slid the check under his empty plate. He dropped a $20 on the counter and headed back to work.

Over the course of the next two months, every work day, Ben would walk in to the diner, small talk and order with Bill, and take a seat at Carl’s table in the back. The story Carl told in his graveled voice unfolded like this:

Darla had been 16 years old and a beauty, known to everyone in town for her grace and class and charm. She had dated a guy named Caine of whom no one approved. People said he was too rough, too crass, too old. He was three years older than Darla.

Then, like most guys of his generation, Cain was called off to war; drafted. The trauma and worry and loneliness changed her; she became silent, quiet, withdrawn.

There was some correspondence between Cain and Darla for three or four years. Every day Darla stood at the mailbox waiting for the next letter. Then the letters stopped. She scanned every newspaper trying to find out where his regiment was, what might’ve happened, whether Cain was dead or alive. None of that news was to be found.

She knew that most of the servicemen rode the bus home, right into the center of town, and were greeted at the bus stop by a small party of very enthusiastic people, glad to see their hometown boys back alive.

Darla started waiting at the bus stop every day dressed in her Sunday best. She sat quietly, not really making eye contact with anyone that passed by. The towns people grew to accept that Darla would be on the bench. Conversation wasn’t welcome and there was nothing anyone could say to dissuade her. So much time passed that Darla started to fade into the bench itself. No one took notice of her anymore. She was still dressed in her fine clothes, which, like Darla, had aged and faded in the sun. Her aging skin grew dry, wrinkled over tanned, but still she sat there. Day in day out, week in and week out, and the years went by without her even noticing.

All the people that she loved passed away over the years. She would dutifully tend to her obligations, but always she returned to that bench. She found her self alone after a while but didn’t seem to notice. She had to be on that bench, she had to be there for the bus that would bring Cain home to her. He never came.

Dickens could not have written of Miss Havisham any more pitifully. The clock stopped for both ladies. Havisham in her mansion and Darla on her bench.

Even after the story had been told, the three men continued their ritual at the diner. Time passed, and then a bit more, and then a bit more. Darla remained on her bench, the three gentlemen continued their vigil in the diner.

Then, one rainy morning, Darla was not on her bench. The three men stood in the window of the diner, staring at the empty bench, feeling sorry, because even though it was a wasted life, it was a life of dedication, it was a life of everlasting love, it was sweetness and sorrow, it was stability, it was part of their lives, and it was over.

The next time Ben returned to the diner, Carl was out on the bench and Bill was still behind the counter. Ben felt he needed to talk to Bill before he tried to talk to Carl, so he went into the diner sat at the counter, and looked at Bill inquiringly. Bill nodded slowly came around the counter and sat down. He brought a cup of coffee for the both of them. They turned toasted out the window to Carl. and to Darla. Then the Bill told Ben the rest of the story.

Carl had gone away to war, had been injured severely. He returned from the war missing a leg, 80% of his body scared by burns, his mouth never fully closing. He would tell the tragic story of Darla but never the story of himself.

Carl’s real name is Cain. He had returned from the war and gone up to Darla’s door to knock; to say, “I’ve missed you and loved you through it all.” But his shame over what he had become overpowered him. He turned and walked away. He stopped at the diner and saw her across the street. He sat in that diner every day afterward, staring at her, longing to hold her, but the shame would not leave him. He felt unworthy of such purity. The days went by, and the weeks went by, and the years went by, and they spent the rest of their lives together in that way. 

Now Darla was gone and Cain would sit at that bus stop, on that bench, in the spot so long occupied by Darla, and he would wait until he could be with her again.