by Lori L. Lake

Marin sat sprawled across the jouncy seat as the bus rumbled down the windy street, sucking in and spilling out riders. The bomber jacket on the young man seated ahead of her smelled leathery and musty, tickling her nose and making her sneeze. She looked away from the window and closed her eyes for a moment as the swaying and rolling of the warm bus made her sleepy and relaxed for the first time all day.

The bus rolled to its next stop, one block from her childhood home. Marin looked out the window again and saw sloppy snow, half rain and half ice, beginning to fall. Pulling a heavy satchel out from under her seat, she got off the bus, walking swiftly around icy puddles and hunching against the biting wind.

As she strode up the long walk to her mother's two-story house, she noticed how cracked the walkway had become. Dead weeds and obstinate shoots of gray-green grass poked out through the chips and cracks. Her mother had stopped edging the walk, and the battered lawn was weedy and unkempt. She jumped when the screen door smacked open and hit the wrought iron railing. It bounced back halfway. Marin's mother, chunky in her quilted copper-colored coat, stared through the half-open door. A dainty leather purse with ornate golden clasps hung from her wrist. Rita Peterson's blond-rinsed hair was arranged in a proper bun, and she was frowning. Before Marin got to the bottom of the stairs, Rita said, "Hurry up, slow poke! You're at least ten minutes behind schedule as it is."

"What? No, I'm not. You said 3:30. It's 3:30." Marin stood waiting at the foot of the stairs as Rita stepped out, pulled the front door closed, locked the deadbolt, and let the screen slap shut.

Rita hurried down the stairs. "I don't like coming in late and having to sit in the front at these foolish senior functions. It's embarrassing."

"You're not going to sit. We'll be walking around. This is a quilt show. An Exhibit of Early American Quilts. I thought you said they sent you a program."

The pudgy blond-haired woman sighed. "They did. I left it somewhere in the house." She turned, calling over her shoulder, "Pick up the pace, Marin. I've got the car idling."

They went around the side of the house to Rita's smoking, dirt-brown car. Marin shifted her bulging black-and-white satchel from her right hand to the left and pushed her wire frame glasses up on her nose. She opened the passenger door and got in the old Impala.

"Where’s this show at?" Marin asked.

"Some Martin Luther King Center near the capitol. I've got it written down on that Post-it on the dash." Rita slammed her door so hard it hurt Marin's ears, then she went on: "I just hate St. Paul. It's bad enough with all these new housing developments cluttering things up here in my little township, and now we have to pick our way through St. Paul. They should have named it after St. Jude, the saint who looks for lost things, or was that St. Anthony?" She paused with a frown on her face. "Oh, well. Doesn't matter. Why couldn't it be organized, like Minneapolis—where the streets run north and south, east and west, and the avenues are laid out orderly-like? St. Paul is just a mess. A complete mess. Whoever planned that city ought to be shot."

"Oh, Mother," Marin sighed. For a moment she imagined herself getting out of the car and trudging back to the bus stop, but she put the thought out of her mind as her mother flipped the car out of neutral and backed out.

"I'm just setting out the truth as I see it," Rita said, "same as you would. Do I complain about your snippiness?"

In a tired voice Marin said, "I'm not being snippy. If you don't like the streets, then I'll drive."

"Forget it. I'm managing perfectly," Rita said. She steered wide around some tin cans lying in the gutter.

"Then why in the world do you demand I come with you to these things? You don't need me along. You never even let me drive."

"Don't be silly. It's dangerous out there. Somebody has to come with me, especially since your father's passing. You're the one who insists I get to these cultural events. Isn't that what you said—‘Attend cultural events, Mom, or you’ll go stale’? If you want me to race all over hell and tarnation, then you have to come along every so often. Besides, what else do you have to do alone in that apartment of yours? I still don't understand why you moved out."

"In case you haven't noticed, Mother, I'm 27 years old now, and I like to have my own space. Plus, you know I'm not alone. I've got Beth."

"Oh," Rita said. "Her. I have no idea why you live with such a person. You've always been so foolish. And this business about having your own space isn't worth the money it costs. Your rent is more than my house payment. You can't even afford a car. Think of the expenses you'd save . . . "

Marin rolled her eyes, looked out her window, and tried to stop listening as her mother babbled on. A broken record, she thought. She smelled the scent of pine from the evergreen tree deodorizers hanging from the rearview mirror and the glove compartment knob. Under the pine odor, the car smelled sour.

