Marna

By Michael A Henderson

Marna can not wait to escape her West Texas prison of flatness. Made to work day after day in her aunt’s puny flower shop, she instead dreams of big accomplishments far from Lubbock. With eyes to the skies, her mind is always on the future. Yet in finally breaking away, her impulsive spirit sends her into a spiral of regrets

• Language: English
• Publisher: Killer Bs
• Release date: Nov 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780998719559

Michael A Henderson

Dr. M.A. Henderson, married and father of three, lives in eastern Washington state. As a chemist, he has published 145 scientific articles, spoken before international audiences, and travelled extensively in the U.S. and abroad. Marna is the third in a series on the Fruit of the Spirit. As a graduate of the University of Texas, at Austin, the novel reflects his envy of all things Texan.

Book preview

WASP 1

A REMINDER OF DEATH

CHAPTER

1

STUNG

No matter how many times they said it was the thing to be, patience never made much sense to her. If what she needed was already hers, then why not have it?! But all those adults kept telling her to wait, proving that none of them really cared. To them, she was nothing more than another small child among many. So… instead of looking to the grownups, she learned what she could from the kids. Most were like her – sad and afraid. Not one would ever become a real friend, that much was sure.

Everything she once cared about in this world was gone… and the little that remained could easily be fit within the small Samsonite that Uncle Amos gave her on the night they came to take her away. Said it was the best he could do for her. She felt grateful… even though one of its clasps was broken and the inside seemed stained with ink. She had that suitcase open on the bed and started tossing in the few bits of clothing she owned.

It was so unfair! Without so much as a word of warning, Mrs. Jaworski had taken hold of her wrist and dragged her upstairs to pack. The woman even stood by with crossed arms and a crossed look on her face to make sure the job got done. Though she right off insisted to know why… the old lady only grunted out that it should be obvious to any child with half a brain. Mrs. Jaworski was not a particularly kind person… something she pointed out to the woman not three days after being moved in.

I don’t get paid for being nice.

Well, you could try anyway!

Watch that lip of yours, little girl, or I’ll turn it fat in a flash! You think you’re the only one with troubles?! You have no idea of the hardships I faced when I was your age! The Great War left half of my homeland fatherless!

Mrs. Jaworski did so much talking about that Great War… almost as if it was one of her own making. But whether it happened to be that terrible one her parents told her about… or the one the radio reported on in that strange place called ‘Co-re-uh’… she considered all such adult talk as simply a way of getting kids to obey. She had a mind of her own to know what was best.

Glancing up from her suitcase, she noticed that tight-jawed expression on Mrs. Jaworski’s face – the one that warned of her being on the verge of swatting someone – so she sped up the packing. Thinking back, she realized that the old woman really had been annoying lately. Maybe she should have known that something was about to happen… but being a foster child still felt so wrong to her. The only thing Mrs. Jaworski would say about the move from the upper bedroom was that space had to be made for the arrival of a new child. She knew this to be a lie. Though adults kept telling her that a six year old was practically a baby, she thought herself plenty smart at seeing through their tricks. Even Uncle Amos’s silliness about the suitcase was plain enough. It was rubbish as a gift… but that was hardly the point. He had tried his best to cheer her up… even though he too was sad. But what made her really mad was that her parents had owned plenty of suitcases. After all, they had travelled together on so many weekend trips. She even had a bag of her own… a soft, plaid-covered one. It had a combination lock that only she knew how to open, and lots of little compartments inside for hiding her special treasures.

So where is it… and where’re my other things?!

She repeatedly asked Mrs. Jaworski such questions… and always got back the same answer.

Just do as you’re told.

Perhaps it made no difference what suitcase she used, for she had very little to pack. The few things she was taking out of the dresser were ‘granted’ to her by ‘the State’... something that Mrs. Jaworski made a point of reminding her nearly every day. What she had once called her own… her clothes, toys and stuffed animals… all of it had been locked away in some strange place the man at the courthouse called ‘ar-bee-tray-shun.’ That word made no sense to her… though it was probably just one of those that adults enjoyed hearing themselves say. Besides, nobody needed to tell her to shun bees. She was absolutely terrified of those bugs!

The packing job was scarcely done when the old hag snatched up the suitcase and shuffled her downstairs toward the back of the house, all the while complaining about how much work it would take to get the upstairs ready for the next foster child. She also knew this to be a lie. One of the older kids had told her that the state of Michigan paid Mrs. Jaworski whether their rooms were cleaned or not.

Whatever she had done to deserve being moved, it was serious. Her new room was the one every child whispered about – that dingy little pantry-like space just off the kitchen. Kids got put in there as punishment for doing bad stuff… or whenever Mrs. Jaworski got tired of dealing with an attitude. She had never been sent there herself… until now.

The door closed behind her without a word from Mrs. Jaworski as to how long she would be there. She clearly heard the key turn, but checked the knob anyway.

Locked.

This room was super smelly… sort of like wet socks… and really dinky. There was only one window up high… and it was boarded over, making it impossible to know night from day. The only furniture was a wicker-bottomed chair with so many pokey parts to its worn-out seat that she doubted anyone could sit comfortably in it. The rest of the floor was taken up by a bare mattress, much older and thinner than the one she had slept on upstairs. No matter which way she flipped the disgusting thing, it was impossible to avoid its many overlapping rings of pee stain. Still… it would be better than sleeping on the floor.

