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CW: Religious themes, fear of harm
Fifteen years ago, my mother celebrated a significant birthday. A surprise party had been planned for her, in a city several hours from where I worked.
I resolved to go, of course, but had to make the trip fit into my schedule.
Finishing work late on a Friday afternoon meant that I had to jump onto the train, bright and early on Saturday morning, leap off at the other end, pounce on the first taxi I could find, wrestle the “Yes-I’ll-take-your-dog” commitment out of the driver, and dash to the party before the birthday girl arrived at 1:00 p.m. After a mere twelve hours with my family, I was obliged to book a ticket on the returning night bus, departing at 1:00 a.m. the next morning, and arrive on the doorstep of my church, barely coherent, a couple of hours prior to the start of the service. I was the choir director after all.
I had a small window to work with: Friday evening to Sunday morning. It was the sort of thing I loved doing—a bit over the top, slightly madcap, but a good lark, nonetheless. Truth be told, the tight itinerary was half the fun. A whirlwind 24-hour trip was as much part of the adventure as the main event: the surprise party. Besides, it was just starting to be full summer and the sunny, warm world felt optimistic, charged with energy and a whole lot of holiday.
Early summer where my mother lives is splendid, especially if you’re a sun-worshipper like me. It’s always mid-90s there by the first week of July, and the best thing on earth is a picnic on a patio, with music, a barbecue, and people in good humour. If it were possible to throw in a lake, for good measure, that would be even better, but you can’t ask for everything in this life.
The party was perfect. The tablecloths flapped in the breeze, the barbecue wafted, the balloons bobbed on their strings, poinging abstractedly off your head if you inadvertently walked into one, as if to say: “Enjoy yourselves, everyone! We’re here, too.” Extended family, extended tables, extended warmth.
My mom has always been the undisputed life of the party, and after she got over her tongue-tied, teary surprise (and was she surprised!), she came through with flying colours! Then she was the hostess, the MC, the comedy act, and the ringleader.
It was really quite a bash, one of those memories one has of being utterly embraced by a celebration. It’s good to have those glittering, sparkling moments to look back upon, with affection, across the intervening years.
As the sun drifted toward the west and guests drifted toward their cars, my sister, mother, and I drifted toward the kitchen, glasses of wine in our hands, to finish the clean-up.
As sure as twilight was creeping into the backyard, a clammy sort of cold was beginning to settle on me, too. I started to picture the hours ahead. At this moment, I was enveloped by my family, still aglow with the light of the summer afternoon, but I would soon be among total strangers, out in the dark.
I never feel that a Saturday night is quite as safe a time to be out and about as other nights. I really prefer to be indoors, cozy in my own house, or in the company of friends with a sure way of getting to my own door and closing it behind me, by the time night falls. Maybe that comes from having been an urban dweller for a lot of my life and having had to rely on public transit for most of that time. One becomes attuned to where the sirens are, or if loud voices are raised in the street below, or worse.
So, despite my sinking heart, I took comfort from the fact that I wouldn’t have to wait at the bus station long, and that the trip itself lasts at least five hours. I always make sure to take the seat on the bus across from the driver and engage him or her in conversation for a minute, right at the start of a journey, thus rendering myself less invisible. I do enjoy a long bus trip, profiting from the hours to read, study something interesting, knit, listen to music—in other words, catch up on things I never seem to have time to do during my regular life. On this occasion, however, I wished that the return logistics could have been different.
At midnight, I was calling yet another cab to take me to the bus station. The day had been wonderful, glowing, fleeting as a northern summer, but already I was regretting my choice of attire. My sundress had seemed so liberating and celebratory at 7:00 a.m. that morning. Now it seemed flimsy, revealing, provocative. I felt exposed, vulnerable, and completely unprepared for a Saturday night outside the closed bus station at the corner of two main streets in the red-light district.
No matter, I thought, the bus will be here soon.
At 12:55 a.m., an inspector strode by, announcing in a disinterested voice that the bus had been delayed across the river for at least an hour, and we’d be given more information when they knew anything. Now you see him, now you don’t! He disappeared as quickly as he appeared, almost as if he didn’t want to be caught up in whatever drama might be unfolding. Too much paperwork, no doubt!
There was some murmuring among the half-dozen people sitting on the benches with me, outside the closed bus station. And then I heard them all get up and walk away. Oh no, I thought, this block is wall-to-wall bars... and now everybody has left. So much for safety in numbers.
The bus station was located in a town square of sorts, surrounded by the main drag, the access route to the commuter tunnel, and the two side streets that would take you directly to the casino. It was also a block up from the street where all the action was, after everywhere else turned out the lights. In its starkest terms, the bus station was located on the happeningest parking lot on a Saturday night, and the place to be, if you had money to spend, liquor to drink, and especially if you were hunting game. The diviest bars, the wildest partiers, the biggest fights—sex for sale, booze for sale, and many, many people out to buy.
Even while wearing a business suit, carrying a briefcase, and walking briskly, a young woman might not feel particularly safe in that area during the day. A blind woman, rightly or wrongly, might be encouraged to keep away from there, unless accompanied by a sighted person. I know I had been, when I worked in that city, years before! And here I was, past midnight, in July, wearing less than a yard of some synthetic flowery window dressing, with a marshmallow of a Labrador guide dog at my feet, in a deserted parking lot, surrounded by buildings whose windows were not looking toward a concrete wasteland. I certainly did not feel safe.
