Graceland
Two strangers on a Greyhound bounce toward Memphis from Texas. They're both losing love. It's like a window in their hearts.
It happened every year as she waited for the bus to Memphis. With the bus idling in its lane, a peddler would come up the aisle silently dropping small articles into each passenger’s lap. Last year, she’d gotten a key chain with a blue plastic dolphin attached. The two-dollar price tag read: I am deaf. Please buy this item so I can eat. Thank you. God bless you.
She had only ten dollars to feed herself until she got home. Every time, she wondered if the deaf-mute thing was a scam. The peddler’s unresponsive demeanor was almost too convincing. But that never kept her from buying whatever was put in her hand.
Last year she’d given the blue-dolphin chain to a dark-eyed little boy sitting across the aisle from her. He was peeking out from behind an old man whose face resembled a withered brown leaf. The woman couldn’t tell if the child was just curious or wanting to play. She hoped giving him the dolphin would make him forget she was there. By this time—the home stretch of her annual journey—she was all peopled out.
Today’s key chain had a crucifix dangling from its ring. The silver-plated cross was about three inches long and two inches wide with Jesus’ half-clothed body hung across it. She liked its weight in her hand. Growing up Hebrew—as the Carolina Mountain folk called their smattering of local Jews—Jesus had been a confusing presence in her life, a sort of esteemed distant cousin whose birthday you had to ignore. But the music He inspired—gospel, shape note, and bluegrass—was all around and felt like hers. Song itself was the Divine, transcending ancestry and allegiances, even to God.
She counted out two dollars. Instantly the peddler appeared above her, spotted almond cheeks topped by shoe-polish black hair. He took her money, nodding without smiling and hurried down the aisle, plucking unsold chains from the passengers’ outstretched hands.
The crucifix went in her purse. She considered taking out her antiquated CD player, though she preferred the dark for that. She didn’t like calling attention to herself on the bus. Which was absurd, really. A gray-haired white woman could not have been more unremarkable among the well-dressed, elderly Blacks and Latinos, the gorgeous young people with their tattooed muscles and pierced midriffs, the still-younger soldiers, boys and girls, confident in cool desert camouflage.
She’d been proposed to four times, slim-hipped young men who gravitated to her like tiny tan hawks with a predator’s eye for middle-aged women traveling alone.
The bus grumbled to a start and lumbered into downtown Dallas. The streets were narrow as river canyons between sheer walls of concrete and glass. The mirrored buildings reflected a dozen red-ball sunrises simmering on the horizon. In time the city gave way to the eastbound highway bordered in swaths of bluebonnet, bull thistle, Indian paintbrush. The sky was an empty overturned bowl, its white ceramic glaze baked on by the urgent heat of late May.
Every spring she made this same circular route. From her home in Birmingham, she went north and east to her parents’ graves in the Smokey Mountains, then up to the Great Lakes to see her sister, followed by a visit with her kid brother’s family in Denver, and ending in east Texas with a sister-in-law left over from a brief early marriage. They all had children now—grandchildren some of them—steady jobs and social lives, so they counted on her to come see them. That was fine. Her life was so interior it was easy for others to miss.
Every year, she swore she’d never do it again. Fifty-six was getting a little old for the long nights of broken sleep, the endless string of smoke breaks at McDonald’s. What would happen if she stopped visiting her family every year? She would become that distant relative whose birthday you forgot.
It had not escaped her notice that in fifteen years the bus had provided her only possibilities of romance. She’d been proposed to four times, once by a West African who vowed to wait for her. She couldn’t remember his name. The other names were interchangeable, Carlos or Juan, belonging to slim-hipped young men who gravitated to her like tiny tan hawks with a predator’s eye for middle-aged women traveling alone.
She parked her backpack in the empty seat beside her. Leaning her head against the dusty windowpane, she let the countryside roll out like frames of grainy film, pasture by pasture, trailer by trailer, billboard by billboard.
