Rear-View Mirrors by Paul Fleischman Page B

general.
    Reluctantly, I shuffled down the aisle. Back in Boston I’d thought about finding someone to use my bus ticket and name and letting my father, who wouldn’t know the difference, take in a stranger for the summer. Descending the steps, I quickly realized that I couldn’t be sure what he looked like either, since the few photographs we had of him were close to twenty years old.
    I stepped out into the warm evening air—and froze at the sight of a man approaching. He had a newspaper in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His eyes looked me over, then lit at the sight of the white-haired woman exiting behind me. They kissed and walked off. The bus pulled away, leaving me alone at what seemed to be North Hooton’s sole intersection.
    I glanced around. I was in front of a café. The other three corners were occupied by a gas station, a post office, and a church—but no father. I leaned up against the streetlight behind me. There was no one about, no drivers slowed and stared, but I felt conspicuous just the same. And a fool for coming, when I could have passed out leaflets at a rent control rally that afternoon at which my mother was speaking. And when I could have had a paying job helping with the research for her articles, instead of wasting my time in Hicksville.
    I stared up the street, looked at my watch, and wondered if the bus had been early. The mosquitoes were certainly there on time. I waved them away with my father’s letter and speculated on his tracking us down. Our phone was unlisted. He didn’t know our address. No problem for the writer of a string of crappy mysteries starring Virgil Stark, sonnet-writing private eye—books I’d proudly refused to read. He probably looked at a Berkeley catalog and found my mother still on the faculty—the same job that had sprung us free of him and New York City so long ago. I smiled to imagine him seeing her now listed as a full professor. And continued to smile at imagining his dilemma had her name not been there.
    Ten minutes and a dozen mosquito bites later I was ready to hitch back to Berkeley on the spot. Then I realized I could try calling him from the café, if his number wasn’t unlisted. And if the telephone had reached North Hooton. I picked up my suitcase—then set it down at the sight of a man coming down the steps.
    He had a limp and a cane and was gesturing toward me. He halted a moment and we stared at each other. He was taller than my mother, as was I. On his head was a ragged Red Sox cap. In the light of the street lamp I gazed at his filthy clothes and worn features and felt suddenly shaky. Guilt-stricken, I studied his difficult walk, amazed that I’d spent my life hating a cripple—then noticed my eyes were filling with tears, despite sixteen years of coaching to the contrary.
    He approached, slowly, and peered into my face. Neither of us seemed to know what to say. Finally, he cleared his throat.
    â€œIf you’re needing a lift somewhere, young lady—”
    My jaw dropped. My eyes widened.
    â€œNo need to take offense!” He retreated a step. “Only trying to be neighborly!”
    I gaped at the man. “You’re not Hannibal Tate?”
    His jaw dropped. He blinked. “No, ma’am.”
    I wiped away my wasted tears and hoped he hadn’t noticed them.
    â€œFloyd Peck. Live out on Hatfield Road, though. I drive right past Hal’s, if that’s where you’re headed.”
    I nodded and found myself relieved to have regained a father I could safely despise. I picked up my suitcase and walked to his car, grateful for rural hospitality, wondering why my father hadn’t picked up the trait. We set off and at once were surrounded by woods. I half-expected to see wolves in our headlights, to have our tires slashed by owls, our flesh fed to their young. I was soothed to hear my driver’s voice, asking where I’d traveled from. And amused