The White Widow: A Novel Page 12

  Jack slowed his speed to just under fifty miles per hour. Even with the headlights on high beam, he could barely see anything more than fifty yards ahead. He knew the road as well as he knew his own name, but that did not help him see a possible broken-down car or a blown-down tree or pole on the road. A Greyhound driver in Minnesota lost his life and four of his twenty-one passengers last year when he drove right into an electrical power pole that had fallen over the highway. It cracked the front axle right out from under the bus and caused it to flip over on its side and roll down an embankment into a flooded creek bed.

  They said the driver was decapitated by a tree limb that came through the windshield right in his face.

  Her hair had not gotten that wet. A few strands had come loose and were down over her forehead, the way Ava Gardner’s hair was down across her face when she rode away with a terrible man at the end of Show Boat. It only made Ava, his Ava, look more of what she already was. Which was stunningly beautiful.

  “This is a real Indianola,” he said to her across in the Angel Seat.

  He shot his eyes to his right toward her. She nodded but said nothing.

  Is it possible she doesn’t know what an Indianola is? “Indianolas are what we call the worst storms,” he said.

  Again, she nodded but said not a word.

  Who are you, where do you come from?

  I cannot tell you.

  Why not?

  Because I am a spy for my country.

  You are not an American?

  I can not say any more.

  Please do not say our love is not to be.

  I will not say it.

  He slowed down as he went through Inairi and then Vidauri. The Indianola was traveling right along with them. It wasn’t getting any worse but it was also not getting any better. It was almost as if it was stuck right there on the top of the bus.

  The temperature outside was warmer than that inside the bus, which was cool from the air-conditioning. That caused the windshield to fog up badly. The defroster spewed out only hot air, which made him and the bus interior hot, so he kept switching it off and on.

  He eased the speed down another couple of miles per hour. He didn’t want to have any tree limbs coming through the windshield at him—or her. He did not want to do anything that might cause her harm or discomfort.

  Also, the slower he went, the longer he would have with her. Nobody, not even Pharmacy, could question his being late in this weather. A frogman in a submarine would have trouble in this weather was what Paul had said after an earlier Indianola.

  A frogman in a submarine. Why can’t I talk cleverly like that?

  “A frogman in a submarine would have trouble in this weather,” he said across to her in the Angel Seat.

  He looked around long enough to see her smile. But that was all she did.

  Look at that creature of beauty and love and all the rest. She should be in the movies, like the other Ava. She’s certainly prettier than the actress who played Maria in that dirty spies thing. Much, much prettier. But she, his Ava, would never play in a movie like that. She was not that kind of woman.

  What kind of woman was she?

  Was she the kind who would accept and return the love of a bus driver named Jack T. Oliver? A Master Operator named Jack T. Oliver? Was she the kind who would permit a man, any man, to put his hands down the front of her blouse? His hands up the front of her dress? Would she allow a man to kiss her tenderly and passionately upon her breasts?

  Would she go to the H.E.B. grocery store with him and throw things into the cart? Does she like to go to the movies? What kinds of movies? Would she do the checkbook every week, the way Loretta does? Jack hated doing the checkbook. What about going to the bathroom? He and Loretta had no problems doing everything in front of each other. But he had heard from some of the drivers that there were women who were too bashful to do it in front of their husbands. One guy’s wife insisted on wearing her bra to bed! What about Ava? Does she like peanut butter? Coke or Pepsi? Or not either one? Dr. Pepper? Does she drink beer? Or whiskey? Can she swim? Does she like to swim? Would she listen to Kern Tipps’s Humble Oil broadcasts of the Southwest Conference games on the radio with me? Does she eat meat loaf? Would she make me meat loaf?

  There were a lot of things like that to know about somebody …

  He lost his concentration. He thought he knew where he was but he was not sure.

  There was a flash of lightning. Were those people up there on the side of the road? Were they waving at him?

