The White Widow: A Novel by Jim Lehrer

people getting on the bus and somebody else waited at the town where they were going, Vernon, I think it was, and shot ’em coming off. That way there was no question what happened, that the driver stole their money. That’s progress, you see.”
    Sunshine Ashley joined them, bringing no sunshine and a cup of coffee that was almost white because it was more than half milk and sugar. He was a tall, thin, droopy man. “What are you talking about?” he said. “Something awful, I’ll bet.”
    “That’s right,” said Progress. “White Widows and checkers.”
    Sunshine’s face got even paler and sadder. “What checkers?”
    “They’re everywhere,” Paul said.
    “Even down here?” Sunshine said.
    “I’m sure they are,” said Paul. “We’re due for another go.”
    Sunshine closed his eyes. Jack thought for a second he might have been praying but then figured he had probably never prayed in his life.
    It had been at least two years since the checkers came in abig way to the South Texas Division. Five drivers were fired then for stealing, letting friends and women ride for nothing and other rules infractions.
    “They’ll get us all before they’re through,” said Sunshine. It was a typical Sunshine thing to say.
    They heard the arrival of the connecting bus from Laredo.
    “See you next time, On Time.”
    “You bet, Progress.”
    “You probably won’t be seeing me,” Sunshine said. “They’re going to get me.”
    Sunshine got up and left. “If I ever get like that, have somebody shoot me,” Paul said to Jack.
    “Will do,” Jack said.
    Paul said, “Women have ruined more of us than all of the cash fare stealing, bourbon and Cokes and slick highways put together, young Mr. Oliver. Don’t do it, Jack. Whatever it is you are thinking about, don’t. I am telling you, there is no such thing as a White Widow that’s worth losing your job and your life for.”
    “I hear you, sir.”
    They toasted each other with their coffee cups and stood up. Jack walked quickly ahead into the depot to get his last call to Houston.
    Mr. Abernathy was there at the ticket counter with his suitcase.
    “Where you headed today, Mr. Abernathy?” Jack asked.
    “I’m going on your bus, sir,” said Mr. Abernathy.
    “Terrific. Where to?”
    “Vera Cruz, Mexico.”
    “I’m headed the other way, to Houston today, Mr. Abernathy.”
    “Oh, my, well, that is too bad. Then I will go to Mount Rushmore.”
    “That’s the other way, too.”
    “Well, well, then maybe another day.”
    “Why do you want to go to Mount Rushmore, Mr. Abernathy?” It was a question Jack had asked Mr. Abernathy many times before.
    “To see Mr. Jefferson.” It was an answer Mr. Abernathy had given many times before.
    Jack had seen pictures in magazines of the four presidents’ heads that had been carved into the side of a mountain somewhere out West. He couldn’t remember if it was in Wyoming or Montana or Idaho. Or South Dakota? Thomas Jefferson was one of the four presidents, all right, and he thought George Washington, for sure, was one of the others. And Abraham Lincoln had to be there. But who was the fourth?
    He thought about asking Mr. Abernathy that very question right now. But before it could be done, Mr. Abernathy, suitcase in hand, had disappeared through the depot door and headed back to wherever it was he lived between his trips to the bus depot to go nowhere.
    Jack wondered again about who this man really was. Johnny Merriweather, among others, thought he might be the Humble Millionaire they were all waiting for. The other favorite fantasy of bus drivers, besides the White Widow, was the Humble Millionaire. In this dream there is a regular passenger, the quiet little old man in the brown workclothes or something who rides to El Campo every other Thursday or something. Upon his death, lo and behold and presto and shazam!, he leaves his favorite Great Western driver or ticket agent or porter a Cadillac, a rice farm, and maybe