The No.7 Bus

Her gasp, her sigh, wrung in my chest. There she was, facing away, pleading, “Let’s go back… Let’s go somewhere else.” And here I was, thinking, I can’t go back. But saying, “I have to… Really! I have to.”

Hanging her head outside the car window, she flinched in the waft; a gentle murmur into and out of the vehicle under her sobs and sniffles. She wiggled in her seat, her dress sliding higher above her thighs, but silently, I looked away.

The quietness, awkward between us.

Deep inside my head, a keyboard and saxophone accompaniment rendered a hazy melody. The sweeping melancholic strains could easily have found their way there during an inebriated moment when I was in a forgetting mood.

My car stood as I’d left it a few hours ago, the defects of modernity revealing themselves all at once. Inexplicably, my Rolex watch stopped operating, followed by my cell phone unable to receive signals, and then this rental refused to move.

I’d slotted the key into the ignition, but my mind delayed turning the key. Silly me, hoping the engine wouldn’t turn over, since the thumping in my ears muddled my thoughts. My fingers wound around the wheel, pulsing veins bulged, the trembles persisting. 

An arm away, a touch away, but we weren’t even in a conversation.

She was a waitress I'd met earlier. Order pad and pencil in her hand, beside my table. She glowed under a skylight; conveniently placed there, or she had calculated where to stand. Or my eyes could have developed a special shine. She had an old-fashioned way about her. In an apron and a ponytail, blowing at the twirl dangling over her face with a girlish naivety; it would’ve been simpler just to tuck it in her hair.

“Hi, mister. What’ll it be?” she said in a country lilt.

Chewing gum rolled from side to side in her mouth, her lips hardly moving, unlike the whirlpool mouths and crimped lips seen in adolescents. But she exuded an endearing cuteness and innocence, swaying while speaking. A giggle at the end of her smile.

At that moment, the noon sun passed through chinks in the blinds, shimmering on her face. Her head leaned sideways, showing a dimpled cheek as her lips locked together; and her eyebrows lifted, widening her teasing eyes.

I didn’t know her. But it was easy developing a fondness for her.

And then the unbelievable happened.

She bent to pour my coffee. “You passin’ through?”

I should’ve said I was. My roving eyes sweeping past her name badge and neck, settled on her eyes agaze at my mug. “Jesse”— the badge said. “Dana…” I said. She drew away from my table. I wished too late I hadn’t said that, but she had already drawn away. “I’m from a town called Dana,” I continued.

She spun around. Though her eyes flashed the look of a deer being hunted, I resisted standing down. I grabbed her as she dashed to the door. But her swift capitulation surprised me, her arms softening in my grip. Her shoulders drooped, sinking her dangling hands lower at her sides.

"Don't make a scene. I'll come with you," she said over her shoulder. Her look dropped to the floor as if to catch the words that stumbled out of her mouth.

“Why…?”

“He’s my father.”

The old man had summoned me weeks earlier.

During the night, over a crackling line, I was instructed to be ready. Many thoughts whirled in my head, none stilling long enough that I could grasp. Moments later, the doorbell had rung, and a burly man filled the doorway. Clasping my arm as soon as I approached, he dragged me to an awaiting vehicle.

The automobile, nimble on the asphalt, erratic on the gravel, sped to an unknown address. Soon, out of the darkness, a building's expansive shape emerged, its sides extending into the fade of black. From afar the unlit edifice exhibited no sign of life, yet a thousand eyes glared from within its walls, burning my skin.

The old man lived there.

He had a fearsome reputation, though no one had seen him. Tales abounded, of missing people, and murder and carnage. No one had seen that too. Yet accounts existed of his boundless wealth touching every part of the town. And most folk too.

The house’s winding hallways led me into a large room, where I waited for a while. Circulating whispers in the room unsettled me. A single door, no windows, no one present in there, I could’ve been imagining those sounds. And dimness always threw up sounds, and visions. I contemplated fleeing, but the consequences I imagined rooted my feet to the floor. 

“Step into the light, son, that I may see you.” A voice cracked ahead. A fire’s dim glow suffused the room like a golden mist, ending at a pair of outstretched feet.

I crept forward, hoping for a glimpse of the enigmatic figure behind a curtain of secrecy. The big reveal I expected didn’t materialize. All I had was what I was told: the man was old. He sounded as much.

“Yes, it is him… and he stands bold and sturdy… Do you accept?” His voice, a breathy wheeze, rattled the sparse room. A table and chairs next to a wall jumped up and thumped on the hardwood floor. 

