Greyhound Blues, Part IV (Final Part)
Connie Thornton first saw the woman in the pink fur coat standing outside near the bus, enjoying a cigarette. The woman looked as if she was relaxing on a beach, staring out over a beautiful ocean. She wondered, as she leaned over her son Johnny staring out the window, why a woman as sophisticated as that one would even step foot into a bus station.
"Maybe she's waiting on someone," Connie said.
"What, Mom?" her son Johnny asked.
Connie backed away from the window and sat up straight in her seat. She didn't realize she was speaking out loud. "Oh nothing, dear," she replied.
She smiled and kissed Johnny on the forehead. "You just keep playing your game."
Connie pulled bus tickets from her purse. Their tickets said five-forty, and here it was ten minutes before six. She would've gotten up and asked the driver of th there was a problem, but she didn't want to leave Johnny sitting by himself.
Connie picked pieces of torn tissue from her lap and placed them in her purse. That was her last tissue. She forgotten to buy more in her rush to cath the bus. Now she sat there, needing more to wipe her runny nose and to cover the scratches on her face.
The scratches. She touched them gently with a her finger. The makeup she'd used to disguise them was not doing it's job. The scratches were itchy, and they'd even begun to ooze. She didn't have the time for infection. And she didn't want anyone looking at her, asking questions.
No one seemed to notice, except the black man who'd bent over to pick up a a runaway ball of yarn from the bus aisle a few minutes ago. He'd stared into her face for a few seconds, not saying a word. It seemed as if he wanted to say something, but then got caught up in a conversation with the owner of the yarn, a flirty old woman seated across the aisle. The man turned and walked back up the bus aisle. He slid into a seat a couple of rows up from them.
Besides that, no one paid her any attention. And that was fine by her.
It had been a long day, and in some 40 hours, they would be out west, far from D.C. area.
Far from Johnny's father Cameron. Cameron St. John had full custody of Johnny, but was out of town on business for the weekend. Connie had gone over to pick up Johnny, as she had him every other weekend (whenever THAT worked out), and the maid had let her in the house as always.
But this weekend was different. Connie had a plan. She was getting Johnny for good.
Cameron had started acting silly as of late. He'd married a woman, an actress who couldn't have kids. The woman adored Johnny, so much so that she wanted to officially adopt him.
"I'll pay you whatever you want, Connie," Cameron had said with checkbook in hand. "Name your price. Just sign over your parental rights."
"My son is not for sale," Connie said. She didn't even think twice about it.
That was a year ago, when Johnny was five years old. Cameron had given her a hard time every since then. When she'd come to pick up Johnny, they'd never be around. Cameron would bring Johnny to her apartment, but always when she wasn't there.
The final draw was when Connie was standing in the grocery store line and saw Cameron's wife on the front cover of a popular tabloid clutching Johnny's hand, beaming about how much she loved her son Johnny.
Connie decided right then in that grocery store line what she had to do:
She had to get her son for good.
She'd gone over to Cameron's house that Friday morning after finding out that he was away on business. The Actress, as Connie liked to call her, was away on some movie shoot. Johnny was alone in the house with the maid.
Connie dropped by their house under the premise of bringing Johnny a gift. The maid had reluctantly let her in the house. Connie told Johnny, when the maid left to answer a phone call, to go and sit in her car and wait for her. Johnny was hesitant, but did as he was told. He was a good child, a stickler for rules, and always quick to do as he was told.
Connie made her way to Johnny's bedroom and quickly gathered a few of his favorite things in a large trash bag: his video games, his favorite orange jacket, his designer sneakers. Sure, she had clothing for him at her apartment, but it was nothing like what his father could afford for him.
She'd finished searching and gathering Johnny's things, she looked up to see the maid charging at her. They'd gotten into an awful fight, and the maid had the nerve to scratch her face. The fight ended when Connie hit the maid in the head with a bat.
