I couldn’t force myself to take this from him.
Humming a tune, Papa turned to me with a twinkly grin as we broke outside.
The sun was bright and the birds were chirping. Papa took the sidewalk with measured steps while I looked back to the door, searching for cameras or Miss Vickie, just waiting for alarms or armed guards.
I thought about my bike, leaning up against the post up front. Then I fell into his strides. I told myself Papa was a grown man. He could make his own decisions. Besides, they couldn’t just keep him there. He was free to check himself out for a bit, go on a field trip. Yep, maybe he’d had his little lawyer guy do it, the power-of-attorney guy I’d seen come around a few times because Mom didn’t want to deal with it. But who knew what was best for Clem Wallace but Clem Wallace? Least, it’s how I saw it.
He deserved an adventure.
We walked free and clear, right out into the heat of the day, gaining steam. Papa found a tune, and before I knew it I was humming along with him. We marched right out of Autumn Springs like two people with no reason to worry. No alarms sounded, no bells rang, and no SWAT team came to arrest us. Just me and him and his battered old guitar out for a stroll.
Three blocks later we settled into a bench at the bus stop. I sat beside him, hearing his wheeze in the wind, the traffic and the birds. He was all over the place, looking around like he’d never been outside before. But the day was gorgeous, so I loosened up some. Papa nodded to a few of the ladies, even smiled at a small child.
He was a mix of Papas right then. Old and new. Then again, nothing was the same with him anymore, just like nothing was the same with Mom anymore. I sat back and smiled. Yep, the two of us were on the lam, like partners, with the approaching heat of the day rolling off the asphalt. I gotta say, it felt right good.
The city bus hissed to a stop, and we hopped aboard. Papa pulled a couple crumpled bills from his pocket and we took our seat in the front.
The bus jerked forward. “Where are we headed?” I asked. I figured we’d need to keep a low profile. Circle the town, then maybe talk him into cruising down to the Mayfield House where he and the Corn Cobb Blues Band used to play on Saturday nights. Maybe get him to swing for a bite to eat.
He gripped the railing of the seat, his old hands still calloused from work and strings. A baby wailed in the back of the bus. I asked Papa again what he had planned.
“Downtown. To the Greyhound station,” he said without looking at me, a stubborn smile on his wilted face.
Wait. Greyhound station? Was he serious?
The bus stopped and three men climbed on. They looked at us, then to Papa’s guitar. I guess we were a sight: Papa, his faraway gaze out the window, like he saw something I couldn’t see. When we got going again, I kept my voice low, fighting to keep the rising panic contained to my stomach.
“Greyhound station?”
There was no way. I mean, there was just no way. I turned and set my hand on his arm to get his full attention. He looked directly into my eyes. “Yes, boy. I’m going to play Robert Johnson’s harmonica.”
Crazy talk. My chest tightened and my arms went tingly. Again, I had to be clear. “Wait, Papa. You don’t really plan on hopping a Greyhound bus, do you?”
“I most certainly do.”
He was sincere as a preacher. He gripped his guitar case like I was going to try and take it from him. “We’re going to Arkansas. And I’m going to sing the blues.”
If I’d stood up and screamed, the bus might have lurched to a stop. People might have rushed over and asked if I was okay, then turned their attention to the wobbly old man beside me. There’d be a whole big scene as they sorted through the mess, then carted Papa back to Autumn Springs. Maybe they’d blame me. Or him.
But then, what if they called the police, or an ambulance? The tingles flashed as I felt myself getting worked up. I was a world-class worrier sometimes, especially during the school year. I worried myself into a knot and didn’t get a lick of sleep. I took a deep breath to steady my fears. This was summer, and I was going to enjoy what was left of it. Besides, I needed some adventure in my life. This could do Papa some good. Do me some good.
I hardly ever did anything out of the ordinary. My idea of a vacation was YMCA camp or hanging out in the woods behind the house, or, more recently, dreaming about Miss Cheryl’s smile and hoping she’d touch my hand. Seemed kind of hopeless, thinking about it now.
I looked to Papa again. His face was set and strong against the day. He was so bound and determined, like those downtown buildings taking on the morning sun. We coasted past all the familiar landscapes I’d seen a million times. Past the park and Mayfield Hall, toward the bridge where we stopped at the light. I looked up Fifth Street toward all the monuments looking over my little town from the hills.
More people climbed aboard, lugging grocery bags or book bags. No one said much or looked around much. People went about their business, sliding into seats and playing with phones or staring straight ahead at nothing as the bus rumbled ahead. I studied the advertisements above. Sodas and smiles. One for a crisis line. I tried not to think about Mom and a crisis at the same time.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a plan—maybe find a way to convince Papa that, while this was a blast, cruising around and sneaking off to see the town, we might want to get back sooner than later—sooner than any Greyhound station for sure. I was getting ready to say it, too, when Papa reached up and yanked the cord.
Ding. The bus moseyed over to the curb, and a swell of relief rushed over me as we arrived at the old train depot with a swish. I stood and smiled. “We doing some exploring?”
The old man gave me a smile fit for a circus. “This is where our journey begins, Caleb.”
He rocked to his feet and fixed his hat. Then he snatched his guitar case and nearly thumped somebody in the head with it. It was like I was floating along, my brain and body fighting each other. I guess my brain knew this was the time to stop him, to make a call and get Papa back to Autumn Springs in time for Salisbury steak. But my feet happily tagged along. Somewhere in my chest I felt a tingle of hope. Papa and me. Adventure. A little trip over the river and hills and into something new. Something unknown.
I’d been to the beach twice, to Richmond three or four times, and Roanoke for a handful of visits. Each trip had been planned and rushed and ended up being more trouble than fun. And now, with Papa here, hopping off the bus, his guitar case swinging freely off his back, the warm summer sun hitting his eyes like trouble, I guess I was ready for a trip.
We passed the shiny black fencing and lampposts surrounding the brick Tarmac of the bus station. These were already new sights for me because I had no idea there was a fancy bus station down there, and I wasn’t sure how Papa knew, either. Seemed he had all sorts of know-how in his head today, whistling a tune and looking sharp in his fresh-pressed suit.
“Okay, Caleb, let the fun begin.”
Crazy as it sounds, I followed him down the fancy brick walkway to the station. Then it dawned on me: Papa didn’t have any money.
Adventure. Sure. I smiled my new smile, the one Mrs. Magnolia told me not to change. I hadn’t seen Papa with cash since he’d come to live at Autumn Springs. He usually rambled about insurance, his pension, or floated back in time talking about corner stores and comic books, so I was fairly sure there wasn’t any money in his wallet or if he even knew what money meant anymore.