The old man was perched on a wooden bench under a tattered poster for Lucky Strikes. He’d been sitting outside the dilapidated store for quite a while, waiting for the eastbound bus. His legs were hurting him again and he needed to take a leak.
His daughter-in-law had dropped him off here three hours ago. First, they had grabbed a bite at the local barbecue joint. The sun was low in the west when she let him out at the general store and hurried back up the mountain. The place locked its door shortly thereafter and he’d been alone here ever since.
The bus from Dallas was late, as usual. A warm breeze swayed the tall catalpas that shaded the weathered shack by day. A single streetlight shone by the dirt pull-off to the store. The overcast night sky gave off an eerie, orange glow. He could see across the road into a furrowed field shiny with new crops. A ways behind it, a house lamp faint as foxfire shone through the trees. Behind the house the sleeping hills rose up black and still. It was so quiet he could have been the only one around for miles.
The old man burped. The barbecue was still working him; that had been a mistake. He pulled a pouch of chewing tobacco from his pants pocket, a guilty pleasure he wouldn’t have dared had his wife been there with him. Stuffing a pinch in the hinge of his jaw, he closed the pouch and returned it to his pocket. He’d have to remember to toss it out in the station in Memphis.
After a moment he pushed against the bench and stood, twisting his torso to steady himself against the wall. Wincing with pain. he began to limp to and fro across the gravel, stopping only to catch his breath. In the circle of light he was ghostly white, almost as wide as he was tall. His arms were bulky, the muscle gone to fat.
It had been four years since their son’s remains were buried here in the Ozarks as he’d requested, to be close to his young wife, the daughter-in-law they inherited when he was killed.
His legs were a constant struggle. Sit a little, walk a little. He was more than ready for the bus and home. The wait here had been the hardest stretch so far. Turning west to listen for traffic, he unzipped his trousers and relieved himself by the road. If the bus came now, he would be caught with his pants down so to speak. He had to flag the bus anyway; surely that would get the driver’s attention.
He zipped up, chuckling. It was a good story, even if it never happened. He needed something cheerful to take home to the wife. Something other than the report that the tulips she’d planted on their son’s grave had come up again this spring. Or that the boy’s widow was going to remarry and move to California. It had been four years since their son’s remains were buried here in the Ozarks as he’d requested, to be close to his young wife, the daughter-in-law they inherited when he was killed. The old man shook his head. He had a feeling they’d seen the last of that wacko. It was better his wife didn’t come this time. Losing their only child was making them old in a hurry.
He thrust his hand into his sweater pocket. His fingers sought the lapel pin he’d stolen from the girl. The thing had leapt into his hand when he spied it under her couch. It was a little problem he’d had as a youngster. A tie clip here, a fountain pen there. He’d even spent a few nights in jail for petty theft. Meeting his wife was what brought him around. He hadn’t stolen anything but kisses for decades.
This was different. Under the streetlamp, the gold torch and black enamel letters of his son’s ROTC button needed only rubbing on his sleeve to make it shine like new. The pin had been lost, forgotten—what was his crime? It belonged to them anyway. He pinned it to the collar of his sweater. He would tell his wife the daughter-in-law had sent it to her. She would like that.
He heard the bus before he saw its lights swinging around the curve. He began to pump his arms like stiff-boned wings. The headlights fell on him and the bus to Memphis came roaring up behind them. The driver blinked the lights to let the old man know he’d been seen. He hobbled back to the bench to gather his shopping bag of belongings, stopping only once to spit out the clotted mat of chaw.
The woman knew immediately the old man was going to sit next to her. Her overhead light was on, her mind settled pleasantly with a crossword puzzle. The old man had boarded at some nameless wayside and was now listing down the aisle toward her in the dark.
He didn’t ask if the seat was taken. He just turned and backed toward it, lowering his behind as he came. The woman yanked her backpack away in time and scrunched against the window to make room. He was broader than a single seat. His thigh jammed up against hers. They bent in one motion, she to slide her pack under the seat, he to stuff his shopping bag under his. He kicked it out of sight and grunted.
