“You be sweet up there with Snipes and his family,” Uncle Teddy says, “so when yr aunt and me come up there tomorrow, we won’t have to impress, we can, you know, just be ourselves.” He looks at me like me being sweet will be hard, but I’m gonna be married so being sweet will come naturally.
“Tomorrow when you get there, head straight to the courthouse,” I tell them. “Me and Mr. Snipes and every-body’ll be waiting for you.”
“That pearl earring looks nice how you’re wearing it,” Uncle Teddy tells me.
“We’re proud of you, Billy,” June says. She pets me on the shoulder and I smile. She’s got a straw hat on, hiding her hair.
“I forgot to do yr hair,” I says.
“I got a pretty scarf I can wear till you get to it,” she says.
“You gonna buy a ticket or you gonna let me go back to bed?” Atchity hollers from inside.
“We’ll take one to Texhoma. One-way, please,” I say into the darkness of his store.
“I’m writing it up,” Atchity yells.
“You want some candy or something?” Uncle Teddy asks me.
“I’m all right with the chicken,” I say, holding up the sack, already a little greasy from the two chicken wings Aunt June fixed.
“Some candy’d go good with it,” Uncle Teddy says and goes inside.
June and me stand there. June’s leaning on her crutch. She lent me her own grip to put my things in. A small brown suitcase with the leather sides all cracked and sun-burned, but the clasps and handle still good. The one she had her everyday things in when her family was traveling to California. I got my own pocketbook. It’s brown too.
“I’d like to get my grip back someday,” Aunt June says.
“Clifton’s gonna get me all new luggage for the honey-moon,” I says.
“Where’s he taking you?”
“It’s a surprise,” I says. I don’t tell her he ain’t mentioned the rings or the honeymoon. “He’s been talking about going someplace exciting. Up to Chicago maybe,” I says.
We stand there quiet, listening and watching for the bus.
“If this bus is late y’ll miss yr connection,” Aunt June says.
“It won’t be late,” I says.
The day is coming up, sunlight crawling up over Miz Montgomery’s House of Style, where I had me a job once. The sun gets to the top of her place and splashes down main street, what on maps is called Sanderson Boulevard but I only ever heard one person call it that out loud. Main Bully, most people say. When Mr. Sanderson comes by every month to check up on how Uncle Teddy’s pumping his gas, he says Sanderson Boulevard a lot. We drove down Sanderson Boulevard to get here. We won’t be taking Sanderson Boulevard home, though. Sanderson Boulevard used to be quite a street but now it needs repaving. Like he’s making up reasons why to say it. And Uncle Teddy nods at Mr. Sanderson and Aunt June looks blank and I want to tell Mr. Sanderson that him and his Sanderson Boulevard can go to hell but Uncle Teddy would just tell me to watch my mouth. Mother told me once that the street’s named for Mr. Sanderson’s father’s father, Gustav Sanderson, who founded Lincoln. Mother said that Mr. Gustav coulda named the town after himself but he wanted to show how fair he was so he named his town after Abraham Lincoln instead. When me and Mother was living with Dill, we seen the younger Mr. Sanderson walking down the sidewalk. He expected us to get off the sidewalk for him and his wife but Mother told him to kiss her behind.
Aunt June shields her eyes from the sun so she can see Main Bully better, looking for the bus. From inside the store I can hear Uncle Teddy paying for my ticket and getting some candy. “Spot me a Baby Ruth,” he says.
“Oh, hell,” Bub Atchity goes.
“Me and June gonna buy two tickets from you tomorrow,” Uncle Teddy says.
“Round-trip tickets too,” June adds, turning her head to yell the news inside.
“Why don’t you buy em right now?” Atchity goes.
“We ain’t leaving until tomorrow morning,” Teddy says.
June leans forward a little on one crutch, getting a better look down the street. The bus will come from the west, from where the night is headed, all bunched up like a dark-blue quilt.
“That bus is late,” June says.
“We could go in and sit and wait,” I says.
“If we inside when it comes it might not stop,” June says.
I used to think that crutch under her arm hurt, but when she don’t wear sleeves you can see she got a patch of skin ringing her armpit, darker than the rest. She says the dark patch is why the crutch don’t hurt, even though she had the dark patch from since she was born and only lost her leg when she was my age. She says it was like something inside her knew she was gonna need that funny-looking skin.
“You leaving tomorrow you should buy yr ticket now,” Atchity says. “Save yrself the inconvenience waking me up at five in the morning.”
“You up anyhow,” Uncle Teddy says and the two of them laugh. Mr. Atchity, he got eight children and Mrs. Atchity is still nice-looking.
When the bus pulls up, the Driver, a gangly white man with red-rimmed eyes, gets out. He stands at attention like he’s in the army or something.
“Link-on!” the Driver barks. Where his shirt is open at the collar there’s a sunburn. I give Aunt June a hug, surprising us both.
“Don’t forget to eat,” she says.
The Driver opens up the underside of the bus, like the belly of a big cow. Uncle Teddy takes my grip and slides it neatly underneath. I hold on to my dress box and food, letting Teddy give the Driver my ticket and help me get on. When I get up the bus steps and turn to wave goodbye Uncle Teddy’s right behind me.
“Here go yr candy,” he says, handing me the Baby Ruth he got.
He’s standing on the steps and I’m standing at the Driver’s seat. The Driver slams the belly-door and comes to get on but can’t. Uncle Teddy’s in his way.
I hold on tight to the dress box and the candy and the chicken.
Uncle Teddy turns toward the Driver, looking down on him from his steps-perch. He holds his pointer finger in the air like he’s testing the wind direction or the Driver’s worth.
“I don’t want no Freedom Riders, now,” the Driver says, looking past Uncle Teddy to get a better look at me.
“My niece is going to meet her husband up in Texhoma,” Teddy says, establishing me.
The Driver’s face relaxes. “All aboard!” he yells from his place in the dirt.
“Tomorrow me and my wife June’ll be riding with you,” Teddy says.
“Tomorrow ain’t today,” the Driver says, “I got a schedule to keep.”
“You best sit towards the back,” Uncle Teddy whispers to me.
“Yes, sir,” I says.
He gives me a kiss on the forehead. Something he ain’t never done. The kiss is wet. Not practiced. He gets out the bus, walking down the steps backwards. The Driver moves in quick, taking his seat. Outside, Uncle and Aunt stand together. She leans against him a little.
“Take your seat,” the Driver says.
I walk back, past the empty seats up front, toward the back. Three other folks back there. All men. All sleeping.
There’s an empty seat