Walk Two Moons



42

THE BUS AND THE WILLOW

WHEN THE MAN DROVE OFF, I CRAWLED BENEATH the railing and made my way down the hill toward the bus. In the east the sky was smoky gray, and I was glad for the approaching dawn. In the year and a half since the trail was hacked out, the brush had begun to grow back. Wet with dew, straggly branches slapped and scratched at my legs and hid uneven ground so that several times I tripped, tumbling and sliding downward.

The bus lay on its side like an old sick horse, its broken headlights staring out mournfully into the surrounding trees. Most of the huge rubber tires were punctured and grotesquely twisted on their axles. I climbed up onto the bus's side, hoping to make my way down to an open window, but there were two enormous gashes tom into the side, and the jagged metal was peeled back like a sardine tin. Through a smashed window behind the driver's seat, I saw a jumbled mess of twisted seats and chunks of foam rubber. Everything was dusted over with fuzzy, green mold.

I had imagined that I would drop through a window and walk down the aisle, but there was no space inside to move. I had wanted to scour every inch of the bus, looking for something-anything-that might be familiar.

By now the sky was pale pink, and it was easier to find the uphill trail, but harder going as it was a steep incline. By the time I reached the top, I was muddy and scratched from head to toe. It wasn't until I had crawled beneath the railing that I noticed the car parked behind Gramps's red Chevrolet.

It was the sheriff. He was talking on his radio when he saw me, and he motioned for his deputy to get out. The deputy said, “We were just about to come down there after you. We saw you up on top of the bus. You kids ought to know better. What were you doing down there at this time of day, anyway?"

Before I could answer, the sheriff climbed out of his car. He settled his hat on his head and shifted his holster. 'Where are the others?" he said.

"There aren't any others," I said.

“Who brought you up here?"

"I brought myself."

“Whose car is this?"

"My grandfather's."

"And where is he?" The sheriff glanced to left and right, as if Gramps might be hiding in the bushes.

"He's in Coeur d'Alene."

The sheriff said, "Pardon?"

So I told him about Gram and about how Gramps had to stay with her and about how I had driven from Coeur d'Alene very carefully.

The sheriff said, "Now let me get this straight," and he repeated everything I said, ending with, "and you're telling me that you drove from Coeur d'Alene to this spot on this hill all by yourself?"

"Very carefully," I said. "My Gramps taught me how to drive, and he taught me to drive very carefully. "

The sheriff said to the deputy, "I am afraid to ask this young lady exactly how old she is. Why don't you ask her?"

The deputy said, "How old are you?" I told him. The sheriff gave me a stem look and said, "I don't suppose you would mind telling me exactly what was so all-fired important that you couldn't wait for someone with a legitimate driver's license to bring you to the fair city of Lewiston?"

And so I told him all the rest. When I had finished, he returned to his car and talked into his radio some more. Then he told me to get in his car and he told the deputy to follow in Gramps's car. I thought the sheriff was probably going to put me in jail, and it wasn't the thought of jail that bothered me so much. It was knowing that I was this close and might not be able to do what I had come to do, and it was knowing that I needed to get back to Gram.

He did not take me to jail, however. He drove across the bridge into Lewiston and on through the city and up a hill. He drove into Longwood, stopped at the caretaker's house, and went inside. Behind us was the deputy in Gramps's car. The caretaker came out and pointed off to the right, and the sheriff got back in the car and drove off in that direction.

It was a pleasant place. The Snake River curved behind this section, and tall, full-leaved trees grew here and there across the lawn. The sheriff parked the car and led me up a path toward the river, and there, on a little hill overlooking the river and the valley, was my mother's grave.

On the tombstone, beneath her name and the dates of her birth and death, was an engraving of a maple tree, and it was only then, when I saw the stone and her name-Chanhassen "Sugar" Pickford Hiddle - and the engraving of the tree, that I knew, by myself and for myself, that she was not coming back. I asked if I could sit there for a little while, because I wanted to memorize the place. I wanted to memorize the grass and the trees, the smells and the sounds.

In the midst of the still morning, with only the sound of the river gurgling by, I heard a bird. It was singing a birdsong, a true, sweet birdsong. I looked all around and then up into the willow that leaned toward the river. The birdsong came from the top of the willow and I did not want to look too closely, because I wanted it to be the tree that was singing.

I kissed the willow. "Happy birthday," I said. In the sheriffs car, I said, "She isn't actually gone at all. She's singing in the trees."

“Whatever you say, Miss Salamanca Hiddle." "You can take me to jail now."

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