“I got a long way to go yet.”
The woman nodded. She returned to her puzzle.
“Where you going?” His voice had an odd, croaking quality.
Her eyes did not leave the page. “Alabama.”
“You got a long way too.”
She nodded again and brought her pencil down on a square. He was one of those, going to talk no matter what.
“You look familiar.” The old man had not expected to say that.
The woman turned away, frowning at the puzzle as if she hadn’t heard him. The old man understood. His wife worked the crosswords too and he knew how she could get. He shifted his shoulders. After a moment his breath slowed to faint snores sharp as hiccups.
He looked familiar to her too. The flat-planed cheeks, the great wiry red-and-gray eyebrows and prominent hooked nose gave him the look of the owl that roosted on her chimney in autumn.
The woman shook her head. She’d never know how anyone could sleep so soundly so close to a total stranger. Especially when you were both dressed and sober. She squeezed her lips together to keep from laughing, then looked at the sleeping old man directly.
His face was in shadow. The faint fan of light revealed only dark trousers patched at the knee, short thick fingers laced over his protruding belly. A small, gilded pin glittered on his collar. The navy wool sweater was too warm for the season but just right for the crisp bus air-conditioning. He had traveled this way before.
The old man jerked up, gave out a queer little shriek. and fell back asleep. The woman closed the puzzle book. She reached up noiselessly and turned off the light. The waning yellow moon was tilted like broken crockery spilling melted butter. She could see the old man’s face better by the moon. He looked familiar to her too. The flat-planed cheeks, the great wiry red-and-gray eyebrows and prominent hooked nose gave him the look of the owl that roosted on her chimney in autumn. It was a face you could miss in a crowd. Up close it was unforgettable.
The bus was utterly quiet. Reaching into her purse for the CD player, the woman’s fingers found the crucifix. Lifting it up, she pulled off the price tag. In the opaque light she could just make out the silver-thorned crown, the invaded ribs, the folds of His loincloth. She put the Savior back in her purse and rummaged around for her current road CD. Emmylou Harris’ gospel album. Angel Band.
“Look at that old moon.”
The old man had woken with a cry, fleeing a dream. He gazed across the woman and out the window. “Makes me miss my wife.”
He straightened his trousers at the knees. He always made a point of mentioning the missus to any female, young or old, he met in his travels, especially in such close quarters.
The woman’s eyes were closed. She moved to the music and pointed to the earphones. The old man stole a glance. Her frizzled hair was tied back from sharp-angled cheeks and parched-looking lips. Lucky for him she was no bigger than a flea.
He gazed at his hands. “I wanted her to come with me,” he rasped. “But she was too poorly.
“Her stomach,” he explained after a rest. “Had an operation two weeks ago. I hated to leave her but...” He swallowed. “I had my ticket, she said go.”
He peeked out from under his brows as if to make certain the woman approved his logic. She pointed at the earphones again.
“Been down to see my son,” he stated with finality. He tapped the pin on his collar. “He was in Iraq.”
The woman tossed her hands in the air. She gave up. She stopped the disc and laid the earphones deliberately around her neck. “Where you headed?” she asked him.
“Illinois. Get home tomorrow afternoon.”
“Change in Memphis?”
“All right.” He wove his fingers over his belly again. “I don’t mind. I’ll sit here and watch over you. Me and the moon. You’ll be like my own little daughter to me.”
His head rocked up and down. “Home of the King.”
She winced inwardly. They would be joined at the hip for several more hours.
“It ain’t easy for me,” the old man went on. “I had two operations myself. One for the throat. The esolphagus.”
The woman squeezed her lips together to keep from laughing at his mistaken pronunciation. The old man stroked his neck and chest. “Oh, yeah. And on my legs. Look. They’re still swollen.”
He lifted the cuff of his pants to show her a pillar-like leg. The skin was pushed out, taut and colorless. The woman cringed in sympathy.
