Wart (14 page)

He moved along keeping his head down, and he thought things were going well. He had to go through the concession area, though, and there he froze for a second. His father stood at the counter, only a couple of feet away. Stewart heard him order popcorn, then the man behind him said, "Your boy in the game?"

"Not right now," his father answered. You're wrong, Dad, Stewart thought. I'm in the game all right. I'm in a really big game, and I have to play well. Finally, he had the nerve to ease his body along the concession wall. The exit was on the other side, and he leaned, ever so slightly, and looked around the corner. The coast was clear, so the little old lady jogger lifted her skirt up to her hairy knees, and she ran, her blue and white high tops moving with great speed.

The cool air hit his face, and he took in a big breath. He could see the taxi. Thanks, Rach, he thought. She had watched for him to leave the bench, had called a taxi on her cell, and it pulled up just as he burst out the gym door. "The bus station," Stewart said, trying to use his high voice. "I've got to make the bus to Tulsa. My daughter, no she's my granddaughter, is having a baby, twins, two babies."

The driver turned around in his seat to look at him. "Lady . . . ," he paused. Stewart's heart pounded hard in his ears. "Lady, are you sure you're okay? You sound kind of sick."

"Please, just hurry, sonny," Stewart squeaked. The driver shrugged, then turned back in his seat and eased the taxi into the street.

At the station Stewart handed the driver the fare, pulled up his skirt, and jumped out. When Stewart looked back, the driver was sitting there watching him and shaking his head. Because the woman had said bus travel was down, he was surprised to see the station fairly full. He stood for a while near the door, working up his nerve to approach the ticket box. He had hoped for a different person, but the woman behind the counter was as old as Gran.

He pulled down his hat and hobbled toward her. "One ticket for Tulsa." He made his voice high and kept his head down.

"Round trip?"

"No, one way."

"Staying awhile, are you?"

"Going home." He pushed a twenty-dollar bill toward her and wished she would just give him the ticket.

"Good thing you got here when you did. Bus going to be fairly full of people going on to Tulsa when it gets here, not too many tickets left. Things pick up around the holidays."

"Umm," Stewart grunted. He took the ticket and his change and turned away. There was a spot to sit near the door, and he moved toward it, remembering to bend his back and hobble along. On the bench, he looked up to see the ticket woman staring at him. Any minute she could figure out something was fishy and call the police. He had noticed a patrol car parked on the street when he got out of the taxi.

For just a minute he squirmed, but then he made a wonderful discovery right beside him. Someone had left a newspaper. He grabbed it up and unfolded it in front of his face. It took a second to realize he held it upside down, but he flipped it quickly.

Before long the lady announced the arrival of the bus, but she also said that before new passengers could board, the current passengers would be allowed to get off for ten minutes if they wanted to. Those people would have a chance to get back on first. Stewart watched as they came into the station. One young woman had two little kids with her and a baby in her arms. She struggled, trying to get inside. Stewart felt tempted to get up to help, but he was afraid of getting that close to anyone and of drawing attention to himself. Finally, a man from behind her stepped up to hold the door.

Stewart's watch was in his gym bag, along with the clothes he had worn to school. Under his dress, he still wore his basketball uniform. Looking over the newspaper, he could see that the big clock on the wall said 5:20. He waited what seemed like a long time, then looked back. The minute hand hadn't even moved. He wanted out of the bus station. Should he go outside to wait? No, it was pretty cold. His coat was in the bag, but of course it didn't look like an old lady's coat. Someone might see him shivering and take pity on an elderly lady. He couldn't risk getting anyone else involved. He tried to read an article about the animal shelter's campaign to find homes for dogs and cats.

After what seemed like forever, the woman announced that new passengers bound for Tulsa could now board the bus. Stewart got in line, grateful that the late-autumn light was growing dim. The driver stopped taking tickets and leaned around the two people in front of Stewart. Was he going to ask questions? Stewart held his breath. "Let me take your bag, ma'am," the man said to him.

