Last Bus to Coffeeville

by J. Paul Henderson

  ‘Just gone noon,’ Doc answered.

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘About three hours, give or take.’

  ‘And where are we now?’

  ‘About two feet from where we were when you fell asleep!’ Doc sighed.

  The bus slowly retraced its steps to the interstate. ‘You think they mighta mentioned some place that the road ain’t suitable fo’ vehicles like this,’ Bob grumbled.

  ‘They did,’ Eric said. ‘We passed a sign yesterday. It said: “WARNING – No Access to Trailers, Motor Homes and RVs”.’

  ‘Come to think, I did see a warnin’ sign,’ Bob said thoughtfully. ‘Musta missed that bit.’

  It took them a further two hours to reach the interstate, and they then continued their journey south. ‘We can get us a late lunch in Staunton,’ Bob said. ‘I know a real good diner there.’

  For the next sixty miles, Doc and Nancy snoozed. Jack went to the front of the bus and chatted with Bob, while Eric finished reading I Kings and updated his notebook: another 306,393 dead.

  They arrived in Staunton and entered the diner. As Doc looked through the menu, he realised he was in his dream restaurant and saliva started to trickle from the corner of his mouth. He looked at his watch. ‘Be ready to order when the waitress gets here,’ he said. ‘It’s past two already and we need to get to Walton’s Mountain before it closes. What time did you say it closed, Bob?’

  ‘’Bout six, I think.’

  ‘Here she comes. I’ll order for you, Nancy.’

  Doc ordered first: meat loaf, mushroom gravy and green lima beans for him; pan fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans for Nancy – and a plate of corn bread for all to share. Bob opted for fried clams, turnip greens and pickled beets, while Jack picked out the pork ribs, yams and baked tomatoes.

  ‘What are you going to eat, Eric?’ Doc prompted him.

  ‘I’ll have the same as Jack,’ Eric replied.

  When the food had been eaten, Doc called the waitress back to the booth and everyone, except Nancy, ordered slices of pie: coconut cream, pecan, lemon and cherry.

  Bob noticed Eric staring at the young waitress. ‘You ol’ hound dog, Eric. You checkin’ out the waitress?’ Eric turned as red as the washing-up gloves he was wearing and immediately denied it.

  ‘Nothin’ to be ashamed o’, boy. She pretty as a picture. If I was fifty years younger, I’d be thinkin’ o’ movin’ to Staunton an’ eatin’ all my meals here. Ha!’

  While the others ate their pie, Nancy kept staring at a man sitting at the counter. He was wearing a light-coloured suit and appeared to be in his late fifties. ‘Gene, I think that’s my father,’ she whispered. ‘Why doesn’t he come over?’

  ‘Your father’s dead, Nancy,’ Doc said gently. ‘It’s probably just someone who reminds you of him.’

  ‘My father’s not dead, Gene. I know he never liked you, but there’s no need for you to say such mean things about him. It’s him! I wouldn’t make a mistake like that.’

  ‘Look at him, Nancy. He’s younger than you are. How can he be your father?’

  ‘You’re being silly. He’s not younger than I am. How old do you think I am?’

  ‘You’re four years younger than me, Nancy. You’re just about to turn sixty-eight.’ Nancy stared at him. Doc opened her purse, took out a small mirror and handed it to her. Nancy looked at the reflection. ‘Oh my, Gene. I’m old. When did I get old like this?’

  ‘When you weren’t looking, Nancy. The same way we all did.’

  ‘My parents are dead, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. My parents are dead, too, Nancy. So are Bob’s and Jack’s. And Eric’s parents are also dead. We’re all orphans here, Nancy. We have to take care of each other now.’

  Afraid of how Nancy might react, he signalled for the waitress to bring the check. Nancy sat quietly, but still glanced at the man sitting at the counter.

  ‘What yo’ name, chil’?’ Bob asked the waitress when she brought them the check.

  ‘The same name that’s on my badge,’ she smiled.

  ‘He doesn’t read signs too well,’ Jack said. ‘You might just want to tell him and get it overed with.’

  ‘Camille,’ the girl answered.

