GOING HOME
They were going to Florida--three boys and three girls -and when they boarded
the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of
golden beaches and sea tides as the gray cold of New York vanished behind them
.As the bus rumbled southe, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of
them , dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face
masking his age. He chewed the inside of his lip alot, frozen into some person
al cocoon of silence. Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled
into a roadside restaurant, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted
in his seat , and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagi
ne his life:perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old sold
ier going home, When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside
him and introduced herself. We're going to Florida, she said brightly. I hear
it's beautiful. It is , he said quiretly, as if remembering something he had
tried to forget. Want some wine? she said. He smiled and took a swig. He thank
ed her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to
the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep. In the morning, they awoke outside ano
ther restaurant, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join
them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the
young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bu
s , the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he
told his story. He had been injail inNew York for the past four years, and now
he was going home. Well, when I was in the can I wrote to my wife, he said. I
told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she could't stan
t it, if the kids kept asking questios, if it hurt too much, well, she could
just forget me. I'd understand. Get a new guy, I said- she's a wonderful
woman, really something-and forget about me. I told her she didn't have to
write me. And she didn't / Not for three and a half years. And you're going h
ome now, not knowing? Yeah, he said shyly. Well, last week, when I was sure th
e parole was coming through, Iwrote her again. There's a big oak tree just as
you come into town. I told her that if she take me back, she should put a yell
ow handkerchief on the tree, and I'd get off and come home. If she didn't want
me, forget if -no handkerchief, and i'd goon through. Wow, the girl said. Wow.
She told the others, and soon all of them were in it caught up in the approach
of Vingo's hometown, looking at the pit\ctures he showed them of his wife and
children stil unformed in the cracked, much-handled snapshots. Now they were
20 miles from the town, and the young people took over window seats on teh ri
ght side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. The bus acquired a
dark, hushed mood, full of the silence of absence and lost years. Vingo stoppe
looking, tightening his face into the ex-con's mask, as if fortifying himself
against still another disappointment.Then it was ten miles, and then five. The
, suddenly, all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and
shouting and crying, doing small dances of exultation. All except Vingo.
Vingo sat there stunned, looking ath the oak tree, It was covered with yellow
handkerchiefs-20of them,30 of them, maybe hundreds, atree that stood like a
banner of welcome billowing in hundreds, a tree that stood like a banndr of
welcome billowing in the wind. As the young people shouted, the old con rose
from his seat and made his way to the front of the bus to go home.
驗收!!
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我就是我怎樣....
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