this ride. I’m Ken Alford.” He put out his right hand.
“William Edmonds.”
Both men gave good strong shakes.
“Is it Bill or William?”
“Either—it doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, Bill. Would you like to share some breakfast?” Out of his coat pockets Ken pulled a cheese Danish wrapped in glistening plastic and a small red and white carton of chocolate milk. Edmonds gestured thanks but no thanks. Alford nodded, opened the milk, and took a swig. Carefully capping it again, he put it down on the seat between his legs. With his teeth he tore open the plastic around the pastry and took a big bite. It was clear he really liked what he was eating because he kept closing his eyes and making mmh- mmh! sounds deep in his throat.
Edmonds smiled. Ken looked and sounded like one of those actors on a television commercial loving some new breakfast food or chocolate bar that was being promoted.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you on here, Bill.”
“Yes, it’s my first trip.”
“Well, some of them are good and some are boring, but there’s always one or two worthwhile things to see.”
A few moments later the front door hissed shut and the bus pulled slowly away from the curb. A few people here and there clapped.
“I lost my wife last year and that’s when I started going on them. She didn’t like to travel much, not even day trips, so we stayed pretty close to home. Then when she got sick…” Ken’s voice remained steady and unemotional.
In contrast, Edmonds couldn’t talk about his dead wife without tearing up or his voice catching in his throat every single time.
“Are you married, Bill?”
Edmonds looked at his hands. “My wife died too. Recently.”
“Ahh, it’s tough. I’m sorry for you.” But Ken didn’t sound sorry at all—if anything he sounded sort of … buoyant. “Hold on—I want to show you something.” Stuffing the rest of the pastry into his mouth, he brushed the crumbs off his hands and reached into another pocket. This time he brought out a very sleek, quite beautiful folding knife. “Look at this—it’s my Vedran Ć orluka.” He held the knife out for Edmonds to take, but the other man only stared at him.
“Why do you call it that? Vedran Ć orluka is a professional soccer player.”
Ken grinned and snapped his fingers. “Right! You’re a soccer fan too. Excellent. Yes, Ć orluka plays for the Croatian national team. But I call it that for a specific reason. This was the last Christmas present my wife gave me. I like pocketknives; I have a collection. But this one—well, you can see how especially nice it is. Nancy had it custom-made by a master craftsman in Montana. I liked it a lot when she gave it to me, but only after she died did I really start paying attention to it.”
“Paying attention? What do you mean?”
“I went a little crazy after my wife died, Bill. We were married thirty-seven years and most of them were damned good. Did you have a good marriage?”
Edmonds nodded.
“Then you know what I’m talking about. Vedran Ć orluka was Nancy’s favorite player. She didn’t know beans about soccer, but just liked his name; she liked to say it. Whenever I was watching a game on TV, she always came in at some point and asked if Vedran Ć orluka was playing today.
“So that’s why I named my knife after him. It was her last present and he was her favorite player: a perfect match. I always carry it now, no matter where I’m going or what I’m doing. When I get really depressed I just grip it tight in my pocket. It usually makes me feel a little better. It’s my ground stone and makes some of the sadness go away.”
“A really nice story, Ken. Can I see it again?” Edmonds took the knife and examined it closely. It was a fine-looking object. But he was distracted by what Alford was saying now.
“We don’t pay enough attention to things in our lives, Bill. We know that, but we still don’t do it. Only after something’s over, or
“William Edmonds.”
Both men gave good strong shakes.
“Is it Bill or William?”
“Either—it doesn’t matter.”
“Okay, Bill. Would you like to share some breakfast?” Out of his coat pockets Ken pulled a cheese Danish wrapped in glistening plastic and a small red and white carton of chocolate milk. Edmonds gestured thanks but no thanks. Alford nodded, opened the milk, and took a swig. Carefully capping it again, he put it down on the seat between his legs. With his teeth he tore open the plastic around the pastry and took a big bite. It was clear he really liked what he was eating because he kept closing his eyes and making mmh- mmh! sounds deep in his throat.
Edmonds smiled. Ken looked and sounded like one of those actors on a television commercial loving some new breakfast food or chocolate bar that was being promoted.
“This is the first time I’ve seen you on here, Bill.”
“Yes, it’s my first trip.”
“Well, some of them are good and some are boring, but there’s always one or two worthwhile things to see.”
A few moments later the front door hissed shut and the bus pulled slowly away from the curb. A few people here and there clapped.
“I lost my wife last year and that’s when I started going on them. She didn’t like to travel much, not even day trips, so we stayed pretty close to home. Then when she got sick…” Ken’s voice remained steady and unemotional.
In contrast, Edmonds couldn’t talk about his dead wife without tearing up or his voice catching in his throat every single time.
“Are you married, Bill?”
Edmonds looked at his hands. “My wife died too. Recently.”
“Ahh, it’s tough. I’m sorry for you.” But Ken didn’t sound sorry at all—if anything he sounded sort of … buoyant. “Hold on—I want to show you something.” Stuffing the rest of the pastry into his mouth, he brushed the crumbs off his hands and reached into another pocket. This time he brought out a very sleek, quite beautiful folding knife. “Look at this—it’s my Vedran Ć orluka.” He held the knife out for Edmonds to take, but the other man only stared at him.
“Why do you call it that? Vedran Ć orluka is a professional soccer player.”
Ken grinned and snapped his fingers. “Right! You’re a soccer fan too. Excellent. Yes, Ć orluka plays for the Croatian national team. But I call it that for a specific reason. This was the last Christmas present my wife gave me. I like pocketknives; I have a collection. But this one—well, you can see how especially nice it is. Nancy had it custom-made by a master craftsman in Montana. I liked it a lot when she gave it to me, but only after she died did I really start paying attention to it.”
“Paying attention? What do you mean?”
“I went a little crazy after my wife died, Bill. We were married thirty-seven years and most of them were damned good. Did you have a good marriage?”
Edmonds nodded.
“Then you know what I’m talking about. Vedran Ć orluka was Nancy’s favorite player. She didn’t know beans about soccer, but just liked his name; she liked to say it. Whenever I was watching a game on TV, she always came in at some point and asked if Vedran Ć orluka was playing today.
“So that’s why I named my knife after him. It was her last present and he was her favorite player: a perfect match. I always carry it now, no matter where I’m going or what I’m doing. When I get really depressed I just grip it tight in my pocket. It usually makes me feel a little better. It’s my ground stone and makes some of the sadness go away.”
“A really nice story, Ken. Can I see it again?” Edmonds took the knife and examined it closely. It was a fine-looking object. But he was distracted by what Alford was saying now.
“We don’t pay enough attention to things in our lives, Bill. We know that, but we still don’t do it. Only after something’s over, or
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