Going home

They were going from New York to Florida. Six of them, three boys and three girls, got on the bus in the city center, carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, talking excitedly. They were dreaming of golden beaches and blue sea as the grey, cold spring of New York.

As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice that Vingo never moved. He sat in front of the young people, his dusty face masking his age, dressed in a suit that did not fit him. His fingers were stained from cigarettes and he was chewing his lips all the time. He sat in complete silence.

Deep into the night, the bus pulled into a roadside café and everybody got off the bus except Vingo. The young people began discussing him, trying to imagine his life. Perhaps he was a sailor; he had run away from his wife. He could be an old soldier going home or a lonely, old bachelor. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.

"We're going to Florida," the girl remarked, interrupting the man's thoughts. "Are you going that far?"

'"I don't know," Vingo answered reluctantly.

"I've never been there," she said. "I hear it's beautiful."

'It is," he admitted quietly as if remembering something he had tried to forget.

"Do you live there?"

'"I was there in the navy."

"Do you want some wine?" she asked. He smiled and took a drink from the bottle. Then he thanked her and retreated again into his silence. In the morning the bus passengers awoke outside another café and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he should join her group.

He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously, as the young people enjoyed themselves, chattering about sleeping on beaches. When they went back to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again. She was determined to find out more about him. After a while, slowly and painfully, he began telling his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.

"Are you married?"

"I don't know"

"You don't know?" she asked, surprised by the unexpected answer.

"Well, when I was in jail I wrote to my wife. I told her that I could understand if she didn't want to stay married to me. I said I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn't stand it, if the children kept asking questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could just forget me. She could get a new man - and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to write to me or anything, and she didn't. Not for three and a half years."

"And you're going home now, not knowing what the situation is?"

"Yes," he said shyly. "Well, last week when I was sure I was going to be released from prison, I wrote to her again. I told her that if she had a new man I would understand. But if she didn't and if she wanted to take me back, she should let me know. We used to live in Brunswick, and there's a great big tree just as you come into the town. I told her if she would take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I would get off and come home. If she didn't want me, there would be no handkerchief and I would keep on going through the town.

"Well!" remarked the girl. "What a story!"

The girl told the others and soon they were all involved, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and children. When the bus was twenty miles from Brunswick, the young people took window seats on the right side, waiting for the appearance of the great tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face as if expecting another disappointment. Then it was ten miles, then five. Vingo was trembling. The noise of people faded and the bus became very quiet.

Then suddenly all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing little dances and shaking their fists in triumph. But Vingo ignored their behavior. He just sat there, looking at the tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs, dozens of them. The tree stood like a banner of welcome, blowing and billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the man rose slowly in his seat, collecting his belongings. He made his way to the front of the bus. He was really going home.