11

It was Friday and not my finest hour. I was sick at heart and beaten thin by the Sovereign hammer.

I don’t know if I can get this out and wouldn’t even try if it weren’t for Bill. I’m sorry to make you cry, Ruth Anne, but I haven’t felt this empty since you slipped from me. This morning, I stayed in bed with blinds drawn and dared God to flush me out.

Once out of bed, I’d flipped between the soaps and the court shows and the daytime talk-meisters, anything to keep from forming the mental picture of mother and father and infant waiting last night in desperation for God’s reluctant provider to arrive with the milk. Their tear-stained faces. Their loud prayers of thanks for answered prayer. My promise to have Mike of Bread of Life Mission stop by with groceries. The mother kissing my hand; the father clapping me on the shoulder; the baby asleep at last, its world put right so easily by a bottle and a half of Bossie’s Best. Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus in full flight from the ghosts of Barstow, California, in search of a new beginning in Seattle.

The creeping suspicion that had held me prisoner beneath the covers was that the milk episode hadn’t been as much for that family’s benefit as it was for mine. I mean, God could have sent any one of a hundred or a thousand people to take them the milk. Or He could have materialized a cow next to their dump of a car and provided milk enough for the neighbors.

That He sent me with a single gallon and placed such an enormous emphasis on the timing of it proved my theory. I am but His messenger boy and it was the last thing I wanted. When I balk and start to exercise a little of that famous free will of His that everyone talks about, including you, Ruth, He reprimands by sending me out for milk. Undoubtedly, my discomfort with all this places a giant cement block right where God wants my breakthrough to occur.

I know it sounded arrogant, but I didn’t like being shoved around by forces I couldn’t see, no matter how divine.

Finally, around two in the afternoon, my phone call to Mike completed, I dug a sweatshirt and jeans out of the clothes hamper, downed some pickled cauliflower and sardines, and set off for the 17. Since I was now sent messages outside the bus, I figured to stay out of God’s way by going out when I good and well decided it was time to go out. Surely He wasn’t going to expend His energy much longer on a rebel like me. I’d wait Him out on my terms, ride the bus at my whim, and ignore any more signals from the sacred semaphore.

For a fleeting moment I entertained the idea of canceling dinner with Bill, and would have had I not been so concerned that Metro’s finest would take it personally. Besides, why punish Bill because of my feud with Jehovah?

Bill was all smiles when the doors swung open and I boarded the 17.

“Where to, my good man? Bermuda? Palm Springs? The Poconos?”

“No can do, Bill.” I swiped my transit pass and figured I owed Bill some banter. Plus, I needed to lighten up by the time he arrived for dinner. Better start now. “I’m having a fancy dinner with a VIP, a regular raconteur who shall regale me with tales of the smoky backrooms at Metro and the latest scuttlebutt from the bus barn. No amount of white-sand beaches and heart-shaped bathtubs can tear me away from this man’s riveting stories!”

“Sheesh,” said Bill, who pressed on the accelerator and with a practiced swing of the wheel pulled away from the stop. “I don’t know about rivets and raccoons, but do tell me more about the fancy dinner.” He gave me that cocksure grin that said tonight’s meatloaf was the highlight of his social calendar.

I slid into the first side-facing seat by the front doors so we could yak without shouting over the talkative transmission. “No chipped jam jars or paper plates for my guest. We’re eating off stoneware and drinking from mismatched bowling mugs, courtesy of Bryce Portofino’s sidewalk sale. He’s in 5E.”

“You don’t have to impress me.” Bill took a wide swing to the right to detour around the lane repaving at Westlake and Mercer.

“Wait’ll you see the full, unopened bottle of chocolate sauce for the ice cream. And Market Roast coffee, did I mention that?”

“The VIP is a very fortunate man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“My shift goes ’til five, but as soon as I get this baby back to the barn, I’m coming straight over. You not doing the usual?”

I managed a grin. “Nothing usual about these days. I called the Safari and they said they had a female volunteer this morning who could work circles around me. I said yes, but could she lift in excess of fifty pounds? Anyway, you’re stuck with me to the Ballard Locks.”

The Locks was a manmade channel that lifted boats between the fresh water of the Ship Canal and the salt water of Puget Sound. Paralleling the Locks was a fish ladder and an expanse of grass for cloud-watching. It was a favorite picnic spot of Ruthie’s and mine, even now.

Bill frowned. “Dinner going to make itself?” He winked.

“What’s put you in such a jolly mood?”

Bill’s chest swelled. “Oh, nuttin’ much. You’re just looking at Operator of the Year for the third time!”

“Wow, Bill, that’s fantastic! Congratulations—Roxie must be so proud!”

A beaming Bill ran a meaty hand through a thatch of rapidly thinning gray hair. “You got that right. She wanted to celebrate tonight, but I said no, that those shenanigans are reserved for weekends.” Up went the thick eyebrows, followed by a knowing laugh, something just between us guys. “I said it was because of passengers like you that I’ve lasted this long. Ya know?”

I shook my head. “It’s all you, my friend, and most deserving. I don’t want to ruin the party.”