As they approached a railroad crossing, she saw the tiny piercing light of a train rumbling toward them, still a half-mile down the tracks to the right. As they passed over the tracks, crimson lights began blinking, and the crossing arm came down behind the car. Marin was surprised when Rita didn't seem to notice.

Rita zipped off the side street and merged into the traffic heading down the busy boulevard. Marin wondered how her mother could be comfortable driving hunched over the steering wheel and sitting so close.

"Why is this shindig at a civil rights center?" Rita asked.

"That's not a civil rights center. It's a community center. They must have decided to hold the quilt exhibit there to have more room for the displays."

"Hmmm. You know how I've always loved quilts, but I never had the time to sew much. Your father was always taking you kids camping and biking and hiking and fishing. Who had time?"

Marin squinched up her face as if in pain. She couldn't remember her mother ever darning a sock or sewing a button on a shirt, and she definitely couldn't recall any homemade quilts lying around. She was certain her mother had always bought regular blankets and bedspreads from Sears. She thought of the linen closet in her parents' house, upstairs near her old room. It was a cavernous walk-in closet of narrow shelves packed full of sheets and towels, shoeboxes of treasures, galoshes, pillows, and half-empty bottles of perfume. Closing the closet door behind her, Marin could still see a shaft of light from the hall inching in through the gap between the door and the frame. Everything sounded muffled when she hid there under the low shelf, and no matter how loud her two sisters got or how much her mother screamed, she felt safe.

Marin changed the subject. "You did bring a map this time, didn't you, Mom? Don't forget the Science Museum. Forty minutes late, and a total waste of time."

"Of course I brought a map. I always have a map. Not much good it'll do, what with the ridiculous layout of the city. But don't worry. I asked Arnie for directions—you know he used to work at the Hoist Company before they turned it into the IRS. He assured me all we have to do is get on the freeway, take the exit, turn near the Mexican restaurant, then up to another street I don't remember. I've got it all written down."

"Wasn't it Arnie who gave you directions to the Science Museum?"

"What’s your point?" Rita said in a loud voice. "Quit worrying. I've always found my way home. Sometimes it may be just a little circular, but who cares? I read once that the journey is supposed to be the reward. So consider it an adventure."

"Great. An adventure. I sure hope this beater of yours is running better than last year when the alternator went out in the middle of the freeway. Sounds a little tinny to me."

"My chariot is running fine now, thank you. I had it tuned-up by that neighbor boy who is taking a mechanics class at the Vo-Tech. Do you hear the power?" Rita revved the accelerator. "It's got a lot of get-up-and-go for a car fourteen years old."

"Get-up-and-go? Mother, it sounds like Nazi tank."

"That's enough from you, young lady. I won't have it."

Marin's head was beginning to hurt, sooner than it usually did around her mother. She pressed the tips of her fingers to her temples and rubbed in a circular motion.

"Look on the dashboard, Marin. What's the address there on the Post-it note?"

"I can hardly read it. Looks like 'Iggenhurt.' Never heard of it."

"Arnie said the place is close to the capitol."

"We passed the capitol ages ago."

"What? I never . . . you didn’t . . . It doesn't matter now. You were yapping so much we must have missed the exit. I think I'll take...Dale Street. Somebody said it was right off Dale, but I can't remember—is that the place where they said the slums are?"

"Whoa, whoa! Wait just a minute there, Mother Dear. I thought you said you knew exactly where we were going and that you had explicit directions."

"Oh, I do. I do. Be patient."

They reached the end of the exit ramp, and Rita stopped for the light. "Now, is north left or right?"

Marin felt her face go red, and the blood pounding in her ears made a whooshing noise, the same noise she heard on amusement park rides, especially the rollercoaster. "How should I know! You're the one who's supposed to be so directionally literate."

"Okay, let's go left," Rita said as she eased the car through the light and crept along down the street. They passed over the freeway and headed down Dale Street. The day was growing darker, though the storm clouds had dispersed some.

"We're not supposed to get as far as Summit or Grand Avenue," Rita said. "If we do, we've gone too far."

"Hey, Marco Polo, here's Grand. You better turn around. I knew it! You've gone and gotten us lost, just like last time. Why didn't we take the bus? At least I can follow a bus map."

"No, you can't," Rita said, her voice accusing. "You just pester the bus driver 'til he can't hardly stand it anymore, and then he tells you which buses to take and where to transfer. You're not talking me into riding the bus with you, that's for sure. Last time it took two hours to get to a place eighteen minutes away by car."

Marin shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Face it, Mother, you're lost again."