  ‘That a pretty name. I’m Otis, an’ I wanna introduce you to a friend o’ mine – this here is Eric.’ Eric looked at her petrified, but Camille was kind and smiled at him.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Eric,’ she said, taking his hand and shaking it. ‘I like your gloves.’

  Eric’s voice got stuck somewhere deep in his throat and he was unable to utter a single word.

  ‘Your name’s not Otis,’ Nancy said. ‘You shouldn’t tell lies like that. The next thing you’ll be saying is that you’re white!’

  ‘Okay, let’s make a move,’ Doc said quickly. ‘Bob’s got another mountain to drive up – and you know how long it takes him.’

  He paid the bill in notes and left Camille a generous tip. As they left the diner, Nancy escaped from his arm and stepped towards the man sitting at the counter. When she got within range, she swung her bag and hit him hard on the back. In no uncertain terms she told him never to pretend to be her father again. ‘It isn’t funny!’

  Doc took Nancy’s arm and guided her firmly away from the man and towards the door. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he turned and said to the man.

  ‘Don’t apologise to him, Gene,’ Nancy snapped. ‘That man’s pure evil!’

  The door closed shut behind them and the man at the counter was left wondering what the hell had just happened.

  They headed east on Highway 250. ‘This is a pretty town,’ Nancy said, as the bus rolled through Waynesboro. ‘I wonder who lives here.’

  ‘My guess would be the people of Waynesboro,’ Jack said.

  They climbed into the Blue Ridge Mountains, heading first south on Highway 6 and then east. They passed vineyards at Cardinal Point and the first traces of kudzu. The area was still overwhelmingly wooded and the leaves were now starting to turn: splashes of red, orange, yellow and purple. They finished their journey on country roads and arrived at Walton’s Mountain shortly after five. There were no visible lights and the car park was empty.

  ‘Looks a bit quiet,’ Doc said. ‘Are you sure it’s open?’

  Bob climbed out of the bus and walked across the uneven surface of the car park to the entrance of an unprepossessing brick building. There was a notice board there with the opening hours printed on it: 10 am-4 pm.

  ‘Damn, if it ain’t shut,’ Bob called.

  ‘Try the door, Otis,’ Eric called back. ‘The Waltons never used to lock their door at night.’

  Bob laughed at the boy’s naivety, but turned the door’s handle anyway. ‘Well, I’ll be…’ he said.

  The door opened.

  Walton’s Mountain

  The Waltons was a television series that aired 1972–81. In hour-long episodes, it told the story of an extended family living in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia during the years of the Great Depression. The key to the series was young John Boy Walton, an aspiring writer, and his was the voice that introduced each week’s episode – albeit, the voice of a grown-up John Boy now living in New York and recollecting his mountain days from the vantage point of an air-conditioned skyscraper. The times portrayed in the series were simpler and less complicated than the years of its broadcast, and the storyline of each episode was invariably positive: friends and neighbours pulling together to overcome personal and economic hardships. Every instalment ended with the Waltons tucked up in bed and saying goodnight to each other: ‘Goodnight, John Boy; goodnight, Mary Ellen; goodnight, Jason; goodnight, Erin; goodnight…’

  The programme became a ratings success, and television audiences found themselves longing to return to this bye-gone age of community. They coveted its certainty, and sought to recapture the time when God had been feared, values been traditional and families close-knit and loving. They hungered for the days
when everyone had known and talked to each other and loneliness was only a word, and dreamt of finding a time warp, of climbing into it and travelling back to the time of The Waltons. They would turn their backs on the materialism and convenience of their present, and take with them only the barest of necessities, the one thing they still considered essential – nuclear weapons!

  The utopian times they imagined, however, were distant, long-gone and destined never to return. That they were illusory and made of celluloid mattered little to the millions of viewers who watched the programme. For them, these times had existed, and each week they lost themselves in the lives and struggles of the people who lived on Walton’s Mountain, and conveniently forgot that the actor playing Grandpa Walton had, at one time, been a member of the Communist Party.

  Doc stood in the car park with his hands on his hips taking in their new surroundings. ‘You’re sure this is Walton’s Mountain? It looks nothing like it.’