“It was much worse.” He dropped the cloth. “I need to go back to church is what I need to do. Let the Lord work on me a while.”
He went on to tell her about his wife, about the various body parts they’d each had removed, about the tarpaper shack they shared in the flatlands with a gimpy old Chihuahua named Spike. He used to be a heating and air salesman and a good one at that.
The woman’s eyelids began to flutter. She pushed herself up in the seat. Her hands gripped the headset encircling her neck as if to wake herself up.
The old man shook himself. “I’m talking your ear off.”
“No, no!” she cried, too loud.
She clapped a hand over her mouth. Then without another word she sank back in the seat, lowered the earphones over her ears and rolled on her side away from him.
“All right.” He wove his fingers over his belly again. “I don’t mind. I’ll sit here and watch over you. Me and the moon. You’ll be like my own little daughter to me.”
The old man felt an unusual sense of peace. He couldn’t wait to tell his wife about the woman he met on the bus. He could see how it might go. The two would become close, exchanging crosswords, writing letters, eventually a phone call every Sunday, happy reunions at Christmas. You never knew what would make his wife want to live.
The woman opened her eyes. The bus was crossing the Mississippi River on a bridge strung with lights. Each arch made a luminescent hoop for the bus to pass through. On the black water below, their starry reflections undulated like phosphorescent snakes.
Her mouth was wet. She wiped the corner of her lips. The old man had put his shopping bag on his lap. He looked to be asleep. She dragged her pack from under the seat and put the CD player away.
The bus curved off the Interstate into the neon throb of downtown Memphis. Home of the King, the old man had said. It had been a long time since she let herself think about her first introduction to Memphis. On that short-lived windblown honeymoon.
A hollowness opened up inside her, hovering somewhere between longing and dread. Her new husband had been a rockabilly musician she’d known less than three weeks when they married and took off on a careening tour of Elvis country. First stop, Memphis. On the King’s fortieth birthday.
The one thing she could recall about Graceland—Elvis’s redneck palace—was his guitar-shaped swimming pool. That and the hit of acid she and her husband had shared beside it. The rest of her memories were shattered images: She and her husband singing outside the King’s castle gates. A crowd of onlookers, a kid maybe. Some coins in her husband’s guitar case. Her memory got cloudy about what happened after the cop showed up and chased them away. Vaguely she recalled money spilling from the open case as they ran off. She could hear the clink of coins on the sidewalk and their wild laughter as they scooped up what change they could.
The old man woke and stretched. She had a dim notion she’d been rude to him. The bus was already pulling into the station. The driver was exhorting his passengers to stay seated until the vehicle came to a complete stop.
The woman reached into her purse. “You know what?” she told the old man. “I think I got this for you.”
She held out the crucifix. The old man tilted his head toward it, his eyes rheumy and astonished. He slipped the cross into the breast pocket of his sweater and then grabbed her hand and kissed it. The stubble of his beard grazed her skin. She pulled away as if she’d received a small electric shock.
“I’m going to tell my wife about you,” he explained.
The bus braked and stopped. They swayed forward. All around them people jumped to their feet, hastily pulling belongings from the overhead racks. The old man raised himself up out of his seat, and the push of passengers eager to get off carried him down the aisle without another word.
Inside the station the old man leaned against the wall. The crucifix gleamed on his palm. He could hardly wait to phone his wife and tell her what had happened. He would have to explain why he’d kissed another woman’s hand; maybe that could wait till she’d seen the cross for herself. Reaching into his pocket for telephone change, he came upon the pouch of chewing tobacco. It would feel good to throw it away. One less thing he’d have to confess.
The waiting room in Memphis was spacious, open as a warehouse. Along one wall were lockers-to-rent no longer in use. September 11 had put an end to that. Anyone could stuff a bomb in a duffel bag and leave it in a locker. There were no trash cans for the same reason. His son had been killed in the battle for Fallujah. so the old man didn’t need convincing.