"No," Rita said firmly, "I'm not lost. Why, look. Looky over there." She pointed while sporting a sweet smile on her face. "La Cucaracha Restaurant is right there on the corner. That's the Mexican restaurant I was telling you about. I know exactly where I am. If I turn at the light, I think we pass a bunch of mansions. Maybe the governor's house." Rita maneuvered her way past two cars waiting to turn left and lurched off to the right. "All I want to know is who would name an eating establishment after a cockroach? You wouldn't catch me eating in that kind of place. Bet the governor wouldn't be caught dead in there."

They came to a stoplight, and Marin looked out at the spacious and beautiful apartments and houses in the residential area. She took off her glasses and was rubbing her eyes when her mother said, "Quick! What street is this?"

Marin stuck the lens of her glasses up to her right eye and squinted. "Oxford. We're probably in England now." She jerked forward as Rita slammed on the brakes and careened to the right and around the corner. The car slowed as Rita peered upwards through the front windshield.

"Do you have any idea at all where we are, Mother?"

"Not exactly, but if I can catch sight of the capitol, I know I'll find my way."

Marin looked out her window. Every inch of curb space was taken up by vehicles on both sides of the street. Along one curb she saw a gray car up on blocks. Rusted red circlets covered the body, and all the tires were missing. Wedged between two weather-beaten pickups, the wrecked car looked flat and battered.

"Hmmm," Rita said. "Which way do you think now?"

Marin shrugged her shoulders and remained silent. She crossed her arms over her chest and forced herself to count to 10. Then she began to count the parked cars they passed as her mother twisted and turned through the narrow streets. Marin saw four identical dilapidated houses sagging toward one another like a drunken barbershop quartet. Next to them sat a huge Victorian home, paint peeling, with front porch stairs sloping off to the side. The steps were tilted at such an angle she was sure no one could mount them to reach the front door. She saw two blocks of homes that had been restored, painted, and landscaped. The next street had a burnt-out house on the corner with every window covered by wide ominous bars.

"What a shame," Marin said. "So many of these houses would be beautiful if they weren't all boarded up." She turned to her mother. "Where in the hell are we?"

"Goodness, I don't know. Obviously we're headed straight into the ghetto."

"Mom, there are no ghettos in St. Paul."

"There must be. I was watching Jerry Springer just the other day, and he had a whole gang of young toughs on the show from all over the Midwest. And even worse, on Oprah yesterday she brought on these disgusting homosexuals who were complaining about being beat up for being Negro and for being perverts. Can you believe it? In my day, we didn't talk about these things. It's—"

"Good God!" Marin interrupted. "Don't start this again, or I'm getting out! You are goddamn unbelievable."

"Listen here, little girl! There’s no need to curse. I won't have it."

With her hands tightened into fists, Marin said, "You never listen to me. You don't even try to listen . . ."

Just then, the car jerked to the side and there was a thunk-thunk-thunk sound. Alarmed, Rita looked over at Marin and said, "Hush. What's that?"

"What do you think? Either you're driving on the curb or you've got a flat tire. Pull over!"

Rita wrenched the wheel to the right and brought the car to a halt three feet from the curb and fifty feet from a stop sign. Marin looked further up the street and across the intersection to the Suds O' Fun laundromat, a liquor store, and the boarded up Christ Omnipotent Church of the Redeemed. A chubby black child on a tiny orange bicycle whizzed by, shot across the street, and passed two black men sitting on a bench inside the bus cubicle. A six foot high retaining wall to their left was painted bright yellow and in huge letters proclaimed, "Don't do drugs. Crack KILLS."

Marin opened the car door, got out, and slammed the door as hard as she could. Rita jumped and then sat still behind the wheel. Marin pulled her tweed coat down over her navy blue pantsuit and bent to tuck her pleated slacks into her boots. Any hair not clamped down by her earmuffs was blowing wildly in the wind. She squatted to look at the worn right rear tire.

"Hey, Mom! How are you with a tire iron?"

Rita pushed open her door and wormed her way out, narrowly avoiding a passing car.

"What do you mean? Is it really flat?"

"Couldn't get flatter if you sat on it for a year. Do you have a spare?"

"Of course. It's in the trunk. But we can't change it. We'll have to call Triple A."

"No, I can do it," Marin said. She snatched the car keys out of her mother's hand, opened the trunk, and slapped the keys back in Rita's hand. She took out the jack and tire iron, popped off the hubcap, fitted the iron over the lug nut, and twisted it to the left. It didn't budge. She stood, brushed her hands off, and stepped up on the end of the tire iron and put all her weight on it. Still, the nut refused to break loose. "I can't get enough torque to break it free. Damn. I wish Beth were here. She can fix anything."

