Kristine Rolofson - The Husband School

Fair enough. Cleaning up other people’s messes wasn’t Shelly’s idea of a good time, either, though if she thought about it for more than a couple of minutes—and she had plenty of time to think, sitting here on a Greyhound heading south—she had to admit that she herself had been stuck with a doozy of a mess. She didn’t need to be cleaning up after anybody else.

“Next stop, Willing,” the driver called. A couple of passengers lifted their heads and muttered to themselves. The bus was almost empty. A couple of senior citizens heading home from the casino—they kept talking about good luck and recounting their money—a young mother with the quietest little kid Shelly had ever seen, three sleepy college kids who looked like they’d had a pretty fun weekend and one older man whose weathered face gave him away as a rancher, Shelly guessed. He was dressed all in denim and he’d tipped his hat when he’d passed her as he’d walked down the aisle to take a seat in the back. He seemed fatherly, too, giving her a compassionate look as he’d noticed her bump. Or maybe he just thought she looked too thin or too pale or too tired. Maybe her pregnancy didn’t show when she was sitting down.

Yeah, right. She’d picked up some big shirts at the Goodwill, shirts big enough to cover her unzipped jeans and the belt that held them up over her bump. Bump. That’s what they called it in the gossip magazines when Britney and Angelina were showing off their pregnant bodies. Well, here in the real world there wasn’t much to show off. This particular bump rested on her bladder, meaning every time the bus hit a real bump—which, thank God, wasn’t often—Shelly worried that she was going to wet her only pair of jeans.

She’d watched the sun come up after napping off and on through the night. She’d dozed off after an early-morning stop in some windy, gray town. She planned to brush her teeth and clean up a little at the next stop. With any luck the restaurant wouldn’t be too expensive and she could get something filling. She reached for her bag, hoping that when she counted her money again there would be more than she remembered from the last time she’d looked.

“Willing comin’ up,” the bus driver called several minutes later. “Remember, you’ve got about fifteen minutes, so eat fast. They’ll serve you quick if you tell ’em you’re from the bus.”

He shifted down, turned off the highway and onto a local road. It wasn’t much longer before he eased the bus into a busy parking lot and stopped beside a one-story building Shelly assumed was their destination. She gathered her belongings and was the first one ready to get off the bus. The other passengers were trying to wake up and the old guy was polite enough to let her go first. He’d even tipped his hat again, which made her blink in surprise.

The driver half stood, but he looked annoyed at the stragglers and then glanced pointedly at his watch. “You get right up to the counter and get yourself a hot meal,” he told Shelly. “But we’re back on the road in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks.” She turned toward the steps and rolled her eyes. God. She didn’t need any reminders.

“Watch your step,” he called. “Come on, folks, get a move on!”

She hadn’t known how hungry she was until she went through the glass door and inhaled the smells of coffee and bacon. Of course, she could do without the coffee smell, but she’d always loved bacon. It made her think of Christmas mornings. She made her way to the bathroom before hurrying to the long counter on the other side of the room, but there were no empty stools. The place was overly bright and had a battered, worn appearance. In a nice way, though. It was also noisy, conversation mixing with clattering dishes and country music coming from unseen speakers.

She sank into a small blue booth, plopped her two big tote bags next to her and grabbed the menu stuck behind the napkin dispenser. Pancakes were filling and usually cheap. Today’s special was an omelet that came with four pieces of bacon, three pancakes and hash browns. A meal like that would blow her food budget for the whole day.

A dark-haired waitress appeared at the booth, a pot of coffee in her hand. She set a white mug down on the table and smiled. “Hi. Coffee or tea?”

“Uh, no, thanks. Just water.”

“Milk?”

“I don’t—”

“Bus?”

“What?”

“Sorry. You’re from the bus, right?” At Shelly’s nod, she continued, “Then don’t order anything complicated or Kermit—the driver—will have a stroke. He keeps to a schedule, no matter what, like the world will end if he’s three minutes late.”

“Yeah, I noticed. What about pancakes? Do they take too long?”

The waitress had kind eyes and a sweet smile. “That depends how many orders are ahead of you. Scrambled eggs are a better bet. Or oatmeal. We’ve got that in the slow cooker, all made up. I can put some raisins in it. With some brown sugar sprinkled on top?”

Shelly shuddered. “I’ll risk the pancakes.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll put a rush on it. Would you like bacon or sausage with that?”

Of course she did. But a side order of either one, enough to get the taste of chocolate candy out of her mouth, would add too many dollars onto the check. “No, thanks.”

“I’ll be right back.” Shelly watched her stop at the next table and refill their coffee cups before she slipped behind the counter and stuck the order near the grill. Maybe she could get a job waiting tables until the baby was born. It didn’t look hard. Just like putting supper on the table at home, only with folks who said “please” and “thank you” and left tips. She pulled the worn map out of her bag and unfolded it to study the vast space that was Montana. Her money wasn’t going to last much longer.

The waitress returned with a glass of milk and a glass of water. “It’s on the house,” she said, her gaze sliding to Shelly’s abdomen. “For the baby.”

“Thanks.” She didn’t know what else to say, because she was cold and tired and smelled like the stale belly of a bus. The last thing she intended to do was cry all over a stranger.

“So where are you headed this morning?”

“South, I guess.”

“You guess?” The waitress looked over her shoulder toward three of her fellow bus passengers at the register buying drinks and cinnamon rolls from a guy with a white apron and chef’s hat. The bus driver had disappeared into the rest room and the older rancher-type guy was drinking coffee at the counter. “I’ll be back in a minute,” the woman promised.

Shelly wished she’d hurry with the pancakes, because she was starting to get queasy again. She moved the syrup container closer, tugged a couple of paper napkins out of the holder and lined up her silverware. According to the menu, she was in Willing. And Willing didn’t look like much, at least not what she could see from the parking lot when she’d walked in. But this restaurant seemed pretty busy for a cold morning. Folks were smiling, talking, acting like everyone knew one another. Weird.

“Here you go.” The waitress set a plate stacked with three pancakes and topped with a scoop of butter in front of her. There was bacon, too, crispy and fragrant.

“I didn’t order—”

“It was a mistake,” the woman said, as if Shelly was doing her a favor by eating it. “It would have been thrown out otherwise.”

“Thanks.” She picked up one piece and chewed, willed her stomach to settle down. Just the thought of getting back on the bus made her belly churn. “What’s it like here?”

“Here in the restaurant or here in town?”

“Well, both, I guess.”

“It’s home,” was the woman’s simple answer. She slid into the booth across from Shelly and folded her hands on the table. “I’m Meg.”