Thanksgiving vacation.
One thing I’m thankful for is that Rosie and I got seats on the Divorce Express.
That’s more than a lot of people can say.
It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and lots of people are going down to the City, more than there are seats. There were even some people left behind, waiting to catch the next bus.
Passengers are standing in the aisle with their suitcases and packages. They’ll have to stand all the way to New York. It’s a real bummer.
The first real snow of the year is starting to come down.
I’m exhausted. So’s Rosie. We went to the school cafeteria meeting last night, and it didn’t end till real late. It’s hard work, planning nutritional meals on a small school budget. I’m beginning to see why the school had trouble.
Rosie’s sound asleep next to me and I keep nodding off. Why did we have to go to school today, even for half a day? It’s such a waste. No one really does anything. Half the kids have already left on vacations. The other half just sit around and play Hangman and stuff.
All of a sudden the bus makes a funny sound.
I sit up straight.
So does Rosie.
The bus driver pulls over to the side of the road, just past the end of the New York Thruway. He gets out and checks the bus.
People start yelling, “Oh, no—not this too.” “What’s going on? I’ve got to catch another bus after this one.” And: “This is the last straw.”
The bus driver returns, talks into his radio, and then turns around to make an announcement. “Okay, folks. Sorry for the inconvenience. We’ve got a flat, and with the weather getting worse, I can’t take a chance on driving with it. Another bus is on the way. Just sit tight.”
Someone yells, “How the hell do you expect us to sit tight when we’re standing?”
“Then stand tight,” some wise guy calls out.
The bus driver tries to calm everyone down.
I feel kind of sorry for him. It’s his Thanksgiving eve too.
Some people from the front of the bus are trying to work their way to the back to go to the bathroom. They have to get through the aisles, trying not to step on or push anyone.
The snow’s coming down worse.
Rosie says, “Maybe we’ll get in so late that my father won’t make me go to my grandmother’s house tomorrow.”
“I didn’t know you didn’t like her. I don’t like mine either. My father’s mother. My mother’s mother I love.”
Rosie says, “I kind of like her, but it’s a real mess. She’s always making cracks about my mother.”
“How can she? Mindy’s wonderful.” I can’t believe it. I think of all the times I’ve been able to talk to her about all sorts of things.
Rosie shakes her head. “My grandmother doesn’t think so. She hates Mindy because she’s white and Jewish. And Mindy’s family hates my father because he’s black and Christian. Me—I’m not only black and white, I’m also Jewish. The whole combination is enough to drive each side a little nuts.”
I nod. “My grandmothers get upset because even though both of my parents are Jewish, neither of them practice and they never sent me to any organized religious thing.” I look out the window and see that the snow is coming down faster.
Rosie continues. “My life’s like a soap opera, only without breaks for commercials. I’m used to it. I’ve lived with it all my life. And it’s always going to be a little like that. Well, at least it’s not boring.”
The second bus pulls up.
People cheer.
The bus driver tells us not to all pile out at once. It’s too cold out and everyone could get sick standing around. Anyway he says that they want to try out some new seating arrangement.
Rosie and I end up sitting next to Stevie, the little kid who throws up a lot. I hope he manages to make it to Port Authority without losing his lunch. It’s a little tight, three people in a two-seat place. I think they put us together because we’re all pretty skinny. Then they hand us Gina Raymond, five years old and another Divorce Express regular. She sits on my lap.
I hope none of us has to get up to go to the bathroom.
There are still people standing, but not as many. And later they’re going to switch places with people who are now sitting. One of the good things about sitting with four people in a two-seat place is that we won’t have to get up.
Someone starts singing a Christmas carol. Lots of people join in.
Then Rosie begins a Chanukah song. People join in again.
The bus skids a little.
I hope that Stevie’s stomach is okay.
The driver’s going very slowly.
One of the high school seniors starts singing “Trees,” the regular version. I guess that some of the adults went to Kilmer or just know the song because there are a lot of people singing.
Then Rosie and I start to sing “Cafeteria.” The other Kilmer kids join in.
People on the bus laugh and applaud. They start passing out food that they’ve brought along for the holidays. I contribute the granola cookies my father gave me. We get some great cookies, fruit cake, and pumpkin pie.
The pumpkin pie’s so good that I get the recipe for my father. He’s going to love it.
The bus creeps along.
On the side of the road I can see cars pulled over.
Gina’s fallen asleep. She’s got her head on Rosie, her middle on me, and her feet on Stevie and she’s sucking her thumb.
The closer we get to New Jersey, the less snow.
It’s always worse upstate, at least at first.
Finally we reach the Lincoln Tunnel, go through it, and pull into the Port Authority building.
Stevie hasn’t thrown up, something else to be thankful for.
“We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here,” everyone sings.
We’ve been on the bus for four and a half hours, two hours late.
People get off the bus stiffly, like they’ve been in a rolling sardine can.
We’re in the middle of the bus, so it takes awhile for us to get out.
“Free at last,” Rosie says as we step off the bus. “I can’t believe I’ve still got a subway to catch.”
I hear someone call my name. “Phoebe.”
It’s my mother. She’s got this worried-changing-to-glad look on her face.
She hugs me. “Where’s Rosie?”
“Here,” Rosie says, raising her hand.
People who go to school raise hands instinctively. I’ve noticed that.
My mother hugs her even though they’ve never met before. I guess she’s been really nervous. It’s the first time since the very beginning that she’s met me at the bus.
She stands up, catches her breath, and says, “Rosie, you are to spend the night with us.”
“Yay,” Rosie and I both say at the same time.
My mother continues. “Your father has to work late, and your stepmother couldn’t leave her children to wait for you. It’s too late and dangerous for you to get downtown by yourself. Your parents and I’ve decided that staying with us is best. Your father will pick you up tomorrow morning.”
Rosie and I look at each other and smile. It’s all arranged. Somehow they’ve all been talking.
As we gather up our suitcases my mother says, “You two know all the kids who ride the bus alone. Are any of them not being met by their parents? It’s not safe for them to be here alone. Let’s make sure they’re all right.”
That’s like my mother. Sometimes she can think only of herself. Other times she can really come through.
She checks it out, in a very logical way. That’s like my mother too—superorganized and take-charge personality. Once she sees that everyone’s accounted for, she says, “Time to go. Anyone hungry?”
“Starved,” Rosie and I both say at the same time. I’ve noticed that happens a lot with friends. You get to the point when you start to say things together or sometimes not even have to say some things out loud.
“Okay.” My mother pulls back her hair. “We’ll get some food as soon as we call your father and Rosie’s parents. When the snow started to come down so hard and the weather reports predicted problems, we made these plans.”
“I’ll call Daddy,” I say.
“And I’ll call my parents,” Rosie says.
My mother walks to the phone booth with us. “Rosie, call your father first.” When Rosie finishes talking, my mother says, “You don’t have to call your mother’s house. She and Jim said that no matter how late it is, to call Phoebe’s father’s house. That’s where they’ll both be.”
No matter how late it is, they’ll both be there—at the same place.
I look at Rosie.
She looks at me.
My mother looks at both of us.
Finally my mother picks up the phone, dials Woodstock, and tells them we’re safe.
Rosie and I each talk to our parents.
Neither of us asks what they’re doing together, no matter how late it is.
I want to talk to Rosie about what’s going on . . . and I bet she wants to talk to me about it.
It’s not a good idea in front of my mother.
I can’t wait until Rosie and I are alone.