For a while the cold and the smell of the seat keep him awake. The mundane interior takes on its own mystery in the half-light of the yard. But he has the quilts, at least, and some warmth accumulates beneath them. He sleeps for stretches, awaking and changing position, never quite comfortable, never quite warm. He dreams tangles of images from the last few days, boys diving through the air, a hand sliding along a wall, a voice in the hallway, a tangle of blankets in the corner of the bedroom. Then he wakens to the stillness and silence of the school bus.
Near dawn he sits and stretches, following his longest sleep of the night. The hard seat has given him a stiff neck and sore shoulder. He peers out the windows warily.
Light blazes across the yard, from the kitchens of each of the houses. The igniting of the lights must have wakened him. Mom stirs in the kitchen. She will be waiting for Nathan there, and Dad will still be sleeping.
So Nathan, rising and stretching, careful to remove the quilts from the bus, slips quietly across the yard and into his house again.
Mom allows him inside, looking once, deeply, into his eyes. She moves with the usual silence of morning, added to the other layers of her withdrawal. She is a blankness to her son. She has hardly slept herself. She is thawing orange juice into a plastic pitcher. He passes across her field of vision and creeps up the stairs.
His bedroom already seems a vacant, airy place. He chooses clean clothes. Washing his face at the sink, brushing his teeth, he feels a moment of normalcy. One more morning finds him getting ready for school. Except that his awareness is heightened. Dressing quickly, he listens for familiar footsteps on the stairs. He finds himself holding his breath, he hardly makes a sound.
So when he hears the customary sound of the bus motor warming in the yard, he welcomes the promise of escape.
He descends carefully, listening. Dad's snores wash the house in waves. Mom offers food and Nathan accepts a greasy slice of cheese toast on a folded paper towel. He carries this arid his books into the yard, hearing, as a last low undertone, Mom's whispered goodbye. Nathan crosses the yard and climbs into the school bus, and Roy, gripping the steering wheel, sitting with a slouch, closes the doors.
Nathan hesitates, uncertain whether to claim his usual seat or whether to seek some refuge further back; finally Roy says, "Sit down" and Nathan sits. This action seals them even closer in spite of their inability to make the slightest sound. They listen. The bus hides them.
Roy drives away earlier than usual, then coasts slowly down the dirt road toward Potter's Lake. Once free of sight of the houses, Nathan breathes easily. He eats the bread and melted, now rubbery, cheese. The sense of peace fills him, as much for Roy's presence as for the food. As long as they are silent, Roy and he will be fine.
Still, he is a little let down when Roy stops the bus and someone climbs aboard. But the noise and commotion are like steps descending into the day. He sits with his books in his lap, watching the back of Roy's head.
At the high school, Nathan hurries off the bus with the mass of kids, barely daring to nod goodbye. Roy concurrently makes a show of stacking his books.
For lunch, Nathan seeks out a new corner and keeps his back to the general congregation. He hardly dares wish that Roy would come, but, curiously, feels no surprise when he looks up and Roy is there. Roy ambles uncertainly with his tray before taking the facing seat. He glares at his plate like the first day. The wordless hinterland rises between them.
But he has come, whether they speak or not. The ritual of the cigarette also remains true to the past, the indolence of lounging on the patio beneath the swirls of smoke, Burke and Randy each handing Roy a free filter tip. They talk about swimming at the railroad trestle Friday afternoon, they relive the fantastic leaps of Burke and Roy. The memory of the day seems far away to Nathan. The wind over the cornfield, over the flat countryside, washing the patio, consumes him. The wind pours across the ground in rising waves. The flare of an acrid match in cupped palms sends smoke along Roy's cheeks. Cigarettes bravely burn.
After school, at the end of the ride home, Roy parks the orange bus in the yard, under the sycamore, and Nathan feels the heaviness of home.
They have been silent, the two boys, the whole afternoon ride. Safety can be found in spaces without words, where they are close together. Nathan is acute to some new change in Roy, some edge beyond his anger. The awareness has been building through the day and returns in force. Roy slides his books under his arms. He is delaying his departure. He affects to scan the floor with a critical eye. "I don’t think I need to sweep."
Nathan dares no answer.
"There's some paper. But I can pick that up."
