Dinner is Prompt-ly at Eight - 25. Chapter 25 - What'll I do...

What’ll I do…

“Is anyone sitting here?” the woman asked, leaning so close Thad her flowery perfume filled his sinuses.

“No,” he said, scooting over and picking up his Walkman off the cushion, the headphones and cord wrapped around the tape player.

“The bus is getting pretty full,” she said unnecessarily. There were only a few seats open that he could see. The cigarette smoke and noise of people settling in was overwhelming him. He’d hoped for a quiet, tranquil ride to Chattanooga, but apparently that was too much to ask.

“I tried sitting with the girl up there. I picked up a red journal on the space next to her, and she freaked out on me.”

She maneuvered her solid, bulky frame into the small space and plopped down sighing with relief. After wiggling a bit, she brushed back her long curly black locks and a whisper of talcum powder wafted off her. In spite of being rather sweaty and bedraggled, the woman smelled nice.

The man stroked his gray beard, combing it a bit with his fingers. Finally, he held out a hand, a bit wrinkled and skeletal, but still strong. “I’m Thad Kelly.”

“Dorcas Lightfoot,” she answered, giving his hand a delicate shake. “Where are you headed?”

Thad smiled and said, “Tennessee and you?”

She paused, as if gauging his worthiness for such information, and answered, “I’m getting off in Louisville. My sister lives there. She’s expecting me.”

“Ah,” Thad said. The woman appraised him warily, gauging his countenance and aspect.

“What drives you to the South?”

Thad blinked, surprised at both the wording and the audaciousness of the question. He turned and looked out the window, a yellow school bus lumbered past them. It was filled with kids screaming out the open windows. They were happy with a whole life ahead of them. Little did they know their generation would have a plague as well. Every generation does. A crop of them fall to a disease or war or some other malady.

Thad was surprised at how morose a school bus of kids had made him.

He felt a hand on his forearm, warm and gentle, and with it, the small of rose and talc, motherly and reassuring.

“I’m sorry I pried. I get a bit nosy sometimes.”

“No,” Thad said, realizing it didn’t really matter. “I’m going to a funeral.”

“Relative?” she asked softly.

“No,” he replied, giving her a wry grin, “A friend. A very close friend died.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, leaning closer. “Death is always difficult.”

Thad nodded.

He turned away and unwrapped the cord from around the cassette player. Fitting the foam-covered earpieces on and adjusting the headband, he hit the play button.

The tinkle of piano started, and then Judy Garland sang,

“What’ll I do…”

He felt a tear trickle down his cheek. Thad rubbed the purple lesion on his arm, hidden beneath his coat. It was just last summer he’d listened to this song with Ray and they made love into the wee hours of the morning.

Now, he was going to his funeral.