  He flashed his lights and goosed the defroster to full power but it was too late. Yes, there were two people! He passed them. They were waving to him, all right, trying to flag him down. My God, why would anybody be standing out in this weather to catch this bus?

  Talk about double pneumonia.

  He braked the bus to a stop, but he did it slowly and carefully to make sure there would be no sliding on the wet pavement.

  He could not see them in the outside rearview mirrors. He had overshot them by a long way. They must be a hundred yards back up there.

  He looked around. Yes, he was on that small stretch two miles this side of Refugio. He saw the crossroads ahead there with Farm Road 682. There was no traffic; the shoulder was wide enough to accommodate the bus comfortably.

  He threw the gear into reverse. I’ll back up awhile and meet those poor people halfway. They must be drenched by now. And if they have any baggage, there is no telling how wet it is.

  Rotating his eyes from the left mirror to the right mirror and then back, he started that bus backing down the shoulder.

  He went twenty yards maybe but still he could see no people. Where were they? Did they give up? Did they think he had not seen them?

  What is that? He got a glimpse of something white on the right. Oh, my God, is it a car?

  He jerked the steering wheel to the right and put on the brakes. He felt a bump against the bus back there. Then another. He had hit something. What?

  Oh, my God.

  It wasn’t that hard. It was something soft. A dog? A cow? Right, it was probably another damned calf.

  He knew Ava was watching him but there was nothing he could do about that. She would just have to watch. There was nothing to say to her because he did not know what had happened. All he knew was that he had missed seeing some passengers who wanted to ride his bus. And now he was trying his best to make up for what he had done by backing up toward them and keeping them from getting any wetter than they already were.

  But he didn’t have time to tell Ava all of that. Not now. Not right now.

  He yanked up the emergency brake from the floor, grabbed the umbrella and the slicker, hit the door lever and stepped down and out of the bus.

  A stream of rain crashed into his face. The sky lit up. Crack! went some thunder off somewhere.

  He put his right hand against the side of the bus for balance and bearings and moved toward the rear. The wind was blowing against him. He put his head down.

  He felt the motor hatch. He was halfway back. He knew the rear tires were coming up.

  Oh, my God, what is that? Something soft. An arm? A leg? He looked down.

  It’s a person. Lying under the two dual tires. He saw red running from the person. It was a kid! A girl! She was pinned under the tires.

  She had been almost cut in two by the bus!

  He fell to the ground, to his knees. He saw her face. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at the bottom of that bus.

  Dead. This girl was dead!

  He stood up and stepped away. There was another streak of lightning.

  Somebody else is back there. There’s another person back there.

  He came around to the rear of the bus. Lying half under the bus and half out was a grown woman. She was also bleeding, particularly from her mouth and ears. The rain was trying to wash it away the second it came but there was too much. There was too much blood.

  She was dead. She was dead, too. Both of them were
dead. He had run over and killed two people. A grown woman and a girl. Both of them. He had run over and killed them with bus #4107.

  He ran with the Indianola wind back to the front of the bus and leaped inside.

  “Everything’s fine,” he said to Ava and the other passengers. “Sorry for the delay. Everything’s fine now. We’ve got a real Indianola on our hands out there. But everything’s fine.”

  He tossed the raincoat onto the floor next to his driver’s seat, gunned the engine, threw it in first gear and eased off the shoulder onto the highway for Corpus Christi.

  She was looking right at him now. He could feel her eyes on the right side of his face.

  “Everything’s fine,” he said again but did not look at her.

  I know it is, Jack.

  But they are dead.

  It’s going to be all right, Jack.

  I killed them.

  No you didn’t, Jack. It was their fault.

  I’ll call the highway patrol and an ambulance at Refugio.

  If you do that, you’ll lose everything. They’ll take away your gold badge, Jack.

  You noticed the badge?

  How could I not have noticed that, Jack dear.

  There, again, was Refugio.