"You may think that Beth person is a mechanical whiz, but I didn't raise you to be a motorcycle mama."

"Please! Don't start with me about Beth again!" Marin jerked the tire iron away and threw it overhand into the trunk where it clattered against the metal interior on the side. She picked up the metal hubcap and pitched it in, too, then slammed the trunk shut. She drew her foot back to kick the good tire, but thought the better of it. With her luck, it would pop, and then they'd have two flats.

Marin looked up and noticed her mother wasn't paying any attention. Rita glared about, her head swiveling like the bobbing ceramic kitty in the back window of her car. The younger woman surveyed the neighborhood of shabby houses. She looked across the street again at the bus waiting area where broken glass glittered on the ground. The two dark figures were still there. Now one sat on the bench inside the cubicle frame while the other leaned against a telephone booth a few feet away. "I'll go call Triple A," Marin said. "Do you have your card?"

Rita shouted, "Have you lost your senses?" She slammed her purse against the side of her leg. "We're in the slums. The ghetto! We have to get away before dark when all those—those druglords—and those pimps—and—and the gangs come out. You can't go over there. Look at those crooks!"

Marin shook her head and sighed. "I don't think it's that extreme. Nothing is going to happen in broad daylight."

"It's not going to be light for long. We've got to escape." A note of desperation crept into Rita’s voice. "Soon. You know how they are. I saw the beatings on the news, and my new neighbor Miriam told me about a TV show telling how all these thugs prey on the elderly at night." Rita's voice started to crack as it rose higher and louder. "It's too dangerous."

"Mom, just because it's a poorer neighborhood doesn't mean a thing. I don't see any roving bands of muggers. I'll be safe using the phone."

"No! You're not listening. Those Negroes over there look like killers. Look at them. They're up to no good. Probably waiting for a drug pick-up."

"I think they're waiting for the bus."

"I'm warning you. We're in danger."

"Don't be silly. "Marin let out a big sigh as she started toward the phone booth.

"Oh, no you don't." Rita grabbed Marin by the elbow. "You're not leaving me here to be attacked. Come with me." Marin didn't resist as her mother turned her around and pulled her along. A block behind them, a church steeple poked upwards. Without a word, they trudged up the hill to the church, mounted the steps, and tried the door, a huge caramel-colored monstrosity with bands of metal riveted across it. It was locked. Marin rapped until her knuckles hurt. No one answered. They walked around to a smaller door and rang a bell. Still no answer.

"Guess they've all gone home for the day, Marin. What time is it?"

"After four. We're never going to make it to that exhibit. This is even worse than the Science Museum debacle." There was a long silence before Marin said, "For once you must agree. First time you haven't had some smart retort for me."

Her mother looked away, then said, "Let's go sit in the car for a bit and gather our thoughts."

From the front seat of the old Impala, Marin waited impatiently, all the while keeping an eye on the bus stop. The late afternoon light grew dimmer by the moment. "Seems we've got three choices, Mother. I can go up to one of these houses and ask to use the phone…"

"And probably be laughed off the front porch. No one lets strangers in anymore. I, for one, certainly wouldn't."

"Cross off the good Samaritan plan. Okay, then our second choice is to go over to the laundromat and see if there's a phone in there."

"Look at the place," Rita said. "No cars in the parking lot, and the windows are all cracked. It's abandoned."

"Then I should do the most sensible thing, which is to trot over to use the pay phone by the bus stop."

Her mother's face registered alarm. "What if they have guns or knives?"

"Geez, Mom! I can't believe how you exaggerate! They aren't murderers. They’re probably just teenagers."

"I'll bet they're carrying switchblades and Saturday Night Specials—all of them are nowadays. My neighbor Miriam and I heard about it on Rush's radio talk show."

"What do you do all day—listen to neo-Nazi skinhead programs? Ever since Dad died, you've become more close-minded and paranoid than ever. This is Saint Paul, for God's sake, not L.A!" Marin smacked the dashboard for emphasis, and the Post-it note with the directions on it fluttered to the floor.

"Ever since you moved in with that Beth person, you've become rude and cranky."

"Stop bringing up Beth. This has nothing to do with her. Nothing!"

"I'm just saying that you've become shrill about her and all this freedom and equality business. In my day, women were happy to find a nice man to love and live with. Why can't you be like Susie? Now there's a happy gal. She and your brother and the kids have a great life."

