Short Story

Captain Francis

By

R.W. Ridley

 

     The long yellow skeletons lay scattered just beyond the Southern cornfields of Cuba, Illinois.  Acres of forgotten metal chariots exposed and decaying in the changing seasons.  A graveyard of abandoned school buses stripped of all their useful parts left to rust and rot away in the elements.  Rusty’s Salvage, their final resting-place. 

     Rusty Weaver, a man who was mostly uneducated and completely unwashed, was the proprietor of said salvage.  He was a greasy hermit and to see him walk the fenced-in grounds of his establishment was much like witnessing a troll guard its bridge. He picked each bus carcass clean until it was just a shell of its former glory, save one, bus number 27. 

     When it first arrived, 27 was towed to the back of the property where Weaver vowed to disassemble it piece by piece and make a fortune off its parts.  It had been kept in good condition and he was sure that it would bring him bags of cash.  The only thing missing was the name of the county to which it used to belong.  The remains of the original decals spelled out “RL COUNTY” on one side of the bus and “UNTY” on the other side. 

Days passed before he got around to looking it over, evaluating the dollar value.  His favorite thing to do.  Lifting the hood, he smiled at the relative good shape of the engine.  The thought struck him that bus number 27 might still run.  He reached in to check the spark plugs when he heard a loud guttural laugh.  He paused.  Had he imagined it?  Nobody visited his salvage yard.  The laugh came again.  Rusty stepped off the bumper of the bus and looked around.  “Who’s there?” he asked.

     No response.

     Rusty walked around the driver’s side of the bus and was surprised to see the stop sign extended.  He couldn’t remember if it had always been like that.  It must have been.  He heard the laugh again.  This time he could tell it was coming from inside.  He circled around and boarded the bus.  “Who’s in here?” he demanded.  No answer.  He slowly made his way down the aisle, looking behind each seat.  Nobody was on board.  Turning back, his heart nearly stopped as he saw a large man in a captain’s hat sitting behind the wheel of the bus.  Rusty could see the man’s eyes fixed on him in the rearview mirror.  “Miss Mabel’s not going anywhere until everybody is sitting down,” the man said.

     “What are you doing here?” a breathless Rusty managed to ask.  “Who are you?”  He stepped forward but his boot had come untied.  He looked down just for a second to examine it.  When he returned his gaze to the front of the bus, the man was gone.  The laughter came again.  Rusty had seen enough.  He bolted out of the bus as fast as he could move his fat frame. 

That was 1973, the last time anybody boarded bus number 27.  The story eventually got out of the salvage yard and made its way into local legend.  The haunted bus of Cuba, Illinois.  Rusty never let anybody near it.  Over the years kids would try to sneak onto his property and get a look for themselves, but he always managed to run them off. 

     Without family, Rusty died in 2001.  The state of Illinois came in possession of his salvage yard and bus number 27.  Of course the state had no interest in either.  The land would bring in some nice revenue, but beyond that everything was worthless.  Mickey Anderson, a short pudgy 38 year-old man from the state auditor’s office, was given the task of appraising the salvage yard and all its contents.

     Mickey, a good man who never married, rarely dated and loved his mother, had lived in Illinois all his life.  He was a Bradley man who cheered on his beloved Braves every basketball season in Carver Arena.  He never missed a home game though the drive from Springfield to Peoria often left him spent.

     He enjoyed his job, as much as one can enjoy working in the Illinois Auditor General’s office.  He was a numbers man who kept his nose clean and steered clear of office politics.  He enjoyed the duties that took him out of the office, like his trip to Rusty’s Salvage.  

He drove his state-issued car through the front gate of the salvage yard and was immediately struck by the enormity of his task.  There were literally tons of junk to catalog.  It would all go up for auction, but his bosses wanted to know if there was anything of value among the mangled steel and garbage.

On day three, Mickey finally made it to the back of the property.  More of the same except for one shiny bus that was intact.  Barely a scratch on it.  He looked it over.  There was something oddly familiar about it.  Twenty-seven.  He ran his fingers across the black numbers.  Why did it seem special to him?

He walked past the door and his heart raced as it opened.  He thought he heard his name.  “Mickey Anderson.”

The stout state auditor quickly turned and ran back to his car.  Rusty’s Salvage was a speck in his rearview mirror before he breathed again.  He was frightened and angry with himself for being frightened.  What had he run from?  A ghost?  He didn’t believe in ghosts.