Bill blustered and brushed it off but I could see how pleased he was. “Nawh, nawh. She doesn’t mind. ’Sides, Sweet Rox might just get a nice new dress out of this deal. You’ll have to come dancing with us. The Fred Astaire Studio’s a great place to meet the ladies.”

I had difficulty formulating a picture of Bill gliding across the dance floor, but maybe he approached the waltz with the same workmanship he brought to wrestling a bus around town. He got the job done.

By the time we came to the stop at the seaplane terminal on Lake Union, the bus was empty of all but Bill and me, and I was starting to doze in the sun-warm window.

That’s when I heard Bill mumble, “Oh, please, not today.” Something in his tone made my eyes snap open.

The four street toughs with foul mouths whom Bill had lectured on proper bus etiquette were back. Same sideways ball caps, same too-big pants, same frank stares. Same tall Tsunami in the lead, same doting pilot fish at his side. Same smirks. They clopped up the steps in oversized, unlaced basketball shoes and clopped past the money box without paying,

“Whoa there, boys,” Bill boomed. “We’re beyond the Ride Free Zone. Pay the fare, please.”

Not breaking stride, Tsunami said, “No can do, bus man. You get paid when I get paid, on Sunday.”

I wondered if the drug deal would go down before church or after.

“Then you can ride on Sunday.” Bill waited. The bus doors did not close and the bus did not move.

My guts were in a vise.

The boys flopped onto the bench seat at the back of the bus.

Tsunami ignored Bill. “What’s on yo’ play list, Marko, my man?”

The bus filled with a blast of rap music in which all the lyrics except for the shouted profanity were unintelligible.

“Bus regulations prohibit the playing of music without earphones. Put ’em in or shut it off.” Bill, jaw rigid, stood beside me in the aisle, facing down the passengers.

Tsunami snorted. “Keep yo’ boxers on, old man, and get this crate movin’.” Mercifully, Marko shut off the music, then turned his face to Bill and traced his jawline with the middle finger of his left hand.

“OK, that’s it! Out. Now!” Bill made a menacing move forward.

I laid a restraining hand on his arm. “Look, guys, our driver’s responsible for this bus, and his boss says follow the rules or no ride.” I swallowed hard before continuing. “I’ll cover the cost this trip but in future you need to bring money with you. All passengers have to be treated fairly and the same.”

Tsunami rose slowly, as if to show how greatly indisposed I had forced him to be. He was six feet five if he was an inch. He froze me with those darting, hopped-up eyes I remembered too well from the other day. Zombie eyes. “Do you see anybody else on this bus?” he said. When Marko pulled on the sleeve of Tsunami’s shirt, the taller boy nailed him with a savage kick to the shins.

Marko yelped and grabbed the wounded limb.

Tsunami turned his jumpy, dead eyes back to me. “This be the second time you stuck yo’ ugly nose in my business.” He pronounced it “bid-ness.” “I might like you less than I like fat boy behind the wheel. Yeah, you pay our way. I figure you got about three hunnert more years of doin’ that before we even close to even. And you tell yo’ friend that mouth’ll get him in bad with me.” He slammed back into the seat, and except for the now softly moaning Marko, the four were quiet.

“I want them off my bus,” Bill growled under his breath. The sinew in his arm was taut.

I handed him five dollars.

“It’s not the money, James.”

“I know that, you stubborn cuss,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I’m just trying to get us underway. You can share your concerns with Security when you get back to the barn. Show them the video. Get them to do a ride-along. Just don’t be a lone ranger. Now drive!”

It wasn’t until we’d gotten back into traffic and Bill stopped glancing in the rearview mirror every two seconds that I started to relax. When other passengers got on, out-of-towners dressed in floppy hats, loud shirts and blouses, and other touristy garb, the seats filled in and things started to feel normal again.

I was conflicted. Should I stay on the bus until Tsunami and his buddies got off? Bill didn’t need a nursemaid, but neither was he always Mr. Tact. Metro had plenty of contingency plans in place for things like this. In his long career, Bill must have dealt with everything from heart attacks to gang activity. Still, I felt uneasy.

The longer he was on the job, the less patience Bill had for “punks” like Tsunami. And punks were unpredictable. You never knew if they were all swagger or if they might try something.

If I wanted the Locks, my stop was coming soon. And with it, the Totem Pole Drive-in and its wicked-good fish sandwich.

Stick with Bill.

Unbelievable! I was trying to have a nice afternoon, looking forward to a getting-to-know-you-better dinner with Bill, and again God yanked my chain. Thus far, I had not received a call from the beyond while sitting on the toilet or in my dreams. Was that about to change?

I jerked on the bell pull.

“Here?” Bill said.

“Here,” I said. “Beautiful day for a walk.” He eased to a stop at the bus bench about a quarter mile from the Locks. But I hesitated.

“What?” Bill asked. “I’m already behind schedule.”

“Uh, I don’t know. Are you all right?”

“Whatta you mean, am I all right? You’re the one playing stop, don’t stop.”

“I mean, will you be OK?” I jerked my head to indicate the back of the bus.