"Oh, please. Give me a break on all that marital bliss crap. I'm not getting married. Ever! Got it? Get used to it. My life is fine as it is."

Rita pursed her lips and crossed her arms. "I doubt it. Look how upset it makes you. I'm not going to stop bringing this up. I carried you for nine months next to my heart. I brought you into the world, held you, fed you, cleaned up after you, and I have a right to guide and protect you until you see the light."

"That's it," Marin said. She scooped up her bag and opened the door. The world's dimmest overhead light clicked on, casting spooky shadows into the front seat. "I'll be damned if I'll be trapped in here with you one second longer."

She got one leg out onto the pavement before Rita hissed, "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?" She grabbed Marin's coat sleeve in a tight grip.

"I'm outta here. I've had it."

"Where are you going?" They glared at one another until Rita abruptly let go of Marin's coat and patted her on the forearm. "Now, now. Let's not be hasty. We should wait here. Someone will happen by soon and see the tire is flat. Or maybe a police car will pass. We have to wait for someone safe."

"Safe? Be realistic. You think it's a good idea to wait in the car until somebody safe comes by? That would probably be tomorrow morning, when we're both frozen to death."

Rita grabbed her daughter's coat again. "We can huddle for warmth—really, we'll be fine."

Marin wrenched her sleeve free and got out. "Are you totally cracked, or what? Why do I even listen to you? I'm going over to use the phone."

Rita leaned across the seat and peered up at Marin. "No! I absolutely positively forbid it. Your father and Arnie both told me you should always stay with your car."

"Since when does Arnie know anything? He's the reason we're lost in the first place. I'm going for help." She stepped back and slammed the car door.

Marin glanced back and saw her mother's frightened face as she sat behind the wheel, shaking her head from side to side and gesturing with both hands through the window. Marin turned away, gripping her bag, and plunged her right hand into her coat pocket. She marched resolutely to the corner, head held high. She looked both ways and crossed the street.

As she stepped up to the curb on the other side, the two men stopped talking and turned to watch her. One was tall and lanky with the sides and back of his head shaved. She could see a round circle of hair, about the size of a small doily, cut short on top of his head. He shifted from foot to foot, shoulders hunched as he pulled at his collar to keep it turned up against the cold. The other man sat shivering in the cubicle with his arms crossed. His hair was shaped so that the top of his head was square.

With every step she took, they appeared younger. Why, they really are only young teenage boys, Marin thought as she approached. Both boys wore jeans, hightop sneakers, and lightweight jackets. She could see them shiver as she drew nearer.

Her heart was pounding, and she bumped her satchel against her knee, feeling the heavy weight of her books and purse. She cursed her mother for scaring her. To the tall one leaning against the metal frame of the phone booth she said, "Excuse me, but may I use the phone?"

The boys glanced at one another and smiled. "No can do. No way you usin' this phone." Mr. Lanky gestured with his thumb, and Marin saw there was no receiver attached. The coiled metal hung there, the end snipped off.

"Oh." She paused. "Is there a phone in the laundromat?"

"Don't believe so," the seated boy said. "Nearest phone's half a mile or so up at the restaurant."

"Do you need some help over there?" Mr. Lanky asked.

Marin debated for an instant. If she said yes, they'd know she was helpless and stranded. If she said no, they'd know she was lying. So she nodded and said, "I can't get the flat tire off, so I need to call someone to fix it."

Mr. Lanky straightened up from his slouch, looked her over, and said, "We can probably fix it. For a small price. How about ten bucks?"

"Okay," she said. "I think I can scrounge up ten dollars."

"Fine," he said. "You got a spare, right?" When she nodded, he said, "Come on, Mike," to his friend and motioned to him.

Marin and the two boys walked abreast toward the corner and picked their way through the slushy puddles in the street. They reached the Impala, and Marin tried the passenger door.

"Open up, Mother." She pushed the button on the handle but it didn’t budge. "Mom! Give me your keys so I can unlock the trunk."

Rita didn't move. She was hunched over, neck and chin retracted into the collar of her quilted coat.

"Mother," she shouted. "Roll down the window and give me the keys." Marin pushed her face close to the window on the passenger side and rapped on the brown door. Her mother sat motionless with a stricken look on her face, so Marin pulled at the door handle again, causing the car to move slightly. She could see the silver keys dangling from her mother's pudgy hand, could almost hear them jingle. Then she watched in amazement as Rita's hand darted forward, inserted the key, and started up the Impala with a vrrooom. Rita put the car into drive and jerked forward into Selby Avenue on three tires, the flat thumping.

