Harriet Beamer Takes the Bus (14 page)

Her server came by. “My name is Sheretha. I’ll take your drink order, and can I start you off with an appetizer?” she asked.

“Oh, no, not today. I think I’d like the meat loaf, though — it sounds scrumptious.”

“It is,” the server said. “The best in town.”

“And iced tea,” Harriet added. “Not sweet.” Her phone jingled. “I’m sorry.”

“No problem. I’ll be right back with your tea,” the server said and walked off toward the kitchen.

“Hello,” Harriet said.

“It’s me, Martha.”

“Martha,” Harriet tried to whisper. “How are you? Everything okay?”

“Everything is fine by me, how’s by you?”

“Oh, Martha, I just had the most unusual day. I flew in a helicopter.” That was when she noticed the couple next to her look over. “But let me call you later when I get to my room. It will be more private, less nosey, I mean noisy.”

“Helicopter? I got to hear this. Now, you better call me later.”

Harriet closed her phone. In a few minutes, her iced tea arrived, followed not too much later by the main dish. Harriet finished every bite of her meat loaf. It truly was the best she had ever eaten. She told the server so when she came to get her plate. “This was the best meal I’ve had since I left Hickory, and the meal I had in Hickory was the best since, well, since I cooked for myself back in Philadelphia.”

“Are you traveling?” Sheretha asked.

“I sure am, on my way to California.”

“No kidding?” Sheretha said. “Cool.”

“Thanks. It’s been real … cool.”

“Here’s your check, whenever you’re ready,” Sheretha said.

“Sheretha,” Harriet said signing the statement. “I was wondering, do you know of a nice hotel around here?”

Sheretha pondered a moment. “If I was going to stay somewhere tonight, I’d see if I could get a room at the White Gate Inn. Pretty expensive and ritzy, but I hear it is the best. Very luxurious.”

“Luxurious. I could do with some luxury.”

“'Course I could never afford it, what with being a single mom with three kids. My goodness. But I do work hard.”

“The White Gate Inn.”

“Yep. You better call first in case they don’t have a room available.”

“Thanks,” Harriet said.

After paying her bill and leaving Sheretha a ridiculously large tip, Harriet called the inn, and much to her delight they had two rooms available for the night. Harriet booked the Emily Dickinson room. She couldn’t have been more thrilled. The only trouble was getting there. The inn wasn’t that far from the restaurant, but there was no bus going that way, and now it was nearly night, and she was tired. She didn’t want to walk.

Harriet called a cab. She stood outside the restaurant and waited. The air was cool but not cold, and smelled of the city — a mixture of exhaust and food smells. Cars whizzed past, bikers with headlights rode by, but mostly Harriet enjoyed watching the people. She thought there were a lot of people out on a weekday evening.

The cab pulled close to the curb, and Harriet climbed into the back. “Hello,” she said. “I’d like to go to the White Gate Inn please.”

“Okeydokey,” said the driver.

Harriet checked the face on the license with the face in the rearview. “Robert,” she said. “That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you,” he said.

The ride to White Gate took only a few minutes, and before she knew it, Harriet had passed through a white picket fence and was walking up a flower-lined walkway to the entrance.

Harriet stood for a moment and breathed deeply. The house was spectacular, with red clapboard siding surrounded by gardens on sloping hills. Harriet was certain she heard a waterfall nearby.

She rang the bell and was met by Ralph, one of the owners.

“Welcome,” he said. “You must be Harriet Beamer.”

Harriet smiled. “I am.”

“Well, I couldn’t miss you. You’re famous.”

Harriet stepped through the threshold. “Famous? You must mean another Harriet Beamer.”

Ralph shook his head. “Aren’t you the Harriet who is traveling across the country using public transportation?”

Harriet smiled. “I guess so, but … how did you know?”

“You made the
Asheville Citizen-Times
, honey. At least their website.”

“Oh dear. Really?” She looked around at the spectacular parlor. Her eyes landed on a beautiful oil painting above the fireplace mantel. “I love that,” she said, hoping to avoid any more talk about her celebrity.

“That, my dear, is called
A Still Wind Blows.
It was painted by Elizabeth Versace.”

Ralph checked Harriet in. “The Emily Dickinson suite. You’ll just love it. It’s one of my favorite rooms.”

“Emily Dickinson is my favorite poet.”

