The Silver Star(9)

The Perv came back to use the bathroom a couple of times, but we stared straight ahead, pretending not to see him.


The bus went only as far as New Orleans. Since we were sitting in the back, we were the last ones off. When we went to pick up our luggage, the Perv was gone. Our next bus didn’t leave for two hours, so we put the luggage in a locker with Fido and went for a walk. Liz and I both had a serious case of what she called rigor buttis.

It was a hot, hazy day, and the air was so thick and humid that you could barely breathe. Outside the depot, a long-haired guy in an American-flag vest was playing “House of the Rising Sun” on a saxophone. There were people everywhere, wearing either crazy clothes—tuxedo jackets but no shirts, top hats with feathers—or hardly anything, and they were all eating, drinking, laughing, and dancing to the music that street performers were playing on just about every corner.

“You can really feel the voodoo,” Liz said.

A trolley car came down the street, and we got on for a quick tour of the city. It was less than half full, and we took a seat in the middle. Just before the doors closed, a man shoved his hand between them, and they opened again. It was the Perv. He took the seat right behind us.

Liz grabbed my hand, and we moved up to a seat at the front. The Perv followed. We moved to the back. He followed. The other passengers were watching us, but no one said a thing. It was one of those situations where people knew something wasn’t right, but at the same time, there was no law against a man changing seats.

At the next stop, Liz and I got off, still holding hands. So did the Perv. Liz led me into the crowd on the sidewalk, the Perv behind us. Then Liz quickly pulled me around, and we jumped back on the trolley. This time, the doors closed before the Perv could get his hand in. The other passengers all started hooting and cheering, pointing and clapping, shouting things like “Dusted him!” and “Ditched his ass!” As we pulled away, we could see the Perv through the window. He actually stomped his foot.


Once we were safely on the bus heading east—the Perv didn’t get on—we had a lot of fun rehashing the whole encounter, the way we not only tricked the Perv but humiliated him in front of a trolley full of people. It made me feel like we could handle just about anything the world might throw at us. When it got dark, I fell asleep with my head resting on Liz’s shoulder but I woke up a short while later and could hear her very quietly crying.


In Atlanta, we changed for the bus to Richmond, and in Richmond, we changed buses for the ride to Byler. For the first time since coming east, we left the freeway for the smaller back roads. The Virginia countryside rolled and dipped, so we were always either swinging through a curve or climbing up or dropping down a hill. It was all so green. There were shiny green cornfields, dark green mountains, and golden-green hay fields lined with deep green hedgerows and soft green trees.

After heading west for three hours, we reached Byler late in the afternoon. It was a small, low-lying town on a bending river with layers of blue mountains rising up behind it. The bridge across the river clanked under the wheels of the bus. The streets of the town, lined with two-story brick buildings painted in fading colors, were quiet and had plenty of empty parking spaces. The bus stopped at a brick depot with a black metal roof. I had never seen a metal roof on anything except a shack.

We were the only passengers who got off. As the bus pulled away, a middle-aged woman came through the door of the depot. She wore a red sweatshirt with a bulldog on it and was carrying a ring of keys. “You all waiting for someone?” she asked.

“Not really,” Liz said. “You don’t happen to know how to get to Tinsley Holladay’s house, do you?”

The woman studied Liz with sudden interest. “Mayfield?” she asked. “The Holladay house? You all know Tinsley Holladay?”

“He’s our uncle,” I said.

Liz gave me a glance that said I should let her do the talking.

“Well, knock me over with a feather. You all are Charlotte’s girls?”

“That’s right,” Liz said.

“Where’s your momma?”

“We’re visiting on our own,” Liz said.

The woman locked the depot door. “It’s quite a hike to Mayfield,” she said. “I’ll give you all a ride.”

The woman obviously wasn’t a perv, so we put the suitcases in the back of her battered pickup and climbed into the front. “Charlotte Holladay,” the woman said. “She was a year ahead of me at Byler High.”

We drove out of the town and into the countryside. The woman kept fishing for details about Mom, but Liz was evasive, so the woman started talking about Mayfield, how twenty years ago there was always something going on there—oyster roasts, Christmas parties, cotillions, moonlight horseback rides, Civil War costume balls. “In those days everyone was hankering for an invitation there,” she said. “All us girls would have given our left arm to be Charlotte Holladay. She had everything.” The woman gave a little nod.