  ‘It ain’t the actual mountain, no,’ Bob said. ‘This is Walton’s Mountain Museum. There’s a diff’rence, but it’s close you gonna get – realer ’n the real thing, anyways.’ Doc waited for an explanation.

  ‘The real thing’s a sham, Gene – an’ the mountain, too. House an’ rest of it’s in California, back o’ Warner Bros Studios. This here,’ he said, pointing to the brick building in front of them, ‘is where Earl Hamner went to school. Schuyler’s where he growed up an’ he’s the one what wrote The Waltons. It’s his story, man. He’s the real John Boy!’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I read trash magazines. Buy ’em at the supermarket.’

  Eric and Nancy joined them, Eric holding on to Nancy’s hand. ‘I said the door would be unlocked, Otis,’ Eric said proudly. ‘Did you hear me tell him, Doctor Gene?’

  ‘I did, Eric. Now, where’s Jack got to?’

  ‘He’s combing his hair.’

  Doc rolled his eyes. He was about to go and get him when he saw his godson step from the bus pulling strands of hair from a comb and looking wistful.

  ‘Come on, Jack! We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘The day’s already gone, Doc. We’ve got the whole damn night to tour this place.’

  They walked carefully into the old schoolhouse where Bob was searching the walls with the beam of a small torch. ‘What are you looking for?’ Doc asked.

  ‘A light switch. How else we gonna see this place?’

  He located a long row of switches and tested each one until satisfied with the degree of illumination. ‘Man, I shoulda worked in the theatre fo’ a livin’: I gotta gift fo’ this.’

  They found themselves standing in a large school hall, empty but for a few tables. The old classrooms leading from it had been converted into replicas of rooms featured in the series: John Boy’s bedroom, the Waltons’ kitchen and living rooms, Ike Godsey’s store and the Baldwin Sisters’ recipe room.

  They wandered from room to room, at first as a group and then in ones and twos. They walked into John Boy’s bedroom and saw a writing table; moved on to Ike Godsey’s store and saw an old crank telephone; entered the Waltons’ living room and saw a radio, and in their kitchen, an ironing board. Finally, they went into the Baldwin Sisters’ room and saw a sour mash whiskey still.

  ‘Well, weren’t that somethin’?’ Bob laughed.

  ‘Not really,’ Jack replied. ‘It looks like kids did it. I mean, we’re not talking professionalism here, are we? More like enthusiastic amateurs. How much do they charge for this?’

  ‘Seven bucks,’ Bob said.

  ‘I liked it,’ Eric said enthusiastically. ‘I saw John Boy’s spectacles, his fountain pen and his typewriter. He used to write all the time – did you know that?’

  ‘Sure, I knew it,’ Jack said. ‘Who could forget Mr Goody Two Shoes? I used to get tired of my parents telling me I should be more like him. The best day of my life was when he left the show.’

  Doc joined them, slightly breathless. ‘Have any of you seen Nancy?’

  ‘I thought she was with you,’ Jack answered.

  ‘She was, but I lost her when she went to the restroom.’

  ‘She musta gone back to one o’ the rooms then, Gene. She ain’t passed us by.’

  Doc went in search of Nancy and found her rummaging through Ike Godsey’s store, stuffing T-shirts, coffee mugs and fridge magnets into a plastic bag. ‘We’ll take these for the children, Gene. They’ll be sorry to have missed this.’

  ‘What children?’

  Nancy looked at him as if he was being purposely obtuse. ‘The children at Milton Hershey, of course! What other children would I be talking about? I teach there – or have you forgotten?’

  ‘We can’t take these things, Nancy. There’s no one to pay.’

  ‘You don’t have to pay for them, silly. They’re free. We’re meant to take them.’ The expression on Nancy’s face became fixed, and she pulled the bag away from Doc, well out of his reach.

  ‘Okay, Nancy, but we need to leave. The others are waiting for us.’

  Nancy quickly helped herself to some postcards and then followed Doc into the main hall.

  ‘Watch Nancy for a minute, will you, Bob?’ Doc asked.

  He then returned to Ike Godsey’s store, peeled off five twenty dollar bills and placed them on the counter. He figured there was no need to add larceny to the list of charges they already faced.

