Faces of Exile

Chapter 1

Revelation in the Caseyville Bus

Eliot Bradley stirred restlessly, the drone of the bus accompanied his thoughts, the same thoughts he’d courted all the way from Washington, D.C. to wherever he was now. Across the aisle, two women chirped in a conversation begun seven hours earlier.

The chorus roaring in Eliot’s head was interrupted only by innumerable rest stops, food stops, relief stops in innumerable dirty cafes and smoky waiting rooms. Each time, re-boarding, Eliot promised himself he’d stop brooding. The promise was empty.

He’d been stupid. A hot spring evening… a party… soft skin with its own perfume… students… one student. At least he should have been discreet. His virtues lay in other directions. What virtues? Why had he agreed to teach at a women’s college, anyway? For a beginning, thirty-year-old instructor, it was a situation fraught with pitfalls.

The work itself was frustrating, trying to instill love of literature into often empty heads. Yet, it was also rewarding. He was sorry the job was gone. With the touch of scandal and no recommendation, the door to teaching had closed. The thought made him bilious, or was it the diesel-rich exhaust leaking into this forever bus?

Eliot chose the Greyhound for its turtle pace that promised time to wrap himself in his hair shirt of thoughts. His old Dodge would have broken down rather than take him away from D.C., the only place he could call home. The city offered comfort and the trappings of culture less than a hundred miles from the Virginia-planted college he’d left. Now he was farther west than he’d ever been.

Next stop Caseyville… ’bout half an hour, the driver shouted.

The bus sped south down the main highway through verdant summer countryside. As it approached a town, the view from the window changed to a checkerboard of white, frame houses set on green lawns. The vehicle lurched and coughed, raising a slight murmur of protest from the saddle-weary passengers. A sign, SYRACUSE CITY, swept past almost too rapidly to be read. After rounding a corner, the bus screeched to a halt, its nose haphazardly angled toward the curb.

The driver rose and, bounding out the door, shouted over his shoulder, This ain’t a scheduled stop. Please stay seated.

Another delay before the bus would roll across the Mississippi on its cross-country trek to Phoenix and Eliot’s new life. While the title, Feature Writer for The Desert Sun, sounded pretty good, he wasn’t sure the job suited his literary ambitions. Besides it had been begrudgingly offered by his sister to get him out of the jam.

Damn it, Eliot fumed, it’s hot in here. Maybe the driver’s one of those crackups who deserts his bus, walking off in the middle of nowhere, or takes his passengers on a wild ride to unknown destinations. Eliot liked the latter scenario; it saved him from determining his own fate. At the least, it would provide his first feature story.

For Eliot the most promising aspect of the new job was the freedom to do what he wanted when he wanted, without deans, presidents, or faculty wives monitoring his actions. Yet, he knew he’d miss being part of a college community.

The driver stuck his head back in. Folks, we’re having a bit of trouble. Nothin’ serious, but this place’s a little short on mechanics. There’s a guy comin’ in from Caseyville with another bus. Might as well get out and walk around. I’ll get your luggage off in case you want somethin’. Check back in a couple of hours.

Eliot unwound his lanky frame as he stepped off the bus. A blast of sultry air assaulted him. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and lit a cigarette while he waited for the driver to add his duffel bag to the row of luggage on the curb. He was traveling light, bringing only a few clothes and books.

Thirsty thoughts crept into Eliot’s head. It was martini time back home. He looked around. The words BERLIN CAFE, painted on the window of a red brick building, caught his eye, but a cafe probably wouldn’t answer the call.

The dusty, flat main street of Syracuse City stretched before him like the set of a Western movie. The quiet of the last laziness of summer hung in the air, while the old men, clustered in the shade of the stores’ overhanging roofs, waited wordlessly for the drama to begin.

ACTION! Eliot shouted to himself, and horses came swooping down on the town. Throngs of people scattered, screaming as shots rang all around. A beautiful young woman came out of the hardware store. Eliot wanted to rush forward to warn her, to force her out of the way before she was hit by stray bullets.

CUT! The damsel wasn’t the pretty daughter of a rancher but instead the fat wife of a local farmer, and she didn’t look as though she needed rescuing. She climbed into the family pickup and exited the scene.