She was not allowed to leave this nasty backroom all day. To use the bathroom, she had to call out until Mrs. Jaworski could find the time to take her. Even her dinner was served there on a lap tray rather than in the dining room with the other foster children. One of those kids… that pimply-faced teenager named Rudy… came round just to taunt her. He started out stupid by murmuring her name through the key hole, while also laughing his head off, before finally getting around to his real reason for being there. With his I-know-so-much-more-than-you-do voice, he informed her that because Mrs. Jaworski had been unable to find anyone willing to buy her, she was to be hauled away with tomorrow’s trash. Not for one moment did she believe him. He had once claimed to be the secret son of President Roosevelt, and therefore the rightful heir to the throne of America. She called him a liar… just like before… to which point he pounded on the door before finally leaving her be.

Nothing Rudy said had made her afraid. She was already scared out of her mind. Whispered words from Carla did not help.

Marna… are you okay?

Go away.

I’m sorry… it’s… it’s not fair what she’s doing to you.

I said go away!

You need to know… they’re coming for you tomorrow. I heard her say it on the phone. She’s worried that you might try to run away. It’s happened before. She doesn’t get paid unless you’re here when they show up.

Carla went quiet after that… which was fine with her. Nothing more needed to be said about who ‘they’ were in order for her to know that she did not want to know.

Truth be told… up until that point… staying in Mrs. Jaworski’s house had not been all bad. Carla was a nice enough girl to share a room with… even if she cried in her sleep. Mrs. Jaworski sometimes allowed them into the front room during her radio programs… as long as everyone stayed quiet… and by keeping the house rules, no one ever got denied food. Oatmeal was ladled out from a large pot every morning, then there was peanut butter on bread for lunch, with boiled potatoes, cabbage and a bit of hash for dinner. Having the same thing day after day did not much bother her, as she had little appetite for food. Leastwise not for anything other than what Mother once cooked. Besides… food was just one of those things that got a foster child into trouble, either from complaining about how little there was or whenever something got swiped from the kitchen. Mrs. Jaworski was immensely concerned about children eating too much, but never gave a thought to those who ate little.

That night, she lay uneasy atop the sheet and blanket Mrs. Jaworski gave her, waking whenever those things got tangled up beneath her. Once, she spent a long while staring up into that bulb hanging from the cracked plaster above. To her, it looked very much like a great big glob of yellow glue… or maybe a huge teardrop about to fall from a really wrinkly face. Rolling onto her side, she tried to think about something else… something other than who might be coming for her in the morning. She really should be getting herself ready for that. So many words had been said in that courtroom about her future as a foster child… but that day seemed so long ago.

Father always said… he said a person should think their way out of a problem before the problem occurs. He said…

She closed her eyes tightly against the memory… and then thought better of herself. Being sad could not prepare her for the morning. She must be brave… and do as Father would have her do. So… if something got forgotten… something really important… then she should go back in time and let the smallest of things rebuild the memory. By bringing to mind those little things, he promised that she would eventually remember the big ones.

But going back hurts too much. Thinking ahead… it’s… safer. So how far back do I have to go?

The whole week following the accident was still too horrible for her. Trying to discover what had become of her parents was the worst part. She had begged them over and over, but those ambulance men refused to tell her anything. Then the needle they stuck in her arm ached terribly… and its liquid made her head real dizzy. The whole ride was so bumpy… going around so many turns… and she was already tired. She remembered falling asleep because the stretcher they put her in was real soft.

She woke up in the hospital… and not one person there would say a word about her parents. The nurses kept insisting that she rest… yet would not stop fiddling with her or pressing her to eat. Actually… she had been genuinely hungry, but nothing they gave her tasted like food. It was while sipping on a cup of broth that she first realized a piece of her back tooth had somehow been broken off. She had no idea how that might have happened. From then on, she could not keep her tongue away from that small gap… while the rest of her sought after the more important things missing from her life.

No matter how frustrated she became, no one would answer her questions. Not until that policeman showed up. He made her so mad. He was far too young to be acting as grandfatherly as he did… with too much sympathy mixed in with too much calm. It was not her fault. He got her so worked up that she was screaming like crazy for Father and Mother. But only nurses came running. Not until Uncle Amos visited later that night did she finally believe what the policemen had said.

A woman and a different policeman came the next morning. They said Uncle Amos would be taking care of her from now on… but first they had questions. The woman right off called herself a social worker… which made no sense. Mother said that socials were parties for really fancy ladies… but this woman was definitely not dressed for a party. The woman did most of the talking as the policeman stood by. Every time she glanced over at him, he smiled back as if he wanted to be her friend, but a sternness about him felt differently. She was sure that he stood there for only one reason – to decide whether she should be taken off to jail for killing her parents.

Try as she might, she could not remember a single thing about the accident. After a long time of pressing her, they finally gave up and called Uncle Amos into the room. He then took her out of the hospital and drove her all the way back to his apartment, the whole time working hard to distract her from thinking about the accident. He said he had been over to her house for clothes and some of her stuffed animals, but was unable to get in. She remembered sleeping on his couch that night in one of his beat-up t-shirts, having nothing to hold.

