My head popped up. I caught up with his strides, feeling like a mother with a little child, going along with a cockamamie plan of skipping town to find some harmonica. This was all pretend, so I pretended.
“Yes, let’s hit the road, Jack,” I said loudly, somewhere between relief and disappointment. “Sure, go right ahead.”
He smiled real big, looking over at the two shiny Greyhound buses idling at the curb, the side panels open and packed with luggage. The smell of fuel in the air. Some people sat on the benches, but it was mostly empty, which was good considering Papa had trouble with manners from time to time.
In the lobby, a chubby lady was crying and carrying on, clutching what looked like her daughter. I tried not to stare, but they were bawling big time. Seemed not all adventures were the happy-go-lucky type. People traveled for vacation, funerals, work, to care for loved ones. I turned around and there was Papa, already up at the counter, reaching for his back pocket.
My hands went cold. What was he doing? The old man reached back and produced a battered relic of a wallet. His tongue peeked out from his lips as he reached inside, and I was floored when he came out with two bills. I scooted closer. Fifties.
The clerk typed something in. “Okay, we have you on the next bus out, headed to Roanoke, then Wytheville, then Knoxville…”
Bang. Bang. Bang. My heart squashed around in my chest as the listed all the stops along the way.
Knoxville
Nashville
Memphis
My mouth like sand paper. We were really going to hop a bus and go to all these cities? I jumped at the blast of words over the loudspeaker. A bus departing for Texas. Texas! Places I’d only read of or seen in the movies, cities and towns flashing on the screen as real destinations. An image of Mom seared my brain like a fire poker. Punishment? I’d be in a boys’ home if she found out I was even near a bus station. Or worse, she might think I was doing what my dad had done.
I scraped down a swallow as Papa gestured back to me and the clerk smiled. Two tickets. Printed off, given to him. He took his change, fixed his guitar case and turned to me. “Good news, Caleb. We leave in twenty minutes.”
I tried to catch my breath. He’d escaped. We’d escaped. The old man had used me like a pawn, found the bus station, gathered up some cash, and purchased the tickets. My hands went numb. I blinked, trying to keep my game face. “So we’re really leaving?”
“Of course we are. We’re going to Uncle Clyde’s house.”
Not unless that bus is a time machine, I thought, as a couple brushed past us to the counter. It dawned on me how these were real people going to real places, not playing pretend with an old man. I looked at my grandpa real, real close. His eyes were settled. Not jumpy and not wild. He’d shaved, and in his clean suit he looked somewhat respectable. I noticed he’d even polished up his old shoes. As for me, I was wearing camo cut-offs and a faded blue t-shirt, not exactly traveling clothes—not clothes suitable for departures and arrivals, transfers or boarding.
My brain spun a web of possibilities. A phone sat on the clerk’s desk. Most people had one stuck to their ear. Again, I had Mrs. Magnolia’s number in my pocket. I could end this in a flash. Papa would catch a ride home, and Miss Vickie would thank me for my heroic deed. No, Miss Vickie would have me jailed, or at least banned from the premises.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe we’d all get a good laugh about this one day, joking about that time Papa wandered off and tried to hop a bus out of town. I could hear Mrs. Magnolia whooping it up. Oh honey, it was a riot. He just walked right out of here to skip town. I’ll just have to write a poem about it!
Outside, my breaths caught as I fumbled over what to say. We took a seat under a tree, and as I was working to put a plan together, Papa unsnapped his guitar case and whipped out his six-string.
The few travelers in the courtyard perked up as Papa crossed his legs, his pants going high up on his socks, and started plucking out a song.
Wake up Momma, turn your lamp down low…
Statesboro Blues, right there in the little patio. Heads turned, nodding along, smiling and recognizing the tune. Papa picked away, and even though I was a mess right then I couldn’t help but to smile.
I’m going to the country, baby, do you wanna go…
It worked, too. Papa could still play the guitar like magic, and the song did something to me out there in the morning heat. It gave me hope. Freedom. It did things to my sensibilities and swept me up in its spirit. It made me feel like even if Mom was going to kill me, it was better to enjoy the present than sit here worrying about what might happen.
By the time he brought the song home, a small gathering formed. They broke out into scattered applause when he finished. Ten minutes to go and the music was working; I couldn’t get off my tail to end this thing. And it was all because of one word: Adventure. I could smell it in the wafts of diesel in the air, feel it on my skin. See it in Papa’s face, how it lit up like a song when he said it. Adventure. It was right there, a blues-swinging journey into his past.
And what if he was right? What if Robert Johnson’s harmonica was out there, sitting in some house on Peach Grove Street, or whatever he’d said? It had all the makings of one heck of a documentary, if it were true.
Papa was too old for wishing for things to happen, just like I was too young to be worrying all the time. The blues was calling, and who was I to tell Papa he couldn’t answer the call?
Arkansas. Spelled out on the sign on the front of the bus. It felt like my feet were tangled as I followed Papa up the steps to board. As for his feet, he’d traded his worn loafers for shiny ones, and it showed in his strides. Yes, sir, he was smooth as silk, nodding and humming and tipping his hat with a smile.
It was all I could do to grip the railing, worn and warm from all the hands before mine. We were really doing this.
Was he waiting for me to call his bluff? After all, he’d bought the tickets, dared me to stop him, and now we’d climbed aboard the cool, dark bus that was like a cave with curved, plush seats lining the windows. It smelled rubbery—like new carpet—as I followed Papa back about mid-way, where he fell into a seat by the window and left me the aisle. I sat down, sinking deep into the comfortable cushion.
A few other travelers shuffled on board, knocking into the seats with their bags and carry-ons. I leaned close to Papa. “This is a round trip, right?”
He turned away from the window. The bus made a big swooshing sound and mimicked his big rumbly laugh. “Life’s a one-way trip, Caleb.”
I didn’t like the way he was talking. A quick glance around showed only a few heads sprouting up on the big seats. The driver stepped up, made some adjustments, and took his seat. My body froze up as the bus squeaked, hissed, then set off purring up the drive. When it turned and ground its way up the road, my stomach lurched with the gears. The tinted windows muted the morning sun and the familiar sights of a familiar street. I said a silent goodbye to Mayfield.
We passed the market, the YMCA, and soon the old historic district gave way to the new downtown bridge as we set out on the expressway. I started thinking about how my dad had done this and never looked back. I felt smaller as the world grew with each road sign, each exit; and each breath seemed to take me away from home and down a lonesome road.