Connie shivered. She could still hear the crack of the bat against the maid's head.
Better a crack of a baseball to the skull rather than a bullet in the head, she thought as she drug the woman into a closet and closed the door.
"Stupid maid," Connie mumbled. "And I liked her, too."
Connie dug in her purse for more tissues, but found none. Her hand brushed the cold metal of the gun she had when getting her son. She'd thought about tossing it, but would do that once they were well out of the D.C. area.
She pulled an old romance novel from the crowded purse. She wanted to wait until they were on there way before she started reading, but right now was as good a time as any.
Connie leaned into the aisle and tapped the shoulder of the old woman who was busy crocheting.
Excuse me, Ma'am," Connie said. "Do you happen to have any tissues?"
The old lady peered at her curiously, then sat her crochet project in her lap. She reached for her straw purse, and retrieved a small travel pack. She handed it to Connie.
"Thank you," Connie said. She removed a couple, and handed the pack back to the old woman.
"No, that's alright, dear," the old woman said. "I have plenty more."
"Connie tore open the pack.
"My name's Sarah," the old woman said. She reached her hand out across the aisle. "Sarah Baxter."
Connie looked down at the old woman's wrinkled hand. She didn't want to be rude, but she had too much on her mind and was in no mood for conversation.
"I'm Helen," Connie said.
They shook hands.
"Mom, your name's not Helen, it's Connie." Johnny broke out into a fit of giggles. He leaped into Connie's lap and smiled at the old woman. "My mom's name is Connie, rhymes with my name Johnny!"
The old woman raised an eyebrow at Connie.
Connie quickly placed Johnny back into his own seat.
"Connie's my middle name, " she explained. "Short for Constance. Everyone calls me Connie."
The old woman said nothing. only picked up her yarn and needle and went back to her project.
Good, Connie thought. Didn't want to talk to her anyway.
Connie stood up. She was ready to go. She had no idea where the bus driver was, but she could at least ask him why they hadn't departed. Just as she was about to step out into the aisle, the bus driver jogged up the bus steps and plopped down into his seat. The bus was moving before Connie could even sit back down in her own seat.
A hard rapt on the glass door caused the bus driver to hit the brakes. He grabbed the large silver handle and opened the bus door.
“Yeah, I thought you’d get the message,” the bus driver said through a hard laugh.
The mysterious woman in the pink fur coat slowly ascended the stairs of the bus. She combed her fingers through her hair, then leisurely made her way down the aisle.
Connie watched the woman as she slowly made her way down the aisle. Surely the bus driver wasn't laughing at such a sophisticated woman. The woman held her head high, and walked down the aisle like it was a high fashion runway, like she knew that all eyes were on her. She paused at the side of the young man who'd retrieved the yarn earlier, but then continued walking up the aisle.
Before Connie knew it, the woman in the pink fur coat was standing next to her, staring down at her. Connie quickly looked down. She hoped the woman wasn't looking at her scarred face. Connie began turning the pages of the tattered romance novel in her lap. The woman soon moved, and sat down in the seat directly behind her.
More time passed. The bus still hadn't moved.
“Who’s smoking back there?” the bus driver yelled.
No one said a word. A couple more minutes went by.
“Let me remind ya’ll that there’s no smoking on this bus," the driver yelled. He pointed at the blinking no smoking sign. "Now whoever’s smoking better put it out or get off the damn bus.”
Still no one said a word. And the bus didn't move.
Connie was becoming antsy. At this rate, she and Johnny could just catch another bus and be on their way.
“I’ma ask one last time. Who the hell smoking back there?”
Again, no one said a word. All was quiet, save for the hard hum of the engine.
“It’s the black lady. The black lady with the big sunglasses and the pink cat hair coat.”
Connie sat up straight. She looked over at Johnny. He was standing up in his seat, pointing at the woman sitting behind them.
“The black lady right here, Mister,” he yelled. “She’s smoking.”
