first brother, Warren Bill, and lost the second, William Earl, four months ago; he had been killed when his Mustang went off a Tennessee mountain road at eighty-five miles per hour. Alice Jean hadn’t cared too much by then. She and brother number two had been separated for almost a year before the accident. She did not tell Burk about either Warren Bill or the late William Earl.
Burk and Alice Jean had been inching toward intimacy since Gainesville, and by Lake City, just before I-75 encountered I-10, they had ceased swapping barracks stories and gotten down to the business at hand. As they passed Lake City Alice Jean was pretending to nap and had let her head fall on Burk’s shoulder, while Burk had put his arm around her and let his hand “accidentally” fall to her left breast.
By the suburbs of Tallahassee both were breathing shallowly, Burk’s hand was inside her blouse, and Alice Jean’s hand was on Burk’s lap under the jacket he had spread like a robe across both of them. She had just unzipped his pants when the driver announced the rest break.
Bremen had been prepared to spend the rest break in the tiny bus station rather than suffer the next stage of their slow and painful foreplay, but luckily Burk had whispered in Alice Jean’s ear and both had left the bus, Burk holding his jacket rather clumsily in front of himself. They had thoughts of trying their luck in a storeroom or … if all else failed … in the ladies’ rest room.
Bremen tried to doze with the other sleeping passengers aboard the bus, but Burk and Alice Jean’s contortions—it had been the ladies’ rest room—assaulted him even from a distance. Their lovemaking was as banal andshort-lived as their loyalty to their current and former mates.
By the time the bus was approaching Pensacola it was almost ten A.M . and everyone aboard was awake and the highway sounds had taken on a new timbre. Storm clouds lay heavy in the west, the direction they were headed, but a thick, low light from the east painted the fields on either side in rich hues and threw the shadow of their bus ahead of them. The neurobabble was much louder than the hiss of tires on asphalt.
Across the aisle and three rows ahead of Bremen were a couple from Missouri. As far as Bremen could sort out, their names were Donnie and Donna. He was very drunk; she was very pregnant. Both were in their early twenties, although from the glimpses Bremen got through the seats ahead—and occasionally from Donnie’s perception—Donna looked at least fifty. The two were not married, although Donna considered their four-year relationship a common-law marriage. Donnie didn’t think of it that way.
The couple had been on a seventeen-day Odyssey across the nation trying to find the best place to have the baby while having welfare pay for it. They had ricocheted east from St. Louis to Columbus, Ohio, on the advice of a Missouri friend, had found Columbus no more generous in its welfare policies than St. Louis, and then had started on an endless series of bus trips—charging it all to Donna’s sister’s husband’s borrowed credit card—going from Columbus to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to Washington, D.C.… where they were shocked at how poorly the nation’s capital treated its deserving citizens … and then from Washington to Huntsville because of something they had read in the
National Enquirer
about Huntsville being one of the ten friendliest cities in America.
Huntsville had been terrible. The hospitals would not even
admit
Donna unless it was an emergency or proof of their ability to pay was shown in advance. Donnie had started drinking in earnest in Huntsville and had dragged Donna out of the hospital while shaking his fist and hurling curses at doctors, administrators, nurses, and even at a cluster of patients staring from their wheelchairs.
The trip to Orlando had been bad, with the credit card approaching its max and Donna saying that she was definitely feeling
Burk and Alice Jean had been inching toward intimacy since Gainesville, and by Lake City, just before I-75 encountered I-10, they had ceased swapping barracks stories and gotten down to the business at hand. As they passed Lake City Alice Jean was pretending to nap and had let her head fall on Burk’s shoulder, while Burk had put his arm around her and let his hand “accidentally” fall to her left breast.
By the suburbs of Tallahassee both were breathing shallowly, Burk’s hand was inside her blouse, and Alice Jean’s hand was on Burk’s lap under the jacket he had spread like a robe across both of them. She had just unzipped his pants when the driver announced the rest break.
Bremen had been prepared to spend the rest break in the tiny bus station rather than suffer the next stage of their slow and painful foreplay, but luckily Burk had whispered in Alice Jean’s ear and both had left the bus, Burk holding his jacket rather clumsily in front of himself. They had thoughts of trying their luck in a storeroom or … if all else failed … in the ladies’ rest room.
Bremen tried to doze with the other sleeping passengers aboard the bus, but Burk and Alice Jean’s contortions—it had been the ladies’ rest room—assaulted him even from a distance. Their lovemaking was as banal andshort-lived as their loyalty to their current and former mates.
By the time the bus was approaching Pensacola it was almost ten A.M . and everyone aboard was awake and the highway sounds had taken on a new timbre. Storm clouds lay heavy in the west, the direction they were headed, but a thick, low light from the east painted the fields on either side in rich hues and threw the shadow of their bus ahead of them. The neurobabble was much louder than the hiss of tires on asphalt.
Across the aisle and three rows ahead of Bremen were a couple from Missouri. As far as Bremen could sort out, their names were Donnie and Donna. He was very drunk; she was very pregnant. Both were in their early twenties, although from the glimpses Bremen got through the seats ahead—and occasionally from Donnie’s perception—Donna looked at least fifty. The two were not married, although Donna considered their four-year relationship a common-law marriage. Donnie didn’t think of it that way.
The couple had been on a seventeen-day Odyssey across the nation trying to find the best place to have the baby while having welfare pay for it. They had ricocheted east from St. Louis to Columbus, Ohio, on the advice of a Missouri friend, had found Columbus no more generous in its welfare policies than St. Louis, and then had started on an endless series of bus trips—charging it all to Donna’s sister’s husband’s borrowed credit card—going from Columbus to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to Washington, D.C.… where they were shocked at how poorly the nation’s capital treated its deserving citizens … and then from Washington to Huntsville because of something they had read in the
National Enquirer
about Huntsville being one of the ten friendliest cities in America.
Huntsville had been terrible. The hospitals would not even
admit
Donna unless it was an emergency or proof of their ability to pay was shown in advance. Donnie had started drinking in earnest in Huntsville and had dragged Donna out of the hospital while shaking his fist and hurling curses at doctors, administrators, nurses, and even at a cluster of patients staring from their wheelchairs.
The trip to Orlando had been bad, with the credit card approaching its max and Donna saying that she was definitely feeling
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