On Saturday night, kids who were below the legal age in the next county would cross the river and flock to local bars. The streets around the bus station catered to that demographic, almost entirely. I had a cousin who worked at one of them and he told me that Saturday night, (well, really Sunday morning) between 1:00–3:00 a.m. was the busiest time in the entire week.
I felt an adrenaline rush of terror as I heard the sluice gates open, and the desolate inner city parking lot begin to fill with teeming crowds of people.
I began to feel like I was on display, a sitting duck, unprotected, planted as I was, stoically on my bench, dressed for a pool party, with my ridiculously expensive-looking braille notetaker in my hands, easily snatched, easily sold in the blink of an eye, with complete impunity. This was also before the days of the iPhone, remember, so there was no concept of texting my sister to let her know what was happening.
Heart rate picking up, I was on the verge of heading for the building with the most noise, in hopes that at a bare minimum, there might be a phone I could use to call someone, when someone sat down beside me.
“Yes, it’s a nice night!” she said in a deep, slow voice.
My first impulse was to keep to my plan and walk away, afraid I would be in more trouble if it looked like I knew the person harassing me than if I was a lone traveller. I couldn’t detect the smell of alcohol, or even tobacco smoke, so I deduced that I wouldn’t be subjected to an hour of rambling, intoxicated jibber-jabber, but I didn’t understand what she was doing there or why she should choose to take a seat right beside me, when there seemed to be acres of empty benches to my left and right. Now, I felt trapped.
“Bus late again?” she asked. “They always are, get held up on the other side of the bridge, I guess.”
“Yes, that’s what the inspector said.” A bit short, a bit dismissive. Maybe I should try and make polite conversation till I know what’s what. “Are you waiting for it?” Let’s discover a little about this person, I thought.
“No, I’m just heading across the river. “
That seemed safe. At least she wouldn’t stay long. She was probably just taking a breather, saw me sitting here by myself, and thought she’d be friendly. What a kind thing to do, I reflected, as I settled back down onto the cold, wooden bench.
“You looked like you could use some company.”
I certainly could!
She asked me about my trip, the day, my work, my choir, all in the same, peaceful, slow manner of speaking. We talked about the recent cross-county festivities, the summer fireworks, and many other things. The time passed imperceptibly, and I slowly felt my tension melting away. I was sure that it was her steady voice and easy conversation that were soothing my jangled nerves and putting me at ease.
Waves of people drifted across our parking lot—closing time here, still another hour there, main drag, commuter tunnel access, casino to and fro, bars, bars, and more bars. Tourists from both sides of the river passed us in their thousands and still no bus. But the atmosphere that had seemed so ominous and threatening now seemed friendly, a bit raucous, but harmless. I wondered if the bus would come at all, but I was happy to have a companion while I waited. In fact, I was extremely relieved.
At about 3:30 a.m. she eased herself to her feet and said, “Well I best be getting on my way. I expect your bus will be here soon.”
“I’ve really enjoyed our talk,” I responded. “Thank you for keeping me company. I wasn’t feeling very safe here, I must say.”
“You’ll be alright now. God bless you, honey.”
“You too. Are you really crossing the river?”
“That’s what I’m going to do, go across the river.” She sauntered away, humming comfortably to herself.
I marvelled at how the last two hours had flown by. Then I started worrying again. Surely, I hadn’t missed the bus, had I? It was supposed to pull up right in front of me, wasn’t it? What if it went to a different door while we had been talking? She would have seen it. I would have heard it... surely. I could feel anxiety tightening its grip under my rib cage and again was on the verge of getting up, planning to go in search of someone, when the inspector walked through once more, announcing that the bus would be here in five minutes and that we should have our tickets ready. Big sigh, grateful, rather apologetic prayer of thanks.
A crowd was gathering little by little, so I took my place with the rest in line, fishing for my tickets in my purse.
Sure enough, the bus rolled up in a matter of moments, and we all stumbled on board, half asleep and cold.
Gratefully, I sank into a seat and calculated that I wouldn’t be so early for church after all. I put my head back and closed my eyes. It had been a remarkable day, brimming with sensations and extremes. Exhaustion sent me tumbling into oblivion, before I’d even had a chance to speak to the driver! I have no recollection of the next day, but presumably I made it to church and directed the choir.
***
Years later, now married, my husband and I had the wonderful opportunity of moving back to my hometown. Much remained the same, but several significant changes had taken place. They had relocated the bus terminal, for one, pulling it out of its art deco building in the heart of downtown, and constructing a new, modern thing a few blocks west, with traffic islands and bus lanes—the bane of every blind person. Most of the dive bars were gone, along with a good deal of the business on the main drag. For some inexplicable reason, I found that rather sad.
There was a lot of talk about the new bridge being built. It would have bike lanes and maybe even a pedestrian walkway so people without a car could cross to the other side.
I asked a city councillor about it, my mind flashing vividly on the night, years previous, when I had been tossed and turned on that strange sea of revelry, and the kind woman who had stopped to keep me company.
“How do pedestrians get across the river now?” I enquired.
His answer was simple, succinct, and stopped me in my tracks:
“You can’t,” was all he said.
