Jubilee's Journey (Wyattsville #2)(8)

“He’s gone. He been gone for three, maybe four years.”

“Gone where?”

“South. Miami Beach maybe.” The old man scratched his head and hesitated a minute, trying to recall where George McAdams had said he was going. “Come to think of it,” the old man mused, “I believe it was Myrtle Beach,” but before he got the words out, Hurt was gone.





It was late in the afternoon, and the Greyhound station bustled with people. Hurt got in line behind two men and a small woman wearing the same perfume his mother wore. It was the smell of gardenias. Without thinking he leaned forward and sucked in the smell. If Daddy hadn’t driven her away years earlier, Mama would have come to visit. “He’s the cause of everything,” Hurt grumbled.

The woman turned. “Excuse me?”

“Wasn’t nothing,” Hurt answered. Then with barely a breath in between, he asked, “You got a boy, ma’am?”

When she smiled, she bore a strong resemblance to how Hurt imagined his mama would now look. “I sure do. Four of them. I’m off to spend some time with my boy in Kentucky right now.”

“Ain’t that nice,” Hurt replied; then he looked down at his shoes and quit talking.





When the woman left Hurt moved up to the ticket window. “How much for a one-way to Miami?”

“Miami…let’s see…” The clerk ran his finger down the list of fares. “Ah, yes, here it is. Miami, twenty-eight seventy-five. That’s with a three-hour stopover in Wyattsville, Virginia.”

“You got anything cheaper?”

The clerk ran his finger down the list again. “Afraid not.”

“Nothing?”

The clerk shook his head.

Hurt had fifteen dollars and no desire to remain in Pittsburgh. “What was that place in Virginia?”

“Wyattsville?”

“Yeah. How much to Wyattsville?”

The clerk looked at the book again. “Thirteen seventy-five.”

“Gimme that,” Hurt said. He pulled the three wrinkled five-dollar bills from his pocket and pushed them through the window grill.





Forty-five minutes later Hurt was on his way to Wyattsville. He had a score to settle in Miami, but in order to get there he’d have to stop and pick up some cash along the way. The three-hour layover was plenty of time.





Paul



Walking down that mountain was the scariest thing I ever done. I was remembering how Mama used to say people ought not burn the bridges behind them, but that’s just what it felt like we was doing. It ain’t right when a person’s gotta choose between keeping a promise and putting food on the table.

We was all the way down to where the creek bed ends when I come within a whisker of turning back. I’d stopped so Jubie could rest and was thinking how she’d be sleeping in her own bed if I’d do what maybe I should do. Then there was this loud crack of thunder, and I heard a voice say, “Keep going!” It sounded the exact same as Daddy. I ain’t saying it was Daddy, and I ain’t saying it was the Almighty. But I am saying you don’t argue with something like that. “Yes, sir,” I answered, then picked Jubie up and carried her the rest of the way.

When Jubie said she was scared of going to a place she didn’t know, I told her not to worry. I said it was a good thing, ‘cause we was going to see an aunt we never knew we had. Then she started smiling. The whole time I was telling her how good everything was gonna be, I was wishing I had someone to tell me the same thing.





Looking for Anita



Paul and Jubilee boarded the Greyhound bus at the Campbell’s Creek Depot. He had a ticket; she didn’t. When he’d asked the clerk at the window how much for two tickets to Wyattsville, Virginia, she answered, “Eight dollars and fifty cents.” While Paul stood there counting out the quarters and dimes, the woman peered over the counter at Jubilee. “Make that four-twenty-five,” she said. “There’s no charge for kids under five.”

“Oh, Jubie just looks small,” Paul started to say, “but—”

“Maybe you don’t hear so good.” The ticket clerk cocked an eyebrow and looked Paul square in the face. “I said we don’t charge for kids under five,” she repeated, then cranked out a single ticket and handed it to him.





Once they were settled on the bus Jubilee leaned over and whispered in Paul’s ear, “I’m hungry.” He reached beneath the seat and pulled a jelly sandwich from the bag he’d been carrying. After the sandwich was gone she settled back into her seat, and for a while was content to watch the scenery fly by. When darkness dropped a blanket over the countryside, she scooted closer to Paul and began a barrage of questions.

“Is Aunt Anita nice?”

Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose, like everybody else, she’s got some good qualities and some not-so-good ones.”

“Oh.” Jubilee hesitated a moment then asked, “Did Mama think she was nice?”

Paul shrugged again. “Hard to say. Mama never talked about her, leastwise not to me.”

“How come?”

“Judging by the letters I read, Mama and Aunt Anita didn’t get along real well.”