“Ohh, well then, this is the perfect room for you. It’s just so … so Emily.”

They climbed an elegant stairwell. The room was a couple of doors down on the right. He showed her inside.

“Oh my goodness gracious,” Harriet said. She stood still a moment, barely able to catch her breath. “It’s … it’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Ralph said as he parked her suitcase near the bed. “I think you’ll find everything to your satisfaction, but if you should need anything, anything at all, please call the front desk.”

“Thank you.”

“Have a sweet night,” Ralph said as he closed the door.

Harriet dropped her tote on the floor. The room was spectacular. There was a four-poster bed with a lovely rose-covered comforter. A small writing desk sat in the corner surrounded by large windows with blinds, not curtains, so Harriet could enjoy
the budding trees outside. The living room section of the suite had a fireplace and chairs and a sofa. Harriet thought she could live there with no problem. The windows looked out over lush gardens. Harriet remembered a bit of Emily: “The lovely flowers embarrass me. They make me regret I am not a bee …”

She sat on the chair in the sitting room, kicked off her sneakers, and yawned with her whole body. This had to be the most relaxing place in the world.

Harriet checked her phone and decided it would be best to charge it while she called Martha and talked to her with the cord dangling. She still owed her an explanation about the helicopter. Even though it was late she figured it would be okay. Martha was a night owl. She often stayed up late working on her stained glass.

“Martha,” she said, “it was … spectacular. A little scary but still —”

“I don’t believe it,” Martha said. “You actually rode in a helicopter. Did it have doors? You know some of them don’t have doors.”

“Yes, this one had doors, and Milford, he was the pilot, was ever so sweet. A little rough around the edges but still quite sweet. I saw North Carolina from a mile in the sky. It was —”

“Spectacular,” Martha said. “I would have been scared half to death. Airplanes are one thing but —”

“You would have done it if it was the only way to get where you needed to go. I have trouble finding a bus sometimes once I get out of the city limits. As a matter of fact I have no clue how I’ll ride into Maggie Valley. But you know what, Martha, I’m learning to trust God in ways I never had to. He always comes through even if it is a wild helicopter ride.”

“That’s great, Harriet. I never heard you speak like this. Oh, you always had the God stuff down, but now it’s different. Your voice is different.”

“This time it’s … personal,” Harriet said. “You know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“I guess it’s like I can actually feel God’s —”

“Pleasure?”

“Um, not exactly. More like God’s big, giant hand on my back. He keeps nudging me to take the next bus. To get to the finish line.”

“Speaking of which, are you sure a bus won’t get you into Maggie Valley?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll ask the innkeepers in the morning. Maybe they’ll have an idea.”

Henry heard Prudence pull into the driveway. He stood at the door and waited for her to climb out of her little BMW, grab her briefcase, adjust her skirt, and walk up the path.

“How was your day?” he asked and then kissed her.

“Good. We had a good day. No, a great day. I made mincemeat of their star witness. You should have seen me.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

Prudence dropped her briefcase in the foyer and removed her shoes, which she set neatly on the tile. “Iced tea?”

“Sure thing,” Henry said. “Be right back.”

Henry and Humphrey headed for the kitchen. Humphrey lapped water from his bowl as Henry poured tea into a tall, skinny tumbler. “Maybe a Lorna Doone to go with it. Might help,” Henry said.

Humphrey barked. Henry tossed him a cookie, which he very much appreciated. Henry sat in the green wing chair across from Prudence and watched her sip her iced tea.

“You have something to tell me,” Prudence said. “Is it your mother? Is she okay?”

“Yes, and yes, she’s fine. A little crazy maybe, but fine.”

Prudence sipped her tea. “So tell me.”

“It’s so funny, Pru,” Henry said with a chuckle. “She called from a police car on the way to a helicopter.”

“Police car, helicopter?”

“That’s what I said. But I didn’t get to ask anything because the call was dropped.”

“Did she call back?”

“Yeah, about two hours later. She hitched a ride with a retired police officer — a Viet Nam vet. Then he gave her a ride to Asheville, North Carolina, in his helicopter.”

“Wow, she’s really traveling every which way.”

“Is that all you can say? My seventy-two-year-old mother in a helicopter!”

“She’s safe, right?”

“Yes, but … oh, it’s useless.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

Humphrey toddled near Prudence. She patted his head. “It’s okay, boy. She’ll get here.”

