Four Three Two One

by Courtney Stevens

  He dropped the laptop into his backpack and laughed a little, the way honest people often do when delivering truth.

  “You’re going to be a journalist,” I said.

  “I’m going to be a journalist,” he repeated.

  62. TWO HANDS ON THE WHEEL

  $99,800.00

  From Interstate 78 we took the New Jersey Turnpike and figured out we were near the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. According to the signs, the two islands were on our right, beyond Liberty State Park.

  “I’m not looking,” I told them, and shut my eyes like it was the day before Christmas and I didn’t want to see my gifts yet. No one else looked either. Becky informed the group there was nothing to see except concrete and trees and power lines. We were close, not that close. Sunday traffic ran heavy. I was in the front passenger seat, noting the easy way Becky wove through multiple lanes. I pictured her living in a big city like New York, using her MetroCard and talking on her phone, getting groceries from a market and running in Central Park.

  “Could you live here?” I asked as we entered the Lincoln Tunnel.

  “Couldn’t you?” she said. “Roomies. We could do our own Kentucky version of Girls. HBO would pick up that series for sure. Can’t you see it? Golden Jennings, struggling photographer. And Becky Cable, struggling . . . tennis player.”

  “More like advice columnist Becky Cable becomes next Oprah. Rudy will run your magazine for you.”

  “If you guys move here, I’m coming too,” Caroline said from the back.

  I was relieved to hear her mention the future in a positive light.

  “For sure. Rent-split, baby.”

  I laughed at this fantasy future. “Gosh, what would your mom say if she knew you were driving into New York City today?”

  “Becky, two hands on the wheel. You’re in traffic, for God’s sake.”

  Everyone laughed, because Becky was capable of many things, but driving with two hands wasn’t one of them. Her route took us around Times Square and into the heart of Midtown. We approached the final turns to the Green-Conwell and everything slowed except Becky’s voice. “I’ll let you all out and then look for somewhere to park the tank.”

  The Green-Conwell, now in sight, hadn’t changed. Two flags flew above the awning. The concrete was the color of wet sand. The gold lettering sparkled in the noon sun. People crowded the sidewalks, and everywhere there was a buzz. My heart started its somersaults. Becky eased to the curb and put on her hazard lights.

  A doorman lumbered forward and opened my door. Chan grabbed Rudy’s wheelchair before the smartly dressed man could properly assist us. “Here for the art show?” he asked. We were no one to him.

  “Yes,” Caroline said.

  “Cross all the way through the lobby. It’s on the opposite street. Cops have got everything blocked off. You’ll see the setup. Can’t miss it. Oh, yeah, there’s a bank of iPads by the front desk if you need tickets or want to donate to the scholarship fund.”

  I hesitated, finding it strange to hear about the scholarship fund from someone else. What would this man say if he knew we were the recipients? Would he ask me where I was going to college? Would I smirk and say, “Emerson?” And what if I did? Would this dapper New Yorker watch me standing before the bus, knees knocking, and think, Don’t give that kid another cent? Is that what the lady in the red hat under the flag or the man in the black sweater with the newspaper tucked under his arm or the kid carrying the teacup poodle or the woman using a cane and balancing a bag of fruit would think? I didn’t want to fail, but I also wasn’t sure I could try. You’re already trying, my inner voice said. My inner voice now sounded a lot like Becky Cable.

  Chan briefly put his fingers on the small of my back. “Come on, Go.”

  Caroline pressed a few folded dollars into the doorman’s hand, and we entered the rotating door one at a time. It was 11:24. Thirty-six minutes to connect with Carter and the Westwoods, or change our minds. Chan asked the concierge where we might find something that had been left for us, and we were directed to the front desk. I did my best to stay on Chan’s six, but the lobby was packed and spilling over. People stepped on my toes and bumped my shoulders. They were all moving in a wave toward the opposite doors. I felt like a child in the mall at Christmastime.

  Beside me, Rudy stopped and texted Carter.

  “We’re supposed to meet him”—Rudy searched for some unknown marker and finally pointed at the wall opposite the concierge—“over there. Near that fireplace. He’s going to introduce Go to the Westwoods and then escort us outside.”

