Romeo is Homeless (3 page)

“Twenty-nine fifty.”

August counted out thirty dollars in small bills and shoved them through the bars. The woman slid two quarters and a ticket back to her.

“Aren’t you Caraleen and Don’s oldest?”

Sweat beaded on August’s brow. “Uh, yeah. How do you know my parents?”

“My husband runs the Feed and Seed. Your dad is in there every Saturday. I seen you with him sometimes. Why you going to the city, dear?”

“Visiting my aunt.”

“Well isn’t that nice. I didn’t know school was out already.”

“Yup, sure is. Going to be a fun summer.”

“Well I sure think so. You have a nice time. I’ll tell your dad on the weekend that I sent you off safely.”

August laughed, a strange choked giggle she’d never heard before. “Uh, okay. Thanks.” She spun around and plunked down in a hard plastic seat in the waiting room.

She checked her watch. Time crawled by. She glanced at the woman in the ticket booth. The woman smiled at August and then picked up the phone.

Her heart leapt. Was that old lady calling her father? The police? No, that made no sense. The woman had bought the lie about Aunt Adaleen. Just breathe. And quit fidgeting.

She twisted in her chair and scanned the street that ran in front of the station. A lone pickup truck, its muffler dragging on the asphalt, thundered past. She slumped in the seat and sighed, one knee bouncing, her arms crossed.

Almost two hours later, after August had paced the room a dozen times, fed the quarters into a vending machine, and chewed her thumbnail to the quick, a loud rumble reverberated through the picture window. The swish of airbrakes announced the arrival of the bus – her magic carpet ride to escape her stupid life.

August pulled the brim of her hat down and boarded the bus, sliding into a window seat near the middle. When the steady hum of tires on asphalt signaled they were on the highway, she peered at her fellow passengers.

Somebody’s grandmother sat in front of her, the woman’s, long, grey hair pulled back into a braid. Across the aisle, a tired-looking woman with a young child who appeared to have boundless energy and zero attention span rubbed her temples. The kid looked bored with the book his mother was reading him and had thrown the wrappers from two packs of cookies into the aisle. He stood on his seat and bounced, holding the back of the seat in front of him, making it bounce along with him. His mother urged him to sit down, one gentle hand pressing on his shoulder. She scolded him for bothering the man in the business suit in front of them. The kid just screamed. Without a word, the man took his briefcase and moved to one of many empty seats at the front.

A young man in army fatigues sat two rows back and across the aisle. Was he on his way home from war? She stared at his crew-cut hair and deep brown eyes until he glanced up at her and winked. She turned away and looked out the window, her cheeks burning hot.

A typical rural scene scrolled by – like a silent film reel of her tedious, insignificant life. Fields of wheat undulated in the wind like a golden sea. A baler crawled along shitting out blobs of hay that peppered the pasture. Cows everywhere nibbled contentedly, lifted their tails and shit out blobs of their own. Pickup truck after pickup truck traveled the gravel roads parallel to the highway, kicking up dust in their wake. Red barns, white barns, unpainted rotting barns stood near concrete silos full of fermenting, stinking, animal feed. That was a smell she wouldn’t miss. That and the pig shit.

The country scenery was as dull as her country life. She dug inside her backpack and pulled out a tattered copy of Judy Blume’s
Forever
. She found it in the used book store in town and bought it when her mother wasn’t looking. Her mother would kill her for reading a book with sex in it, even if it was about kids her age. Besides, the kids in the story were in love, so what was the big deal? She kicked off her Keds, curled up on the seat and imagined what it would be like to find true love. To find a boy worth loving at all.

The bus rounded a long bend and the city skyline came into view far off in the distance. It looked like tiny plastic buildings inside one of those snow globes Adaleen used to send from the city of the moment. Her aunt had freedom, adventure and luxury. That’s what August wanted, to see Rome and London. And to never, ever, slop those damn pigs again. First step, get the hell off the farm.

The grandmother seated in front of her stood and turned to the back of the bus. August stared, open-mouthed, at what turned out to be a man with a short beard. She leaned over the aisle seat and watched him retreat. She’d never seen anyone like him before.

His braid was held in place by a single plain elastic band, his beige corduroy suit as rumpled as his tan face. And he wore sandals with no socks. He clutched a newspaper, opened the bathroom door and, just before entering, looked right at her.

She pushed herself back into her seat. Damn it, caught staring again. The city would be full of things she’d never seen before. Better figure out how to avoid looking like some naive hick.