"Thank you," Stewart said in his high voice, and then he was climbing the steps. The bus was fairly crowded, but Stewart was relieved to see a spot with two empty seats. He dropped into the one by the window, hoping no one would sit with him. Just before they took off, an elderly woman got on. Stewart knew she would sit beside him, and she did. Well, he said to himself, at least old ladies are nice, but then as she settled herself, he remembered he was one too. She'll want to socialize, he thought, and sure enough she did. "Do you knit?" she asked, and she dug into a small bag.

"Not anymore," Stewart muttered. "My machine is broken."

"Machine?" The woman pulled something that looked like a sweater out of the bag. "I said knit, dear."

"Knit! Oh, knit! How silly of me. I thought you said fit, you know, like fit dresses." Stewart looked around for another seat and tried to think of an excuse to move. It didn't matter. There were no more empty seats.

"I've got an extra sweater with me, if you want something to pass the time," the woman said.

"That's lovely," Stewart said in his high voice. "But the light is so dim, and my eyes aren't so good since my last hospital stay."

"Hospital, oh, my dear, you've been sick, too, have you? Well, I'll tell you about my hospital stay. It'll make you feel lucky."

She told him and told him and told him, all about her gall bladder, her indigestion, and her hernia. At least Stewart wasn't called on to say much except, "Really," and "You poor thing." Still, even with just those few words his old lady voice was making his throat really tired. "You'll have to excuse me," he said after a while. "I simply must nap." He turned his head to rest on the window, then shut his eyes. The sound of the tires on the highway suddenly seemed loud to him. This bus was taking him into a city, a place where he did not know his way around. In his wallet, he had around fifty dollars, all the money the three of them had been able to come up with. He had even taken ten dollars from Georgia's bank, replacing it with a note that promised repayment.

Once in Tulsa, he would make his way to the YWCA. It had been Rachel's idea, and she had checked on the price of rooms there. He'd have to stay in his old lady clothes, but it was the only place he could stay cheaply enough. He couldn't go to the men's Y as himself, and his dad might hold out for a couple of days. He'd get himself a supply of cheap food and stay in his room, waiting. He'd been smart enough to bring a couple of books he'd been wanting to read.

Stewart felt a touch on his arm. "We're coming to the station, dear. You might want to wake up."

It took him a second to find his high voice, so he moved his head and shoulders from side to side as if he were stiff before he said, "Oh yes, thank you."

"Nice visiting with you," said his seatmate before she stood up to get off, and he grunted. It was around seven, and the world Stewart saw as he stepped down from the bus was dark and unfamiliar, but what he heard was familiar, horrifyingly familiar.

"Stewart, oh, Stewart, over here." He whirled to his left, and there she was! Wanda Gibbs was just a few feet from him.

Run, he thought, but his feet didn't work. He felt drained and beaten. She moved to stand beside him, reached for his arm, and got a firm hold. "I'm so glad I found you, darling," she said. "I'll bet you're starved. There's a little restaurant next door," she said. "Let's get something to eat."

"How could . . . " He was going to say how could you get here so soon, but the question died in his throat. He knew how she could get there so fast. She's a witch, remember? Suddenly he felt drained. His entire body slumped. There was no fighting Wanda Gibbs. He might as well give up.

Stewart thought she must be able to see that he was beaten because she let go of his arm. She smiled at him. "Wouldn't you like to go inside and put on your own clothes first? I'll wait out here."

He stumbled through the station entrance and found the men's room. "You've got the wrong door, ma'am," said a big man who was coming out, but Stewart ignored him, went on in, took off the dress and the basketball uniform beneath it. As if in a dream, he moved to put on his jeans, shirt, and jacket from his gym bag. He threw the dress and hat into the trash can. His old lady days were over, so were his days as a happy kid. He was about to become the stepson of a witch. There was nothing, not one thing, he could do about it.

Outside, Ms. Gibbs waited for him. She waved when he came out the door. Stewart didn't feel upset, not really, just incredibly tired, like he'd been walked on all over. They did not speak, just moved through the night to the building next door and found a booth. Ms. Gibbs ordered them both hamburgers. "I was pretty sure you'd head to Tulsa," she said with no explanation as to how she had gotten there so fast. Your father is out searching the streets at home. We agreed to check with Martha every two hours. I'll call her after a bit."

