Zing sat down in the middle of the park and ran her fingers through the grass, enjoying the way it tickled her fingers. She thought about Miracle and the stray dog she had rescued. Miracle had taken the mangy dog home. The dog looked nice after Miracle washed him. He looked healthy after she fed him. And because he looked so clean and healthy, Miracle had been able to find him his forever home.
If Miracle took in stray dogs, maybe she’d take in stray angels? She could use a bath and food. Zing didn’t need a forever home but a place to spend the night would be nice. As Annabelle was fond of saying: you can’t find rainbows unless you look. Zing wasn’t sure what that meant but she did like rainbows. Perhaps Miracle was the rainbow and Zing should go looking.
Zing left the park and crossed the street, once again avoiding manhole covers and fast cars. She used the crosswalk this time, waiting with the other people who were watching the white walking person on the sign to tell them it was safe to cross. She saw a bus stop with an old woman sitting on the bench.
Zing was intrigued with how the old woman’s skin was wrinkly and saggy. Aging didn’t happen to angels. Their skin stayed the same; it didn’t get all stretched out from living. Or maybe it wasn’t the skin that got stretched out; maybe it was the person inside who shrank.
Zing approached the old woman. “Excuse me, old woman, but does this bus go to the place where there are a lot of big old houses with pretty paint jobs and large porches with white basket-like furniture?” she asked.
Zing knew that Miracle rode the bus when she’d wrecked her car and the police had taken her license away. According to Annabelle you needed a license to drive. After a one-year suspension and lots of traffic school classes, Miracle had gotten her license back and she bought a new car. She must have learned her lesson because her new car was still in one piece with no scrapes or dents and she hadn’t gotten any more tickets.
The old woman answered, “You mean the Hightower neighborhood? Yes, the bus does go there. It’s at the end of the line so you can’t miss the stop.”
The old woman wore a red hat with a big feather. It must’ve been a really big bird to have a feather that big, Zing thought. And it was purple! She hadn’t ever seen a big purple bird.
The old woman also wore a purple dress and purple shoes and had a purple purse sitting in her purple lap. Zing figured purple must be her favorite color. Her hat was red, though. Maybe the woman is blind, Zing thought. Even she knew purple and red didn’t go together.
The old woman continued, “I’m going to the Hightower district to have tea with The Red Hat Ladies. We have a fancy tea once a month at Elizabeth’s house. She lives in one of the Victorian houses you described. We always go there because Elizabeth is agoraphobic.”
Zing looked puzzled. “Agoraphobic?”
“It means she never leaves her house because large spaces make her anxious. The upside is that she has a beautiful garden and keeps her house very, very clean.”
“Agoraphobic,” Zing said, rolling the word around her tongue and lips. “I’ll remember that.”
“Oh, here comes the bus now. Do you want to see the Victorian houses? We’ll ride the bus together.”
“I’d like that,” Zing said. “Are there any big purple birds there?”
“You never know,” the old woman said. Zing helped the old woman stand. That was another thing about old people—their bones made strange popping and cracking noises when they moved.
The bus whooshed to a stop. Zing liked the noise. “Whoosh, whoosh,” she said.
“I’m Clara by the way. What’s your name?” Clara said as the bus door opened.
“Zing.”
“Well, that’s certainly an interesting name.” Clara climbed the stairs and put coins in the box. Zing followed her down the aisle.
“Hey, you have to pay,” the bus driver said. He looked mean. His mouth had a lot of frown wrinkles. “No pay, no ride.”
Zing remembered about money. You had to have it to do things on earth and she didn’t have any.
“Oh, here, you crusty old bugger,” Clara said, and put coins in the box for Zing. “Come on, let’s sit in the back since we’re last to get off.” Clara led them to the last seat on the bus. They slid into the bright orange plastic seats.
The door on the bus closed, the bus made another whoosh noise, and then lurched off into traffic. A car honked behind them. The mean bus driver stuck his fist out the window and shook it. Zing wondered what made him so mad all the time. He certainly didn’t have a rainbow in him.
Clara seemed to sense her anxiety. She patted Zing’s knee. “Don’t worry about him. He hates his job and that makes him cranky all the time.”