  He did not want to stop at Adele Lyman’s place. He just wanted to keep moving, to drive right on through town as fast as he could. But there were two people on the bus going to Refugio. They might not like it at all if he did not stop, if he never stopped.

  Maybe he would never stop. Not only not at Refugio but also not at Woodsboro or Sinton or Odem or Calallen or even Corpus. Just keep right on to the Valley, to Robstown, or even all the way to Kingsville, or why not stay right on Highway 77 down through the King Ranch to Raymondville and Harlingen and even to Brownsville. Why stop there? Go on over the border to Matamoros, to Mexico.

  By the time he got there there might even be a poster at the border station.

  WANTED FOR DOUBLE MURDER: Jack T. Oliver, Great Western Trailways Master Operator. Last seen driving ACF-Brill IC-41, bus #4107, into Matamoros with eighteen passengers onboard. One of the passengers was the most beautiful woman in the world, a White Widow who was last seen sitting in the Angel Seat. Oliver is wanted for the brutal killing of two innocent people near the intersection of U.S. Highway 77 and Farm Road 682 east of Refugio, Texas. He ran over them with bus #4107. He is armed with a ticket punch and is wearing a gold badge on his uniform cap and should be considered dangerous to one and all.

  Nobody saw what happened, Jack dear. It was raining. Even if somebody was right there they could not have seen it. Relax, Jack dear. Relax. Please relax, Jack dear. Please relax.

  You saw it.

  No, I didn’t.

  I saw it.

  No you didn’t, Jack dear. You saw nothing. You couldn’t see anything because of the rain and the wind and it was dark.

  “You’ve never been this late,” Adele Lyman said to him when he blew into the door.

  “Any express?” His eyes went to the black phone on her desk. He should go to it now, this second, and report the accident to Slick Carlton or someone. Slick Carlton. This storm, almost an Indianola, had probably made for a terrible afternoon for him, maybe even washed the grease right out of his hair.

  “Not even one small petal from one small flower,” Adele said. “You look awful. What happened?”

  He stopped at the door. “What do you mean?”

  “You look like you’ve been run over by something.”

  “Run over?”

  He had always disliked Adele Lyman. Now she scared him. How could she have known what happened? It was a few minutes ago and nobody saw it, nobody knew. Not anybody real.

  Not anybody.

  “Your raincoat is wet and messed up and so is your cap with that new gold badge. You look like something the cat drug in. And that, Mr. On Time Oliver, is something you don’t normally look like anymore.”

  “This storm is worse than I was ready for, I guess. It’s like an Indianola.”

  The phone. This was the time. Call Slick now or never call, Jack. Call now or never be able to explain to Pharmacy, to Mr. Glisan, to Slick, to Loretta, to the world, why he did not immediately report what had happened. Call now.

  Call now.

  Hello, highway patrol, this is Jack T. Oliver of Great Western Trailways. There’s been an accident and I want to report it to my friend Slick Carlton. I just ran over two people and killed them. They are lying dead on Highway 77, two miles east of Refugio. I am really sorry it happened. Please tell Slick I am really sorry it happened. They were trying to flag me down, I couldn’t see them in the storm. Once I did, I was way down the highway so I backed toward them down the shoulder. Something happened and I hit them with my bus. One of them is just a girl. The other is a grown woman. Both of them had black hair. They may both be Tamales. You know, Mexicans. Both of them are bleeding badly. I am so sorry it happened. I have a schedule to keep now. But I did want you to tell Slick Carlton about it.

  “I hear it’s already clearing over at Sinton,” Adele said.

  “Good,” Jack said. “I’m gone.”

  I’m gone.

  Ava had her eyes closed and her head back on the seat headrest when he sat back down behind the steering wheel across the aisle. He looked at her for several long seconds.

  Will you go to Mexico with me, Ava dear?

  No, no, Jack dearest. Not Mexico. I cannot go to Mexico.

  Why not?

  Why not is why.

