Suzan-Lori Parks - Getting Mother’s Body

“Oh, hell,” Bub Atchity goes.

“Me and June gonna buy two tickets from you tomorrow,” Uncle Teddy says.

“Round-trip tickets too,” June adds, turning her head to yell the news inside.

“Why don’t you buy em right now?” Atchity goes.

“We ain’t leaving until tomorrow morning,” Teddy says.

June leans forward a little on one crutch, getting a better look down the street. The bus will come from the west, from where the night is headed, all bunched up like a dark-blue quilt.

“That bus is late,” June says.

“We could go in and sit and wait,” I says.

“If we inside when it comes it might not stop,” June says.

I used to think that crutch under her arm hurt, but when she don’t wear sleeves you can see she got a patch of skin ringing her armpit, darker than the rest. She says the dark patch is why the crutch don’t hurt, even though she had the dark patch from since she was born and only lost her leg when she was my age. She says it was like something inside her knew she was gonna need that funny-looking skin.

“You leaving tomorrow you should buy yr ticket now,” Atchity says. “Save yrself the inconvenience waking me up at five in the morning.”

“You up anyhow,” Uncle Teddy says and the two of them laugh. Mr. Atchity, he got eight children and Mrs. Atchity is still nice-looking.

When the bus pulls up, the Driver, a gangly white man with red-rimmed eyes, gets out. He stands at attention like he’s in the army or something.

“Link-on!” the Driver barks. Where his shirt is open at the collar there’s a sunburn. I give Aunt June a hug, surprising us both.

“Don’t forget to eat,” she says.

The Driver opens up the underside of the bus, like the belly of a big cow. Uncle Teddy takes my grip and slides it neatly underneath. I hold on to my dress box and food, letting Teddy give the Driver my ticket and help me get on. When I get up the bus steps and turn to wave goodbye Uncle Teddy’s right behind me.

“Here go yr candy,” he says, handing me the Baby Ruth he got.

He’s standing on the steps and I’m standing at the Driver’s seat. The Driver slams the belly-door and comes to get on but can’t. Uncle Teddy’s in his way.

I hold on tight to the dress box and the candy and the chicken.

Uncle Teddy turns toward the Driver, looking down on him from his steps-perch. He holds his pointer finger in the air like he’s testing the wind direction or the Driver’s worth.

“I don’t want no Freedom Riders, now,” the Driver says, looking past Uncle Teddy to get a better look at me.

“My niece is going to meet her husband up in Texhoma,” Teddy says, establishing me.

The Driver’s face relaxes. “All aboard!” he yells from his place in the dirt.

“Tomorrow me and my wife June’ll be riding with you,” Teddy says.

“Tomorrow ain’t today,” the Driver says, “I got a schedule to keep.”

“You best sit towards the back,” Uncle Teddy whispers to me.

“Yes, sir,” I says.

He gives me a kiss on the forehead. Something he ain’t never done. The kiss is wet. Not practiced. He gets out the bus, walking down the steps backwards. The Driver moves in quick, taking his seat. Outside, Uncle and Aunt stand together. She leans against him a little.

“Take your seat,” the Driver says.

I walk back, past the empty seats up front, toward the back. Three other folks back there. All men. All sleeping.

There’s an empty seat on the side of the bus that looks out over to the other side of the Main Bully, over at Miz Montgomery’s side. I sit there, close to the window, looking across the double rows of seats, across the body of a sleeping man, his long legs unfolding out into the aisle, his head back and mouth open, but not snoring. Through his window I watch June and Teddy searching the windows for my face. The Driver cuts the engine on.

“This is a Mid-land-bound bus, now!” the Driver yells. No one wakes up. “Midland!” he yells again.

Uncle Teddy runs around the back of the bus, just reaching my side before we take off. He squints up his eyes, finding me through the window, and waves hard, hard enough for both him and June. I wave back at him, and as I look out across the aisle I see June, still looking for me on the other side, squinching up her eyes and leaning harder on her crutch, not seeing me but waving anyway.

We go.

East to Monahans then Odessa then Midland. In Midland the north-bound bus is waiting for us. It’s silver like a icebox, with the running dog painted on the side. I could try sitting in the front, where the view’s better, but Uncle Teddy’s right, that could cause trouble. Sitting in the back’s easier and I don’t mind. The driver says we gonna be in Texhoma by three. I got my dress in my lap, right where I can see it. The box is pretty and white with a red long-stemmed rose sculptured on the cover, such a nice-looking box someone might try to steal it. We head north. Stanton, Tarzan, Sparenberg, Patricia. Grandview, New Home, Lubbock, Slide. The bus fills with people. We cross the Brazos River. New Deal, Becton, Happy Union, Plainview. Mostly folks are quiet. There’s a man two seats ahead, listening to country music from a yellow plastic transistor radio. Yr cheating heart,

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