He didn’t want to be alone in his motel room so he stopped at Gil’s, a seedy watering hole in Cuba, and ordered a beer.  The town was small enough to notice a stranger within its borders and people had been speculating on Mickey’s interest in Rusty’s Salvage for days, but nobody dared asked him.  Speculating and spreading rumors was much more fun.  He felt the eyes of the local barflies boring holes through him with each sip he took.  Gil, an unshaven sour-faced man, finally approached him.  “Visiting?”

“I’m sorry?” Mickey answered.

“You in town visiting?”

“Working.”

“What kind of work?”

“I work for the State Auditors Office.”

Gil thought about Mickey’s reply.  “What’s your business out at Rusty’s?”

“Well,” Mickey said somewhat surprised the bar owner knew he had been out at the salvage yard.  “It belongs to the State now.  I’m just looking it over.”

“You been out there a couple of days.”

Mickey smiled.  “There’s a lot to look over.”

Gil smiled back.  “Well, I, for one, will be glad to see that place cleaned up.  It’s a disgrace.”

Mickey looked around the dilapidated bar and couldn’t help but think that most people thought Gil’s was a disgrace.

“What you going to do with number 27?” Gil asked.

Mickey looked at him suspiciously.  “Number 27?”

“The haunted bus,” Gil said.  “Damn thing’s like a landmark around here.”

“Haunted?”

“Sure.  Story is it’s haunted by some dead bus driver.”

Mickey swallowed hard.  “Really?”

“Sure.  Rusty himself seen the old guy.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

Gil chuckled.  “That’s exactly what I used to think, but whatever was on that bus scared old Rusty out of a profit.  He didn’t touch that bus and Rusty never passed up the opportunity to make a dime.  Any other bus he would have stripped down in a day’s time, but not Miss Mabel.”

Mickey narrowed his eyes and mulled over Gil’s last words.  “What did you say?”

“I said Rusty never passed up a chance to make money.”

“No, after that,” Mickey said.  “You said something about Miss…”

“Miss Mabel,” Gil laughed.  “That’s what the ghost called the bus… well, that’s what Rusty said anyway.  Said some old guy in a captain’s hat told him Miss Mabel didn’t move until everybody was in their seats.”

Mickey stood up in a daze.  The name spun in his head like a top.  He knew that name.  Miss Mabel.  He put a five dollar bill on the counter and left without a word. 

It was dark by the time he made it back to the salvage yard.  He parked his car behind bus number 27 and stared at it.  Miss Mabel.  He slowly opened the door to his car and stepped out.   His legs shaky and his mouth dry, he inched his way closer to the bus.  It was her.  He reached the door and stepped inside.  “Miss Mabel,” he whispered. 

“Little Mickey Anderson,” a disembodied voice answered.

This time he was not frightened.  He took a seat behind the driver’s side and heard a voice cry out, “Aye, aye captain.”  The door closed and Mickey heard the engine turn over.  He looked outside the window and the darkness was gone.  Rusty’s Salvage was gone.  The bus was moving, through space, through time, through old back roads that transported him back to 1970, to the first time he boarded Miss Mabel.

1970

 

     He was a mountain of a man.  Six-foot four-inches tall.  Two-hundred and fifty pounds.  To the little ones who boarded his bus everyday, he was that friendly giant that fables are written about.   

     He was James Lewis Francis and he was a bus driver for the Pearl County school district.  To the patrons he served, students in grades K-12, he was known as Captain Francis and his vessel was a long yellow school bus he dubbed Miss Mabel.  He treated her like she was the grandest ship on the ocean.  She was so pristine she glistened in the Illinois sun.  Given the terrain she navigated every day, narrow rural roads rarely paved, keeping her clean was no small task.

     In his younger days, Jim Francis was a Navy man, though his rank never rose higher than Petty Officer First Class.  He served in World War II.  He never distinguished himself in battle or earned special honors.  However, he was considered a model sailor, hardworking, diligent and honorable.  He was proud of his military service and the military was proud to have him serve.

     In 1970, he was 66 years old.  His jowls were sagging and deep lines stretched across his aging face.  His thick, scarred hands signaled to the world that he had been a hard laborer before he retired behind the wheel of Miss Mabel.  He was a quarry worker for twenty-five years.  The first twenty-three in the pits.  The last two as a purchasing agent in the corporate office, a job he was forced to take after he broke his back in a fall on a job site.  He never adjusted to life behind a desk.  He was a laborer with a broken body, earning his money wading through bids and engineering specs didn’t make him feel useful.  It made him feel misplaced and there is no worse feeling. 