"Dammit Mother! What are you doing? Wait a minute. Wait for me!"

The Impala reached the stop sign and turned right as Marin and the two boys surrounded the car, waving, everyone shouting at once. Marin started to run after the vehicle, but the car picked up speed and clunked off down the street. She hurried to step back to the curb to avoid an oncoming car, and then watched the awkward Impala disappear into dimness.

Marin's face burned hot. She dropped her bag against her ankle and turned to face the two boys. Mr. Lanky and Mike shrugged their shoulders, looked at Marin, then gazed down or looked away. Marin knotted her hands into fists.

"Huh," Mr. Lanky said, a puzzled look on his face. "Weird."

"No kidding." Mike shook his head slowly from side to side. "Is she nuts or what, lady?"

The taller boy elbowed him, and in a stage whisper said, "Shut up. It's her mother, you know."

Marin stood with her mouth slightly open. The two of them looked at her as if awaiting an explanation. She resisted the urge to cry and instead kicked a dented Pepsi can five yards down the street, then looked toward the heavens in a silent plea for divine intervention, but saw only threatening clouds. She heard an engine revving and a funny wumping sound before she saw the car. Then the Impala was wobbling down the street again.

"Run! Run!" Rita screamed out a two-inch crack in her window. "I'll pick you up on the next spin down the block." Her words trailed off as the car bumped past. She rolled right on by the stop sign, and the tires screeched as the car, without slowing, again turned right onto the avenue. Marin and the two boys stared after her, mouths agape.

"Totally strange," Mr. Lanky said. "She must be crazy." Mike mumbled something at Marin and both boys edged away. She watched them slouch their way across the street back to the bus stop, and her eyes glazed over with tears. Pulling her tweed collar up against the wind, she pushed her hands deep into her coat pockets and stood, her mind spinning like a Ferris wheel.

Down the street, a silver and white city bus moved toward the bus stop and the waiting boys.

"Hold on," she shouted. Mike half turned toward her and waved as she picked up her bag and hurried across the street. Behind her she heard the thumping sound again, and she turned to see the Impala nearing the stop sign. She shook her fist at her mother. Then the bus driver whisked the door open, and Marin climbed up behind the two boys.

The bus was so full she had to stand sideways in the aisle and hang on to the metal bar overhead. The boys stood near Marin and looked at her, both of them frowning. The bus began to jerk forward.

"Hey, lady," Mike said. "Really, you know, you can't leave her out there."

"Yes, I can," Marin said with more force than she expected.

"But it's your ma," he said. He sounded like a very reasonable old man, at least fifty years older than he really was.

A tiny black lady in a thick camel-colored coat reached up and touched Marin's arm. "Ma'am," she said. "It's dangerous out there. If that's your mother, you better do as this young man says. It isn't safe at all out there once it gets a little darker."

All around her the black and brown faces nodded in agreement. She looked around at the concerned faces.

"I wouldn't leave anyone out there that I cared about," said a tall man in a suit, tie, and unhooked galoshes.

"She could get shot," Mr. Lanky said.

"Uh huh, that's right," muttered a chorus of voices.

"They could hurt her."

"Rob her."

"Steal her money, strip her car."

"Yes, ma'am, it ain't safe."

The bus slowed at the next corner as the two boys stared at Marin, nodding.

"Do I stop here or what?" the bus driver asked.

Marin wanted to shout, "No!" but her fellow riders were all clucking and nodding their heads as they ushered her toward the exit.

"Go on now," the tiny black lady said. "Take care of her."

The door opened, and Marin found herself propelled down the stairs and out onto the parking strip.

She stepped back and as she tried to catch her breath, turned to watch the bus roll forward in a slow, jerky motion. The street lights clicked on, shining into the bus windows, and she saw the passengers peering out at her as the bus moved off. Their faces were bathed in silver, illuminating their brown and pink and tan faces to a lustrous shine.

Marin heard the old Impala chugging and the sound of metal grating on cement. She felt the cold wind parching her face and stood, waiting, imagining herself standing in the road forever, smelling exhaust and tasting tears, as her mother whirled past all the rest of the days of her life.

&&&&&

From the upcoming book of short stories entitled, Jumping Over My Head & Other Stories, to be published by Renaissance Alliance Publishing, Inc. www.rapbooks.biz.

Lori’s website is located at www.LoriLLake.com   and she can be reached by email at Lorelei-bard@juno.com.

Return to the Author's Page