The woman stumbled up the steps, escaping the wind that mercilessly ripped at her petite frame.
“Look here. I’ve closed down the route. I’m taking the bus in.”
In big gulping sobs the woman laid her story before him. “I need help, please. My husband’s gone to Memphis looking for work. Our baby’s sick, real sick. She needs to get to the hospital. I know she’ll die if I don’t get help.”
“Well, I got to go by the hospital on the way back to the garage. You can ride that far.” Grady nodded for her to pay. The woman looked at the floor. “Well? Pay up and get on to the back of the bus so I can get out of here.”
“I—I don’t have the fare,” she said, quickly adding, “but if you let me ride, I promise to bring it to you in the morning.”
“Give an inch, y’all want a mile. You know the rules. No money, no ride!”
“Oh, please!” the young woman cried. “Feel her little head. It’s so hot.” She held out the baby to him. Grady recoiled.
Desperately the woman looked for something to bargain with. “Here,” she said, taking off her wedding ring. “Take this. It’s gold. But please don’t make me get off this bus.”
He opened the door. The winds howled savagely. “Please,” the woman begged.
“Go on home, now. You young gals get hysterical over a little fever. Nothing. It’ll be fine in the morning.” As he shut the door the last sounds he heard were the mother’s sobs, the baby’s wail, and the moaning wind.
Grady dismissed the incident until the next morning, when he read that it had been a record snowfall. His eyes were drawn to a small article about a colored woman and child found frozen to death on Hall Street. No one seemed to know where the woman was going or why. No one but Grady.
“That gal should have done like I told her and gone on home,” he said, turning to the comics.
It was exactly one year later, on the anniversary of the record snowstorm, that Grady was assigned the Hall Street Express again. Just asbefore, a storm heaped several inches of snow onto the city in a matter of hours, making driving extremely hazardous.
By nightfall Grady decided to close the route. But just as he was making the turnaround at the east side loop, his headlight picked up a woman running in the snow—the same woman he’d seen the previous year. Death hadn’t altered her desperation. Still holding on to the blanketed baby, the small-framed woman pathetically struggled to reach the bus.
Grady closed his eyes but couldn’t keep them shut. She was still coming, but from where? The answer was too horrible to consider, so he chose to let his mind find a more reasonable explanation. From some dark corner of his childhood he heard his father’s voice, slurred by alcohol, mocking him.
It ain’t the same woman, dummy. You know how they all look alike!
Grady remembered his father with bitterness and swore at the thought of him. This
was
the same woman, Grady argued with his father’s memory, taking no comfort in being right. Grady watched the woman’s movements breathlessly as she stepped out of the headlight beam and approached the door. She stood outside the door waiting … waiting.
The gray coldness of Fear slipped into the driver’s seat. Grady sucked air into his lungs in big gulps, feeling out of control. Fear moved his foot to the gas pedal, careening the bus out into oncoming traffic. Headlights. A truck. Fear made Grady hit the brakes. The back of the bus went into a sliding spin, slamming into a tree. Grady’s stomach crushed against the steering wheel, rupturing his liver and spleen.
You’ve really done it now, lunkhead
. As he drifted into the final darkness he heard a woman’s sobs, a baby wailing—or was it just the wind?
Twenty-five years later, Ray Hammond, a war hero with two years of college, became the first black driver Metro hired. A lot of things had happened during those two and a half decades to pave the way for Ray’s new job. The
“Look here. I’ve closed down the route. I’m taking the bus in.”
In big gulping sobs the woman laid her story before him. “I need help, please. My husband’s gone to Memphis looking for work. Our baby’s sick, real sick. She needs to get to the hospital. I know she’ll die if I don’t get help.”
“Well, I got to go by the hospital on the way back to the garage. You can ride that far.” Grady nodded for her to pay. The woman looked at the floor. “Well? Pay up and get on to the back of the bus so I can get out of here.”
“I—I don’t have the fare,” she said, quickly adding, “but if you let me ride, I promise to bring it to you in the morning.”
“Give an inch, y’all want a mile. You know the rules. No money, no ride!”
“Oh, please!” the young woman cried. “Feel her little head. It’s so hot.” She held out the baby to him. Grady recoiled.
Desperately the woman looked for something to bargain with. “Here,” she said, taking off her wedding ring. “Take this. It’s gold. But please don’t make me get off this bus.”
He opened the door. The winds howled savagely. “Please,” the woman begged.
“Go on home, now. You young gals get hysterical over a little fever. Nothing. It’ll be fine in the morning.” As he shut the door the last sounds he heard were the mother’s sobs, the baby’s wail, and the moaning wind.
Grady dismissed the incident until the next morning, when he read that it had been a record snowfall. His eyes were drawn to a small article about a colored woman and child found frozen to death on Hall Street. No one seemed to know where the woman was going or why. No one but Grady.
“That gal should have done like I told her and gone on home,” he said, turning to the comics.
It was exactly one year later, on the anniversary of the record snowstorm, that Grady was assigned the Hall Street Express again. Just asbefore, a storm heaped several inches of snow onto the city in a matter of hours, making driving extremely hazardous.
By nightfall Grady decided to close the route. But just as he was making the turnaround at the east side loop, his headlight picked up a woman running in the snow—the same woman he’d seen the previous year. Death hadn’t altered her desperation. Still holding on to the blanketed baby, the small-framed woman pathetically struggled to reach the bus.
Grady closed his eyes but couldn’t keep them shut. She was still coming, but from where? The answer was too horrible to consider, so he chose to let his mind find a more reasonable explanation. From some dark corner of his childhood he heard his father’s voice, slurred by alcohol, mocking him.
It ain’t the same woman, dummy. You know how they all look alike!
Grady remembered his father with bitterness and swore at the thought of him. This
was
the same woman, Grady argued with his father’s memory, taking no comfort in being right. Grady watched the woman’s movements breathlessly as she stepped out of the headlight beam and approached the door. She stood outside the door waiting … waiting.
The gray coldness of Fear slipped into the driver’s seat. Grady sucked air into his lungs in big gulps, feeling out of control. Fear moved his foot to the gas pedal, careening the bus out into oncoming traffic. Headlights. A truck. Fear made Grady hit the brakes. The back of the bus went into a sliding spin, slamming into a tree. Grady’s stomach crushed against the steering wheel, rupturing his liver and spleen.
You’ve really done it now, lunkhead
. As he drifted into the final darkness he heard a woman’s sobs, a baby wailing—or was it just the wind?
Twenty-five years later, Ray Hammond, a war hero with two years of college, became the first black driver Metro hired. A lot of things had happened during those two and a half decades to pave the way for Ray’s new job. The
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