     Captain Francis the purchasing agent took early retirement from the rock quarry.  As in the Navy, he did not set himself apart from his coworkers.  He labored in the field and established himself as a good worker.  He was punctual, conscientious, and pleasant.  In twenty-five years of work he only took one sick day before his accident, when his daughter, Emilie, was born.  On the day of his retirement, his coworkers threw a party for him.  The women cried and the men milled around awkwardly avoiding any expression of emotion.  They were all sad to see him go, but they all envied him for not having to come into work on Monday.  He envied them for being young and healty. 

     Two weeks after his retirement, Captain Francis and his wife, Margaret, moved to Clarkton, Illinois to be near Emilie and her family.  Their daughter had grown up and become a school teacher at Pearl County Elementary School.  She had given her parents two granddaughters, Stacy and Franny.  Her husband, Mark, was a dentist.  Emilie did not want to marry a laborer after she saw the toll it had taken on her father.  She could not bear to watch a man work away his life with nothing but agony and exhaustion to show for it.  She met Mark in college and fell in love with his middle-class ambitions before she fell in love with him. 

     Captain Francis was suspicious of Mark in the beginning.  He himself had only been to the dentist twice in his life and both times the man in the white coat found creative and brutal ways to inflict pain on him.  He could not imagine any decent man choosing such a profession.  But a decent man Mark was.  He cared deeply for Emilie and the girls.  Over time, he won the respect and affection of his father-in-law.  It was a long process, but eventually they created a bond that resembled the friendship between two men of the same age and experience.  Despite their difference in class and education, they were peers. 

     For six months, Captain Francis enjoyed retirement in Clarkton.  He spent his days playing Continental and Rummy with Margaret.  In between deals, he would flirt with her as he had done when he courted her some forty years before.  Her eyes still sparkled blue and her smile still made his heart beat faster.  He would pat her hand every chance he could just to touch her.  He did not feel the wrinkles that were visible to everyone else.  He felt the girl’s hand he had first dared to hold when they were both teenagers.  She had been warned by her mother that holding hands would lead to kissing and a young lady should never kiss a boy unless she was quite certain the boy knew that a kiss was all he would get until after the wedding ceremony.  Captain Francis the teenager grabbed her hand in a bold move during a walk around the park and Margaret kissed him in an equally bold move during that same walk.  From that first kiss he knew he would ask her to marry him someday and she knew she would say yes.  The day he asked her was the same day the rest of the world celebrated freedom’s victory in Europe.

     On the beginning of the seventh month of retirement, Captain Francis announced to his family during dinner that he had taken a job as a bus driver for the Pearl County School District.  “Bus number 27,” he said proudly. “Rural route.”  First Emilie protested.  He should be relaxing.  Enjoying a life of leisure.  Driving a bus was beneath him.  Then Margaret protested.  He had promised to spend time with her.  Help her look after the grandkids while Emilie was at school. 

     “I’ll be back in the morning before you wake and I’ll only be gone a couple of hours in the afternoon.  You’ll hardly know I’m gone,” he promised. 

     “I think it’s a good idea,” Mark said.  “Stacy will be riding that bus in another four years and then Franny after that.  It will be nice to know their grandpop will be looking after them.”

     Captain Francis smiled at his son-in-law.  One voice of approval was all he needed.  The ladies would soon relent.  It was a good idea.  Never mind that Mark and Emilie had already agreed that Emilie would be taking the girls to school with her when it was time for them to start their education.  Mark changed his mind and convinced his wife that riding the bus was an important part of the school experience.  Friendships were forged there.  His best friend was a boy he had met on the bus.  Emilie had to admit she still kept in touch with a girl from elementary school she first met on the bus.

     So the following Monday James Lewis Francis pulled back the lever to the exterior stop sign, swung open the door to Miss Mabel, and picked up his first student, a tenth grader by the name of Arlis Davis.  He was a jock with major college potential; a jock with strict parents who would never allow him to drive himself to school even though he had had his license for a month; a jock who was mad at God for giving him such strict parents.  Arlis stomped up the three steps into the bus and looked at his new bus driver.  It was a long stare.  “Morning, Captain,” he said. 

     “Morning,” was the reply. 

     “What’s your name?”

     “Jim Francis.”

     Arlis moved to the back of the bus and took a seat.  He shouted, “Name’s Arlis Davis, Captain Francis.  Happy to be aboard.”  

     That was that.  James Lewis Francis became Captain Francis forever more. 

The next stop belonged to Micky Anderson, a chubby second-grader.  With some difficulty, he waddled up the steps and stood next to Captain Francis.  His rosy red cheeks puffed out as he stared at his bus driver.  Finally in a shy quiet voice he managed to say, “Hello.”

     Captain Francis chuckled and said “Hello, lad.”