Henry sighed and changed the subject. “I had a good day too. I’m making progress on the novel. I’m really excited about it. Whoever thought that setting a boarding house on fire would make all the difference in the world. I raised the stakes and gave Cash a reason to live all in one blaze of glory. It was spectacular, Pru. I loved writing the fire scene.”

“Oh, honey, I’m very happy for you.”

Prudence stood. “You know what? I’m hungry. I had no lunch.”

“Got just the thing,” Henry said. “Shish kebob.”

“Now, that sounds delightful. I’d like to shower and change first.”

“Plenty of time,” Henry said. “Haven’t even made them yet.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
H
ARRIET ENJOYED A DELICIOUS THREE
course breakfast in the white-paneled dining room. Peaches, pears, and pineapples baked in a brown-sugar sherry sauce, followed by a mushroom tarragon soufflé, and then cinnamon maple caramel pecan rolls for dessert. She had a grand view of the B&B gardens as she ate. Afterward she went out to the gardens to sit on a bench and write to Max.

She closed her book, tucked it into her tote, then wandered the garden for a while, enjoying the soothing trickle of the waterfalls. She then returned to her room to read more Jane Austen. Might as well take advantage of her luxurious surroundings while she could.

As the noon checkout time neared, she felt ready to move on.
Ralph had told her the night before that if she needed anything, anything at all she should ask. “I hope he knows a way to Maggie Valley.” She repacked her suitcase yet again. This time she crammed her jammies into a zippered pocket along with socks. She tucked Jane Austen into her tote, took one last look around her room, and headed down the stairs.

Ralph was at the front desk — if that’s what it was called. It was really an old oak desk in the parlor. A computer monitor was the only thing that made it look businesslike.

“Excuse me,” Harriet said. “But I was hoping you could give me some information. How would I get to Maggie Valley from here? I’d like to use a bus, but I don’t believe a bus, or even several buses, will get me there. I was hoping you might have a suggestion.”

“Um, that is a tough one.” Ralph banged on the keyboard. “You’re right, you can’t get there from here. What about renting a car?”

Harriet took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Oh, fiddlesticks. I don’t know. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to resort to a car. I might as well drive the whole way — you know. And if that’s the case, then I could just get on a Greyhound or a plane, and I already rode in a helicopter to get here.”

Ralph laughed. “Helicopter? You are a hoot, darling.”

A guest who was sitting on the sofa reading the paper spoke up. “What about a charter bus?”

Ralph snapped his fingers. “Yes, charter. Maggie Valley has all those casinos. Ever heard of a casino bus?”

Harriet felt her eyes grow as big as poker chips. “I have. Why, the bus leaves every single day to Atlantic City from right outside that little strip mall not far from my home in Pennsylvania. But I never rode on one.”

“Well, Pennsylvania isn’t the only state with casino buses. The casino makes a mint off of old people — sorry — some old people spending their Social Security checks.”

“And they give you ten bucks or so in quarters and coupons for free food,” the guest added.

“Hot diggity dog,” Harriet said. “Where do I catch the casino bus?”

Ralph tapped a few words into his computer. “Lookee here, the High Roller Express leaves from the Catholic church just down the street. You can walk there.”

“Does it give a time schedule?” Harriet asked.

“Sure does. One is scheduled to leave at 4:30.”

Harriet looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “That’s over four hours away. What can I do till then?”

“You’re welcome to stay in your room till two, then relax in the gardens or living room,” Ralph said. “I imagine you get tired from all the travel, and this is a good spot to relax.”

“That’s for sure,” Harriet said. “That’s what I’ll do. Thank you.”

The afternoon passed quickly, and soon Harriet found herself back on the road. The walk to Saint Dorothy’s Catholic Church was easy, down tree-lined streets and past flower-filled yards. And the instant she turned the corner onto Christ Our Lord Drive she saw the church. It was a huge palace of a place with high spires and a large neon sign that read
Welcome Home to Saint Dot’s.
She strolled a little further toward the back of the church and saw a line of mostly older women standing along the curb. They seemed to be laughing and yakking and generally having a good time as they waited for the bus. Each wore a bright purple fanny pack that indicated to Harriet that this was definitely some kind of casino club.