Bill grimaced. “I never had any unruly children of my own so I’d have plenty of time for everybody else’s. Now get your butt out of here. I don’t plan on being late for dinner.”

I stood. “You’ll keep your lip zipped?”

“Operator of the Year,” Bill said.

“I mean it.”

“You just be sure to wear an apron tonight so you don’t mess up that stunning red-and-white-plaid shirt you’re wearing. Ya look like a walking tablecloth.”

…the bus…landed on the roof of an apartment building…no clear motive…worst bus accident in Seattle Metro’s twenty-five-year history.

Sheesh!

The lively clutch of tourists with thick accents peppered Bill with questions. They may have taken the wrong bus. How tall was the Space Needle? How much did it cost to ride the ferryboats?

I made my escape.

It felt good to stretch my legs in the warm sun. Clear my head. The rain promised by the thunderclouds had not materialized and the heat radiated up from the sidewalk. Yes, thank you, I would like some fries to go with that fish sandwich. Breakfast had been a glass of water and my heart medication.

Behind me, the 17 revved away from the curb and into traffic. A sudden squeal of brakes—bus brakes were made to squeal—and I smiled. I could imagine one of the tourists thrusting a city map at Bill when he was trying to drive. He would come to a complete stop in the middle of the street before answering a map question. Old school.

It made no sense to have my daily comings and goings micromanaged by God. That was not the God we worshipped together, Ruthie. That God allowed us to work with life, to take in all the information from sermons, teaching, scripture reading, prayer, and life circumstances to craft a way of ministry tailored to us and our interests. This God? Harsh. Edgy. Demanding…rude.

As the comedian says: if I’d wanted God to tell me what to do, I’d have gotten married. My apologies, Ruth Anne. No one’s going to make a reality series out of my life.

The sound of two muffled gunshots pierced deep into my solar plexus.

I whirled about.

The 17 sat crossways to the westbound lanes, its nose jutting partway into the oncoming eastbound lane. The four boys leapt from the bus.

Tsunami turned back, stretched out his right arm, and fired a pistol into something on the bottom step, hidden by the open doors. He sprinted after the others, who disappeared between the office buildings lining the street.

I sprinted for the open doors as the top of Bill’s head, face down, slid into view. Thinning gray hair. Blood, and worse, running in rivulets from a gaping wound at the back of his head. Arms at his side. Legs bent. Uniform ripped and darkening with blood.

Amid the screaming, I slumped to the pavement, my back to the bus, and cradled Bill’s head so that it didn’t swing unsupported above the street. I pressed the side of my head to the side of his and yelled my horror and rage. I left finger trails of Bill’s blood down the side of his cheek.

Tears come, and I weep as I have not since the day you slipped away, sweet Ruth.

I could not catch my breath, and if I ever did, I knew my body would tear in two. Were there others on the bus lying in pools of their own blood? I could not will my body to move.

I must have heard sirens before I was covered in a blood-red light that was all a piece of the roaring that came down and gushed forth from my ruptured heart. They pried Bill’s head from me, and on the periphery in the grass and leaning against telephone poles, I could just comprehend the shapes of inappropriately festive clothing.

“He was your friend?” The question came from a jowly Seattle police officer, by the sad, worn look of him, a veteran of massacre.

“We were having dinner tonight,” I babbled. “His wife, Roxie, wasn’t able to come, so it was just us guys and sports and meatloaf and rocky road. It was my way of making peace for having insulted him, hurt him really, but I never meant to hurt him. God told me not to forsake him, but I guess I’m not listening to God, you know?”

“Did you say his wife?” The officer’s sad eyes took me in.

I nodded.

“I’ve known Bill for at least twenty years, used to drive the bus on the same route,” he said. “Been to his house many times. Bill never married. Said he was a confirmed bachelor and would ask no woman to put up with the likes of him. He’s got a cat named Roxie and a vivid fantasy life.”

I stared at the cop, uncomprehending. “But the wedding ring on his left hand…”

The sad officer for a split second looked infinitesimally less sad. “Yeah, that. Bought it at a pawnshop. Said he didn’t want women always hitting on him.”

“He asked me to come dancing with them.”

“Yep, Bill was some character. Set in his ways, but a good fella. Give ya the shirt off his back. Those thugs took a good man.”

“Operator of the Year.”

“What’s that?”

“He told me today he was awarded Operator of the Year.”

“Again? I’m not surprised.” He leaned in. “After we get your statement downtown, anyone I can call for you, buddy? You don’t look so good.”

“Maybe a ride home?”

“Sure, sure. We’ll have the paramedics give you a going over first. Say, I know where I’ve seen you before. Aren’t you the same guy that saved all those lives in that attempted bus bombing? You’re James Carter. Man, you lucky or what?”

I felt supremely unlucky.

Stick by Bill.

I tasted the nausea. “I don’t save people. Only God does that. What about the others on the bus?”

He looked at me like maybe I’d been hit in the head and was in need of a brain scan. “Traumatized, but not shot. You, though. You’ve had enough trauma for a dozen people.”

I shrugged. “Just a ride home, officer, please, just a ride.”