     “My mom says I have to say thank you for driving us around and she says I should tell you my name is Mickey Anderson.”  He shifted his eyes down and looked at the floor.

     “Hello, Mickey Anderson.”

     “What’s your name?”

     “Jim Francis.”

     Arlis stood.  “It’s Captain Francis, Mickey,” he said moving to the front of the bus.

     “Captain?”  Mickey reached in his pocket and withdrew pieces of a chocolate chip cookie.  “Mom told me to offer you this cookie, but I wasn’t supposed to put it in my pocket.”  He looked at the tattered remains of the sweet snack.  “Most of it’s still good.”

     “That’s all right, Mickey,” Captain Francis said holding back the laughter.  “I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.”

     “Oh.”  Mickey turned to walk to a seat, but stopped and looked at Captain Francis.  “You think my mom would be mad if I ate your cookie?”

     “Well, now, I don’t know your mother, but she sounds like a reasonable woman.  I suspect she wouldn’t mind.”

     Mickey smiled and took a seat.  He immediately began to stuff the cookie in his mouth.

     “That’s against the rules, you know.”  Arlis said to Captain Francis.

     “What?”

     “Eating on the bus.”

     Captain Francis looked over his shoulder at Mickey devouring the cookie.  “We’ll let it slide today.  Besides that’s not really eating.”

     Arlis looked at Mickey and then back at Captain Francis.  “Sure looks like eating to me.”

     “That’s called enjoying life.  One should never prevent somebody else from enjoying life.”  He turned the bus down a narrow dirt road and headed for three farms that had a total of twelve kids waiting to board the bus. 

     Stop after stop, Arlis informed each boarding passenger of their new bus driver’s name.  Some chuckled.  Some nodded approvingly.  Some even saluted.  The younger children stared in awe.  A captain.

     Captain Francis did not like the moniker at first.  He felt Arlis was being disrespectful and enjoying a laugh at his expense.  But as the morning wore on, he grew accustomed to it.  Eventually he even seemed to rise to the stature of his anointed rank.

     By 7:30 that morning, Captain Francis had picked up all 31 children on his route – 19 boys, 12 girls.  They ranged from age six to 18.  There were brothers and sisters among the group, cousins of varying degrees, neighbors and one or two step associations.

     For the most part, they were a well-behaved bunch.  There was some minor horseplay, but it was quickly squelched by a forceful bark from Captain Francis.  The chatter was a bit loud, but it was bearable. 

     Captain Francis looked into his rearview mirror and examined his crew.  Most of them were from working class families.  His kind of people.  He smiled and pulled into the elementary school at 8:10 to unload half his cargo.  By 8:22, he was pulling out of the high school, his bus empty and his first morning shift behind him.  Captain Francis was officially a bus driver. 

     Margaret noticed a change in her husband the instant he came home that morning.  He was a loving man who didn’t burden others with his problems.  He never got things off his chest, as they say.  As a result his chest was heavy with decades of fear, anger and disappointment.  His disposition never showed it, but he was always shrouded under a thin veil of sadness.  This morning the sadness that usually enveloped him was gone, stripped away by a purpose.  A purpose he had never found as a laborer or a serviceman.

     “How was your morning, James?” Margaret asked.

     He looked at her.  He was bursting at the seams.  He wanted to jump up and down and shout Great!  I loved it!  The kids are marvelous and the little ones…  Saints be praised they’re cute as buttons.  But he didn’t.  He simply smiled and said, “Fine.”

     Margaret knew in her husband’s language “fine” had many different meanings.  She knew how pleased he really was.

     They played Continental after breakfast, but Captain Francis could not concentrate.  He checked his watch before and after each deal.  He was anxious to pick up the kids.  Time passed slowly.

     “You’re playing badly, dear,” Margaret said after her husband lost his fourth hand in a row.

     He shrugged his shoulders.

     She shuffled the cards. “You seem preoccupied.” 

     “Distracted by a pretty girl,” he said cutting the deck.

     “Pretty girl, my Irish fanny.  More like a bus load of kids.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “You can’t wait to get back on that bus.”

     Captain Francis smiled.  “What bus?”

     She laid down her cards, winning another hand.  “You’re such a bad liar.”

     Another hand was dealt and another hand was lost by Captain Francis.  An hour passed and then another.  The afternoon came.  Margaret tended to her flowers in front of the house while her husband washed bus number 27.  Finally, at 3:15 he turned the engine over and drove to the high school. 

     The kids piled on the bus, happy that school was out.  Arlis gave his captain a salute as he entered and Captain Francis returned it with a tap to his forehead.  He couldn’t bring himself to give a full salute. 

