Джон Гришэм - A Painted House

My mouth fell open, and I looked at him in complete amazement. “St. Louis?” I said.

He grinned but said nothing.

“Bus leaves at noon,” the clerk said.

My father paid for the tickets, and we took our seats next to my mother. “Mom, we’re goin’ to St. Louis!” I said.

“It’s just a stop, Luke,” my father said. “From there we catch a bus to Chicago, then to Flint.”

“You think we’ll see Stan Musial?”

“I doubt it.”

“Can we see Sportsman’s Park?”

“Not this trip. Maybe the next one.”

After a few minutes I was released to roam around the station and inspect things. There was a small café where two army boys were drinking coffee. I thought of Ricky and realized I would not be there when he came home. I saw a family of Negroes, a rare sight in our part of Arkansas. They were clutching their bags and looked as lost as we did. I saw two more farm families, more refugees from the flood.

When I rejoined my parents they were holding hands and were deep in conversation. We waited forever, it seemed, then finally they called for us to board. The duffel bags were packed in the cargo section under the bus, and we, too, climbed on.

My mother and I sat together, with my father right behind us. I got the window seat, and I stared through it, missing nothing as we maneuvered through Jonesboro and then got on the highway, speeding along, going North, still surrounded by nothing but wet cotton fields.

When I could pull my eyes away from the window, I looked at my mother. Her head was resting on the back of her seat. Her eyes were closed, and a grin was slowly forming at the corners of her mouth.