The station was loud tonight. At the far end, on a bank of payphones, a large pale teenage girl was yelling into a phone. A child bucked in her arms, screaming, “No, no, no!”
The old man shook his head. His wife would never be able to hear over that commotion. Between him and the payphones were rows of uncomfortable metal chairs. He’d gotten too big to fit in them. His bus didn’t leave for three hours so he’d have to amuse himself in the gift shop or the greasy spoon. At least there he could sit and rest his legs. He ducked into the men’s room to relieve his bladder and his conscience of the damning pouch of chaw.
Whistling, he checked the schedule board above the counter. The bus to Alabama didn’t depart until 3 a.m. Surely he’d run into the woman again before then. He didn’t even know her name.
On his return to the waiting room, the child was still wailing. He searched the seats for the woman from the bus. In the center of the room a drunken couple was arguing. The woman wore short shorts, a halter top, and house slippers. Her white skin freckled and her hair bleached blonde. The way her arms sliced the air when she yelled reminded the old man of his daughter-in-law. He cut a wide path around her.
Beside the ticket counter a young Black cop was eying the rambunctious pair. His hips were hung with a gun, cuffs, radio, a nightstick. The old man’s son had been a cop in Cairo, a member of the National Guard. Suddenly he remembered the stolen ROTC pin on his collar. He hoped he didn’t look guilty.
Nodding at the cop, he began to whistle. Whistling, he checked the schedule board above the counter. The bus to Alabama didn’t depart until 3 a.m. Surely he’d run into the woman again before then. He didn’t even know her name.
In the narrow entrance to the café, tattooed teens crowded around flashing video games. Behind them a zigzag of bleary travelers waited to order burgers and pick up fries. The woman wasn’t in the line or sitting at any of the tables. Limping over to the gift shop he found it empty except for the shapely Black girl behind the register. She was on her cell phone. Her red apron dripped with all manner of bling. Ribbons and buttons and whatnots.
The old man slowed. He would browse here a while. There might even be a trinket in it for his wife. Though nothing could compare to the gift in his pocket. He pressed his fingers against the crucifix to make sure it was there and real.
He gazed around the shop. Stuffed greyhounds paraded along the upper shelves. His wife liked that kind of thing, but a fake dog would make Spike jealous. The earrings and bracelets in the display counter were nice but too costly. He spun the rack of puzzle books, cheap paperbacks, religious self-help. A gift to make her laugh would be better. Googly-eyed sunglasses, an Elvis knickknack, a silly sign with a bow-legged mule.
Overpriced picture postcards celebrated the mighty Mississippi, Memphis’s infamous Beale Street music, and the city’s rock-and-roll shrine, Graceland. He picked up a card with Elvis’s cockamamie pool on the front. He’d seen it for himself. On a sightseeing trip they’d taken to Memphis when their little boy was four or five. The first morning they’d gone down to the Peabody Hotel so the kid could see the famous Marching Ducks making their daily parade through the lobby on a red carpet rolled out for them. The child had laughed and clapped his hands, watching the birds saunter like celebrities all the way to the marble fountain where they would spend their day.
But you never knew what would stick with a kid. The whole way back to Illinois the only thing the boy talked about was the cop outside Graceland. It was Elvis’ fortieth birthday. The policeman was shooing away a couple of singing hippies. A man and a woman in ragtag tie-dye. The scruffy musicians had scrambled off laughing, the few coins they earned falling from a guitar case. The officer had picked up the change and given it to the kid. The boy didn’t care about the money. He only saw the cop, his gun, the radio. He talked about that radio for months. He was hooked even then. Yeah, thirty-five was too young to give up your life but at least his son died doing what he was born to do. If that wasn’t success the old man didn’t know what was. Try explaining that to the boy’s mother.
He saw it clearly now. There was a Divine hand in how things happened. You could trust it even if you didn’t like it. For years he’d been drifting from the Lord. Now his King had called him back. He need not fear his wife’s death or his own nor mourn his son a second longer. They would all be together one day soon. Of that he had just been reassured.
