17
And so I find myself standing beside the door of the bus that bears its LUCK upon its face and my time has run out and my LUCK has, too, I am afraid, and my wife Edna Bradshaw is at my side and the twelve who will remember me — these dear twelve — are ready to return. I shake each hand that passes before me, wishing to give at least a beat or two of my heart. But it is difficult. My hands are stiff. My fingertips are puckered. And I am missing important things, I realize. I have fallen out of the moment, in violation of one thing I think I can say I have learned from this planet, but there is nothing to do about it because even the process of thinking about what I am missing makes me miss even more of those things, and I have only fragments: Digger’s mouth sets hard, Misty’s eyes fill with tears, I am speaking words to them and they are passing on into the warm good-bye of my wife Edna Bradshaw and I do not catch what they are saying, I am forgetting their faces already as they may forget me, too, even without my help, and “… luck …” comes in Trey’s voice and he is passing on and I am wishing luck to him in return, I think, but I can hear my own heart now, thumping in my head, I am aflame with fear and Mary’s hand is moist and her eyes are moist and she is gone and Lucky says something about eagles and his eyes also are filling and I am working myself up even more and Arthur is here and gone and now Viola’s face looms into mine and she speaks of knowing when to fold your hand and there are more of these tears, these baffling tears, Viola’s eyes are full, and now they are overflowing, and things suddenly slow down. My hearing clarifies. Viola has moved on and my wife is saying, “Viola, honey, I wish I could give you a phone number or something.”
“Me too,” Viola says. “You beam me up anytime you want some help shopping.”
The two women laugh and Jared is shaking my hand. I turn to him. “This is all so out-there,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say.
He moves along to the warm murmuring of my wife and I expect to find Citrus next but it is Hank grasping my forearm with his free hand as we shake. “Drive safely,” I say. “But not until your wheels touch the highway.”
“You be safe, too,” he says, and he steps to Edna.
Claudia, Hudson, and Citrus are the only ones remaining outside the bus and they are all hanging back, shifting their feet and trying, I think, to be the last one to say good-bye.
“There is no time to hesitate,” I say to them, and Claudia shoots the other two a little disgusted glance and comes forward.
“Good-bye, Desi,” she says. “Thanks for answering at least one of the big questions.”
“You are not alone,” I say.
Claudia smiles. “Neither are you,” she says.
“Wait,” I cry, suddenly remembering the glint of metal in the Hall of Objects. “I still have your pistol.”
“Keep it,” she says. “That’s one small step for woman.”
Claudia lowers her face abruptly, I believe to hide the tears, and she moves on.
I turn and I find Hudson turning, too, and we are both failing to see Citrus. Hudson shakes his head. “She’s trouble, man.”
“I am sure she will show up when you get on the bus.”
Hudson nods and extends his hand and I shake it. “Look,” he says. “Your orders don’t require you to maximize the risk, do they?”
“No,” I say. “I do not read them that way.”
“Then don’t. Find yourself a nice quiet place.”
“But it cannot be quiet. This impression I make will have to last.”
Hudson shrugs and he softly claps me on the shoulder. “Then try to take care of your skinny ass, you hear?”
“Meeting you was money from home,” I say.
Hudson is briefly confused by this but then he smiles.
He steps away, toward my wife Edna Bradshaw, and she says to him, “You sure you don’t want me to wrap up a piece of the sweet potato pie for you?”
And as Hudson begins politely to decline this offer, Citrus’s voice whispers close to my ear, “I will not deny you thrice. Not even once.”
“Good,” I say and she is very near, turned the same way I am, as if she is hiding behind me.
“Remember,” Citrus says, “He did not climb down from the cross. He saved others, Himself he could not save.”
“I am a friendly guy,” I say.
“New York,” she says.
“A regular Joe,” I say.
“Times Square. It’s your Calvary.”
“What is this?” my wife Edna Bradshaw says. “You cute little thing, still wearing that stuff on your lips makes them look like they’re about to fall off from the barn rot, you come on over here and say good-bye to your friend Edna and make a promise to let me do you a makeover someday.”
Edna has dragged Citrus by the hand toward her, but Citrus jerks free and lurches back toward me.
“Please,” she says. And she stands before me, not sure herself what she is to do. “Father,” she whispers. Then, “Master.” She closes her eyes and a dark thing comes over her and she opens her eyes and she slides up against me and she kisses me on the cheek.