The Lesson

With Coats, Notes, etc., to the Bus They Went

The bus trip went as follows:

Loring paid for the bus. It cost almost nothing. Stan got in first. They thought it would be less suspicious that way. He went and found a seat. She got on, paid, and sat beside him. He was by a window, halfway to the back.

And who else was on the bus? Why no one at all of note. A cadre of total nothings. Forgettable. They said things like:

— Oh my

and

— The weather…x.

also

— We mustn’t forget to…when we get there.

Yes, darling, I think to myself when I hear such things. You will never get where you are going. How sure you are to perish on the way. And I, presiding over it all. We mustn’t give them faces.

The bus snaked through the most beautiful green country anyone had ever seen. Sheep dotted the heather, congregating in groups, teaching one another the behavior of stones, only occasionally, idiotically running all at once for fifty paces or so and then stopping stock still once more.

Ahead came a wall, yes, a town wall, even this was given them. Through it the road went and the bus, and they were on cobblestones. The bus careened to a halt.

— Goodbye, Stan told the driver.

— I come through right at five, he said. Tug that sign down if you’re here. Then I’m sure to see you.

Away then, the bus.

There was a sign with a rope which when tugged a portion would drop down.

— Not yet, said Loring.

Stan took his hand off the rope.