“Who are you…? Accept what?” I asked.

“Oh! Forgive me… I have a proposition for you… to help your cause.”

I'd assumed the room was vacant, but behind me, shoes shuffled across the floor, as heels twisted and slid. A sheet of paper landed in my hand, from which I read as the old man spoke. 

I’d become obligated to him, he explained.

And liable for my parent’s debts. It was the first I’d heard of that. Not that they’d tell me of such matters, even if I’d asked. And asking would be a problem since I hadn’t spoken to them in years. My fault, not theirs.

I never asked where it all came from back then; the money they gave me. I was never in a listening mood anyway. Except, it wasn’t a mood, more a lifestyle. A dark stasis where so much happened, yet nothing significant.   

The old man proposed ridding myself of this debt burden if I brought back a woman who owed him. And after he finished talking, I asked, "You promise everything will be taken care of if I do this?"

“Yes, yes. Now be on your way.”

I felt uneasy, so I asked again. “Are you sure—”

“Dammit”—the old man peeped through the darkness—“What did I say?” He kicked back his chair and stood up in the pale light.

He was unlike everything I’d expected; all that I’d heard mere rumours and exaggerations. In their sockets like caves, his eyes two white orbs glimmering in the firelight. Small and stooped over, still, the evil aura clinging to him, made me fear him. In his slight build, his short legs would take forever to cover the distance between us. Looking around I noticed neither places to conceal myself nor weapons I could employ.

As he hobbled to the fireplace, my imagination stirred. A shadow on the wall, a long, slender figure straggling, about to consume him. And suddenly, the mantle of eeriness hanging over him seemed very real. A chill invaded the room, and the far-off howls of wolves drew ever closer. Just in case these weren’t my mental inventions, my instinct kicked in and I stepped back a pace, closer to the door.

However, my impression of him soon changed.

The more I studied the man the more pathetic he seemed. He had ordered me to his home. But then, my actions had led to this situation. I felt putrid that I could take advantage of his condition, although ignorant of it. And disgusted at this woman that she could take advantage of him.

As I neared the door to leave, I realized I had overlooked the most important question. “How will I know her?”   

“Oh! You will know her… just bring her to me,” he said.

The door creaked shut behind me, sealing inside, the old man and his misery.

I wondered when, and how, I should broach the subject of the old man. Earlier in the vehicle, she had protested about leaving, preferring to hang out the window.

Her posture, the same as when she got in. Her bright disposition from earlier in the day had; however, turned to gloomy, mirroring the grey clouds hanging low onto the asphalt. Me and nature engaged in a wicked plot to remove the light from her life.

It was one of those times when hours had gone by in a second, where I sat without saying a thing or thinking anything. Her seat squeaked as she turned around, the hush disturbed. She flicked her nose, brushing at it with her sleeves; and coughed. She fidgeted while staring at the floor. An urge kindled in me, to stroke the wandering wisps of hair from the side of her face, but I remained resolute.

A haze fell over me, a sort of déjà vu. I was here before… years ago… That girl in the No.7 bus…

I’d jump outside the bus window hoping to see her and look directly into the old lady's flaring eyes.

The No.7 bus in the morning would be full by the time I boarded. I’d look down the moment I entered. Handing the driver my pass, I’d shoot a look out of the corner of my eye to her seat. But she was too far to be seen. Once, lowering my head, I peeked, but she faced down, and I spotted the top of her head. Later, I thought how conspicuous I must’ve looked trying to conceal my actions.

The seat behind her would always be empty. It happened that way—no prior planning. And she’d still be in the bus after I’d alighted in the afternoons. 

The bus would wobble, and I’d jerk forward into her drifting perfume. And fall back into my seat as soon as I’d familiarised myself with her fragrance.

Sometimes she’d turn into the window. I’d look at that spot in the glass for a glimpse of her. I’d smile. Then I’d stop smiling. As the bus turned sharply, the seat next to me would squeak, heaving its weight onto me. And I’d see a chance to steal a glance, crouching in the aisle, making like I’d fallen over.

Every time I was about to talk to her, I’d stop myself. What was I to say?

One morning, jumping up for a peep into the window, I stumbled back onto the kerb. The old lady wasn’t there. I flashed the side of the girl’s face, but not enough for a full image.

An opportunity presented itself.

That afternoon, I placed a note on her seat and dashed out of the bus. The plan worked perfectly… in my mind. The following morning, the bus driver didn’t take my ticket; he passed me the note instead. I turned my head towards the back of the bus, and her pink sneaker wasn’t sticking out in the aisle.