     The smaller kids were even more excited that school was out.  They were on the verge of being rowdy, but a quick glance from Captain Francis curtailed their enthusiasm and convinced them that their joy was best expressed with controlled chortles of laughter.  They did not know Captain Francis well enough yet to discern that he wasn’t really a mean man.  His face just sank into a natural frown and made him look that way.  In fact, Arlis seemed to be the only one on the bus who knew the Captain’s true nature.   

     Captain Francis navigated his yellow ship masterfully across the rugged back roads of Pearl County.  All the children were delivered safely to their homes.  Some mothers waited eagerly on their front porches for their little ones, afternoon snacks in hand.  Others could be seen through windows looking for the bus.  Little Mickey Anderson’s mother was even waiting at the stop.  Captain Francis opened the door and she introduced herself.  “Hey there,” she said.  “Name’s Beverly Anderson.”

     Captain Francis let Mickey pass and then he stood and stepped out of the bus.  “How do you do, Mrs. Anderson?  I’m Jim Francis.”

     Arlis hung out the window and yelled, “Captain Francis, Mrs. Anderson.  His name’s Captain Francis.”

     Mrs. Anderson looked at Arlis and then back at the new bus driver.  “Captain?”

     “The kids have taken to calling me Captain for some reason.”

     She shook his hand.  “Well, Captain Francis, I’m pleased to meet you.  Mickey said he was getting a new bus driver.  I just wanted to say hello.”

     “That’s very nice of you, ma’am.” 

     She turned to leave and then turned back to Arlis.  “Arlis Davis, why aren’t you at basketball practice?”

     His eyes widened.  “Quit.”

     “Quit?”  She said astonished.  “Your father know about that?”

     “Not yet.”

     She looked at him and then back at Captain Francis.  “Thank you for getting my Mickey home safe?”

     “That’s my job,” Captain Francis answered.  He stepped back onto the bus.

     Arlis was the only one left on board.  He moved to the front and sat behind Captain Francis.  “Mrs. Anderson’s a nice lady.”

     “Seems like it,” the Captain said.

     “I quit basketball today.”

     “I heard.”

     “My old man’s not going to be too happy.”

     “Well,” Captain Francis said, “fathers get that way.”

     “Yea,” Arlis answered.  “You got any kids?”

     “Daughter.”

     “She live here?”

     “Yep.  Teaches at the elementary school.”

     They pulled up in front of Arlis’s house.  His father was waiting in the front yard.  “Here comes trouble,” Arlis said as he stood.

     “That your dad?” Captain Francis asked.

      “That’s my dad madder than hell.”  Arlis stepped beside Captain Francis.  “Permission to go ashore, Captain.”

     Captain Francis looked him over and smiled.  “Permission granted.”

     Arlis frowned.  “I was kind of hoping you’d say no.”

He turned and winced as he saw his father fuming in the front yard.  He stepped out of the bus and then looked back at Captain Francis.  “Wish me luck.”

     Captain Francis watched as Arlis’ father stomped toward his son.  “Luck, sailor.”  He closed the door and put the bus in first gear.  In his side mirror he could see Arlis’s father swoop down on his son.  He grabbed him roughly by the arm and dragged the young man kicking to his car.  He was clearly yelling at his son.  Arlis broke free, but his father quickly ran him down.  Captain turned a corner and lost sight of the confrontation.  Part of him wanted to turn around and make sure the boy was okay, but he was brought up to mind his own business.  He was also brought up in a world where fathers hit their children to keep them in line, though he had never struck Emilie.  His own father pounded on him at least once a week until he joined the Navy.  Arlis would be fine.

     The next morning Arlis boarded the bus with a fat lip.  “Morning, Captain Francis.”

     “Arlis,” he stared at the boy’s injury.

     “Pop wasn’t too happy I quit basketball.”

     “I guess not.”

     “That’s why I won’t be on the bus this afternoon.”  He took a seat behind Captain Francis.  “I’m back on the team.”

     “I see.”  The Captain gently stepped on the gas and headed for his next stop.  “Don’t you like basketball?”

     “I like it fine.”

     “Not any good?”

     “I’m the best on the team.”

     “What’s the problem then?”

     “It’s hard to explain.”  Arlis looked out the window and watched the landscape race by.

     Captain Francis didn’t pry. 

     As promised, Arlis wasn’t on the afternoon ride home.  The route was a little bit quieter without him.  Captain Francis only had to admonish his crew to settle down one time.  Yesterday, with Arlis aboard, he had raised his voice a few times instructing them to sit down and behave.  Today, Mickey Anderson was his last stop.  He sat three rows behind the driver’s seat as they headed for his house.  “Mr. Captain,” Mickey said.