She was only at his place for a week before a different social worker lady and another policeman showed up one night with papers. There was a whole lot of shouting, and Uncle Amos said things he ought not to have said because the policeman got angry and shoved his face into a wall. They took her away that night, saying only that the courts would decide what was to become of her. They drove her to a strange building with bars on its windows and a tall wire fence all around. A lady there said it was a dormitory for children with no place to go. That made no sense since Uncle Amos had promised to care for her. His apartment was nothing fancy, but it clearly was a place.

They made her change in a tiled bathroom very much like the one in her elementary school… except this one had lockers. Because it was late, she was led into a darkened room with many lined-up cots. Most were already occupied. The woman put her in one and told her not to leave it until morning. She tried, but could not sleep because the mattress sagged terribly and the feather-filled pillow kept poking at her face. Still… what stood out most in memory was the echoed coughs of the other children all about her in the dark.

After a day and another night… neither of which she could remember much of… another lady came to take her away.

Today’s the day that a judge hears your case. Whichever way he decides, you won’t be staying here any longer.

She demanded to know what ‘whichever way’ meant, but the lady said it was for the judge to decide. That woman drove her to a large building with a clock tower on top. She said it was the Ingham County courthouse… something that was pretty obvious from the lettering written way up high over the front. They walked down hallways packed with people, none of whom looked in the least bit happy to be there. Stopping before a set of heavy-looking wooden doors, the social worker lady took hold of her shoulders and began lecturing her about proper courtroom manners. This judge, she said, would not tolerate children acting up in his courtroom. So it was most important that she be on her best behavior and not give him cause to discipline her. She remembered the feel of the woman gripping her hand tightly while pulling her through those doors into a large room filled with many pews. Each one faced toward a place much like where the priest at her Episcopal church stood. The man up there even had robes on… though he seemed to be doing more listening than sermonizing. The social worker put a finger to her lips and then pulled her into a pew.

It was obvious that the man sitting up high was the judge, as those at two tables… one to the right and one to the left… spoke very properly to him, saying things like ‘your honor’… and ‘with all due respect’… and ‘may it please the court.’ All that seemed so odd… especially since she could tell that every word lacked true feeling. In return, the judge never spoke for long, but when he did, everyone obeyed him immediately… sometimes with smiles and sometimes with frowns.

Just as she was beginning to pick up on what was happening, the judge brought his hammer down and everyone up front rose to leave. When the tables were cleared out, another man… this one in a uniform… shouted out some names, and then a bunch of people moved up through the little swinging gates. These did as the other groups, arguing between each other and the judge. The whole thing only lasted a few minutes before the hammer came down once more. Over and over, this strange parade went on before her, and each time she asked the social worker what was going on. Each time she received the same answer.

Never you mind. Your turn’ll be here soon enough.

She could not help it… all those boring adult voices soon put her to sleep. But she woke suddenly when the social worker lady took hold of her hand and yanked her forward. She found herself being seated at one of those tables… and remembered barely being able to make out the top of the judge’s head. He gave a wave to the uniformed man… who turned about through a rear door. He was soon back with a thick cushion for her to sit on. She said ‘thank you,’ as she knew she should, and so did the social worker, except the woman called him ‘bay-lift.’ That really struck her as funny since ‘bay’ was the color of his uniform and the cushion was obviously a lift. She was quickly reseated after a bit of rearranging… which unfortunately included a rather loud chair-on-floor screech that made the judge clear his throat in that way adults do to show their displeasure. At least the new arrangement brought her eyes up enough to see all of the judge’s face… though not far enough for her to get her elbows up on the table. With the cushion, her feet now dangled even farther off the floor than before. She did her best to hold them still… and not because the social worker had ordered her not to wiggle. Mother once said that some grownups had a difficult time thinking straight with a child nearby. So she purposed to sit still… even though she never had trouble thinking with adults around.

Somehow, being up higher made her feel more grown up… and ready to hear whatever the judge would decide. She waited for him to speak, but he just sat up there silently fiddling with his hammer. So she looked to the uniformed man, but he only stared at his watch. She was about to ask the social worker lady what was going on when a very thick man came huffing through the doors and down the aisle, all the while apologizing to the judge for being late. Through the swinging gates he came and sat at the other table. She had been so distracted by the size of this man that she did not right-off notice Uncle Amos coming in behind. Instantly throwing her hand up in a wave, she was ready to shout out a hello when the social worker rudely yanked her arm back down.

He’s not allowed to speak to you, and you’re not to speak to him… his lawyer either. As a matter of fact, you’re not to speak at all until spoken to by the judge. Understand me?

No, I don’t! He’s my…

You’re to obey regardless.

She remembered giving the woman a scowl… even though Mother would not have approved. No one had told her that Uncle Amos would be there… and surely it was to demand that she should be returned to him. Any moment now, he would stand up and tell the judge just that… except it was the social worker lady who rose first. Very irritated, she looked over at the fat man, still lumbering up beside Uncle Amos. He was struggling to button his suit coat over his belly. Uncle Amos’s team had lost the chance to go first… all because that man was so fat. But the social worker hardly got a sentence out before the fat man butted right in. Soon, the two were arguing so much that the judge had to call them forward. The three then went at it in their private hisses, completely ignoring everyone else in the courtroom. That was fine with her, as she was more interested in Uncle Amos. He mouthed out a question to her about how she was doing, and she nodded back her answer. Though he smiled, it was not at all in a happy way. It struck her as the same sort of droopy-eyed look of worry that Mother gave off to her whenever she felt sick.