She rested her forehead against the window. The landscape morphed before her eyes into something unfamiliar and exciting. Cows were replaced by billboards imploring her to Eat here! Sleep here! Drink here! Shop here!

Her stomach growled – a loud reminder that she’d missed breakfast. From her backpack she pulled a pack of Twinkies she’d bought at the bus station. Her mother’s voice chimed in her head – don’t eat crap like that. She ripped open the cellophane and bit the end off one of the cakes before licking the frosting out of the center, sticking her tongue in as far as it would reach. She savored the rest, opting to squish the cake against the roof of her mouth instead of chewing. She ate the second cake the same way, the sweet gooiness of every bite like heaven in her mouth. She looked up to find the bouncing boy staring at her, and smiled at him.

He stuck out his tongue.

“Brat,” she said under her breath. She wiped her sticky fingers on her jeans and resumed her watch at the window.

Pickup trucks on country roads had transformed into sports cars on the highway. They were so close when they sped past she could see the hands and knees of their drivers, some in khakis, some in short skirts with legs bared. One convertible with the top down revealed the passenger with her head in the driver’s lap. Did all men want that? A few months back she’d ditched her morning classes to hang out with Randy. He was driving too fast and only had one hand on the wheel, the other around her shoulder. He grabbed her by the back of the head and pushed her face down into his lap, said if she wouldn’t fuck him, at least she could suck him. She clawed her way into her seat, scratching his arm bloody in the process. He had the nerve to be pissed at her. Why did he think the first time she did that would be in his truck? Or to him at all? “Asshole,” she whispered into the window.

A semi-trailer pulled up beside her and blared its air horn. She jumped back in her seat, leaving an oily smudge on the window where her forehead used to be. The trucker laughed and waved at her as he passed. She waved back, then polished her head print off the window with her sleeve.

The city loomed closer. No more silos, only skyscrapers. A thick brown haze hung over the skyline like an old, dirty bedspread. In her fantasies she’d imagined clear blue skies overhead. From this far away it looked heavy, suffocating.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

She flinched. The man with the braid leaned over the aisle seat, his weathered face just a foot from hers, his breath terrible.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

“And why are you going there?”

“I’m visiting a friend.” A warm flush spread over her face. She lied a lot lately. Why wouldn’t her face get used to it and quit tattling on her?

“I see.” The man picked up her backpack, handed it to her and sat down. “And do your parents know you’re visiting this friend?” He looked her in the eye.

“Of course.” She was certain he could hear her heart beating.

“Well then.” He pulled a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “In case you have any trouble, you know, with your friend” – he winked at her – “you just give me a call. I could show you some of the sights. There’s lots to see and lots to do.”

She hesitated, then accepted the piece of paper from this strange man and read the name on it. “Thank you, Mr. Patrick. But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He put his hand on the back of hers and patted it, then let it rest there a few seconds before he pulled away. “It’s Father Patrick. That’s the address to my street ministry. Keep it, just in case. Come for a visit. Bring your friend along. The more the merrier.”

*****

A squeal of brakes woke August from an awkward sleep. The bus came to a slow stop with an abrupt ending that pitched her forward. She steadied herself with one hand on the back of the seat in front of her, rolled her neck and rubbed the bumpy pattern on her cheek where it had rested on the sleeve of her hoodie.

The inside of the bus was cloaked in shadow. Cement walls of a huge bus terminal snuffed out the bright sun. Huge lights on the thirty foot tall ceiling cast a yellow pall. A dozen other buses were lined up, passengers loading and unloading, luggage everywhere.

She grabbed her backpack and made her way down the aisle with the other travelers, like cattle to the slaughter. She stepped off the bus into a swarm of humanity – more people in one place than she had ever seen.

Her fellow bus riders were swallowed by the crowd and she waded in after them, mouth ajar, eyes wide. She looked in every direction, taking everything in – the enormous snaking line of people waiting for the next bus, two grubby kids huddling near a garbage can sharing something to eat, bus drivers with too many keys jangling on their belts, cops with their teardrop sunglasses and their don’t-mess-with-me stance, mothers with their children in tow, alert to the dangers of the men in business suits, the men in army fatigues, the men in jogging pants, the old men with their hands in their pockets.

Voices echoed in the hollow space. Whistles blared, intercoms announced schedules, and a nasty odor – some vile concoction of parmesan cheese and piss – permeated everything. August fought her way to the exit, emerging into blinding late afternoon sunlight. Cars were everywhere, their drivers following none of the traffic laws her father had taught her. Horns blared, tires screeched, people yelled.