     “Yes, Mickey.”

     “What’s your bus’s name?”

     “My bus’s name?”

     “Yea,” Mickey responded.  “My dad said that captains name their ships.  He says they name them after ladies but I’ve never heard you call your bus nothing.”

     Captain Francis stopped in front of Mickey’s house.  The chubby little boy stood and moved to the front of the bus.  “I guess you’re right, Mickey.  My bus does need a name.”

     “You got any ideas?” Mickey asked.

     “Nope.  I’m fresh out.”

     Mickey pondered the problem.  “I had a cat once.  We named her Mabel, but she ran away.”

     “Mabel, huh?”  Captain Francis smiled.  “That’s not bad.  How ‘bout we call her Miss Mabel?”

     Mickey tilted his head to one side and thought about the name.  “I guess my cat won’t mind if we name a bus after her.  Okay.”  He hopped off the bus and ran to the house shouting, “Good-bye, Mr. Captain.  Good-bye, Miss Mabel.”

     Captain Francis closed the door to the bus and chuckled all the way home. 

     Months passed.  Captain Francis and Margaret started to become a staple in Pearl County.  Parents of Miss Mabel’s crew stopped the Captain in the grocery store thanking him for taking such good care of their children.  Arlis’s mother especially appreciated Captain Francis.  It seems in the past Arlis was not the same boy at home that he was on the bus and at school.  He usually spent his days moping around the house.  But since he and Captain Francis had struck up a friendship, he seemed to be much happier at home.  She couldn’t explain it, but there seemed to be more balance in the boy’s life and she could only attribute that to Captain Francis since her son talked about him so much. 

     Captain Francis was uncomfortable with all the adulation.  He wasn’t doing anything but driving a bus.  He enjoyed the kids, but he only spent a few hours a day with them.  He couldn’t see how he mattered very much in their lives.  But he did.

     After basketball season, Arlis started baseball, so he still didn’t ride Miss Mabel in the afternoon.  In the mornings, he and Captain Francis shared stories about adventures they enjoyed throughout their lives.  Captain Francis regaled Arlis with stories about the South Pacific during World War II and Arlis responded with stories about family vacations and lessons he was learning in school.  He never once mentioned his experiences in sports.  When Mickey joined them, he usually told them stories about a bug he squashed for his mother or a great fish he caught when he was only two or three, he couldn’t quite remember his age at the time.

     On Saturdays, Captain Francis would make it down to the ballpark and watch one of Arlis’ games.  The boy was a pitcher.  Rumor had it that he was so good, you could catch a pro scout or two in the stands.  He was a lefty who had been clocked at 93 miles per hour, and he had a curve ball that legend had it broke two feet at the plate.  The most remarkable thing of all was he hadn’t even turned 17 yet. 

He had a record of 12 wins and zero losses when he pitched to rival Cannon County. 

     Captain Francis was in attendance and so were Arlis’ parents.  His father paced along the left field fence the entire game.  Each inning he would yell at Arlis as he came off the field, “Don’t lose your focus, boy!  It’s all on you!” 

     By the fourth inning, the rumblings about a perfect game began to work their way through the stands.  Arlis had retired all twelve batters in order with an incredible ten strikeouts.  The other two outs came from a tipped foul to the catcher and a pop up to the shortstop.  You could cut the tension in the stands with a knife.  Arlis’s father shouted louder with each pitch.  His face was red and his hands balled into fists.  He crept closer to the dugout and positioned himself so he could talk to Arlis between innings.  He wasn’t giving the boy words of encouragement.  He was threatening him if he blew the perfect game.  In the ninth inning, Arlis recorded his 22^nd strikeout and there were just two outs to go.  At the plate was a kid he had already sent to the bench twice.  Arlis’s father shouted, “It’s all on you!”  Arlis looked at his father.  He twirled the ball in his left hand and then delivered a low inside pitch that the batter sent 380 yards over the fence. 

Foul ball.

The crowd collectively sighed.  Mr. Davis roared, “What are you doing?”  Captain Francis looked at him and shook his head.  He was torturing the boy.  Arlis twirled the ball in his left hand again and delivered the exact same pitch. 

Smack.  The ball took the same flight as the one before. 

Foul ball. 

This time Arlis looked at his father and smiled as he watched the man jump and growl and make a fool of himself.  He was beside himself with anger.  Captain Francis smiled, too.  Arlis was torturing his father.  The third pitch was like the other two. 

Smack. 