The meeting in front broke up with the judge telling the courtroom that the state of Michigan was prepared to hear arguments in the custody case of ‘Marna Constance Forde.’ Hearing him say that felt so odd, seeing as no one but her parents ever used her middle name. The social worker lady spoke next… and what came out of her mouth was nothing but meanness toward Uncle Amos. The woman said his character was questionable and that many of his ‘associations’ were ‘fill-loan-he-us’… which sounded like a good thing for Uncle Amos to do for his friends. But something about that strange word made the fat man pop right up and shout ‘objection.’ She knew that word. Father sometimes said he wanted none of it out of her. But both sides… the fat man and the social worker… were doing so much objecting at the same time, both throwing out such big sounding words at each other. She looked up to the judge, expecting him to be upset. He just seemed bored.

None of this was making any sense. This was supposed to be about her, but everyone was talking about her uncle. The social worker was saying that he owed money – lots of money – to some really bad men with books, and that made him unfit to be a ‘trusted he.’ Sure… Uncle Amos was a bit peculiar in his ways… staying out all night and sleeping all day in his clothes. But he was the only family she had left.

And he’s always been good to me... even if his place smells like cigarette butts, burnt fish, and spilt beer.

All she wanted was to be back home in her room with her special things… or at least some place where nobody kept reminding her of all the sadness. Yet in looking over at Uncle Amos, him with his face buried in his hands, he seemed the saddest of all.

Though people had been coming and going quietly all morning without anyone taking note, everything in the courtroom suddenly stopped when the big wooden doors burst open and a man came rushing in. He was shouting for the judge’s attention about his ‘junction’… or at least that was what the word sounded like to her… though he did have a really funny way of speaking. This man, with short gray hair and a wrinkly sort of sunburned face, was obviously old… but that was not the strangest thing about him. He was waving a piece of paper about in the air with one hand, while the other held both a briefcase and a cowboy hat. She had seen cowboy hats plenty of times in movies, but never in real life.

The judge just nodded the man up to the front as if he had been expecting a cowboy at any minute. This man was obviously there about her… as his eyes went to her on passing. So she was especially curious about which team he would be on. It was only then that the obvious hit her – she and Uncle Amos were at different tables, which meant different sides.

As the cowboy went up to the judge, the social worker and the tubby lawyer fell in behind. She heard her name being sent back-and-forth between the four of them, yet no one bothered speaking directly to her. Although she had finished the first grade and knew a great many things about the world, the rules to this game of law were a complete mystery. It was most obvious that children were not allowed to play. Odd… this game of theirs did remind her of the one she had learned at school – four square – except there was no bouncy ball.

Or maybe that’s me…

In the moment, she could not really say what had made her do it. Perhaps she was still worn out from the hospital… or being taken from Uncle Amos in the middle of the night… or having to sleep in that creepy dormitory. Or maybe it was simply the obvious – that her parents were dead. Still… she had no inkling of it coming on, but suddenly could not contain herself. Without regard to the rules of the court, she burst out crying.

Uncle Amos was immediately at her side with comforting words, but the social worker got there just as quick. With one hand clamped down on her wrist and the other fending off Uncle Amos, the woman… so clearly annoyed at being made to leave the four square game… pulled her through the swinging gates and out of the courtroom. She was plopped down on a hallway bench and ordered to stay put. And to make sure of it, the lady asked a nearby policeman to keep watch. Without offering a word of comfort, the social worker lady turned her back and re-entered the courtroom. Sitting there fighting off tears, she realized that she had gotten her wish. She was alone.

___________

After hours of lying awake in the backroom of Mrs. Jaworski’s house, she suddenly remembered what she needed to know before ‘they’ showed up in the morning. It was the very thing that had made her cry in that courtroom. Putting Father’s trick into action had actually worked. Uncle Amos’s fat lawyer said it during the arguing… and not at all in a nice way.

Judge, you simply must reconsider. My client clearly has the girl’s best interests at heart. He’s here subjecting himself to all this unwarranted abuse, whereas that woman’s not even bothered to show up. She just sends her lawyer. That’s got to tell you something.

I’ve made my decision, counselor.

Your Honor – please! You must hear me out! I flew down there to personally speak with that woman. I know what she’s like. I can guarantee you that the crafty ol’ bitch is only interested in the money, whereas my...

The cowboy-hatted lawyer immediately got real mad… as did the social worker lady… the judge’s hammer came down hard… and she fell apart crying.

In her shock, she had taken the fat lawyer’s cruel words to be about her, but in the relative quiet of the courthouse hallway came to realize that he must have been speaking about someone else... someone old. A mean woman somewhere supposedly wanted her as badly as Uncle Amos did… but had not troubled to show up.

She never heard anything else about what happened in the courtroom that day, as the social worker came out when it was all over and took her down the hall to a small waiting area. After a long time, another woman showed up with her suitcase. She was then driven to Mrs. Jaworski’s house… and there she stayed for the rest of the summer. Her last sight of Uncle Amos was while being hustled out of the courtroom. She had not even been given the chance to say goodbye.

She only made it through the months of being a foster child in Mrs. Jaworski’s house by pretending that she was not actually alone after all. Each day, she tried hard in imagining the pride Father would have on coming home from work to learn how courageous his daughter had been. He would say that there was nothing in this world too difficult for her. Then, each night, she would pretend that Mother came to her bed, and there they would talk for hours about all the horrible things she had endured. Over and over, Mother would do that little tickle thing with a fingertip under her chin… and each time, the memory of it made her tears well up. Her mother was the only one capable of making her laugh such tears away. In her imagination, they would both then kiss her in their special way… a double kiss with a parent at each cheek… say their goodnights… and be gone forever.