  He moved #4107 back onto the highway. The storms were still there, still blowing against the bus, and blowing inside his head.

  He saw the face of the dead girl and the dead woman. Now they were completely covered with blood mixed with rain and sand and mud. He saw himself come through the front door of his house in Corpus. He smelled the meat loaf, but no one was there. Loretta was gone. Their wedding picture on the mantel in the living room had a black ribbon around the right side, her side of the picture. Loretta was gone.

  He drove #4107 right through Woodsboro without even stopping. It was an accident. He forgot to. Everything was an accident. He didn’t even notice until he was on the west side of town, already two miles past the depot at La Hacienda Motor Hotel. Nobody had stood up and said anything, which meant nobody was going to Woodsboro. He remembered from the tickets. Yes, nobody was going to Woodsboro. If there were passengers waiting at the La Hacienda for his bus … well, they could catch the next one.

  He went into the kitchen and opened the oven. It was cold and there was nothing in it but the smell of meat loaf.

  The rain had almost stopped and the wind was almost quiet and the sky was almost clear by the time he got to Sinton twenty-four minutes later. Stopped, quiet and clear.

  Was it stopped, quiet and clear back there at Highway 77 and Farm Road 682? Had someone come across the bodies of the woman and the girl? How much blood would be left along the side of the road?

  How could he ever drive by there again?

  How could he drive a bus anywhere again?

  There are other things to do with your life, Jack dearest.

  I have to be up here behind this wheel.

  “You make this trip a lot, I have noticed,” he said to her across the aisle.

  “That’s right,” she replied.

  He tried to come up with something else to say. Something bright and witty and appropriate. His mind was blank and numb.

  His mind was stopped, quiet and clear.

  He drove on toward Corpus Christi in silence. There she was in his life, right there next to him and he could not talk to her, he could not break the silence.

  At Odem, just after he passed Smitty’s Seafood Heaven and Earth, he came to his Master Operator, master person senses. Of course he would turn himself in the second he arrived at the Corpus depot. Of course he would tell the dispatcher, who was probably Jennings, to call Slick or somebody at the highway patrol and get on with making amends for what had happened.
There was simply no way he could live with what he had done, even if he got away with it. He would wake up every morning, drink every cup of coffee, eat every bite of meat loaf, go to bed every night, go to every movie, go and do everything in his life from now on thinking of that woman and the girl and their blood in the rain. They must have relatives. Were they a daughter and a mother? Where was the father?

  You are a better man than this, Jack T. Oliver.

  He so much wanted to talk to Ava about it. He so much wanted to say, with real words, what he had in his mind. He wanted her to know what he had done, what he thought about her, what he was now going to do. He so much wanted to say something, anything at all, to his White Widow in the Angel Seat, to his Ava. But his lips would not move.

  He looked at her, right at her, when he got off in Sinton and Odem to unload passengers. He remembered to do his job now. He had driven right on through Woodsboro but he would not do that again. He would never do that again. Master Operators do not drive through towns without stopping at bus depots. Jack T. Oliver would never ever do such a thing. He had done it once, just a while ago at Woodsboro, but he would never ever do it again. Not at Sinton, not at Odem, not anywhere.

  She, Ava, was not paying any attention to him. She kept her head and eyes slanted always slightly to her right, to see out the right front of the windshield. Her mind was away from him, he was sure, along with her eyes. It was like he was not even there, like this bus was not even being driven by him or by anybody.

  Look at me! Look at me, Ava!

  Ahead, he saw the early-evening lights of Corpus. It would be the last time he would see them from behind the wheel of a Great Western Trailways Silversides Thruliner. Twelve years and twenty-one days after becoming an intercity bus driver, one week and a day after becoming a Master Operator, he was through. They would fire him for this. They would have to. Pharmacy and Mr. Glisan and the other bosses at Great Western Trailways could not have drivers behind the wheels of their buses who run over people and then keep driving. It simply could not be tolerated.