He had to find the woman. But what would he say to her? Thank you was not enough. The thought of kissing her hand made his cheeks burn. He’d have to give the Lord credit for that too.
What could he give her in exchange? That was it. He’d get something for her instead of the wife. He had fifteen bucks. Enough for a phone call and three meals. For a second he considered giving the woman his son’s ROTC pin. But that didn’t sit so well with him. There had to be something else.
She was leaning on the counter, her head propped up on one hand. She was practically asleep. It would be so easy to slip a small item into his pocket and walk away. He pressed his fingers against the crucifix. Help me.
His eye fell on a rack of key chains with Elvis ornaments attached. A cardboard guitar. A plastic replica of Graceland complete with columns. A bust of the King himself. One gold-plated chain came with a portrait of Elvis in a flashing gold frame. He was dressed all in white with a single molten spotlight behind him, knees bent, hips thrust forward. It was perfect. He would trade her chains. Jesus for Elvis. A King for a King.
He flipped the portrait over. His joy faded. $14.95. He could afford it if he didn’t call his wife. Or eat. You had to buy food to sit at the café tables. Otherwise, the cop would move you along. Buying anything in the store would mean standing or walking for the next three hours. He had to sit at least part of the time, someplace other than the john.
Unless he stole it. The idea was out in his mind before he could stop it. He cut his eyes at the cash register. The blinged-out clerk was no longer on her cell. She was leaning on the counter, her head propped up on one hand. She was practically asleep. It would be so easy to slip a small item into his pocket and walk away.
He pressed his fingers against the crucifix. Help me.
Memphis was the woman’s least favorite stop on the whole go-around. In the middle of the night, people in the station were at their surliest. By the payphones a little boy howled in the clutch of an overweight teenager. Neither of them looked like they got much sunlight. A pair of drunks in the middle of the room was a different disaster. A blonde was passed out across two chairs, revealing an ugly gash above a bruised eye. Her partner, a rail-thin guy with a gray pompadour, leaned over her, shouting into her face. They felt combustible, as if at any second they might burst into flame.
The woman skirted the smoldering couple and the flailing child. As she passed the on-duty cop she glanced back. The blonde came to, spit in the pompadour’s face, and raced out of the station’s glass doors. The woman retreated into the doorway of the gift shop. The pompadour marched past her after the blonde. His hands swung like paddles. The cop fell in behind them and pursued them onto the street.
The woman turned into the gift shop. It never seemed to change from year to year. The same dingy stuffed animals lined the shelves. The books in the racks had the same musty smell. She halted. Ten feet away the old man was bent over a display counter. She backed out of the shop before he could spot her.
In the waiting room the child was still shrieking, “No! No!” over the teen’s desperate shouts. The woman peered past the dinging video games into the busy café. Her head ached from lack of sleep and food. She whirled around, not knowing where to go, then pushed through the front doors of the station.
In fifteen years of Memphis layovers, she’d never been outside. The drunks and the cop were nowhere to be seen. The bus depot was in the heart of the hotel section surrounded by smoky music clubs and all-night places to eat. Down the street in the circular driveway of a Radisson Inn sat a huge plastic hot dog in a vinyl-shiny roll. It was as big as a cement truck. The marquee above the frank read Pork Products Trade Show. Come In and Pig Out.
What rattled her was the exultation she’d glimpsed on his face when she held out the crucifix. That transfixed joy, its transparent purity, when had she ever felt anything like that?
Laughter spiraled up the street. On the far sidewalk two young musicians were trailed by two young women in low-cut tops, jeans, and high clunky heels. The men’s shoulders were bent under the weight of guitars and amplifiers. They wore their ambition like logos on T-shirts. Memphis had not changed that much either.
All at once a dented town car with a missing back fender screeched around the corner and pulled up to the curb. The teenage girl rushed out of the station carrying the now-sleeping boy. The door slammed. The car squealed up the street through a red light and vanished.