For a moment Eliot’s eyes followed the vanishing swirls of exhaust. Then he stretched and decided to walk. He passed stores devoid of city notions. Through the dusty window of LUKE C. FERGUSON, GENERAL MERCHANDISE, Eliot saw boxes of crackers strewn carelessly among overalls and straw hats.

Eliot chuckled as he thought of the D.C. hub and the little bar and grill where he’d sat, sipping gin and writing poetry. Jonathan, the bartender, had a story to tell about any face that came in the door whether he knew its owner or not. Eliot wondered what Jonathan might say about Luke C. Ferguson.

Across the street the old Rivoli Theater was boarded-up. A poster, plastered across the ticket window of its paint-chipped box office, promised salvation. But it was too late. The tent revival had come and gone the summer before.

Gradually the businesses gave way to two-story Victorians painted in variegated colors and square, red brick homes with white trim and large front porches. Many of the residences housed both a family and its business including medical offices and Weinmeyer’s Funeral Parlor.

An imposingly large mansard-roofed Victorian, passed over by urban renewal, balanced awkwardly on a small corner lot. Closed and boarded windows on the first two floors added to its haunted air. Suddenly a dove burst through a broken windowpane in the tower above the third floor, causing Eliot to startle.

Eliot walked on through a residential section where the overhanging trees made the temperature a little cooler, the heat rising from the ground rather than hanging in the air like a steaming blanket. ROOM FOR RENT signs sprouted in the damp grass of several of the houses. Turning onto Timberlaine Lane, Eliot caught a glimpse through the trees of a white steeple. At the next corner he came upon the lower edge of a college campus. He walked rapidly across the sweep of green quad toward a chapel sitting magnificently on a small hill.

It seemed impossible to Eliot that an actual college could look exactly as a college should. He easily identified the classrooms, gymnasium, and library that were all neatly spaced and constructed of red brick in the same Federal style. The buildings were weathered, but somehow that was proper. Education wasn’t easy, Eliot reflected, and beautifully maintained buildings would speak of a half-completed task.

Eliot, who had encouraged his writing students to incorporate references to history and architectural styles in their descriptive passages, suddenly felt an overwhelming longing for another time and place and that dry martini.

Hello, there, a voice came from behind him. He turned around to see a smiling, young girl. I’ll bet you’re the new English Prof. Poor Hopkins… and just a week before school. Or are you a student?

Eliot was confused. Did he wear a sign?

I don’t know which I’d like better, she continued without giving him a chance to answer. If you’re the English teacher, I’ll be in your class since I’m a Lit major. On the other hand, if you’re a student, that’d be all right, too.

You flatter me, Eliot laughed, finally finding words, but I have a great disappointment for you. I’m only a stranger passing through town on a broken bus.

That’s too bad. Eliot watched her hair move rhythmically as she shook her head. Oh, God, he thought. Stranger on a broken bus… that’s poetic, she added approvingly.

It’ll be a couple of hours before they get a replacement, he explained, so I’m taking the Grand Tour. What’s this about the professor?

A stroke… he’s out for good. My father says it was too bad it wasn’t Dr. Shirley. He’s almost ready to retire anyway. I’m Meg Shippard. Dad’s on the Board of Trustees, and they’re scurrying in every direction to find someone to fill in.

Eliot Bradley, he introduced himself. Glad to meet you, even if only briefly. Too bad about… Hopkins, was it?

Eliot’s question was returned with a look of clear-eyed intensity that fueled his imagination with a humorous thought. His friend, Johnston, in the biology department at Hiriam Oglesby Women’s College would probably do anything for him, including writing a glowing recommendation without reference to the scandal.

Eliot’s thought passed quickly as she said, I’m sorry you have to leave, and then she turned to do the same.

He watched her walk away. For a few moments he experienced the pain of unnamed feelings. Then she tossed her hair back over her shoulder in a gesture that broke the connection, freeing him to turn and leave the campus. Arizona gave a loud coyote’s howl of protest at being nearly jilted as Eliot headed back toward the Berlin Cafe, the terms of his exile still intact.

