Riggs Park Part 14

"Only at first. I'd think how Penny had just time to have a baby and give it up and not be able to handle the fact that she'd given it away. Which was pretty much how Penny would react. It might even account for the grand finale. Although I'm not sure how." There was a cold clarity in his eyes, like a nub of melting ice.

"Steve, listen. If she got pregnant on that trip, it could have been the other guy's. It might not have been yours."

"I know that. But you know what? I never cared." After a long pause he added, "That bus ride-It was me she was coming to see."

I felt my throat close, my eyes burn, but I made myself focus and swallow. After more than forty years, Steve still sounded like the boy of fourteen who'd been left breathless by Penny's shy manner and red hair, like the young man of twenty still lovestruck in spite of the arc of destruction Penny had set out upon, and now the man of sixty still nostalgic in spite of Kimberly and their grown children. I knew something about the durability of first loves, myself. Maybe, whatever he learned from Essie, it would be better than nothing.

I crossed the kitchen, took his arm. "Let's go see Essie and find out what happened the weekend of that bus ride, Steve," I said. "We could go in the morning. What do you say?"

After a long, mute minute, Steve said softly, "Sweetie, I thought you'd never ask."

The next morning, after escaping from Marilyn on the pretext that Steve had to replace a pair of gla.s.ses, I drove south on New Hampshire Avenue once again, with Steve's famous "Bus Ride" lyrics playing over and over in my head: "Traveling, traveling...the Penny girl was traveling"-until I had to turn on the radio to make them stop.

"Bus Ride" had done so well, Steve always liked to say, because it had come out when Vietnam was ending and the country yearned to embrace the ant.i.thesis of a political icon-a song so sad and personal that it echoed the national mood without actually referring to it in any way. People liked that "Bus Ride" was a puzzle of a song. They hummed its sweet melody. They were bewitched by lyrics as vague and mysterious as Penny herself. And whether or not Steve's theory made any sense, it was certainly true that in 1975 his song fixed itself on the American consciousness as indelibly as another image had five years before, of a screaming, long-haired girl at Kent State keening over the fallen body of a cla.s.smate who'd been gunned down.

"Bus Ride" stayed at number one for twelve weeks, five weeks longer than it took "I Want to Hold Your Hand" to create the Beatlemania craze in 1964. When a radio station in Ohio held a contest for the best explanation of the events of that bus ride, and how they explained what happened to Penny later, twenty thousand entries poured in from all over the country. Like everyone else, I had always believed my own version of the story was the truth.

In the pa.s.senger seat beside me, Steve sat mute until south of University Boulevard, where the aging buildings must have begun to look familiar.

"I'm beginning to feel like someone in the twilight zone," he said.

"Nervous?"

"A little." He looked away from me, out the window at strips of tumbledown shops. "You know, I talked about Penny so much in the seventies and eighties that after a while it was like talking about somebody else. Somebody not real."

"Is that why you never told us about her having a baby?"

"Maybe. For a long time, it was as if she didn't exist, except in that surreal way. And the baby, too. Sounds like one of Penny's own tricks, doesn't it?"

"I can see you wanting to forget," I said.

"You know when I started thinking about it again? After I adopted my own kids. When you're young you don't have any sense kids are going to mean anything to you."

"And then you see that your children are going to be the best thing you've got."

"Exactly." Steve hunkered lower in his seat. "But I always felt a little guilty about the 'Bus Ride' story. Seems kind of mean-spirited to tell everyone in the country about it when you're not really sure what happened."

"You can't really have regrets. Not after all this time. You wouldn't have had your career. You wouldn't have drawn attention to how people can learn to read. You wouldn't-"

"Even before that bus ride," Steve said, "Penny used to tell me she didn't remember what she did with guys. I never believed her."

"And after?"

"I think it was true. She started remembering things on that trip and later remembered more. Not just what happened to her in the bus station. Things from way back in high school. Maybe even before that. It spooked me."

"Who knows what was going on in her head by then?" I said softly. "You had a right to be spooked."

Steve squeezed the bridge of his nose, then took his hand away from his face and smiled wryly. "Sometimes I think if she'd ever heard 'Bus Ride' she would have been furious."

