by Mark Schrutt

I had told my wife to be ready to leave by eight o'clock that morning, but sure enough by quarter after she was still fussing around in her underwear.

"Come on Doris, we gotta get out of here!"

"Hold your horses, I'll be ready in five minutes."

I settled into my easy chair, the whole place quiet and abandoned. It had been a little over three years since we had last traveled to Harrisburg. My son was dating this girl, Cindy, back then, and the two of them made a show of it, picking us up from the bus station in his big used Ford, which was loaded with every accessory including a telephone. At 8:30 I heard my wife's shoes on the floor of Bobby's old room.

I opened my eyes to see the outline of her body, framed by the arch of the hallway. We had made sandwiches the night before, wrapped them in cellophane and stuck them in the refrigerator. I got up and walked into the kitchen. I took the sandwiches out, put them in a small cooler bag and filled up a plastic jug with water.

We were half an hour early for our bus at the Greyhound station. We left our bags on the platform, exchanged greetings with the driver as he punched our tickets, and walked down the narrow aisle to take seats near the back of the bus. As we departed the bus was about a quarter full, with at least two or three empty rows of seats surrounding us. At our first stop in West Dover, a sailor got on, a small white duffel bag swung around his shoulder, followed by a young woman carrying a boy a few years too big to be strung up in her arms.

A black man followed the woman and her young boy onto the bus. He wore black dungaree pants, black boots, and an off-white t-shirt, although only a small 'v' of it appeared from under his leather jacket. Sunglasses, whose lenses weren't much bigger than a pair of eyes, hung from the shirt collar. He headed past a few empty seats; past where the sailor was sitting; finally settling across the aisle from my wife and I.

The bus passed Stroudsberg and Pocono Maner, stopping briefly in Brodshead where my wife and I got out and stretched our legs by walking around the parking lot in small circles. Back on the bus, we unpacked our lunch. I filled a small dixie cup with water and put it on the seat between my legs and handed the jug to my wife. I spread a napkin across my lap and unwrapped the cellophane from around my sandwich. While I ate, I stared out through the window and allowed my eyes to blur my mind into half-believing the grass never ended, it just grew in different shades of green which were momentarily interrupted by patches of dirt.

I suddenly heard my wife ask if I wanted a cookie, but as I turned towards her I realized she wasn't asking me, but the black man sitting across from us.

The black man answered in a deep voice, which reminded me of how, as a kid, I thought the opera might sound if it was read instead of sung. "No, thank you," he said.

"It's okay, we brought extra," my wife said, the cookie sitting on top of her outstretched. He smiled, his teeth bright like the midnight-moon. He took the cookie from my wife and nodded in appreciation.

"Where are you heading?" my wife asked. The black man told us he was off to Williamsport, and asked us where we were going. I missed my queue to squeeze my wife's thigh or answer the question myself with an outright lie. "We're going to Harrisburg to see our son," my wife said.

I couldn't help imaging what I believed the black man was thinking about us. "Why would these two old white folks be heading off to see their son in Harrisburg. There's only two things in Harrisburg; coal and a state penitentiary."

Even though I joke with my wife that she was born looking for something to worry about, our son's incarceration often feels like an overdose of anxiety. From what she tells me, Bobby's matured and learned a lot in the last three years. He's earned credits towards a college degree, discovered spirituality, which means to me religion's got a hold of him which in his case ain't that bad, and he's cut his hair short, even though my wife say's it had more to do with it receding than anything else. His hair was long and dirty, the last time I saw him. His fingernails were packed with dirt, tattoos covered his arms and the clothes he wore seemed to come straight from Goodwill. He behaved like a Las Vegas gambler down to his last dollar. He was still buying drinks and playing on his line of credit, even though for all intensive purposes, he was broke. The last time I saw my son almost convinced me I had never known any happiness from being a parent.

"It will be good to see him," my wife said. She took a deep breath and looked out towards the passing farmland. "He's been in there three years now."

I watched my wife's reflection in the glass. Instead of squeezing her thigh so hard she'd have no other choice but to stop talking about our son, I rubbed her pant leg slowly and shifted my weight so I'd be an inch closer to her. My wife looked away from the window, turned towards me, and smiled as if to say what I had done, what we had done as parents, wasn't all wrong. She picked up another cookie from the bag which sat on her lap and offered it to the black man.

"Honestly, we have extra," she said.

"They're mighty good," he thanked her.

"I baked them myself. We're only allowed to bring so much, or at least that's what the letter they sent us said. 'No clothes, electronics, books or magazines, and only two pounds of food, which if home-made, mustn't be wrapped in any foil or anything'. But I brought pop tarts, candy bars, and brownies in case they feel like bending the rules when we're there."

"You keep the rest of the cookies for him," the black man said. "But by the taste of them, I can honestly say your son's got something to look forward to."

My wife's laugh trailed away quietly, as if she had already forgot what she had been laughing about. "Thank you," she finally said.

A few minutes later the bus stopped at the next station. The black man grabbed his bag, stood up, and faced my wife and I. "Thank you for your hospitality."

"Oh no," my wife said. "I've tasted my own cookies. I know they aren't worth a minute of the patience you showed us".

"It's hard to admit your son's in prison," I said slowly. I felt around for my wife's hand. Her fingers eased into mine and held on tight.

Mark Schrutt was born in Buffalo, New York, and has been living in Toronto since the late 1980s. His credits include admission to the Dorset Writing Group, seven published stories including COMMITTED TO ART, SWEET-N-LOW SWINDLER, TROPHIES, PARKING STORIES, and THE EXCHANGE STREET METER. He is very involved in the Toronto writing community and the Canadian Authors Association.