She wasn’t on the bus that day. Or ever again.

Fine drops on my face jolted me out of my strange perception. A dusty mizzle had blown onto the automobile’s windscreen, some finding their way onto us as well.

Beside me, she was straightening herself out, stretching her dress down to her knees. She appeared relaxed, snatching at the rubber band binding her hair. Locks cascaded on her shoulders and danced around her neck as she shook her head. She hugged herself against the chill drifting in through the windows and vents.

She shivered, making it difficult to see if she trembled like before. I shivered, the tremble still present, like it was when I first saw her.

The key clicked in the ignition, a blast of warmth permeating the car.

“Why?” I asked. “Why don’t you wanna go back?”

A muffled voice, dulled by the noise of the fan inside, and the bluster outside, replied, “He’s not the man you think he is.”    

I was confused. Before our only meeting, I'd believed the old man to be a monster. But after I’d met him, I’d grown sympathetic towards him. He looked genuinely pitiable. Either the old man had played me for a fool, or she was doing it now.

It was my nature to be distrustful of people, all people. I’d have to be wary with her, or I would’ve let my guard down twice. I jokingly asked her how she knew my thoughts, but didn’t elicit a laugh or a smile.

Instead, she said, “I know you feel sorry for him… that’s his plan. He’s evil, the evilest ever. He wants me back and he won’t stop until he gets me… He’s been trying for as long as I can remember, you know.”

Sinking into her seat, she threw her head backwards and up and stared at the roof. Her hands flopped, on her lap on the other side, on the seat on the near side, half-open. Her twitching fingers and smooth palm, a tempting invitation but a bitter one at this stage.   

“He can’t be all that bad,” I said.

She went on about her father and his attempts at retrieving her.

She was born in the house I visited, living there until she was seventeen. Her mom had disappeared a few years earlier, revealing the worst side of her father. Controlling, possessive, and demanding to know where she was always.

Her mother had made her aware of his deceptive character, so she was always cautious around him.

Sometime during her early teenage years, she’d learnt he’d kept secret an eye ailment, fast blinding him with no preventive measures available. A transplant was possible. But his congenital blood disorder fated her as the only compatible donor. Meaning, she’d have to donate an eye. And that may have been his plan all along.

Under guard most of the time, to school and back an old lady was assigned to her. 

The transplant was scheduled for when she completed high school. She dreaded this, not because of pain or injury to her, but because of the evil deeds her father would continue to perpetuate. So much prevented her liberation, the old lady, the guards, but she plotted anyway.

Then, a young man appeared in her daily routine. She didn’t know him, nor had she seen his face, but his presence stirred her, his absence more. He could be her saviour, her way out, she thought.

Unexpectedly, the chance she’d been waiting for presented itself. The old lady took sick one day and didn't accompany her. Alone for the first time in her life, she made her move and slipped away to freedom. The happiest day in her life, but also the saddest.

And here she was relating her story to a stranger, in a quavering voice.

“So you see, I've made a happy life here… even though I'm always looking over my shoulder… Each time I do I wish that instead of them it's the boy I let go of… Who knows what might have been?" She tried to hide it, but I noticed her dabbing at her eyes.

I’ve heard it said many times before, such a cliched phrase, but it rang true for me: something moved inside me. Difficult for me to understand. I’ve never been an expert judge of character, preferring to treat everyone with suspicion. Would I now let emotion cloud my judgement?

She may have been scheming, but there was no way I could know for sure. Mine was a simple task; take her back and absolve me of my debts.

Nothing definitive occurred these past few moments, still the gloom and rain outside. And best father and daughter decide for themselves who was truthful of the two. She had to go back.

The key turned smoothly in the ignition, and the car growled to a start, trembling quietly thereafter. The radio sounded on, airing one of my favourites. I hadn’t heard that tune in ages, so I hummed along. Sung sweetly beside me, the words, embedded somewhere in my memory, came back to me. Memories too. I turned into her crimsoned face and watched the smile rise to her cheeks.

“Nice music,” she said, “Just like in the No.7 bus.”  

She didn’t need to say any more, and I didn’t need to hear more. I swung the car around to where the veil of darkness had lifted. Golden arrows shooting through the parted clouds caromed off the highway. The glint in their wake zipped to the sky, twinkling behind the fluffy whites, behind the clear azure, where I knew it was all along, but concealed by the black in times past.