"She would have been honored," I told him. For a long while, Steve had repeated obsessively the events of Penny's real-life bus ride every time the two of us had spent more than half an hour together. "But I didn't understand what was going on until later, after she'd wrote that note," he always said. "The note was the catalyst."

He had needed a long time to filter the events of those years through his mind. And then he had written his song. Like everyone else in the country, I had invented the story that went behind it. But unlike most of Steve's fans, I had known Penny and loved her, and I was pretty sure, even now, that my version was actually true.

Traveling, traveling...Penny Weinberg had been traveling without the knowledge of her parents or anyone else...traveling west, on a Trailways bus, to Morgantown, West Virginia, where Steve had been going to college. "That was the kicker," Steve always said. "I should have invited her. She shouldn't have felt she needed to surprise me. If only I'd known she was coming."

Three hours before, Penny had stepped out of her English cla.s.s at the University of Maryland, the school she'd transferred to after she'd quit George Washington University. She stepped onto a campus of April-green gra.s.s and saw through the color into the idea behind it, the idea that green was the color of wellness. Penny would see Steve and be well. She started to walk into College Park to the bus station when a boy from the English cla.s.s beeped at her from his car.

"You need a ride?" He looked at her with an expression in his eyes that meant he wanted to touch her, so she asked if he'd drive her to the Trailways station, and he did.

Pretty soon, she was on a bus speeding through the countryside, and a man was staring at her. Sitting across the aisle at the opposite window, he was only a couple of years older than she was, midtwenties maybe, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that showed muscular arms. His arms were suntanned; she could see that without moving her head. She didn't look at his eyes because Steve said not to; men's eyes would always be kind at first. Even Allan Kessler's eyes had been kind, all those years ago, before he'd called her a tramp and gotten her blackballed from the sorority.

Penny smoothed her skirt over her knees: a tan, perfectly ordinary skirt. She was perfectly ordinary.

Shifting away from the window, the man scooted across the aisle in a swift motion and sat down next to Penny. "How far you going?" he asked. She turned from the window. It would be impolite not to look at him now, not to meet his eyes. His face was smooth-shaved and open, with plain brown eyes like Steve's. "Morgantown," she answered.

"I bet you got a boyfriend at the university. Me, I'm going home for the weekend. I work construction in D.C. during the week, but I live in c.u.mberland." He was proud of that, she could tell. "Danny Sowers," he said, thrusting his long tanned hand out to shake hers.

She felt him touch her, noticing that her own hand was smaller and whiter than his, feeling their two hands move up and down together. Her eyes might have been a camera. She saw the pale brown freckles on her own, smaller hand, marring its whiteness. She took her hand away. "I'm Penny," she said.

"Nice to meet you, Jenny."

She could have explained it was Penny, not Jenny, but she was too ashamed of her hands. Outside the window, the light was fading. In another hour it would be dark.

They pulled off the highway and headed into a town. The streets grew narrow, lined by old brick buildings. People sat on the steps in front of the buildings. Most of the people were fat. "c.u.mberland," Danny Sowers said. The driver made a hard left into the bus terminal, pulled into a parking place. "Thirty-minute stop here," he said. "You got to change buses here, don't you?"

"I think so."

"You wanna have dinner with me before you go?" Danny asked.

Penny thought of the fat people on the steps of the buildings. This was a place where people got fat. Men were complete in themselves, but women were half, so they had to stay thin. Steve said there was no danger of Penny gaining weight, the way she picked at food, but she didn't like men to see her eat.

"I'm not that hungry," she said.

"Come on, at least have a cup of coffee. I know a place just up the street."

They got off the bus together. No one was staying on the bus during the long stop. In the parking lot next to the terminal, the light had gone gray and colorless. Only a little patch of gra.s.s out by the street had the last of the sun on it and was still bright green. Penny remembered she was going to Morgantown because of the greenness, the color of healing.

Danny had a duffel bag in his hand. His arm beckoned her, its thick, tanned muscles rippling. "Come on."

She moved toward him. He touched a handful of her hair where it met her neck. Steve did that sometimes. "Your hair is some kind of red." In the dusk, everything had gone black and white except Danny's blue shirt and brown eyes like Steve's. He was the only thing in color. Penny let him lead her away from the bus station.

"Just let me drop my bag at my place." At the end of the block, he stopped beside one of the drab old buildings.

"Go ahead," she told him.

He said, "Come on up for a minute."