Harriet paused a moment as she adjusted her pack and built up enough nerve to join the group. She felt odd crashing a group of women who seemed so familiar with each other. They probably traveled together all the time to the casino, maybe even every day. One woman wore one of those green poker-player visors that Harriet had seen in movies. Harriet didn’t want to intrude. But if she wanted to get to Maggie Valley it was her only option.

“Hello,” she said with a wave.

A couple of the women looked over at her. “Hello,” said the older looking of the two. She was short with short gray hair except for a funky purple streak. She wore glasses and a pair of orange clam diggers with white Keds.

“I was wondering if I could ride along with you all today.”

Orange Clam Digger Lady smiled over the top of her glasses. “Of course, honey. The more the merrier. This your first time? You a member of St. Dots?”

“Yes. I mean no, I’m not a member of St. Dots, and yes, this is my first time — here. But … I was just looking for a ride … to Maggie Valley. If that’s okay with —” But she never got to finish her sentence. For the first time in Harriet’s life she was recognized — and not by someone who’d known her for a long time.

“Are you that woman?” asked another woman making her way toward Harriet with all the determination of a baseball manager making his way to the third base umpire. Her fanny pack bounced up and down with each stride.

Harriet swallowed and tried to smile. “Well, I don’t know. Which woman?”

“The one on the news this morning. You’re the woman. You’re the woman who beat the snot out of that punk.” She laughed heartily.

“Oh dear,” Harriet said. “How in the world could you know that? And he wasn’t a punk. He was just a kid who needs some direction. Maybe he should join the military when he’s of age.”

“Hey,” called Orange Clam Digger Lady, “we got us a celebrity on board. The woman who nabbed the purse snatcher. It was on the news. They showed the YouTube video.”

“No kidding, Christine,” said the woman who first recognized her. “She’s riding with us to the Maggie Valley casinos.” With that a small roar of applause went up.

Harriet adjusted her glasses and smiled. “If it’s okay.”

“Okay?” said Clam Digger. “We are honored to have you.”

“Hey,” said the woman standing with Clam Digger, “does this mean we’re like celebrities too … by association?”

“I’m not a celebrity or a hero. I just tripped him with my suitcase. Any one of you would have done the same.”

“But we didn’t,” Clam Digger said. “What’s your name?”

“Harriet Beamer.”

The bus pulled up, a short white and red bus with the words
Poker Express
painted on the side. The door opened and everyone filed in. It was driven by a man who looked about a hundred and ten years old. He wore a black cowboy hat, huge aviator sunglasses, and had more wrinkles than the prunes Harriet ate at breakfast.

Christine grabbed Harriet’s suitcase handle. “Let me help with you that. Imagine lugging this clear across the country. You must be tired.”

Clam Digger pulled Harriet’s arm. “Come on, sit with me.”

“Is he a safe driver?” Harriet whispered.

“Clarence? Sure. He just spent too many summers in the sun.”

Harriet was invited to sit next to everyone. All she could hear was, “Over here, Harriet, sit with me.” But in the end she chose to sit next to Orange Clam Digger Lady. The others seemed put-out, but it didn’t take long for everyone to cheer up once the bus got moving.

“How long is the ride?” Harriet asked.

“About forty-five minutes, give or take. My name is Muriel, by the way. I don’t think we introduced ourselves properly.”

“Nice to meet you,” Harriet said. “My name is —” then she stopped herself and smiled. “But you already know my name.”

“Have you seen the video?” Muriel asked.

Harriet shook her head.

“Is that a Droid phone I saw you looking at?”

Harriet nodded.

“You can see it right on your phone.”

“No. Really? How?”

Muriel tapped Harriet’s phone and typed a few letters. The next thing Harriet knew she was watching herself beating the snot, as Muriel had said, out of that young man. She felt a little embarrassed but also a little excited. Especially when she saw the victim’s face. She looked so relieved. Harriet said a quick silent prayer for her and the hoodlum.

The phone made the rounds of the bus as Harriet and Muriel talked.

“So what brings you to the Poker Express?” Muriel asked.

Harriet took a breath and told her the story once again.

“Did you hear this, Patsy?” Muriel knocked on the seat in front of her. “Harriet says she’s traveling across the country on buses because she lost a bet. Ain’t that … what do they call it, ironic?”

Patsy turned as best she could, craning her neck over the seat back.

“It sure is. And now here I am on my way to Maggie Valley to see some stars.”