Connie's breath caught in her throat. There was a frantic commotion at the front of the bus, then the sound of footsteps so heavy that they shook the entire bus.
Suddenly, the driver was standing over the woman sitting behind them.“Lady, I don’t know what your problem is, but you better put out that damn cigarette.”
No one said a word.
The nice black man who'd retrieved the yarn for the old woman earlier was suddenly standing next to the bus driver, a hard look of concern on his face. "Everything alright back here?" he asked.
"I got this," the bus driver said. He pointed to the front of the bus, and got up in the man's face. "I got this. Go sit back down. I can take care of this."
The black man hesitated. Connie looked up and he was staring straight at her, a worried look clouding his face. Connie quickly looked back down at her book. The scars must be oozing again. She touched them lightly with a tissue.
“This is my last cigarette, and I’m gonna smoke it,” the woman in the pink fur coat said.
Connie was amazed at how calm the woman was. She sounded as if she was having a friendly conversation at a cafe with her friends. She sounded nothing like a woman in the midst of a trouble.
Connie pulled on Johnny and made him sit down.
“But Mom, the lady is smoking!” Johnny yelled.
“I know, Johnny, but let the nice bus driver handle it.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to get off this bus,” the driver said.
“Uh, no. I paid for my ticket, and I make my singing debut tonight," the woman said.
A singer, Connie thought. She was on the bus with a singer. No wonder she was dressed so expensively. Maybe once they got on the road, she could ask her for a sample of her music. From what she heard, singers always carried around free samples.
“What you need to do is get up there and do your job. Drive us to New York City,” the woman said.
After a couple of minutes, the bus driver marched back up to the front of the bus.
The black man walked back and sat down in the seat behind Connie, next to the woman in the pink fur coat. She could hear him mumbling. She leaned back in her seat, hoping to hear what he and this famous singer were talking about.
The woman in the pink fur coat didn't say a word. The man left and walked back up to his seat.
After a couple of minutes, the bus driver stood up and asked for everyone's attention. “Listen up, everybody. I don’t have to put up with this shit. I been on this job thirty-five years. My retirement starts next Monday. It’s Friday night, and I could be at home right now instead of fooling with mess. And that’s what I’m gonna do. You all have a good evening, and get to New York the best way you can.” He grabbed his belongings and stomped off the bus.
Johnny leaned his head against his mother's shoulder. "Mom, the man said a bad word."
"Yes, I know Johnny. It's okay," she said. She placed her arm around his shoulder. She had a few choice bad words she would've said herself if Johnny wasn't sitting there beside her.
“Come back,” the woman in the pink fur coat yelled. “I sing tonight!”
Connie looked over her shoulder and saw the woman standing up and leaning close to the window.
“Well I’ll be,” the old woman sitting across from her said. She’d been crocheting. She threw the yarn and needle to the floor. “My family reunion starts tomorrow, and because of this heffa and her cigarette, I’m gonna miss it.”
No one else said a word. The hum of the bus engine was as loud as a that of a plane's engine. Connie leaned down and picked up the ball of yarn that had landed on her foot.
Suddenly the woman slid out of her seat and marched to the front of the bus.
“Oh, now you want to get off,” the black man said. “You should've thought about that earlier.”
Connie gathered up her things. She and Johnny were going to make their exit too. She could easily catch another bus.
Connie stood up just in time to see the woman slide into the driver's seat.
“I’m not getting off the bus.” The woman grabbed the door handle and pulled the door shut. “We’re going to New York.”
“You can’t do that,”the old woman sitting across the aisle said. “You’ll kill us all.”
“Oh, we’re going to New York," the woman in the pink fur coat yelled. “And I’m going to get us there.”
The nice black man stood up and looked back at Connie. Connie slowly sat back down in her seat.
Why did he keep looking at her?"Damn scars," she mumbled. She touched her face. She hated they were drawing such attention.
But that wasn't the worst of her problems.