It was already almost three o’clock, the luggage from the old bus standing guard on the sidewalk with no one in sight, when Eliot pushed open the door of the cafe and to his pleasure found the place empty of customers. The sound of Delta blues, sweet and inviting, came from the jukebox.

A waitress was standing on a chair cleaning the large coffee urn. She glanced down as he seated himself at the counter. She smiled. Be with you in a second.

Eliot watched the shape of her cheeks shift in her uniform as she stepped down from her perch.

As though reading his thoughts, she asked, So what would you like?

A dry martini, Eliot joked.

Not in this place, she laughed, got to go to Club 35 for that… and they’d probably say, ‘A WHAT?’

Eliot nodded agreement. Where’d everybody go… from the bus, I mean?

Deputy sheriff opened up the Grange Hall… I guess they got their fill here. Martini? You’re from the East, I’ll bet. Hold on a second. She disappeared into the kitchen.

Why is it named the Berlin Cafe? he called after her.

A bunch of German farmers settled here years ago, so Millie gets the idea to give it the only German name she knew, she called back.

To his surprise he found her speech refreshing, and he was pleased that he didn’t feel inclined to correct it, even in his mind.

I’d wager none of them ever traveled to Berlin, Eliot commented aloud.

She reappeared with a large Ball jar filled with ice and liquid. Straight up? she questioned.

Eliot was delighted. Yep, he drawled.

She took a small strainer, found an odd shaped glass and, setting it in front of Eliot, poured the contents through the strainer.

Taste it, she commanded. I put a little cut of lemon in it, so I guess we can call it lemonade. She winked.

Eliot took the first sip. It wouldn’t have tasted better at the hub, and on this hot, unforgiving day he received it with gratitude.

She poured the remainder in a coke glass and downed it. I’ve been across the river more than a few times and ’round the bend a couple.

Eliot laughed. This wayfarer’s fairy godmother couldn’t be more than twenty-five.

So you came in on the bus that doesn’t stop here?

I’m heading out West for Arizona.

You don’t look like the bus type.

What type do I look like?

I don’t know… a writer, maybe, or a teacher.

Eliot began to feel the drink. He really MUST be wearing a sign. What are you… some kind of Gypsy?

I was right, wasn’t I?

Well, I was a professor in search of the Holy Grail.

You teach religion? She sounded confused.

No, English… now I’m going to be a journalist. He laughed at his own expansiveness. My name’s Eliot.

Betty, she returned, wiping her hand on her apron and then extending it.

Eliot admired her eye make-up, not too much but enough to give her eyes depth and softness. He felt his own eyes cloud a little.

Anyway, I’m glad it wasn’t religion… there’s enough of those pre-seminary guys around here. They get part-time jobs at churches then put stickers on their cars saying ‘clergy.’ Can you imagine? Well, that’s a grain-fed college town for you… one closed movie theater, one edge of the dump roadhouse, the Berlin Cafe, and your broken-down bus.

Betty put a dime in the jukebox and thought to herself how good it felt talking to someone who had done something. The heavy sip of gin tingled inside her, and she glanced at the clock. She would be closing in another fifteen minutes. She turned back to Eliot who seemed lost in reverie. He was older but not that old. She bet he would like Handy Street, too.

The warmth of dissolving ounces brought hope of lasting balm to Eliot. The hurt of the past three months welled up, and the simple and engaging woman seemed for the moment warmer than any distant desert breeze.

Is there any place to stay in Syracuse City? The question was out before he could stop himself.

Betty stared at him quizzically and did not answer.

Eliot filled the silence. I think maybe I’ll make a call at the college tomorrow.

Finally Betty asked, What about the bus?

On cue the new bus pulled up beside the lame one. People poured from the Grange Hall, and the two drivers started loading the luggage.

Eliot bolted out the door, rescuing his duffel bag. He jumped up on the old bus, snatched his jacket and book, and was back in the Berlin in an instant. Betty was hurriedly shutting down the cafe for the afternoon.

You never answered my question, Eliot complained as he downed the rest of his martini.

I think I can find someplace, Betty replied with a smile.

Chapter 2