Westbound to Sweetwater

Chapter 14

The morning was as gray as my mother’s face when she took Mark and me to the bus station. She walked us onto the motorcoach and settled us into the front seats. Then she asked the driver to keep an eye on us. He looked at her, then at us. Without a word, he gave a single nod.

Tears streamed down her face, and her finger was bandaged again. Blood had seeped through the gauze, staining it red. The bus driver kept the door open, and the smell of diesel turned my stomach. She pulled a scrap of paper from her purse and wrote our names, address, and phone number. Her tears dotted the paper before she safety-pinned it to my shirt. Then she took mine and Mark’s hands and folded them together. Without saying a word, she touched each of our blonde heads before stepping off the bus. As soon as she disappeared through the doorway, Mark reached over and ripped the note from my shirt.

“Take that off, stupid. We know where we live.”

He crumpled it in his hand and shoved it into my pocket. My throat ached from holding back my sobs. I adored Mark, but he acted as if he hated me. To be fair, I considered it my life’s work to pester him—but not that day. I crumbled when he spoke harshly to me.

Mom never explained what had happened the night before. She never told me I hadn’t really seen a gun. She never said we were safe. She never told me everything would be okay. I kept waiting for someone to explain it. No one ever did.

Outside the bus window, the sun was just coming up as we pulled away from the Oklahoma City Bus Terminal. As my parents’ marriage came undone, they sent Mark and me to Sweetwater—the place where it had all begun.

Last night, when my mother told me to run, I flew down the stairs without waking my brothers. Barefoot, with my nightgown flapping behind me, I ran down the middle of the pitch-black street. At the end of the block, I stopped and looked back. I strained to see into the darkness, but the street was empty. I listened. All I heard was my own breathing and the frantic thump of June bugs hurling themselves against the streetlight.

To my left, a porch light glowed. It belonged to Mrs. Beverly, an older lady from my church. She was a big woman who wore big jewelry, bright floral dresses, and lipstick so vivid it made her smile seem even bigger. She took forever to answer my pounding on the front door. The moment the door cracked open, I clawed my way inside. Between gasps, my words came out as gibberish. Mrs. Beverly wrapped me in a blanket that smelled like mothballs and tried to make sense of what I was saying. As soon as she heard the word “gun,” she rushed for the phone without another question.

The familiar warmth of my mother’s hand on my shoulder woke me. For a moment, I forgot where I was and what had happened. Then I saw Mrs. Beverly and remembered. Mom helped me into my clothes and thanked her as we walked out the door. Mark shoved a warm Pop-Tart wrapped in a paper towel into my hand. He knew I liked them almost burnt. Now, Mark and I were on a westbound bus headed for Sweetwater, watching Oklahoma City disappear behind us.

Once we left the city, the view changed to flat stretches of green and yellow farmland. Scattered trees leaned sideways from a lifetime of Oklahoma winds. Through the bus’s wide front window, we watched tumbleweeds skitter across the highway before they caught in a barbed-wire fence. Mark liked to give the tumbleweeds cartoon voices to make me laugh. My favorite was his Donald Duck impression.

“No! Not the fence! I want to be free!”

I wanted to laugh. I really did. But I couldn’t.

To pass the time, we played Thumb War and the ABC Game. Mark liked Slug Bug, but I didn’t. Every Volkswagen we spotted earned me a frog—a one-knuckle punch to my skinny upper arm. Eventually, we ran out of games, and the gentle rocking of the bus lulled me to sleep.

Hours later, I woke to the hiss of the bus’s brakes and the slam of the doors opening. We had arrived at Sweetwater’s four-way stop. The bus pulled onto the shoulder beside the general store. I saw Granddaddy Joe unfolding himself from the Pontiac where he and Grandmother had been waiting.

We gathered our few belongings and stepped off the bus. A lump rose in my throat as I searched for Grandmother’s face. The moment I reached her, I burst into tears, wrapped my arms around her, and buried my face against her middle. My nose filled with the light scent of Estée Lauder perfume. She gently peeled me away, pulled a white handkerchief from her purse, wiped my face, and helped me blow my nose. Then she took a long look at both of us.

“Joe, they’re thin.” She sucked on her teeth.

Granddaddy answered with a low, “Haw,” still chewing his toothpick.

Then Grandmother took us into the store to choose a Fanta from the cooler while Granddaddy had a word with the bus driver and loaded our things into the trunk. After what felt like forever on the slow bus ride, everyone suddenly expected me to make an impossible decision.

Orange or grape?

Before I could decide, Grandmother settled it by pressing a grape Fanta into my hand. Granddaddy told me to “drink it up.” We had to leave the bottle because of the deposit—he wanted his nickel back. I painfully chugged the icy, fizzy pop while he waited for his nickel. Granddaddy nodded toward the Pontiac.

“Come on, Mother. Let’s git ’em back to the house.”