She had finally gotten her son, and was headed for a new life...
But was it all for nothing??
Would they meet their end with this woman driving the bus?
She reached in her purse and felt around for the gun. It was still there, fully loaded and ready if she needed it.
No, they wouldn't meet their end on this bus.
Not if she could help it. Afterword for Part IV
What's up with the gun, Connie?
Why we gotta be carrying guns on the bus, Connie?
You know I can't write a story without a gun. All my stories involve somebody packing a piece. Nope, it ain't gangster, but uh... gotta have your piece!
LOL.
You know, when I was writing the first part of Greyhound Blues, I wrote that Ta.yari stopped next to a dishelved woman flipping through pages of a romance novel. Ta.yari was perturbed that the woman was even reading a romance novel ("chewing gum for the brain, they were").
But I was a bit disturbed that the woman wasn't reading. I saw her flipping through pages all nervous like. I wondered to myself, "Who is that woman, and what is her problem."
Hence, Connie Thornton. She's kidnapped little Johnny, and is doing her best to get out of D.C.
And she would've been well on her way if it wasn't for Ta.yari and that dayum cigarette!
LOL
Or would that be the case?
Why on earth was Aaron staring at Connie so hard? Yeah, there are the scratches on her face and all. That would cause me to even look at someone sideways, you know.
I'll give you a clue.
There are two undercover cops on the bus. Twist has a laptop, Aaron has that Blackberry.
And I know around my way? There is a such thing as an AMBER ALERT.
Hmmm... that's all I'll say.
Anyway, this story has been a lot of fun to write, but getting the logistics correct is driving me batty. Hopefully I will figure out how to get it all to read much smoother. That is very hard for me to do. But I'm learning:)
This story is inspired not only by Ta.yari's adventures on the Greyhound bus, but also by a theme I find myself writing under as of late.
We are all absorbed in our own problems and issues, and rightfully so. (If you're not, I know I am.) But at the same time, we have no idea what's going on with people all around us. WE ASSUME a lot from the smiles on people's faces. For instance, I sit in church and I look at people. They have it all together, look perfect and all. But what are they going through? What has them crying at night? What obstacles are they currently trying to overcome? Who do they love? Who do they hate? What are their present needs?
What's going on in their heart of hearts today?
I constantly think about such things, and it seems to be a strong thread weaving its way in and out of my writing. And it has made it's way into
Greyhound Blues.
What's going on with Aaron Fletcher? Is he interested in Chandra Twist, but still mourning over his wife? If so, why won't he talk to her about it? And never mind him, what's going on with Chandra Twist? Is she going to continue to pine over Aaron?
And Connie... you can look at her and tell that she been through something, just looking at her jacked up hair and the scarred face. But one would think she is an abused woman. You'd never look at her and think that she has kidnapped her own child. I actually wrote a detailed 20 page treatment of her situation. It deeply disturbed me, as I HATE exposition. I learned much about her, though. It was too long to post, so I posted this shortened version, which makes more sense anyway.
All I know, by the time I finish the entire story... poor Ta.yari is going to be looking a bit perplexed, thinking...
"What's going on, everybody?"
"I was just trying to get to the concert so I could sing. What-, what's going on?"So, boys and girls!
Thank you SO MUCH for stopping by for
***STORY WEEK***And this was a looooong one! LOL.
I've gotten some really good emails behind this, and some great ideas to boot. (That's uh, usually why I do this, lol.)
I may have another story week coming up sometime this summer.
Have a great weekend!
And I've learned that managing scientists is like managing cats. I've learned that I don't care for administrative duties. I'd rather skip along like a smurf, thank you very much, and work on self management...
We ended up making love. It was good, I must say. Plus, I'd been drinking, both beer and wine. (I have NO idea how I ended up drinking wine, because I was NOT a wine drinker. I preferred Beer, Boones, and Malt Liquor. Hey, maybe it was the cheap Boones in that wine glass.) 
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