It really did not matter what was to become of her when she would never again have that which truly mattered. She was alone… and tomorrow they were coming to take her away. At least now she knew. She could now bravely face the morning with the memory of Father’s encouragement and Mother’s tenderness. Lying on the thin mattress in Mrs. Jaworski’s backroom, she decided that the answer to the question on her mind was actually not such a big problem. Still… she wanted to know… maybe even needed to know. She should be prepared.

What’s a crafty old bitch?

She had heard Uncle Amos say plenty of swear words… especially while on the phone… but never that one. Of course, it was not the first time she had heard the word. An older kid at school said it to a teacher on the playground… and got swatted real hard on his rear as a result. From that, she was pretty sure it was a terrible thing to say… and a terrible thing for a woman to be called. During those first few days as a foster child, she had been convinced that Uncle Amos’s lawyer was referring to Mrs. Jaworski, but it was not too long under the woman’s roof before she considered it as very unlikely. Mrs. Jaworski was old, but far from crafty.

Lazy’s more like it.

She tried to put the question out of her mind in order to sleep, but the memory of herself crying in that courtroom because of that word kept her awake.

The tomorrow of Carla’s warning came… and true to her promise, Mrs. Jaworski was there first thing in the morning to unlock the door. After being shuffled in and out of the bathroom, she was given a cup of water and a biscuit… then ordered to hurry along in the eating of it. Of course, her foster guardian insisted on standing by as she changed. The old woman then snatched up the suitcase and pushed her along to the front parlor. There, she discovered that the ‘they’ was actually just one person – a social worker. In fact, it was the same lady who had taken her to the courthouse months before. The sight of her was an instant reminder to once again ask about her things.

Not to worry, dear. Everything’s already been boxed up and sent ahead of you.

Then, the heavy-set foster caretaker who had cooked and sheltered her for the summer said goodbye to the social worker lady, but not to her. She was led out the door to a waiting car, yet absolutely refused to go down the row house’s front steps without knowing where in the world ‘ahead’ was.

Weren’t you paying attention in court? You’re going to live with your aunt in Texas.

CHAPTER

2

WEST TEXAS

But I don’t have an aunt!

That much, she was sure of. Mother had only a brother (…no way Uncle Amos ever got married…), and Father said he had no family left. This strange aunt… it must be a lie… or maybe there was something so terribly wrong with her that her parents acted like she never existed. The bad word spoken in the courthouse came back to her again.

Well… at least she knew something about Texas. It was big… and hot… and a place where real cowboys once lived. Of course, the talk on those radio programs about gunfights… and cattle thieves… and face-painted Indians… she knew all that stuff was from long ago. None of it was interesting to her. Sitting in the social worker’s car as it pulled away from Mrs. Jaworski’s curb, she tried to picture the shape and location of that state on that map hanging in her first grade classroom. Nothing clear came to mind other than that it was somewhere in the middle… and sort of at the bottom.

Of course you do.

What’s her name?

Gwendolyn Forde, your father’s older sister. I believe she goes by the name Gwen. That’s easy enough for you to remember.

I’ve never heard of her… and I don’t know her. Why can’t I stay with Uncle Amos? I know him. He’s nice. You could drop me off there and pretend…

It’s not up to me. The judge has decided. Your uncle had his chance in court. Besides, I know for a fact that his appeal was denied.

What’s that mean?

It means everybody agrees that you being sent to your aunt in Texas is the best thing.

Well I don’t agree!

With a jerk of her head, the woman shot over one of those adult looks of irritation at her… just like she was a little baby making a mess.

It’s final… so there’s no sense fussing about it. She’s now the executor of your parents’ estate. So everything’s…

We don’t have a state!

It simply means your house and everything that’s in it. Now enough of this. I’ve only got so much time today for dealing with you… and three more cases requiring my attention. We should talk about what it’s going to take to get you to Texas. You’ve got a long bus trip ahead of you.

I’ve… never been on a bus.

Nothing to worry about. Children do it all the time…

As with most adults, this social worker lady was completely incapable of knowing the difference between those things that were and were not important to a kid. The whole way to the bus station, the lady jabbered on with ‘don’t you worry about that’ and ‘everything’ll be just fine,’ yet refused to speak plainly about who this mystery aunt was... no matter how persistent her questions became.

On reaching the station and getting to the ticket line, the woman went silent… and so did she. Not that she had run out of questions, but more so from finally facing the fact of being sent away. They stood there for what seemed like forever, then twice as long at the window as the social worker filled out forms while speaking with the man behind the glass. Sometimes the two of them would stop what they were doing to stare down at her, and then picked back up as if she had not been there at all. She hated when adults did things like that… treat her more like a thing than a person. Sure… she was small… and afraid… and very much alone in this world, but she would show them. She would ride that bus all the way to Texas and think nothing of it.

Then what?

Her question to herself went unanswered. The social worker suddenly had a hold of her wrist, wheeling her about to a nearby bench. She now sensed a growing urgency in the woman’s voice unrelated to the time, as the man behind the counter clearly said that the bus left in an hour. It was something different. The social worker was nearly free of her. The lady was even talking more rapidly now, smiling all the while as her fingers fumbled about in pinning something to her collar.

