Free The White Widow: A Novel by Jim Lehrer Page B

aisle, silently peering into the faces of the twenty-seven people who were sitting silently watching him do it.
    Jack’s eyes were on Ava. Hers finally found his.
    All in an exciting day’s work for a bus driver, he tried to say with his look. It’s responsible, difficult, respectable work for a man. Sometimes they turn up wetbacks but sometimes in the process they flush out bank robbers and murderers and rapists.
    Rapists?
    There was no criminal of any kind on board.
    “Somebody told me you were about to get the big gold badge,” Slick said.
    “You got it right.”
    “
You
got it right, you mean. I’m ready for something like that.”
    “When are you due to make corporal?”
    “In about a year if one of those damned Indianolas doesn’t get me first.”
    “Indianola” was what a lot of people along this part of the Gulf called hurricanes and most really bad storms. The name came from the town of Indianola, which was right on the water due south of Victoria and Port Lavaca and had been on its way to rivaling Galveston as a major port and railroad center in the late 1800s. But then it was wiped almost off the face of the earth by two killer hurricanes that hit in two Septembers eleven years apart. Hundreds of people were killed and the few big houses that survived were dismantled andmoved away to Cuero and other towns farther inland. Cuero, which also called itself the turkey capital of the world, was Progress Paul’s hometown. He grew up with the descendants of some of the Indianola survivors.
    “Well, I don’t have to tell you, we’re right into the Indianola season,” Jack said to Slick.
    “I know, I know, and I can hardly wait to start pulling people out of floating shacks and stranded pickups,” Slick said.
    They shook hands and in a few minutes Jack was back on his way to Corpus Christi. A good thing about Slick’s check was that Jack did not have to say more than a quick “Hi” and “Bye” to Adele.
    But he was late. Seven minutes by the time he got to Woodsboro.
    And the bus was hot inside. September was mostly as hot as August in South Texas. Jack saw sweat on Ava’s face. Sweat on her beautiful face. He so much wanted to help her.
    Here now, let me wipe that awfulness from you.
    Oh, please, Jack. That would be wonderful, Jack. Thank you oh so much, Jack.
    He was sure her sweat did not smell like everyone else’s did. He could not imagine anything about her that would smell bad. Nothing, literally nothing at all. Nothing at all.

    Your hand feels so good there, Ava said.
    It feels so good being there, my dear, Jack said.
    Johnny Ray was singing “Little White Cloud That Cried” in the background. They were in bed, the lights were out, their clothes were off.
    He kissed her gently on the mouth and then around her mouth and on her neck and chest and below.
    Oh, my God, Jack, your lips feel so good on me, Ava said.
    They feel so good being on you, dearest, Jack said.
    He took his time, lingering for full pleasure over each move, each caress, each kiss.
    And when it was over, when both had screamed their pleasure to the heavens, they fell back from each other.
    “What are they feeding you bus drivers out on the road these days?” Loretta said.
    “The same old roast beef, ranch fries and brown gravy,” Jack said.
    “I think maybe they’re spiking it with something,” Loretta said. “I have never seen anything like you. Are you ready now for dinner?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I’ll go get it on the table. I hope the meat loaf hasn’t burned.”
    “I’ll be right behind you.”
    She leaned over and kissed him on his naked stomach, turned on the lamp on the table by the side of the bed and got up.
    “You called out something besides me just now, Jack,” she said. “When you were coming.”
    “Like what?” he said.
    “I couldn’t make it out. Ada, Alma, Ava. Something like that. Something with an
A
, or maybe an
R.
”
    He did not look at her. He kept his eyes on the ceiling.