They climbed a wide wooden staircase that smelled of cooking. At the top, Danny opened a door into a small apartment. It had wood floors, but no rugs, and a few pieces of furniture that did not make it look less empty. It might have been a set for a movie.

"Come here," the man said. It was his place, not hers, so she had to go to him. There was kindness in his eyes, and that familiar expression of wanting her. Penny always thought the kindness promised something, that there was something on the other side.

It was Steve touching her, as always. He touched her arms and b.r.e.a.s.t.s and anywhere he wanted. Sometimes he was gentle and sometimes, like now, quick and rough because of wanting her so much. She didn't mind. Her last name was Weinberg and his was Ginsburg. Once after they started going together, Wish Wishner greeted them by saying, "Hi, Bergs," as if they were one thing. She saw this was true. She'd let other boys touch her so she could become whole, but it didn't happen until she was with Steve. Allan Kessler said she was a tramp. Tramp. An old, used-up word. It made her feel even less than half.

The man had taken off her blouse and was staring at her, in a disapproving way, like the man in the upholstery shop. "Don't," Penny said.

"Shut up," the man said. He held her by the wrist. "In there."

She let him lead her to the bedroom. She knew she had to. His hands were workman's hands, thick and sandpapery. She watched through the cameras in her eyes. It didn't take long. It had been quick and rough.

Sometimes, she'd come up through an envelope of cool breeze and be as sane as anybody. "I have to make a phone call," she said to the man at her side. They were in the bus terminal. Yellow lights had been turned on; outside it wasn't quite dark. She'd been away from the bus station and now was back. She might have eaten, but wasn't sure. The important thing was: she had to let Steve know she was on her way to see him. He'd be finished with his afternoon cla.s.ses and might have a gig that night. She needed to hear him play and sing. As long as he composed his songs for her, hearing him was the least she could do.

"You only wrote one song for me," she liked to tease him, pointing out that there was only one song actually ent.i.tled "Penny." Steve always replied, seriously, "Not just one song, baby. All of them." She didn't want to get to Morgantown without knowing where Steve was singing.

"You only got a couple minutes till your bus leaves." The man was fidgeting, eyeing the clock. "Maybe you better call from the next stop."

"No. I'll miss him if I call later."

"Yeah, well hurry up."

She had mostly dollar bills. "I have to get change." The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of coins. He looked annoyed. "Here."

She closed herself into the booth. The man stood outside, nervously checking the parking lot where the buses were waiting. Penny dialed. The phone rang miles away in Steve's dormitory, connecting them by wires through the night air. Someone answered. Not Steve. "I think he went out to eat," the voice said. The air crackled all around her. The voice said, "Hey, wait a minute, here he comes." Steve spoke to her and the air went still.

"Penny?" he said.

She told him she was coming. She told him what time. She had come up through a fine stream of air and was calm.

"Do your folks know you're coming here?" he asked.

"Oh. No."

"What about Dr. Novak?"

"No. Should I call somebody?" It wouldn't matter. Her father was dead, her mother didn't much care, her sisters were married and gone.

"No, never mind. I'll call. I'll fix it. You just get on the bus." Steve's voice was full and deep, the color of wine. When she hung up, a man was waiting outside the phone booth.

"You just got time," he said. The man had brown hair and eyes like Steve's, but she didn't know him. The man tried to take her by the arm. She shook her arm away.

"Hey, you okay? Jenny?"

He kept calling her Jenny. She walked out the door toward the bus. The man followed.

"You ever come through here again, you look me up," he said. Penny found her ticket in her purse. The man winked at her. "See ya, Jenny," he'd said.

The bus had turned on its headlights. Faint outlines of trees floated against the darkness, but mostly Penny saw her own reflection in the gla.s.s. She closed her eyes against it. Your reflection was your outside; it had nothing to do with your spirit.

The bus was speeding through the night. Steve said he didn't want Penny just for touching. He wanted her for more than her reflection.

Why had the man in the bus station kept calling her Jenny? He acted like he knew her. Who was he? He didn't even know her name.

Steve had never wanted to go away to college. He wanted to stay in D.C. with Penny and sing with his band. For three years, he lived at home while Marilyn went to college. His father said he was getting nowhere. He made Steve go back to school. "Just for one year. After that, you don't like it, fine. But for a year-try it."