  Chan curled his fist as if he wanted to squeeze something to death. He touched an orange in a glass bowl—I assumed to see if it were real or fake—and then said, “Golden, I have a confession.” I braced for Chan to say he wasn’t getting on the bus. That he’d come this far, and yes, we’d had a moment on the boat last night, but he’d meet us at Ellis Island. Or he was forbidding me to see the Westwoods. Instead, he said, “I left your dad that money you gave me. I told them to use it toward buying tickets.”

  That was the only warning I had before I heard my mother’s voice behind me. “Oh, there they are, Pete.”

  I turned slowly to face them. There they were: Pete and Beth Jennings. And . . . there was my gran, bent but spry, guided by the strong arm of my father and her sturdy cane.

  “You’re here,” I said, aware it was an idiotic proclamation because I was already holding her hand and kissing her cheek. She drummed two fingers against a small gold pin clinging to the fabric of her cardigan. Brass wings.

  “God wanted me to fly,” she said with a wink.

  I kissed her again, hardly believing that we were all in New York together. And that Chan had worked to get my family here. They didn’t even like driving to Nashville, and yet they’d traveled to the city that never sleeps.

  “But the money?” I said.

  “The Hive covered the rest. Everyone understands.”

  Chan shook my father’s hand and asked, “How was your flight?”

  “Probably better than your drive,” Dad answered. “How were the Grimeses?”

  “They were the Grimeses,” I said in a way that meant I’d tell them the full story later.

  “This was a much better trip because we weren’t heading to a hospital,” my mother remarked, eyes tilted to the ornate ceiling, wonder shining. They looked out of place and perfectly in place, like tadpoles in a pond after they’ve sprung legs.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said, and I put my whole self into the words. Then, just for my mother, I said, “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, baby.”

  That baby was a balm.

  I was about to say as much when Rudy squeezed my arm. A tall woman in a very lovely black dress set a course for us.

  “Go, that’s Ms. Jay.”

  I’d always figured Ms. Jay would be old. This woman was athletic and in her thirties. A bombshell. Every line of her body suggested she wasn’t to be messed with, but her eyes were kind and warm, and I liked her on sight.

  They greeted each other with affection. “Victor and Jane wanted to be here, but flights, and Deuce,” she said.

  Rudy introduced us and we shook hands like strangers.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” I said to Ms. Jay.

  She was fed up with shaking. She swept me against her side with no warning. “The pleasure is all mine. I’ve been trying to convince Rudy for months that when this show opened he ought to be here. He was resistant, as you can imagine. But it’s better to see him here with all of you. What triumphs you are.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Bus or no bus, you are triumphs.”

  Rudy nodded in Ms. Jay’s direction. “See why I love her?”

  I did. Meeting the people of someone you cared about was like meeting a new part of that person. Feeling that way gave me a sliver of clarity about Rudy. Chan wasn’t wrong in what he’d said last night. I felt love for Rudy. Improbab
ly. Ironically. Love doesn’t adhere to neat timetables or fairness. It comes into the world of its own accord and makes up its mind like a stubborn toddler.

  I wasn’t sure I could ever love anyone the way I loved Chan. He owned what would probably amount to a fifth of my life, and not just any fifth—the first fifth. I couldn’t unlove him, and I didn’t ever, ever want to. And . . . I’d never been more proud of who Chan was than last night. After all this time, he still surprised me.

  The Chan of the coming year would be different from the Chan of last year, and I would love that Chan even more. I had no idea what would happen to us long-term—there was Rudy to consider—and I was not ready to predetermine my whole life. Life on the Hive was the definition of predetermination. If I stayed there, I could tell you precisely what I’d be doing twenty-five years from now on a Tuesday because Tuesdays were garbage days. And Saturdays were chores. And on Friday nights we made popcorn after homemade pizza. All the photos had already been taken. Chan and I had outgrown what we could become there, and I could no more ask him to leave than he could ask me to stay.