Outside were more people than lived in her whole county, let alone Hubble Falls. A teenage boy on a skateboard whizzed past so close she could smell the cigarette he must have just smoked. A homeless man, clothes stained and stinking of dirt and body odor held out his hand. “Spare change?” he muttered as he shuffled by.

She shook her head and turned away. After he passed she turned and watched him. He wore more than one shirt, at least two coats, and three hats stacked on top of each other. In this heat?

That heat bounced off the concrete and seemed to penetrate right to her bones, like she was one of the roast chickens in her mother’s clay baker. Despite it, her whole body shook, and her sugary breakfast sat like a lump in her gut. She clutched her backpack and hurried down the street, away from the homeless man who must be dangerous and criminal, away from the hordes of city dwellers she had envied for so long. They weren’t anything like she expected, no one seemed friendly. But this was just a bus terminal, like the crappy one in town. She needed to find the real city, the real people.

She walked with her head down, avoiding eye contact with anyone sharing the sidewalk. When she rounded the corner of the bus terminal, she stepped into shadow and the temperature dropped. Looking up, she saw concrete, glass, metal. Her gaze followed this jungle of dead grey up farther than she could crane her neck to see, the sunlight blocked out by massive buildings lined up one against another. She’d expected it to be nothing like home – but there were no wide open spaces, no horizon full of blue sky and eternal visibility. And almost no plants. Only short trees scattered along the sidewalk at sparse intervals, their scrawny trunks caged in by tiny fences.

She backed up toward the building behind her. With the world spinning around her, she reached out, found the icy slab of granite and leaned against it. Hugging her backpack, she sank down until her butt hit pavement.

She took off her ball cap and wiped her forehead, then rested her elbows on bent knees and lay her head down on her backpack.

Just breathe.

She’d wanted a change, to get the hell away from the country. Well here it was. Better get a grip.

Coins clinked together and she looked up to find two quarters in her princess cap.

An old lady was walking away, an aluminum cane bearing a significant load.

“Wait!” August called. “I wasn’t begging! Please take your money back!”

The lady turned and smiled. “Don’t be silly, dear. You go down the street and buy yourself an ice cream. And then maybe you should go on home before your parents get worried.”

August smiled. “Thanks. Ice cream sounds great.” She got to her feet and brushed dust from her jeans, dropping the coins into her back pocket. She sure as hell wasn’t ready to go home. Not yet.

Caraleen sat at the kitchen table holding her coffee cup with both hands. The sweet, creamy liquid had quit steaming and now rested, ice-cold, in her white-knuckle grip.

“Sara and Bill are here.” Don laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

She looked up at him and offered a wan smile.

He wandered to the kitchen sink and looked out the window, then lit a cigarette in the house. Any other day it would have pissed her off and she would have told him to butt it out or take it outside. Today, it just didn’t matter.

“Hi, Mrs. Bailey,” Sara mumbled and sat across the table from her.

“Sara, where is August?”

“I don’t know.” Sara’s cheeks flushed. “She missed the math final today. I was worried she’d fail and have to repeat.” The girl twisted a clump of long red hair around one finger, released it, and twisted it again.

“Sara, where the hell is my daughter? You are the only one she’d tell anything to. Tell me where she is and tell me now!” Caraleen slammed her fist on the table, shaking coffee onto the old tablecloth, staining the faded vinyl.

“Now cool it, Caraleen.” Sara’s father, Bill, placed his big hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “If she knew where August was, she’d tell you.”

The color rose higher in Sara’s cheeks and she looked down at her hands.

Caraleen took a sip of her cold coffee, wrinkled her nose and put down the cup. She wiped tears from her cheeks with one shaking hand. Worried didn’t begin to describe the panic building inside of her. Her daughter had disappeared and she couldn’t just snap her fingers and bring her back.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Bailey. I’m sure she’s fine.”

Caraleen looked from Sara to Bill and back again. “How do you know that she’s fine? Are you telling me the truth? Sara, if you know where she is you’d better say so now.”

Sara began to cry. “I don’t know, I just think she is. I want to believe that. I‘m sorry, Mrs. Bailey. If she calls me, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Caraleen stared at the girl and then reached over and patted Sara’s bony hand. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Bill bent down over Caraleen’s shoulders and engulfed her in his massive embrace. “Maybe you ought to call the sheriff.”

“We did.” Don leaned against the counter and blew a lungful of smoke out the open kitchen window. His shaking hand freed the long ash and it dropped with a hiss into the untouched dishwater. “Apparently it’s nothing to worry about until she’s been gone twenty-four hours. Even if she is only sixteen and doesn’t know shit about the world except how to slop the damn pigs.”