So Steve came to West Virginia, where a family friend helped him get in. Fall and winter pa.s.sed. Penny felt the sickness grow larger in her all that time. Now it was spring and the bus was speeding through the night. She thought of the color of the gra.s.s, the color of wellness.

At the terminal in Morgantown, Steve waited for her in a pool of light. She let him hold her, closing her eyes, leaning into his chest. Then he spoke. She recognized his words as truth, and remembered kissing the man from the other bus station, remembered the kindness going out of his eyes. She had let him do what he wanted, but he had not been kind. He was the same man who'd called her Jenny when she came out of the phone booth. It was not a dream. She was a feather dropping, falling in a spiral until she hit the bottom, falling from right now. It would take a long time before she'd be brave enough to do the rest. She didn't think of that yet. All she'd thought about in the Morgantown bus station was Steve holding her in his arms, rubbing her back, and saying in a voice that had been full of love, "Penny, you must be crazy to run away from home like this. You must be crazy, baby."

With an effort, I put aside my version of Penny's bus ride and the sadness it always brought me and turned onto Oneida Street.

At Essie's door, we were greeted not just by Taneka, but also by the bulk of Marcellus, who loomed in the entryway as if he meant to protect Essie from physical a.s.sault.

"She ain't used to a lot of company," Marcellus said, barring our way until the old woman, sitting in her chair by the window, barked, "I'm fine, Marcellus. Let them in."

"Good thing I could come over," Marcellus persisted. "Taneka got to go out pretty soon, and Essie got trouble getting to the door." He gestured toward her walker.

"Nonsense," Essie said, not budging from her seat. As Marcellus moved to let us in, Essie's gaze slid quickly over me and lit on Steve with an expression of such undisguised joy that I found it painful to watch.

"So," Essie said as Steve bent to hug her. "Steven Simple. The important singer." Playfully, she patted his bald head and grinned. "The heartthrob singer becomes a middle-aged man," Essie teased, wagging a finger. Then her features grew rigid again, stern. "This isn't a social call, is it? You came to find out about Penny's baby."

Steve lowered himself into a chair, put his face level with hers. His confidential tone was soft and personal. "Barbara said it was a girl, Essie. She said Penny named her Vera."

Marcellus, who had situated himself on the sofa next to Taneka, got up and crossed the room to stand behind Essie's chair. Still grim, the old woman reached over and took Steve's hand. "Steve, believe me. I've thought about this. This is something you don't need to know."

"Tell me anyway."

Essie paused a moment, and I wasn't sure whether she was gathering strength or sizing him up. "Penny stayed with me while she was pregnant," she said finally. "I took care of her. I helped her with the adoption."

Steve lifted Essie's hand toward his chest, drawing her closer. "All those years ago, you asked me not to ask any more questions. I'm asking now."

Essie shut her eyes as if a great weariness had settled upon her. Marcellus placed his hands protectively on the old woman's shoulders. "Remember the first time you called me? That summer after the bus ride? I told you I didn't know where Penny was and I was telling you the truth," Essie said. "Penny wasn't in touch with me that summer. She came here in the fall. Right around this time of year." With her head back against the wing of her chair, Essie's fragile closed lids seemed nothing but a web of delicate purple veins.

"October? That was pretty late," Steve said. "Penny would have been pretty far along."

Withdrawing her hand from Steve's grip, Essie opened her eyes. "The baby wasn't yours," she said abruptly.

For a second, the room was perfectly quiet. Marcellus's hands began to knead Essie's shoulders. On the sofa, Taneka sat frozen.

Steve didn't flinch. He tried to stare Essie down, but finally gave up and dropped his head into his hands. "Vera was born...in January, right?" He studied the carpet. "I always thought it was January."

Essie reached forward and lifted Steve's chin so he'd have to look at her. Her voice was tender as lullabies. "Not January, Steve. April. April 16, 1964."

Marcellus walked around Essie's chair, stood in front of Steve. "What she's saying is, Penny didn't get knocked up the weekend of that bus ride-it happened later."

"I know what she's saying," Steve told him.

In my head, I was doing the math. Though it made no sense to me yet, a wave of light-headedness pa.s.sed over me, clouded my thoughts.

"So it wasn't his, either," Steve said. "The guy on the bus."