Home run.  The crowd moaned.  Everybody was crestfallen.  Everybody except Arlis.  Captain Francis detected a little smirk on the boy’s face as he kicked the dirt on the mound.  He had given the batter a home run pitch three times.  Mr. Davis kicked the fence and screamed.  He threw a fit that embarrassed Mrs. Davis.  She begged him to calm down, but he would have none of it.  He pushed past her and headed for the parking lot.  Arlis spotted Captain Francis in the stands and saluted.  This time the Captain returned a full salute.

On Monday, Arlis stepped on the bus with a bruised cheek.  The imprint of his father’s hand was still visible.  Arlis looked at Mr. Francis, ashamed of the mark.  This was one of the few mornings they did not speak. 

Summer arrived to the delight of every school-aged child in Pearl County.  Three months of freedom lay ahead of them and they all had grand plans to enjoy it as much as humanly possible.  Captain Francis’s crew boarded Miss Mabel that final day with presents in hand to thank their captain for his service.  Arlis gave him a captain’s hat which Captain Francis wore proudly.  On the ride back home from school, Mickey Anderson jumped off the bus and churned his short little legs as fast as he could toward his front door.  Arlis leaned out the window and yelled, “See ya, kiddo.”

Mickey stopped on his front porch and turned back toward the bus, “See ya, Arlis.  See ya, Captain Francis.”

“Don’t give your mother any trouble this summer, Mickey Anderson,” Captain Francis smiled.

Mickey suddenly looked very serious.  “No, sir, I sure won’t,” he replied.

The door to Miss Mabel closed and Mickey Anderson would be three months older before Captain Francis would see him again. The Captain and Arlis drove down the road.

     “Got any plans this summer?” Captain Francis asked Arlis.

     “My dad’s got me going to a bunch of camps, football, baseball, basketball, just about any sport with a camp I’m going to it.”

     “Sounds fun.”

     “Used to be,” Arlis said.

     “Don’t much care for sports do you, son?”

     Arlis thought about the question.  “I liked it a lot better when I wasn’t that good at them.  Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

     “Not really.  Your dad puts a lot of pressure on you to win, doesn’t he?”

     “Not just to win,” Arlis laughed.  “He don’t like me to mess up.  He wants me to play college ball and then make it in the pros.  He says I can’t do that if I don’t play perfect.”

     Captain Francis sighed.  “Do you want to play pro ball?”

     “I used to,” Arlis said.  “Don’t know what I want to do now.”

     They stopped in front of Arlis’ house.  “Well, you got plenty of time to figure that out,” Captain Francis said.  “In the meantime, just try to stay under your dad’s radar.  You know what I mean?”

     Arlis stood and moved to the front of the bus.  “I try,” he said, “but sometimes I just can’t help myself.”  He saluted his captain.  “Permission to go ashore?”

     Captain Francis tipped his new hat.  “Permission granted and I order you to have a good summer.”

     Arlis hesitated before stepping off the bus.  He turned and looked at the empty seats and then looked back at Captain Francis.  “She’s the finest ship in the fleet.”

     The Captain smiled.  “That she is.”

     Arlis stepped onto his front yard and turned to watch Miss Mabel drive away.

     The summer was far too leisurely for Captain Francis.  He wasted away the days doing busy work around the house, trying to stay clear of the hot Illinois days.  Every morning and every afternoon, he hopped in his truck to drive around Pearl County.  He missed Miss Mabel, and he missed his crew.  From time to time, he would see a few of the kids at the store or church, but for the most part he did not have contact with them until the fourth of July.  The entire community gathered in Clarkton for a parade and street fair.  Every once in a while, he would hear “Hi, Captain Francis,” in a child’s voice, but not from Mickey or Arlis.  Mickey was in Michigan at his grandparents’ home and Arlis was on his way to Oklahoma for the start of baseball camp.  Captain Francis was disappointed he did not get to see them. 

     A hard rain greeted Captain Francis as he boarded Miss Mabel on an early September morning.  She was as beautiful as the day he had left her in June.  The engine roared as he started her up and headed out on his route.  He stopped in front of Arlis’s and was shocked to see how much the boy had grown.  He was three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier.  “Good morning, Captain Francis,” a deep voice said.  He was pleased to see the Captain wearing his hat. 

     “Sailor,” Captain Francis answered.  The boy took a seat behind his driver.  “Are you sure you’re the same Arlis Davis that lived here last summer?”

     Arlis laughed.  “I grew a little bit. 

     “A little bit?”  Captain Francis smiled.  “You’ll be big as me in a week or so.”

     They pulled in front of Mickey’s house only to be approached by Mrs. Anderson.  With her coat over her head, she dashed through the rain to the bus.  “Mickey’s at Dougie Crenshaw’s house this morning, Mr. Francis.  He spent the night.”

