Night on Fire by Ronald Kidd Page A

his father’s desk, fooling with his camera. We said good-bye to his dad and headed for our bikes. As we did, I noticed Gurnee Avenue just a block away. I reached for Grant’s hand, squeezed hard, and dragged him up the street.
    â€œHey!” he croaked.
    Halfway up Gurnee was a yellow-brick building with an awning and a sign: Greyhound . It was the Anniston bus station, where buses stopped before heading down the Birmingham Highway, and where Jarmaine planned to come on Sunday to see history being made.
    Next to the building was an alley, and in the alley was a bus. Stopping in my tracks, I gazed at the bus.
    Where was it going? Who would be on board? What did they dream of?
    Beside me, Grant wrenched his hand free.
    â€œGeez,” he muttered. “The grip of death.”
    â€œPoor baby,” I said.
    I approached the bus and saw that it was empty. Glancing around, I reached for the door. It was locked. Apparently the bus was between trips. I ran my fingers along the silver stripes under the windshield. For years I’d been watching buses drive past my house. It wasn’t often that I got to see one up close. I wanted to remember what it looked like and how I felt standing beside it.
    As I touched the bus, I saw a road, maybe the Birmingham Highway or one of the new interstates they were building. It curved out of sight, and I wondered what was at the other end—hope, happiness, questions, pain? Someday maybe I’d climb on the bus and find out.
    Behind me, Grant asked, “What are you doing?”
    I turned around to face him. “Take my picture.”
    â€œHere? Now?”
    â€œYes!”
    He stifled a grin. “All I’ve got is color film. I hate to waste it.”
    I slugged him.
    â€œOkay, okay.”
    The picture seemed important, not just because of what it showed but who took it. I was there. Grant was there. The bus was there. They were all pieces of my future, if I could just figure out how to put them together.
    â€œTake it,” I said.
    He shrugged, took the camera from over his shoulder, and peered through the lens. “Say cheese.”
    â€œThat’s stupid,” I said. “I’ve got a better word.”
    He lined up the shot.
    â€œFreedom,” I said.
    Click . And it was done.
    The bus station was just a block from Noble Avenue, where people in Anniston went to shop. It reminded me of something.
    â€œYou go on home,” I told Grant as he carefully wiped the lens and put a cap over it. “There’s something I need to do.”
    We said our good-byes, and I walked back toward the shopping district with one question on my mind.
    What should I get Mama for Mother’s Day?
    I’d been thinking about it since Daddy had slipped me the money on Friday. I had scanned ads in the paper, but nothing seemed right.
    Reaching Noble Avenue, I passed Havertys Furniture, Goold’s Hat Shop, Clark’s Credit Clothiers, and finally came to Wikle’s Rexall Drugs, where they had a little bit of everything. I looked over the products but couldn’t make up my mind. I almost bought some perfume but decided not to. Mama liked things that worked, things that had a function.
    Next I tried Charlie’s Lucky Shopping Center, then Mason’s Self-Service Department Store. Finally, in a corner of Mason’s, I found it. They had a big display of straw handbags, and I spotted one with a picture of a duck on the side. I was pretty sure Mama loved ducks, or was it peacocks? Anyway, this was something useful. It could be a present from Royal and me.
    I grabbed the bag, then picked out Mother’s Day cards from Royal, Daddy, and me. I went to the counter, where I took Daddy’s five-dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to Mrs. Jutson, who had sold me my first Easter bonnet.
    â€œIt’s for Mother’s Day,” I told her.
    Mrs. Jutson nodded, smiling. “I’m sure your mama will be very happy. Please tell her