After a reasonable amount of time, Stewart thought, and then he let his mind go blank. He hadn't said a word, and he had no intention of doing so. Ms. Gibbs didn't press him to talk until just before the food came, so when she said, "What is it, Stewart, that makes you so determined to keep your father from marrying me?"

He looked into those deep green eyes. Well, he was beaten anyway. He might as well lay his cards on the table. "I know you're a witch," he said more calmly than he'd imagined possible. "You're a witch, and I don't like what you are doing to Georgia or my father."

His head was down now, and he waited. Would she turn him into a frog right there, walk out, and tell his dad she hadn't seen him? It was the laugh that made him look up.

"Stewart," she said, still smiling, "if I can do anything unusual, it is because I use my mind, all of it. Most people only use about 10 percent of their mental ability, did you know that? For instance, I was able to sense right away that you had left the gymnasium." She laughed again. "A witch! Your imagination is as active as Ozgood's." She shook her head. "I'm not so sure I'm up to being a mother to you and him both, even though Georgia is responding well to my attentions."

He looked into her eyes again. "I won't be easy to live with, not when I get my strength back. I'm warning you. I'll . . . " He searched for a word. "I'll be Wart," he said. "That's what they called King Arthur, you know, when he was young. I'll be the worst Wart you've ever seen."

She laughed again. "You know," she said, "it would have been easier for you if your dad had married Martha long ago."

"I know," he said. "Boy am I sorry he didn't."

She took a cell phone from her purse. "Finish your burger. I'll call Martha and tell her I found you." She slid out of the booth and moved a few feet away.

In her car he fell asleep. After what seemed like a very short time, they were stopping in front of his house. His father's car was there, and so was Martha's. He thought Ms. Gibbs would get out and come in with him. She didn't, and she didn't even say good-bye.

Martha was in there waiting with his father. Her face was all red, and Stewart could see that she'd been crying. He was afraid of what his dad would say, but instead of saying anything, he only hugged Stewart. Then Martha hugged him too. Good old comfortable Martha. Her hug made Stewart remember what it had been like way back when he had a mother.

"Go on up and hit the sack," his dad said. "We'll talk in the morning."

Stewart was still exhausted, but sleep didn't come again right away. After quite a while he started to wonder if his father was asleep. He got up and looked in his dad's room. He wasn't there. He started down the stairs, but the sound of voices made him stop. Ms. Gibbs, he thought, she's come back. When he got closer, though, he could tell it wasn't Wanda Gibbs his father was talking to. It was Martha. Why would Martha be there so late? He considered sneaking down to listen, but suddenly he was too tired to even go down the stairs. He stumbled his way back to bed.

The smell of bacon and eggs and the sound of his dad singing "Jingle Bells" greeted Stewart as he came down to the kitchen in the morning. "I let you sleep late, called your school, and told them you'd be there late. I don't have a class this morning, and . . .," he hesitated, "you and I have got to talk." His father held a plate out to him.

"Can I eat first?" Stewart moved over to look into the skillet. "I sort of lose my appetite when I get yelled at." His father laughed. That's a good sign, Stewart thought. He loaded his plate and sat down.

"I'm not going to yell at you." His father came over to sit across from him. Stewart did not quit eating, but he looked up, very interested. "I'm not even going to try to explain anything to you because I can't explain anything to myself."

"What?" Stewart said around a mouthful of food. He swallowed and went on. "What can't you explain?"

Dad put both hands around his coffee cup and sort of rubbed it between them. "Something happened to me last night." He set the cup down and drew a deep breath. "I don't know. Right in the middle of worrying about you I started to wonder what I was doing dating Wanda Gibbs." He picked up the cup and started the rolling motion again.

"You mean because of my note, because I said I couldn't accept her?" Stewart said.

Dad shook his head slowly. "No, that's the strange part. It wasn't just you. It was . . . " He put down the cup and rubbed the sides of his head. "I can't explain it. I'm not a man who just changes how he feels, but suddenly I did not like the idea of marrying Wanda Gibbs. I didn't even like the idea of dating her. Sounds crazy, doesn't it?" He shook his head. "It's like I stepped out of a fog or something."