It’s all arranged. You’re to wait here until a man comes out to escort you to your bus. The woman nodded back toward the ticket booth. Not to worry – they won’t forget you. As there’s no direct route from here to where you’re going, you’ll be making several transfers. Have no fear… the bus company knows exactly what to do. They’ve called ahead and arranged everything. All you need to concern yourself with is keeping track of your things… and not removing this tag from your dress. That’s very important.

The woman leaned back to take in a view of how the tag appeared, giving her a chance to look down at it too. Its large print lettering was clear enough to read (‘My name is Marna Forde. If lost, please call…’), but she was not so good with upside-down numbers as she was with letters… and there were lots of them. Many more than was needed for a phone call.

What’s all this mean?

Don’t fiddle with the tag. That’s only your transit number… nothing for you to worry about. You just make sure that you don’t remove it from your dress.

It makes me look like I’m already lost.

The social worker lady ignored her, instead holding up a small knapsack – light pink with the emblem of the bus company on its front. Her voice got sweeter, which meant that the woman expected to be gone soon.

"Look what they’ve given you! Isn’t this special?! I’m told there are surprises inside! Isn’t that exciting?! There’s a box lunch, and… that reminds me… they’re providing you with meals along the way… so you needn’t worry about food. Now see this pouch… She pointed to a zipper on the knapsack just below the bus emblem. All your papers are in here. There’ll be a representative at each station to meet you. You’ll know them by the card they’re holding with your name on it. Don’t talk to anyone else. They’ll take a ticket from this pouch and then escort you to the next bus. Easy enough… as long as you follow instructions. Well… I guess this is goodbye."

The woman rose and moved away, but had only gone a few steps before turning back.

Almost forgot…

She searched in her purse and took out a photograph not much bigger than a matchbox.

This is a picture of your aunt. Her lawyer gave it to me for you to have… so you could recognize her at the other end.

She accepted the photo without looking at it… at least not until the social worker was gone. The face in the picture staring back did not smile, but neither did it bear any quality she might imagine from a crafty old bitch. No sinister eyes. No sharp pointy teeth. No horns atop her head. The woman… her aunt… did not seem old at all. Maybe the nose and chin were like Father’s, but she could see no other similarities. She flipped it over… there was nothing on the back. Without giving the photograph another thought, she slid it into the knapsack’s pouch with the other papers.

Suddenly, she felt very alone… though not entirely due to the long trip ahead of her. It was something… sadder. In the months since the accident, no one had bothered to give her a photograph of her parents. In fact, she had nothing of theirs to hold on to… nothing at all to make this big change in her life seem easier. After a deep breath and a fingertip’s worth of rubbing to each eye, she bore her teeth against themselves and leaned back on the bench’s wooden slats to wait, very much afraid that she was losing the memory of her parents.

The social worker lady had pinned the nametag too high on her dress collar. One of its sharp plastic corners kept poking her chin. So she had to hold her head up. She watched the people hurrying through the station. Some glanced her way, giving her an uncomfortable feeling. She was just a thing with a label that told the bus company where to send this little package of a girl. From time to time, she looked instead to the large clock up high above the ticket windows. Just as the big hand had moved about in a full circle, a man came out from behind the counter and made for her. As with all of the busline employees she noticed while waiting, this man had on a solid blue uniform, its only other color being from the red and white patch sown over his breast pocket. He said for her to follow him. Taking up her suitcase, he led her through the station to where several buses were idling. They passed by two before stopping at the open door of one with a ‘Detroit’ sign in its window. He then spun her about. She could hear the zipper on the knapsack being slid open and papers being taken out. The man handed one to the driver… who looked at the ticket, at her, back at the ticket, and then motioned her on board. She climbed the first step awkwardly in making sure that the other man was storing her suitcase beneath the bus.

The driver instructed her to take the seat directly behind the door, as this was the spot for ‘unaccompanied minors.’ She knew what that meant – children who had no parents. She sat quietly, ignoring the other passengers as they climbed the steps and sought seats in the rear. As the bus finally pulled from the station, she came up a bit straighter in her seat. Out there was something that might serve as her last memory of the place where she was born. Somewhere was their street leading off the main road into her neighborhood. Somewhere was her school… and that park with its benches about a duck pond. Perhaps she might catch a glimpse of the grocery where Mother liked to shop, or that office where Father designed buildings. Or maybe the church yard… with its cemetery… the place where they were buried. She recalled it had rained that day. Standing under Uncle Amos’s umbrella, she remembered holding his hand tightly as the caskets went into the ground. Afterward, strangers kept saying to her over and over how sorry they were for her… and how special her parents had been… and that one day she would look back fondly on the memory of them. Man or woman, it did not matter. Their words meant nothing to her. Every single one came from an empty face and died as an echo in her ears.

She suddenly realized that she had been staring down at the dirty floor beneath her feet. Looking up, she discovered that the bus was travelling down a busy highway, cars and trucks streaming by her window. A big city skyline was dead ahead… and Lansing was gone.

The transfer in Detroit went by in a flash. A man… another busline employee… was there holding a small sign with her name on it. He spoke briefly to the driver… something about a tight turn-around… and then she and he were dashing through the crowd to another bus, this one having a destination of Nashville. Its driver quickly stowed the bag and then hustled her onboard… right back into the same seat as before.