  After Ellis Island, I would tell Chan and my family I wanted to apply to Emerson. And after that, I would traipse out into the great, wide world and then look to my left and right and see who was beside me. I had a feeling there’d be a bandit nearby. And maybe a cowboy.

  Whirling back to Rudy, I said, “I can’t believe we’re all in New York.”

  “I see Stock,” he said in return.

  It was eleven forty-five.

  63. YOU’LL BE SURPRISED BY THE THINGS THAT SURVIVED.

  $105,230.00

  Carter Stockton hadn’t changed. The man who put me on the gurney, who I’d watched in videos, didn’t move like an artist. Artists had man-bun topknots or dreads and hippie clothes. The newest thing on Stock was a pair of boots he’d had for twenty years. He was sweating at the temples and through the armpits of his plain blue T-shirt. People greeted him as they passed. When he caught Rudy’s eyes, he gave us a shy wave. Beside me, Gran cooed.

  “That’s the Westwoods,” Caroline said. “Short, dumpy man in an overcoat and ball cap. Short woman in a beige pantsuit. Under the big clock.”

  They were near Carter, but not next to him where they might be noticed. The man stared at his toes. The woman dug through her purse.

  “You sure about this?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “But I’m going anyway.”

  Rudy went first, like a buffer. Chan and me behind. Caroline lagged back with my family and Ms. Jay. The tempo of the room beat harder, faster. We walked straight to Carter.

  There was a moment where we didn’t know how to greet each other and the actions that followed didn’t make sense. Hands went into pockets as other hands stretched out. Hi and hello and nice to, uh, yeah. Nothing worked until Stock said, “Thanks for coming all this way. I know it wasn’t easy.” The Westwoods inched closer to our circle. Stock added, “For any of you.”

  They kept their heads down. Mrs. Westwood had black mascara tear trails down her cheeks. Mr. Westwood held one hand over his mouth, like he was trying to keep his emotions where he could control them.

  There was no response except a million unasked questions.

  I tried to eyeball Mrs. Westwood. “I’m Golden Jennings,” I said, hoping she might take it from there.

  “Carter?” she said, helplessly.

  “Just give her the envelope. Start there,” Stock said.

  Mrs. Westwood removed a white, business-size, unsealed envelope from her purse and handed it to me. I shook a black-and-white photo from inside. I recognized the unique grain—a No. 3 Kodak—and then the subject. I gasped. I snapped this photo on June 14 at Down Yonder. I’d taken three or four shots, pleased with the lighting and shadows made by the neon signs behind the bar. In my hand was the third photo from that night: a young man holding a chicken leg in each hand, grinning as he decided which to eat first. Simon Westwood.

  “Where did you get this?”

  Mrs. Westwood tilted her head at Carter.

  “But . . . how?” I meant the question for Stock, but Mr. Westwood spoke first.

  “We wanted . . . we wanted to apologize to you.” He spoke through his clenched and trembling fist, each word labored. “This boy in the photograph. Our son. He hurt so many people. We should’ve seen, but we were too busy. Too selfish to notice.” He gasped; the words crumbled like limestone. “Stock gave us this photo you took—”

  “I don’t under—”

  “And the photo was a wake-up call. Far too late to stop Simon and change Bus Twenty-One, but early enough to help others. We’re doubling the scholarship fund, whatever it is, and we’re going to help other troubled young men. Because”—he touched the photo—“what if he’d been this? Instead of a boy with a bomb. An apology is worth shit if you can’t back it up, but change, well, someday it might save lives.”

  I could do little more than nod. I hoped they understood why. They walked away holding on to each other, and I wished them well. I didn’t know if their plan would help others, but I thought it might help them.

  Carter touched my shoulder. “That was brave of you to meet them.”

  “Where did you get the photo?”

  “I’ve got your camera on the bus. I had it repaired months ago. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “The Kodak survived?”

  “You’ll be surprised by the things that survived. The Kodak took a real beating. I didn’t know it was yours until the other day when Rudy mentioned it. You’ll recognize your photos out there. I would have gotten permission if I’d known.”

  “You have it.”

