The wheels of the bus squeal as we pull into the station and stop, orchestral music accompanying Doris Day playing over the tinny speaker near the front. A Sentimental Journey. How appropriate. I feel my rigid fingers digging into my arm and wonder why I am so nervous. I’ve only been away six years. What could have changed? I rub my itching fingers needing a fag between them. I used to hate smoking. Then I spent my first night huddled in a shallow trench just a kilometer from Normandy. There was something warming about the small red glows that lit up our greasy faces that freezing night. We tried to hide our nervousness behind dirty jokes and grimy grins, but no one was fooled. We were scared. Six years. What could have changed in six years?
I shiver and pull my jacket close as I step off the bus. No one is here to meet me. I wanted it this way. No fanfare. No large group of women from church holding pies and casseroles and waving American flags. They would smile and then avert their eyes and shuffle uncomfortably, unsure of what they should say, not wanting to appear intrusive or worst, to be caught staring at the stump where once hung my leg.
The station was painted freshly white when I left. Now the paint is chipped and faded and stained a dull brown. The Oklahoma winters have been cruel.
I take a taxi down Main Street and around the town square. I wonder where the children are. It’s Saturday and there is no school. They should be playing in the park and buying chocolate malts from Mr. Sanders on the corner. Where are their mothers having tea and triangle sandwiches on red and white checkered quilts? The shops are closed. The street is empty, except for Ol’ Mad Man Maury. He’s still there on his park bench under the large Oak in the middle of the square.
“Stop!”
The taxi pulls over. I hand the driver the required fare.
I walk through the park and wonder at how small everything seems. I was seventeen the last time I was upon this path. I had walked arm in arm with Kimberly. Sweet Kimberly. She promised she would wait for me, and she did for two years. Why do I still keep her picture in my shirt pocket?
He is lying on his stomach, his face resting on his arm and turned toward the back of the bench. I have seen him sleeping just like this a thousand times. We used to tease him and even threw rocks at him once on a dare. He had been a soldier in the First World War and returned home full of nightmares and disquieted ghosts. We lacked the experience then to understand why the town tolerated his eccentric ways.
Now I feel something entirely different toward him.
“Mr. Maury?” I gently nudge his shoulder. I want to tell him that I am sorry for the way we used to treat him. I want to tell him that I understand.
“Mr. Maury?” I try again. The wind blows sharply and smells like snow. It’s cold. So cold.
I touch his shoulder again and pull him ever so gently. He turns in my direction, his hand falling away so that it stops outstretched, a chain and open locket held by rigid fingers. Inside is a picture of a beautiful girl with curls and long eyelashes.
His eyes are open, breath frozen on blue lips.
I sit with him for a long, long while.
by J. C. Burnham
(written for the Stanford Continuing Studies – Certificate in Creative Writing Program)
