Last Bus to Wisdom by Ivan Doig Page B

meaning the uniform top with the prominent stitching, “in case I have to go on shift right away. Some morons”—she pronounced it
mo-rons
, with the same note in her voice as when Gram would say “Sparrowhead”—“put you to slinging coffee almost before your keister is through the doorway, would you believe.”
    I made a sympathetic noise, but my attention wasn’t in it. By now I had a crush on her. Oh, man, my thinking ran, wouldn’t it be great if she and Gram could get a job together at the Top Spot cafe back in Gros Ventre, if Havre didn’t pan out for her and if Gram was as good as new after her operation and if I made it through whatever waited in Wisconsin, and we could all share a real house together, not a cook shack, right there in town? When you are as young as I was then, a world of any kind begins at the outskirts of your imagination, and you populate it with those who have proven themselves to you. The unknowns are always lying in wait, though. Trying not to, I kept glancing at Letty’s hand and the wedding ring that showed itself with every drag on her cigarette.
    She caught me at it. “You don’t miss much, do you.” She flexed that finger away from the others. “My husband’s still in Browning. Tends bar there, chases women on the side. We made a great pair.”
    She shrugged as if the next didn’t matter, although even I knew it was the kind of thing that always does. “We split. He was jealous. There was this one trucker, Harv, I got a little involved with. Harv’s some piece of work,” she grinned a way that said more than she was saying. “The strong silent type straight out of the movies, you know? Doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s right on the money.” The grin humorously tucked in on itself. “Even looks a little like Gregory Peck if you close one eye a little.” Then her face clouded. “Trouble is, he’s sort of hard to keep up with because he’s on the road so much, trucking here and there. But when he’s around”—her voice dropped to a confidential level—“sparks fly.”
    â€œHoly wow,” I said, as if I knew anything about such matters. “He sounds like a real boyfriend.”
    â€œReal as they come.” She blew a smoke ring as I drifted along on the romantic mood. “We’re more or less engaged, or will be when that husband of mine gets it through his thick head to agree to a divorce.” Dabbing the ash off her cigarette, she mused, “Haven’t seen Harv lately, though. Hated to do it, but I had to leave word for him at the Buster that I’d moved on to The Le Havre.” Then her grin sneaked back infectiously. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, truer words were never. Harv’s good at catching up on things.”
    â€œI bet he is,” I endorsed him sight unseen, talented as he sounded in areas a little beyond me.
    â€œAnyway, what’s done is done,” she said briskly. “You ought to have that in your book.” She mashed out the latest cigarette. “Hey, enough of the story of my life. How’s Dorie these days? Why isn’t she with you?”
    â€œShe’s got to have an operation.” I poured out everything, the cook shack and charity nuns and Wisconsin and all, my listener taking it in without saying anything.
    When I finally ran down, Letty bit her lip again. “Jeez, that’s rough on both of you. Tough deal all around.” The bus changed speed as the driver shifted gears on a hill, bobbing us against our seatbacks, and when that stopped, Letty still rocked back and forth a little. “You know what? You need something else to think about.”
    Reaching in her purse, she took out a compact and redid her lipstick, which surprised me because she’d already been wearing quite a gob. Working her lips together to even it out the way women do,