One of Us

Illustration © 2014 Sonya Reasor

"One of Us" - a reading (on YouTube)

Once a month, I saw them at the bus stop waiting for the 131 in the shade beneath the shelter. He was an adult. She was maybe seven. I’d formed the impression they were father and daughter though I had no way to be certain.

She looked like any normal little girl, wearing different clothing each time I saw her, sometimes pants, sometimes a skirt, almost always something flowery and bright. Nothing fancy. Wal-Mart off the rack.

He was always dressed all in black, head to toe, his hands and face completely covered. Like one of those women I’d see in news from one of the countries we’d invaded. Only his robes gave him more form and left the distinct impression that he was a man. I wondered if he had a sun allergy, or whether he was hiding from something else. I could only imagine how uncomfortable he must be in the full summer sun.

I only saw them in passing. Usually, I was across the street on the 133, looking out the window as we drove by. Today, I’d missed my connection, so I was trying to backtrack to the 107 by way of the 131. I was still confused by the transfer schedule. My company had just moved to a new building. The owners had taken away our parking and given us all transit cards instead.

I see them waiting as the bus lurches to a stop.

She bounces up the steps and runs two HARTline passes through the reader. The driver smiles as if he knows her. She scans the aisle for seats while she waits for the man behind her. She looks poor but not dirty. Her face is clean. Her fine, blond hair is combed back into a ponytail. She is cute in the way all children that age are but otherwise plain and unremarkable. She carries a sparkly pink Hello Kitty messenger bag half as big as she is.

He ascends the stairs behind her with a heavy heel. He wears snug, leather gloves, and heavy leather work boots with scuffed toes. His face is deeply cowled, his eyes invisible within the shadow. The edges of his gauzy robes are sun-faded, bordering on gray. Only a silver wallet chain breaks the fields of black. The kind bikers wear.

It’s rush hour. The bus is crowded. The only empty seats are the one next to mine and another across the aisle. I stand, offering them a pair together. I step across and sit beside a woman who doesn’t look up from her Kindle.

The little girl skips down the aisle, her ponytail swaying back and forth with each step. She smiles up at me as she slides toward the window. The man plods along behind her. He nods his thanks as he approaches, the only acknowledgement I expect from a stranger on the bus. I flash a smile in return before looking away.

I catch the scent of cologne as he settles across from me. Something masculine yet light and exotic with hint of sandalwood maybe. Nothing heavy or trendy. Not Axe or Drakkar Noir.

“Did your teacher give you any homework?” the man asks the little girl. His voice is soft yet deeper than I expect from such a wiry frame. It is comforting and resonant like I remember my father’s being when I was young.

The girl pulls out a multiplication worksheet with tropical fish encasing each problem. She spreads it on her messenger bag like an improvised lap desk.

A muffled trilling emanates from beneath the man’s robe. His gloved hand burrows within and emerges with a cell phone. Not a smart phone like mine, a pre-paid flip-top. He glances at the number and sighs before opening it then snaking it within his hood.

“I asked you not to call this number.” He keeps his voice low. I’m uncertain if it’s out of respect for the other riders or a desire for privacy. I can’t help but overhear. I stare at the seatback in front of me, pretending not to listen.

“It’s always important, Francis,” he whispers, sounding like my father when he was exasperated with me as a child. “What time is it in Rome?”

I can only hear his side of the conversation. The other is muffled by the robe. Though what little I can make out sounds lilting, fast and foreign.

“What would you do if one of them had done that to your sons or daughters?” he asks, his patience now tinged with something not quite anger but growing close. “…Well, maybe it’s time to change that...”

I glance sidelong across the aisle wondering what he might be talking about. He points to a problem on the girl’s worksheet. She counts out the answer on her fingers then writes the number with a yellow pencil in the bubble before the fish’s mouth.

He nods, then points to another fish whose answer bubble is empty. “The rules are right there in the book,” he says into the phone. “…I didn’t write it... There are a lot of translation errors... Use your best judgment…”

What I can hear reminds me of the questions I field from some of my team supervisors almost every day. The joys of management. Finished with the problems, the little girl begins coloring in the fish on the worksheet with crayons.

“We’re almost at our stop. I need to go... Quickly, please... We’ll see... I’ll look into her situation later tonight... You know I don’t have the power to do that anymore. Until Jess is old enough, they’ll just have to work out peace on their own.”

He turns his head to watch the girl coloring beside him, gently laying a gloved hand on her head, then stroking her hair. Intent on her task, she doesn’t notice. Her shading is precise and within the lines.

“Please don’t call this number again unless it’s an absolute emergency, Francis.” He says it patiently but firmly. I sense a hint of resignation in knowing his request will go unheeded. Francis sounds like a ten-percenter, the people whose problems take up ninety percent of my time at work. “I mean armies gathering on the hill at Armageddon...”

His phone trills once, and then stops abruptly. The girl continues coloring, bringing her fish to life. The colors she chooses are vibrant yet complementary. Even though she only has a small selection to work with, she blends them well. I wonder what her math teacher will think of this unexpected art.

“Francis, I’ve got to go… I have another call coming in… I really have to take this… Bless you, too, my son…”

He pulls the phone out of his cowl to tap the pound key then slips it back inside.

“Namaste, Tenzin Gyatso… Jess is doing well. We’re just sitting here working on her multiplication tables… If you ask, I know it must be important. Tell me what I can do to help.”

© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III