Transcontinental (47 page)

Back on the side of the road, a bus rumbled past with a logo he recognized: a leaping Greyhound. His mother had taken a Greyhound bus to visit his grandma—her mother—in upstate California on the weekend she’d passed.

To Leroy’s surprise, the bus turned into a parking lot ahead. He made his way to it and found a Greyhound depot. He didn’t know why he’d never thought of it before. Greyhound buses travel cross-country. He hurried inside.

Rows of seated people awaiting their ride with nothing better to do stared at him as he strode to the ticket counter. He was so tired of dealing with people at counters. He was tired of dealing with everything.

“I need a ticket to Florida.”

“Mmmkay, and what city in Florida, specifically?” asked the young woman as she slid a computer mouse, then clicked and scrolled.

“Tampa.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

“So you’ll need an adult ticket. Memphis to Tampa Bay for an adult comes out to…” She typed something so fast Leroy couldn’t make it out. “One-hundred thirty dollars even. Will that be cash or check?”

Another oversight by his addled mind. Of course a Greyhound ticket cost money, which, again, he didn’t have. What was with his memory?

“Sorry, never mind.”

“You want me to cancel the ticket order?”

“I can’t pay for it.”

“Mira, wait.” An elderly Hispanic woman struggled to get up from her seat with the help of who Leroy assumed was her daughter, then met him at the counter. “I will buy your ticket,” she said, thumbing through her wallet.

Leroy was stunned. “You’d do that? You don’t even know me.”

She smiled at him the way he imagined only a grandmother could. “I like to help out where I can. I can not afford a ticket to the Tampa Bay, but I can get you to Montgomery, where we are going.”

Emotion fuzzed his thoughts even more than they previously were. “I… I don’t know what to say, ma’am. Thank you.” He hugged her.

She embraced him back. “Mamacita, not ma’am.”

The ticket girl wiped the corner of her eye. “One adult to Montgomery?”

Chapter 12

In groups of four, kindergartners slid elbow macaroni in and out of piles on their tables, visually working out math problems. Their minds were so fresh, so pure and innocent at this age, so eager to learn. Every single year, they impressed her. It was the reason she became a teacher.

Well, amongst others.

If only Jordan could see them like this, she knew he would understand. If she could just make him see what she saw every day…

But you can’t see if you refuse to open your eyes.

So, where did that leave her?

She rubbed the back of her neck. It’d only agitate her further to replay the argument in her head, as she’d done so many times. She loved him. That was the bottom line. That was what mattered. That was real.

Still, their perfect smiles, their sweet laughs burrowed into her heart in a way she’d never felt for Jordan. It was deeper than love.

Of course, she could never tell him that. She was all he had.

Her unique situation made working with children both that much more painful, but that much more bearable, as well. It was all she’d ever wanted to do, at least since she found out. She just wished it paid a bit better. Although if Jordan would get a real job, her salary wouldn’t be an issue. An hourly wage would never be sufficient for a family.

The word struck a sad note in her heart. Did two people even count as a family? It sure didn’t feel like one. No matter how hard she tried, how many magazines she read, how many outings they shared, it just didn’t feel right.

The fact that she loved him made it that much more difficult. How could she pick between her love and what she was convinced was her purpose in life? She was just grateful that she didn’t have to.

“Miss Shepherd, we need help!” shouted a little boy across the room.

Spirits lifted, Rehema leapt up from her desk and hurried over to the boy’s table, wearing a smile none of Jordan’s shortcomings could erase.

Chapter 13

Montgomery, AL

An hour or two after it’d grown dark outside, Leroy spotted a sign informing him he was entering Montgomery. As indebted as he was to the Hispanic woman, he couldn’t wait to get off the bus. It had nothing to do with her or her daughter; the bus was simply full of crazies. A mousey woman toward the back of the bus missing most of her teeth hadn’t stopped ranting about a cat she’d apparently encountered, a stoic man with a sheathed sword sat in the back, and a middle-aged woman who would otherwise seem entirely respectable ignored her five young children, who made the bus interior their playground.

It’d been the longest ride of his life.

To Leroy’s amazement, the Hispanic woman had seemed to notice none of this. Before she’d wasn’t passed out, she chatted with her daughter or across the aisle with Leroy. She told him about her son in Montgomery, who had just started making good money with some website he created, and how he’d bought a house for the whole family to live in. They were on their way to meet up with him now. It was an inspiring story. The family grew up with nothing, but Mamacita and her late husband had worked their whole lives to send their two children to college, and now her son was paying her back, and then some.

Leroy hoped he could be as successful someday. He was starting to realize that success wasn’t something that happened to people, it was the product of hard work and persistence, which was the intimidating part. All he wanted to do, though, was art. It wasn’t exactly the most profitable career path.

The squeak of the bus braking to a stop in the Greyhound depot awakened Mamacita with a start. She fussed with her hair as she came out of her sleep daze, then turned to Leroy and smiled.

“Not a bad ride,” she said.

“Not too bad,” he lied, then hopped up, ready to dash off the bus. He caught himself before he did. “Let me help you up, Mamacita.”

“Oh, gracias dear, thank you.” She grabbed his hand and got to her feet.

“Thank
you
. So much.”

“It was nothing. Now please, let me introduce you to my son.”

“He’s here?”

“He is picking us up, yes.”

“Alright.” It was unexpected, but the least he could do.

Leroy held her hand as she hazarded the bus steps. A cheer rose from the small crowd outside the bus, and they embraced her as soon as she set foot on the ground. Leroy stood aside in a happy envy as the family reconnected.