  The crowds were pressing in tighter around us. Carter checked his watch, which made everyone check his or her phone: 11:57. “We should go,” he said.

  Chan extended his hand, stopped Carter with a touch. That’s when I realized he had his sketchbook out. “You might want these. For the display.”

  Stock opened the book, flipped through the tabbed pages with awe. Nearly every person on the bus, captured by his memories.

  “You can do whatever you want with them,” Chan said. “The other families donated stuff. This is from our family. The survivors.” He nodded at the circle of us.

  64. I DIDN’T EXPECT FLOWERS.

  $137,993.00

  I expected the bus to blind me. I expected Becky to come running, yelling, “Gird your loins, hookers.” I expected my parents to squirm and shift and to feel their discomfort from three yards away. I expected my nose to bleed.

  I expected flashbulbs, extended microphones, clipboards, recorders in outstretched hands. I expected “Tell us how it feels to be back in the city,” from the reporters and camera crews and boom mics. I expected to feel the pressure of nearly $138,000 dollars of support.

  I didn’t expect flowers.

  Carter Stockton’s progress on Bus #21 ended a month ago on the video series. I understood why. He’d turned every exterior surface of the bus into planters. Tiny orange flowers covered the burned hull and remade it into something recognizable yet new. It was afire again, this time with life.

  “Can you describe what you’re feeling?” a reporter asked. He’d clearly been briefed on who we were. His attention generated more attention. Slowly, the media became aware of the four survivors standing on the sidewalk and flocked toward us.

  The gathered mass was in the way of Rudy’s wheelchair. He waved them off without speaking. Someone thrust a mic in his face. “What do you call yourselves? How do you feel? What will you do with the scholarship money?”

  My dad bellowed, “Back up! Give these kids some room,” as a policewoman blew her whistle. “You heard what he said. Back up!” he yelled.

  The crowd parted. Silence rippled away, from those closest to us to the back of the crowd. I shielded my eyes from the camera flashes and slunk closer to Chan. There must have been five thousand people on the blocked-off street, all cheering at the sight of us. I felt their reverence. A little girl wi
th a Pokémon backpack and bright yellow wellies raised her hand and grinned. I slapped her five. She looked at her mom with delight.

  Rudy stopped rolling.

  The four of us stood side by side, Charter Bus #21 directly ahead. Police officers flanked each side, making a perimeter of blue. The flashes increased. Someone in the middle of the crowd began to clap. The horde gathered themselves into a perfect rhythm, their hands a steady heartbeat. The shadow of the bus fell on the sidewalk. We stood in the light, and I didn’t know what would happen when we took the first step toward darkness.

  Not far away, Carter raised a hand to silence the crowd, and even the horns and whistles and traffic on adjacent streets seemed to obey his command for a second. He tapped the microphone, sharing the small platform space with the mayor of New York City. Their voices were hollow, like they’d been the day of the bombing. From a long way away, I heard him talking, thanking people for attending, thanking them for giving so generously of their time and money.

  “We’re going to read the names of those we lost on June fifteenth and offer sixty seconds of silence to remember them.”

  Caroline took my hand. Together, with Carter Stockton, we said the names.

  “Anthony Alvarez, Mason Armstrong, Riley Best, Jim Conner, Evelyn Farrow, Sara Hillstead, Neil Johnson, Tim Kraggen, Brandy Marshall, Risha Novell, Johnny Popplewell, Roger Pritchet, Wesley ‘Dozer’ Reston, Oscar Reyes, Tomas Sanchez, William Tackett, Alicia Voyse, Ethan Watchmaker, and Thomas Wiggington.”

  The crowd hardly blinked. Sixty seconds passed on the street.

  Carter spoke again. “There are four other names we honor today. Four teens whose lives were touched by violence on June fifteenth. Caroline Ascott. Chandler Clayton. Rudy Guthrie. Golden Jennings. Today is a brand-new day for Bus Twenty-One, and we pray it’s a brand-new day for you.”

  The applause was extraordinary. I couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of hands until Chan’s lips found my ears. “You were right. We were supposed to be here.”