The woman breathed into the quiet. Soft mist circled the streetlights with haloes. She could still feel the scrape of the old man’s beard on her hand. The intrusion of his kiss, that wasn’t what bothered her. She didn’t envy him his love for his wife or his wife his dependable loyalty. What rattled her was the exultation she’d glimpsed on his face when she held out the crucifix. That transfixed joy, its transparent purity, when had she ever felt anything like that?
Across the street the musicians were cracking wiener jokes and making the girls giggle. Their voices went into her. She’d known it once, if only for a moment, in the merger of her husband’s voice with hers. Somewhere in this maze of streets was the dark corner where he had scored a bag of heroin on the third day of their honeymoon. She scarcely remembered the perilous ride from Memphis to the east Texas town where he’d left her with his sister. But she never forgot his parting words. If you can’t be an artist, at least you can live an artist’s life.
Well, she had failed at both. From Texas she went by herself to New York City to make it as a singer. The auditions were packed. Callbacks caused her to throw up. This wasn’t how music was supposed to make her feel. She packed her bags and went home to the Smokeys. She didn’t have the courage to make the necessary sacrifices. But when her parents got sick, she made sacrifices anyway. She stayed with them ten years. Somewhere along the way she stopped singing.
The old man’s rapture haunted her. She had not just abandoned the effort to make her life count; she no longer cared. She’d become indifferent to the possibility that her life could matter, if not to anyone else, then at least to herself, lying alone in the dark when the hollowness descended.
The coronas around the streetlights sharpened, refracted by her tears. A soft rain began to fall. She held her palms up to receive the drops. The asphalt was shiny as patent leather. On the sidewalk across the street, traces of warm footsteps evaporated in the cool wet air.
After a moment she realized she was hungry. She went back inside. The cop had returned to his post by the ticket counter. She walked into the café. The cold air was dry as paper. She bought a box of popcorn and a Dr. Pepper and glanced around for somewhere to sit.
A raised hand got her attention. The old man sat in a booth facing the door. He waved her over. On the table before him was a feast of burgers, French fries and oozy orange nachos.
“I got something for you,” he croaked.
The woman slid into the seat across from him and dug into her popcorn. The old man held out a closed fist like a child playing a guessing game. She offered her palm and he dropped her gift into it.
Her fingers curled around metal and plastic. She opened her hand. Perched on her palm was a key chain attached to a miniature plastic Graceland, columns and all. She choked and coughed, took a sip of soda. “Where did you get this?”
Her fingers curled around metal and plastic. She opened her hand. Perched on her palm was a key chain attached to a miniature plastic Graceland, columns and all.
She choked and coughed, took a sip of soda. “Where did you get this?”
“I want you to know I didn’t steal it.” The old man tapped the empty lapel where his son’s ROTC pin had been. “I traded the girl. She likes that kind of thing.”
The woman had no idea what he was talking about. “You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.” She shook the ornament like a bell. “I was there once.”
“Me too.”
She set the popcorn on the table and stood. “Maybe our paths will cross again,” she told the old man. “You never know.”
Then she strode out of the café into the waiting room to catch the bus home. Her hand circled Graceland. In line for the bus, she glanced down at the bauble and burst out laughing. She felt like singing.
About the author
Sybil Rosen's latest collection of short stories, all of which are set on Greyhound buses, is called Riding the Dog is an award-winning young-adult novelist, playwright, and short-story writer. Her 2021 picture book, Carpenter's Helper, was recently selected for Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library. She and the actor/director Ethan Hawke adapted her memoir about Texas music legend Blaze Foley, Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze Foley, for the movie Blaze, which Hawke directed. She lives along the Chattahoochee River with her dog, Bria.
- Sybil Rosenhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/sybil-rosen/
- Sybil Rosenhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/sybil-rosen/
- Sybil Rosenhttps://www.salvationsouth.com/author/sybil-rosen/