“Miguelito, I want you to meet someone.”

As Mamacita gestured toward him, the family shifted their attention, beaming at him with the same joy they showed for her.

“This is Marcus Jackson.”

Her son, well-dressed in a button-down shirt and slacks with a neat goatee, held out his hand. “Miguelito. Nice to meet you, Marcus.”

“Nice to meet you, too.” He couldn’t help but smile.

“This is my wife Betty, and our children Pablo and Lacey,” he said, going down the line. “You already met Mamacita and Inez. This is my cousin Ramon, his girlfriend Lupe, and their son Esteban.”

“Marcus is going to the Tampa Bay.”

“Fun!” Betty said.

“We have family in Orlando,” said Miguelito. “It’s beautiful.”

“The beaches are awesome,” Lupe said.

“I can’t wait to see it.”

“Marcus, where are you staying tonight?” Mamacita asked.

“Hadn’t thought about it. I’ll find somewhere.”

“No, no. You stay with us. Right, Miguelito?”

“I suppose he could.”

“Of course he can,” she said.

Leroy could see on the faces of the family that they didn’t love the idea. “Thanks, but you’ve given me so much already. Don’t wanna be a hassle.”

“I insist,” she said. “You can go on your way after a good night of rest and a big breakfast. A traditional Mexican send-off.” She clapped her hands.

The opportunity was appealing. He didn’t know where he’d sleep otherwise, and he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day. “Only if it’s okay with everyone.”

“Once Mamacita has made a decision, the best you can do is live with it,” said Betty with genuine affection, draping her arm around the old woman.

“What Mamacita says, goes,” Miguelito chuckled.

* * *

Leroy had never seen a house as enormous as Miguelito’s in his life. Set on a golf course lake, it wasn’t quite a mansion, but it rivaled the SpiritWood main building in grandiosity, boasted a Spanish flair, and had a screen porch out back the size of his mom’s old apartment.
 

After a brief tour of the house as much for Mamacita and Inez as for Leroy, the group settled into a living room with a big-screen TV, leather sofas, and a chandelier that wouldn’t have been out of place in a ballroom, while Betty went to fix dinner.

Miguelito stopped flipping channels on an animated show about a sponge that the children liked. Leroy had always enjoyed the show, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He felt like he didn’t deserve the generosity Mamacita and her family were showing him. All he’d done was mess up other peoples’ situations.

By the time Betty had finished dinner, though, the aroma of roasted turkey had chased away any remaining pity and put his stomach squarely in charge. He gobbled through his meal, finishing first, then carried on politely until the others caught up, at which point he excused himself to the room they’d designated for him. With a queen-sized bed, its own TV, and a flattering view of the Montgomery skyline, Leroy’s sleeping conditions for the evening were fully the opposite of what he’d imagined.

Again, that wellspring of guilt burbled up within him. Here he was living it up, while Clayvon probably laid in a hospital bed, recovering from a critical and critically unnecessary wound. Come to think of it, Clayvon was the second person he’d put in a hospital bed.

Fatigued through and through, he let his conscience subside and slept.

* * *

It was almost noon when he awoke. Aside from a few harrowing nightmares, Leroy couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well. The mattress curled around him in a warm embrace, and the blanket was the softest he’d ever felt. After some hesitation, he hurried downstairs to join the family, hoping they hadn’t been waiting on him.

He was surprised to find the downstairs empty but for Miguelito, who sat at the dinner table, eating a slice of pizza with a fork and knife.

“Good morning.” His tone was serious.

“Hey. Where’s everyone else?”

“They went to the flea market. I have instructions to see you off. However, I have a meeting in a few hours, so I can’t exactly road trip.”

“No problem. I just need to get to a train station.”

A train was the last mode of transportation he wanted to utilize, but the fact was, it was the most reliable way to travel in his situation. It was on tracks; it couldn’t lie about where it was going.

“That’s a good half hour away. Better get going soon. Want some pizza?”

“Yeah.”

Two slices later, they were on the road in Miguelito’s Corvette.

“So why Florida?”

“Visiting a family friend.”

“By yourself?”

“Momma died, Dad’s in jail.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Who looks after you?”

Leroy was getting uncomfortable with Miguelito’s curiosity. “My aunt in Memphis. She gave me some money to take the Greyhound bus all the way down to Tampa, but I accidentally bought the wrong ticket.”

Miguelito nodded with suspicion.

“So you have a website?” He wanted the attention off of him.

“Yes, we work with medical suppliers to cut out the middle man and sell products directly to those who need them at a discount.”

Much of it went right over Leroy’s head. He nodded anyway.

“I get to feel good about what I do, and even better about my salary.”

A bridge took them alongside a rushing river flanked by dense woods on either side. As interesting as he found architecture, he was always struck harder by the beauty of nature’s handiwork. No designer could best mother nature.

A ways down a gorgeous road enclosed in a tree-formed tunnel, a set of railroad tracks winded their way over, crossing perpendicular to the street. Shortly, they were parked at the station. Leroy’s gut knotted at the sight.

“Here we are,” Miguelito said. “It was nice to meet you, Marcus.”

“Same. Thanks for everything.”

“Just one more thing…”

Leroy waited as the man’s gaze drilled into him.

“I didn’t get this far in life without being wary. Caution is the key to success. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m going to search your bag.”

He wasn’t sure there was a right way to take it. “You think I stole?”

“I just have to make sure.”

“It’s empty, I promise.”