Sorry for the rush, missy, but gotta keep schedule. Bathroom break in an hour and a half. Can you hold it until then?

I don’t have to go.

He nodded and turned his attention to the task of steering his bus out of the station. She watched through the windows for a long while, sometimes catching sight of water off to the left… Lake Erie, according to the driver. Not until she overheard passengers behind her speaking of their route to Florida did it occur to her that she should learn something about how she was getting to Texas. The social worker lady in Lansing said for her not to touch the papers in the zippered pouch, but that woman was far behind.

She scooped up the knapsack from the floor and pulled out a small pile of folded papers, each of which she would be careful to return into the pouch once done. They were mostly carbon-copies of the forms she had watched the social worker fill out while standing at the ticket window. One had the words ‘Unaccompanied Underage Traveler’ across the top. At the bottom, in blanks filled in by someone’s hand, was her route. Lansing to Detroit was already done, with her on the next leg – Detroit to Nashville. From there, she would make more stops at Memphis, Texarkana (…that’s a funny name…) and Dallas, before reaching a final destination of Lubbock. Dallas, she had heard of, but knew nothing of Lubbock. She folded the form back the way it had been and returned it to the pouch along with the remaining tickets.

The last item was a very wordy set of pages paper-clipped together at the top. These had something to do with her personally… with her future. She found her name all over the first page, but could not make sense of it… especially that she had been named the ‘ward of the state of Michigan.’ She skipped to the next page. In line after line, she found the signatures of people she did not know, nor would she have been able to read had not their names also been typewritten. The last line had very clean and clear cursive of the aunt she had not yet met – Gwendolyn Ann Forde. They obviously shared the same last name, yet the woman was a complete stranger.

She sought for the small photo given to her by the social worker, but was alarmed not to find it in the papers she had pulled out of the pouch. In a panic, she searched about her lap, in her seat, and then down on the bus floor. She eventually found it tucked into a corner of the pouch. After settling herself back into place, she stared for a long time between the signature and the photo, trying to make something out of the person behind the two.

Why’s it that I’ve never been told about this aunt? Is there something… bad about her?

The fat lawyer’s verdict came back to her. She could almost feel again everything about that courtroom – the cushion beneath her, the armrests to either side, and her strong sense of helplessness.

A crafty old… bitch.

Is that why this Aunt Gwen didn’t come for me herself? Is that why I’m sitting all alone on a bus?

She looked down to the photo once more, then inserted it back into the pouch with the papers, zipping it closed with a determination to prove herself strong and capable. This aunt might be her guardian for the rest of her life, but she would be her own person. Grim of face, she would be more than a survivor. She would be the daughter her parents would have been proud of.

The bus stopped briefly in Toledo… a place she knew Father had once gone to on a business trip. In her opinion, the city looked terribly worn out and dirty… and not the kind of place where she would have wanted him to work… had he still been alive. She used the station bathroom and was back on the same bus long before the ten minute stopover was completed. During the break, she opened the knapsack for the first time. Within was a small white cardboard container, slightly mushed on one side… probably from when she had stepped on the bag by accident while getting a better look at Lake Erie. Not much was inside – a tiny box of raisins, a small can of juice, a packet of crackers, and a thin piece of cheese wrapped in plastic. She set these items on the seat beside her, content to nibble away whenever the urge came. The only other things inside the knapsack were a coloring book and a box of crayons, eight in all. A Bus Trip Across America was clearly more suited for a preschooler than someone as old as her… but it would do. For the next eight hours, she wore those crayons down to nubs filling in pictures on the twenty or so pages. Most were of places and things she knew to be famous… the Capital, the Statue of Liberty, Niagara Falls, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the Grand Canyon… though she had never seen any of them in real life. Not one gave her new insight into Texas.

There were more stops for bathroom breaks, along with exchanges of passengers. She snacked, colored, and gazed out the bus window whenever the view changed to something more interesting than fields. She left that bus in Nashville to switch to a different one. The woman who met her there stood by with her as her suitcase was being taken off the bus, saying that there was time for a quick dinner in the station’s diner before boarding for Memphis. That woman was really nice. She got the waitress to quickly bring a bowl of beef stew, a slice of white bread and a piece of cherry pie… and then left her to eat in peace… but was back in plenty of time for another bathroom break. Just after handing her a small blanket of coarse wool at the door to her next bus, the woman unexpectedly kissed her on the top of the head before ‘God blessing’ her inside. Mother often said bedtime prayers with her… though Father never did. So many things that had once seemed of no account now become so very precious to her in the losing.

The next driver… a man named Maurice… was very talkative, speaking in what she knew to be a Southern accent. Addressing no one in particular and never looking back to see if anyone was paying attention, he went on and on about a ‘unity of nations’ making lots of young men die in foreign lands… about how the government would allow him to drive a bus but not sit in its front seats… and about all the things a clever person could do with shoe polish. She felt sorry for him, though not because he was colored… a thing he kept telling anyone listening even though it was obvious. It was that he had to drive mostly into the setting sun, and she could tell by the way he grimaced that it was hard work. From time to time, she would ask him a question about where they were and what he knew of Texas, seeing as he said he had once been there. He never asked her anything… which she very much liked about him.

