Going home

Going Home

I first heard
[url=http://www.pm4p.com/Power_Leveling/?Tales-of-
Pirates-II-108.html]Tales of
Pirates II Power Leveling[/url]this
story a few years ago from a girl I had met in New
York's Greenwich Village. Probably the story is one
of those mysterious bits of folklore that reappear
every few years,
[url=http://www.pm4p.com/Power_Leveling/?Tales-of-
Pirates-II-108.html]Tales of
Pirates II Power Leveling[/url]to be
told a new in one form or another. However, I still
like to think that it really did happen, somewhere,
sometime.
They were going to Fort Lauderdalethree boys and
three girls and when they boarded the bus, they were
carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming
of golden beaches as the gray cold of New York
vanished behind them.
As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to
notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a
plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face
masking his age. He kept chewing the inside of his
lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of
silence.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus
pulled into Howard Johnson's, and everybody got off
except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the
young people began to wonder about him, trying to
imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a
runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home.
When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat
beside him and introduced herself.
We're going to Florida,” she said brightly.“ I hear
it's really beautiful.”“It is, ” he said quietly,
as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
“Want some wine?” she said. He smiled and took a
swig. He thanked her and retreated again into his
silence. After a while, she went back to the others,
and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another Howard
Johnson's,and this time Vingo went in. The girl
insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and
ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the
young people chattered about sleeping on beaches.
When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with
Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully,
he told his story. He had been in jail in New York
for the past four years, and now he was going home.
“Are you married?”
　　“I don't know.”
　　“You don't know?” she said.
　　“Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife,”
he said. “ I told her that I was going to be away a
long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the
kids kept asking questions, if it hurt too much,
well, she could just forget me, I'd understand. Get a
new guy, I saidshe‘s a wonderful woman,really
somethingand forget about me. I told her she didn't
have to write me for nothing. And she didn‘t. Not
for three and a half years.”
　　“And you're going home now, not knowing?”
　　“Yeah,” he said shyly. “ Well, last week, when
I was sure the parole was coming through, I wrote her
again. We used to live in Brunswick, just before
Jacksonville, and there's a big oak tree just as you
come into town. I told her that if she'd take me
back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the
tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't
want me, forget itno handkerchief, and I'd go on
through.”
　　“Wow,” the girl exclaimed. “Wow.”
　　She told the others, and soon all of them were in
it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking
at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and
three children. The woman was handsome in a plain
way, the children still unformed in the much-handled
snapshots.
　　Now they were 20 miles from Brunswick, and the
young people took over window seats on the right
side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree.
The bus acquired a dark, hushed mood, full of the
silence of absence and lost years. Vingo stopped
looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask,
as if fortifying himself against still another
disappointment.
　　Then Brunswick was ten miles, and then five.
Then,suddenly, all of the young people were up out of
their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing
small dances of joy. All except Vingo.
　　Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree.
It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs20 of them,
30 of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a
banner of welcome billowing in the wind. As the young
people shouted, the old con rose and made his way to
the front of the bus to go home.