In Search of Mockingbird by Loretta Ellsworth

Author:Loretta Ellsworth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co. (BYR)
Published: 2011-04-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Cape Girardeau, Missouri March 14, 1986, 4:10 p.m.

Everything makes me think of Dad:

a man carrying his daughter on his shoulders,

the announcer’s voice blaring from a boom box

behind us.

Dad bought me my first bra,

a training bra that he picked out himself.

Dad deserves better than me.

Epp is eating a Hershey bar while leaning over his Rand McNally atlas, trying to find the small dot that represents Monroeville. Bits of chocolate flutter on the pages, and he flicks them off with the side of his hand.

“In twelve more hours, we’ll be in Montgomery, Alabama. That’s just a couple of hours north of Monroeville,” he announces.

It’s after four o’clock in the afternoon. My rear end is sore from eighteen-plus hours of sitting. The engine sounds have caused a permanent humming in my ears. I’ve had to go to the bathroom since Perryville, but Sedushia warned me never to use the bathroom on the bus. My legs are crossed, as if holding back a potential flood. I stand up. The small cubicle at the back of the bus has the IN USE sign in place and a woman waiting outside. I’ll have to hold it till we make it to Sikeston.

“If I’d had more money, I could have flown to Alabama. It’s a four-hour flight from Minnesota.”

Epp shakes his head. “You meet more interesting people on the bus.”

A woman wearing a heavy parka holds a covered basket on her lap. Two rows back from her a man talks to himself as he clutches a brown paper bag. I wonder what’s in that bag. The two Jesse James boys run up and down the aisle when the driver’s not yelling at them.

Then there’s the baby that’s been crying since Jackson, Missouri. The bald man in front of me leaned his seat back as far as it can go and is snoring loudly, with long stretches between each snort that make me wonder if he’s going to stop breathing. I’ve even bumped his seat when the pauses go beyond twenty seconds, which is the longest time I’ve counted so far.

Epp’s shirt has developed an odor, with bits of food thrown in to boot. The entire bus smells bad, but I can’t pinpoint any single smell, just a barrage of stinks hitting me at any given moment. I think it’s worse in the back by the bathroom.

Epp stares out the window, as if he’s memorizing every bit of landscape on his journey. “So you say Harper Lee is still alive. Why do you suppose she never wrote another book?”

“She may have written more books. She just never published another one.”

“Why not?”

I have several theories on this. Most of them are pretty far-fetched. “You said that not everyone writes for publication. I’m sure she has her reasons.”

Epp scrunches up his mouth and his walrus mustache creases. “You think Mockingbird was too hard to top?”

I pause a moment before answering. “No. Harper Lee is a writer, so that’s what she does. Maybe she’s just taking her time on her next book.

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