Though this seemed a shorter bus ride, it was dark by the time they reached Memphis. Maurice was replaced there by an older man with very thick glasses. He made everyone get off for the bathroom, then told them as they got back onboard not to complain that he was going to be playing the radio, something the bus company allowed for night driving. The music he chose was a twangy sort of thing he called ‘country.’ By the time the bus crossed over to the other side of a wide, dark water, the sad rhythms had put her to sleep.

She was aware that they had stopped once in the night, but was not truly awake until the man with the thick glasses shook her out of sleep. Still dark out, he said the morning was soon upon them and it was time for her to change buses. Unlike in every other place she had been, there was no one to meet her in the predawn dim of Texarkana. She had to lug her suitcase into the station and all the way to the ladies’ bathroom. While in there, a curly-haired woman burst in, calling out her name in a panic. The woman then scolded her for not waiting by the bus. There was no use arguing with this lady, who took hold of her suitcase in one hand and her wrist in the other before pulling her out of the bathroom. She was told that there should be enough time for a quick breakfast, one which was ordered for her by the curly-haired lady. In that, she was served something called ‘grits.’ The white glob beside her scrambled eggs sort of looked like the cream of wheat Mother had often prepared… though tasted nothing like it. The waitress behind the counter told her it was good with crumpled up bacon, but she was not willing to risk the best part of breakfast on this runny goo.

The journey, to that point, had been connected in her mind more with its starting point than with its destination. In fact, if asked how long it might take to get back to Michigan had her next bus just turned right around, she would have expected it to be no time at all. But when her new driver, a balding man with multicolored suspenders, announced that they had entered into the other version of Texarkana… the Texas one… the place of her birth suddenly seemed so far away. She had been on an adventure of sorts… a vacation from thinking and feeling like an orphaned child. There had been plenty of sights along the way, though none that might be described as ‘marvelous’… her mother’s favorite word for things of beauty. But now that she was in Texas, a different sort of thing took hold. Part of it was her unease about the future, but also the feeling of a sad ending… of being convinced for the first time that things would never go back to the way they had been before. Any moment now, the bus would come to a stop and an aunt-of-a-stranger would be standing there holding a card with ‘Marna Forde’ written on it. All of a sudden, it was terribly important that she find out how much time remained before that happened.

Excuse me, Mr. Bus Driver…

The man first looked up in his mirror, and then briefly turned his head about.

Yes… what is it, young lady?

Can you tell me how much longer it is to… ahh… hold it a second. She pulled the knapsack into her lap and quickly rummaged through its pouch. The name of the place had been on her mind not minutes before, but now the only word she could think of was ‘Texas.’ She found the page and flipped to the end of the list of stops.

It’s called Lubbock. That’s where I’m going – Lubbock...

She caught herself before adding something about being forced to move there to live with an aunt she did not know.

That’s a long, long way… twelve hours at least. Texas is a huge state. I expect you’ll be switching buses in Dallas as this one here’ll be heading back to Texarkana.

Now, she had to pay attention to everything along the route. The highway was like those in Michigan, having the same kinds of cars and trucks riding on the same kind of surface… but the landscape was completely different. From what she saw out her window, it seemed that a Texas August was very unkind to green things. There were trees, but not many. None were like those she was familiar with. These were scraggly, with needles rather than leaves.

The next stop – a town called Sulphur Springs – made it so very clear to her how different this state was from Michigan. As she stepped off the bus, a wave of heat hit her unlike anything she had experienced on the hottest of summer days back home. The feel of it completely took her breath away… just like that time when she stuck her face into the oven to check on the progress of their Thanksgiving Day turkey. Even before she could get to the station door, every inch of her was prickly with sweat.

Back on the bus, the driver helped her slide open her window. The gap was too narrow for her to get her head out, but the breeze was more than welcome. The day got hotter as it got older, and soon the heat made her lose all interest in watching what was passing by. It did not matter anyway, as there was little of interest to see. The farther the bus went into Texas, the smaller the trees got, while everything left over opened up into an exposed countryside of brown.

A short while before Dallas, the bus passed a thing that did get her perked up, becoming for her the first interesting thing about Texas.

Cows!

Not that she had never seen a cow before. Every kid knew a cow by sight. It was their number that shocked her. The fields along the highway were jam-packed with them. Thousands upon thousands of cows, each with huge horns sticking out from the sides of their heads. How they kept from poking each other in the eye was beyond her.

The driver pulled her attention away from the cows to point out the skyline of Dallas. Though not as tall as that of Detroit, somehow the openness of Texas made the cluster of buildings ahead of her seem… almost like an island. Soon, the bus was in that island of buildings, and Dallas became like any other city she had ever been in, with busy roads filled with busy people.

At the station, she stayed in her seat until her bag had been taken off the bus simply to avoid waiting in the heat. The man greeting her there was dressed in the same blue as the other busline employees, except for his shiny belt buckle and a white cowboy hat on his head. He right off gave her a ‘howdy’ and a handshake. He then would not stop telling her how nice she looked, how brave she must be for traveling across the country all alone, and how very welcome she was to be in Texas. It made her feel special… sort of like a princess… if such a thing was possible for an orphan.

During lunch, she accidently spilled some sauce down the front of her dress. One minute, she was enjoying some strips of meat covered in that sauce… and in the next, the man in the cowboy hat was apologizing like it had been his fault. No matter how he dabbed at the spot with a damp napkin, the red stain would not come out. It was worth it. The meat was unlike anything she had ever tasted before – both tender and tangy. After a quick