Journey for Seven

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The frame of the big blue and silver bus was faintly out of line, just enough so that it seemed to sidle along with a whipped and discouraged air. The sign on the front indicated that it was on the ten-mile run from Bell City to the suburb of Stockland, a long tiring run through a jungle of stop lights, a tangle of neon, through the rich strong scent of the industries along the river.

Stan Weaver, the burly and florid driver, his hat shoved back so that a strand of blonde silky hair fell across his forehead, chomped hard on his thick cud of gum and fought the wheel. The bus had a tendency to wander. His lunch, eaten too quickly, was a knot in his stomach, and the afternoon sun made the asphalt ahead quiver in the heat waves.

Not enough sleep. Up too late last night with the little one, fretting on account of his new teeth. Always had to get up with ’em. Madge, blast her eyes, never got out of the sack. Having them was enough, she said. Overslept and got down late and they’d given him this unruly beast of a misbegotten bus, loaded with rattles. Dirty plugs too. Kept stalling at the lights.

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