The Bus Ride

Folding the letter, Beth slid it into her purse. Her gaze shifted to the scenery outside the bus. Her heart ached and yet she knew this was a journey she had to take.

“Excuse me, Ma’am, are you alright?”

She turned to see an elderly gentleman sitting next to her. The lines on his face were evidence of a life long lived. Beth frowned at the interruption. Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she cleared her throat and replied, “I’m fine.”

“Well, the tears, is all, I just thought…”

Beth lowered her head; her fingers shot up to her cheeks. She removed the telltale trail of tears that had slipped out of their hiding place. Her hand dropped back down into her lap as she studied her gnarled fingers briefly before drawing them under her shawl. Glancing sideways at the intruder she noticed that he had decided to leave well enough alone. Pulling her shawl tighter around her plump frame, she cleared her throat. The man didn’t respond.

She cleared her throat again and said, “Do you really want to know what’s wrong?”

He barely turned his head. “Only if you’d like to tell me.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

A smile flickered across her lips for the first time since she had boarded the bus. Beth reached up to capture the wisp of gray hair that had escaped. Maybe she needed someone to share with. Maybe it would help to talk. She paused.

“I’m going to take care of unfinished business," she began, softly. The man kept looking straight ahead. She wasn’t sure he had heard her so she repeated herself. He still didn't respond.

“This is silly, I don’t even know him. He wouldn’t be interested,” she thought.

“I’ve nothing else to do, but it’s up to you.”

Maybe it would help to talk, even if it was to a stranger. She took a deep breath and plowed ahead. “Twenty-four years ago my daughter boarded a bus very much like this one. She headed out to Los Angeles, probably to be a movie star. I’m not really sure what she wanted because she left home without telling me.”

Beth winced remembering the pain of knowing Cathy had run away. Sixteen-year- old Cathy filled the house with energy. When she left it seemed as though she had taken the very oxygen out of the air.

“My daughter, Cathy, was a miracle baby. She was born after countless miscarriages. I turned forty and there I was pregnant again. Cathy became my life!”
Beth stopped. She couldn’t talk about it, not here, not now. There was no point talking about it. She turned to tell the stranger that she couldn’t continue. He was studying her. His eyes, there was something about his eyes. They had so much compassion and understanding. She felt drawn to continue without him saying a word.

“Cathy went to L.A. She wasn’t alone; she ran away with her cousin. I was worried sick. When I found out where she was…it was too late…she was lost forever.”
She looked squarely in the man’s eyes and said, “She was murdered by David Clarkson."

He didn’t flinch.

Beth’s shoulders drooped.

“David Clarkson, the Sunset killer, murdered my little girl and seventeen other girls.”

The words slid out coated in a thin layer of bitterness. She had said it; what more was there to say?

“You said you were going to take care of unfinished business?” the man prodded.
Beth reached into her purse and pulled out the letter. Her crooked fingers unfolded it slowly.

“I’ve waited for this letter for twenty-three years. The letter says they are going to execute him by lethal injection. Justice will finally be served and he will be dead and I will be able to live again.” Her mouth twisted into a bittersweet smile.

The elderly gentleman kept looking straight ahead. He asked Beth, “How will you live again? How will his death change anything?”

“I’ll finally be free!”

“Will you?”

Beth stuffed the letter back into her purse. She hugged the purse tightly and pushed herself against the window away from this irritating man. Of course she would be free. Hadn’t she been waiting for this day for years? Pain, misery and bitterness would no longer be her constant companions. She felt his hand on her hand. Her purse slid to the floor as she jerked her hand away from him. He reached for the purse and slowly handed it to her. This time when he reached for her hand she didn’t pull away. His hands felt so smooth and gentle.

“Arthritis," she said.

“What?”

“My hands, they are messed up because of the arthritis.”

“I wasn’t thinking about your hands; I was thinking about your heart.”

Beth pulled her hands away from his comforting grasp.

“What do you know about my heart? This man has been sitting on death row for twenty-three years. He is alive while my baby is dead. Everything will be okay when I see that he is dead.”

He had to understand. Anyone would understand that she needed closure. She needed to get on with life.

“So you are saying that when he dies you will be able to live again?”

“Yes! What is so hard to understand about that? He took everything from me. After Cathy died, my husband left me and then my friends deserted me. No one understood my suffering. He stole everything from me.”

“His death will somehow give you everything back?”

This man felt like sand in her tennis shoe. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone? She didn’t want to have to answer his ridiculous questions.

“You are in your own private prison lined with bitterness and anger. You think that because one death put you in that prison another death will get you out.”

“I don’t want to talk anymore!”

“Forgiveness," he said.

“What?”

“That’s the only way you’ll get out.”

How ridiculous! Forgive the man who took everything from her? Hadn’t she given enough? The letter hadn’t said anything about forgiving, it just said that the monster would be executed.

Beth whispered, “You don’t understand….”

“No," he replied gently, “you don’t understand.”