“Stars,” Muriel said. “You won’t see many stars there.”

“Really? But David Prancing Elk said that Maggie Valley had some great stargazing sights.”

Muriel glanced at Patsy and then back at Harriet. “You mean real stars. The kind in the sky. I thought you meant movie stars. Then in that case, you might see some.”

“I hope so,” Harriet said. “I love to see stars. Makes me feel like … like … well, like I really do live on a planet and that there’s other things out there.”

“You mean like UFOs,” Patsy said. “Aliens.”

Harriet laughed. “No. Not aliens. God, something bigger than all of us.”

“Oh, yeah, in that case I see what you mean,” Muriel said. “I believe in God. I just don’t think he believes in me. If he did, I’d go home a winner for sure tonight.”

“Not necessarily. God isn’t a slot machine.”

“That’s for sure, Harriet. Don’t I know it!”

The bus pulled onto the main interstate. Route 40 Harriet read. The road traveled past large clumps of trees and dense forest. “It’s pretty,” she said. “Look at all those evergreens.”

“The scenery,” Muriel said. “Yep, it sure is. But I’ll tell you this much. I’ll enjoy it loads more on the way back if I win some money, you know.”

Harriet expected Muriel to slap her on the back, and she winced preemptively, but the slap never came.

“How ‘bout you, Harriet?” Patsy asked. “Gonna gamble while you’re there?”

Harriet laughed. “Nah, I’d probably lose my shirt. And I don’t have that many spare shirts in here.” She patted her suitcase.

The women laughed.

“Harriet,” Patsy said. “You’re a card. Just an absolute card. And I say, keep busing. Keep busing until you
want
to go home.”

“That’s right,” Muriel said. “You’re in charge of your own destiny. You can go anywhere you want.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Harriet said. “This crick in my back and the aches in my knees tell me otherwise. But I will admit that even though I like what I’m doing, there’s part of me that’s ready to settle now.”

Patsy leaned as close as she could toward Harriet. “I think you’re an inspiration to postmenopausal, empty-nesting, got-nothing-to-do-but-scrub-toilets women everywhere.”

“Hear! Hear!” came the cheer from the rest of the ladies on the bus. Even the two lone gentlemen raised their fists in solidarity. “You go, Harriet,” called one.

About an hour later the bus pulled into the Harrah’s Casino parking lot. It was surrounded by trees with the spectacular Smoky Mountains as a backdrop. That afternoon there were low-lying clouds that threatened rain. Harriet looked into the sky hoping that the clouds would be gone by nighttime. Stargazing was her number one reason for putting the trip on hold for a day or two.

“Are there really Indians here?” Harriet asked Muriel.

“Indians? Sure, but you came to gamble, right? They have their own casinos up in the hills, like Tribal Bingo.”

“Yes,” Harriet said as she stood. “I would like to meet some Ind — I guess I should say Native Americans.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. Cherokee Indians.”

Once everyone was off the bus, Harriet tried to break away from the group. “I think I’ll just walk a little first,” she said. “Thanks for taking me along.”

“Really?” Patsy said. “Aren’t you coming in? Play some slots. Takes your mind off your troubles.”

“I don’t have any troubles. I think I’ll just take in the sights.”

Muriel hugged Harriet. “I know you won’t believe this, but you got me thinking that maybe I can do more than ride the bus to play the slots. Maybe I can do more with my life — even if I am over seventy.” She laughed.

Harriet looked into her eyes. “I know you can, Muriel. Just do it. Remember what they say: All those who wander are not lost. Although I do wonder how I’ll travel next …”

“You just wait here,” Patsy said, patting Harriet’s shoulder. “The Cherokee have their own bus system. Takes you all over Maggie Valley, including the visitor’s center.”

“Really,” Harriet said. “You mean it? How … wonderful.”

“Yep, should be one along soon.”

Muriel and Patsy headed into the casino.

“Good luck,” Harriet called.

Not much later a smallish white bus, with a scene of Native Americans painted on the side, pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and several people, looking rather touristy in Harriet’s estimation, got off and headed directly to the casino.

Harriet climbed the three steps inside. “Do you stop at the visitor’s center?” she asked the driver. A woman with short black hair and a huge smile answered, “Yes, ma’am; welcome aboard.” She wore ecru khakis and a maroon golf shirt with the Cherokee Transit insignia over the breast pocket.