  They ate pizza again that evening, and after the meal had finished, Doc loosened the belt of his pants. He went to the sleeping area for the box where he kept Nancy’s medicines. Eric and Nancy were chatting happily there, and Eric was now wearing a T-shirt Nancy had given him. It was mauve with a drawing of the Walton’s house on the front (the one in California), and underneath it the inscription: Good night Mama …’night Daddy … good night John Boy. Nancy was telling Eric about the children in her class and Doc left just as Eric asked her if any of them had been deaf.

  Doc still wasn’t sure if the dosages he was prescribing Nancy were correct, or if the combinations he’d decided upon complemented or worked against each other. He’d noticed that her mood swings were sudden and unpredictable and that she agitated easily. This was certainly the nature of the disease, but even so, he should have been able to control it better. He sat down in the lounge and started to review the information accompanying the pills, amending his notes and recalculating dosages.

  Seemingly apropos of nothing, Jack asked Doc what he thought of the name Zebulon, and if he’d had a son would he have ever considered calling him by that name.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Just curious. Why did you call your daughter Esther?’

  ‘Beth came up with the name. She liked the sound of it – and I liked it too. Why?’

  ‘Because there are times when I wish my parents had come up with something a bit more imaginative than Jack: it’s a bit ordinary, isn’t it?’

  ‘You are ordinary. It suits you just fine. And if you think about it, it could have been a lot worse: your dad was called Sydney and your grandfather was called Walter. The day they were born, they both sounded like they were eighty years old. You got off easy, kid. If you changed your name to Zebulon Guravitch, anyone seeing it written down would think you were a hundred and ten, never mind eighty. If I were you, I’d stick with Jack.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right. I must admit though, I do like the sound of Zebulon. You don’t know what the name means, do you?’

  ‘No, but Bob probably will. He seems to know all kinds of junk these days. Hey Bob, what’s the derivation of Zebulon?’

  ‘He was one o’ Jacob’s sons. Name means intercourse.’

  ‘Maybe not Zebulon, then.’ Jack concluded.

  Doc drew the conversation to a close. ‘Time to turn in, gentlemen. We need to be up early tomorrow morning and be ready to leave before anyone arrives. I’ll use the bathroom first and get Nancy ready for bed.’

  After the lights in the bus had been extinguished and they were lyin
g in their beds preparing for sleep, a small voice rang out:

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Skidmore… goodnight, Doctor Gene… goodnight, Otis… goodnight, Jack.’

  ‘Goodnight, Eric,’ Doc said. ‘Now, go to sleep.’

  In the morning, Eric was gone.

  Way Down Yonder

  Bob was the first to notice Eric’s absence. ‘Where’s Bible Boy at?’ he asked, once everyone was dressed and in the kitchen.

  ‘He’s probably still in bed,’ Jack replied. ‘I’ll go get him.’

  Eric, however, wasn’t in his bed or anywhere else on the bus. ‘Where the hell’s the boy got to?’ Doc asked.

  ‘I’ll check outside,’ Jack said. ‘Maybe he’s gone for a walk.’

  Jack stood in the car park and listened. He called Eric’s name but there was no response. He walked across the gravel to the museum and tried the door. It was locked. He looked around and saw an empty house across the road and below it a gift shop. He went to them and tried both doors but they too were locked. He called out Eric’s name again, his voice travelling through the silence like wire through a slab of cheese.

  ‘There’s no sign of him, Doc,’ Jack said, now slightly alarmed. ‘You don’t think he’s run off, do you?’

  ‘Why would he do that, and where would he go? We’re in the middle of nowhere here, and his rucksack’s still on the bus. He’s got to be somewhere close. Did you try the museum? He might have gone back in there for a last look.’

  ‘The door’s locked. He can’t be in there.’

  ‘I was last out an’ I didn’ lock it,’ Bob said. ‘Left it jus’ like we found it. Soun’s like he gone back in an’ the door’s locked shut behind him. I’ll come take a look with you.’

  Jack and Bob circled the building, knocking on windows and shouting Eric’s name. Still, there was no response.

  ‘It’s getting light and there’ll be people driving by soon,’ Jack said. ‘Can’t you break in or something?’

  ‘Why you aks me that? A black man able to break in buildin’s a white man cain’t?’