     “Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Anderson.”  He drove off as she ran back to the house.

     The rain let up two stops before they reached the Crenshaw’s house.  When they arrived, the bus door opened and Dougie stepped aboard with a sheepish grin and quickly moved past Captain Francis to the back of the bus.  Slowly, Mickey stepped on board sobbing his eyes out.  He was covered in mud from head to toe.  Captain Francis reached out and gently pulled the boy towards him.  “What happened, Mickey Anderson?”

     Mickey looked at the floor as his wiped the tears from his fat cheeks.  “Dougie pushed me in the mud puddle.”

     Captain Francis turned to the back of the bus.  “Is that true, Dougie, did you push Mickey in the mud puddle?”

     Dougie hid behind the seat.  “Yes, sir,” he answered.  “but I didn’t know he’d get wet.”

     It was the worst lie ever spoken.  “Well, what did you think would happen?”

     Dougie had no answer.

     “We’ll deal with you later.”  He took off the windbreaker that had protected him from the rain and draped it over Mickey.  “Take a seat, little Mickey.  Everything’s going to be all right.” 

     Captain Francis drove Miss Mabel to the next road and turned her around.  To his crew’s astonishment, he drove back to Mickey’s house, even though it meant they would all get to school late.  He stopped in front of the Andersons’ house and walked Mickey to the front door.  Mrs. Anderson was shocked to see them and even more shocked to see the condition of her little boy.  “What happened?” she asked.

     “It seems Dougie pushed Mickey here into a mud puddle.”

     She hugged her boy.  “Why did he push you?”

     “He thought it would be funny?” Mickey answered.

     “Well, we’ll see how funny it is when his mother gets a hold of him,” Mrs. Anderson said escorting her son into the house.  She looked at Captain Francis. “Thank you for bringing him home, but I don’t know how I’m going to get him to school.”

     Captain Francis looked at her and then Mickey.  “We’ll wait.” 

     “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said.

     “Nonsense,” he insisted.  “Nobody should miss their first day of school.”  Captain Francis walked back to Miss Mabel and tended to his crew.

     That evening the Captain and Margaret treated themselves to a buffet style meal in the Clarkton Family Diner.  They filled their plates with Salisbury steak, fried okra, dinner rolls, mashed potatoes.  They had a taste of everything and stuffed themselves until they could barely move.  It was the best meal they had ever had for $2.50. 

     As they were leaving, Captain Francis spotted Arlis’s parents sitting at a table in the corner of the room.  He approached their table while Margaret went to the powder room.  He was anxious to discuss their son’s summer, but as he got closer he could see they were arguing, or rather Mr. Davis was scolding Mrs. Davis.  The Captain could see that her eye was swollen.  The feuding couple noticed him before he could turn away.  Mrs. Davis stood and greeted him warmly.  Mr. Davis sat, smiling slightly and nodded.  Captain Francis tried not to stare at Mrs. Davis’s eye, but he could not help himself.  She reached up and gently touched it.  “Slipped on a wet floor,” she said.  “Landed face first on the linoleum.”  She tried to make a joke of it.

     “You should be more careful.”  The warning was to Mrs. Davis, but the Captain looked at Mr. Davis when he said it.

     “What are you trying to say?” Mr. Davis asked, suddenly feeling the need to stand. 

     “Nothing,” Captain Francis said.  His face turned to steel.  “I just don’t like to see people get hurt.”

     “Maybe you should mind your own business, old man!”  Mr. Davis raised his voice loud enough for everybody in the restaurant to take notice.

     Captain Francis looked around at all the curious faces and then returned his stare back to Mr. Davis.  “I should and I will for now.”  He turned to leave.

     “What’s that supposed to mean?”  Mr. Davis was getting even louder.

     Captain Francis took a deep breath and turned back to Arlis’s father.  “A man becomes a husband and a father to provide and protect.  When your family has to be provided protection from you, you’re not a man.  Do your job, Mr. Davis.  Be a man.”  With that, the Captain walked away.   

     “How dare you!” Mr. Davis screamed.  His wife begged him to be quiet.  “He can’t talk to me like that,” he fumed.   

     Returning from the ladies room, Margaret greeted her husband at the door, unaware of what had just taken place.  “You have a nice visit?”

     “Very enlightening,” he smiled.        

     The next morning Captain Francis woke up at his usual time.  He dressed and made himself a pot of coffee.  The first swallow of the black elixir brought him to life, but the second sip burned going down.  His left arm began to tingle.  He only gave it a passing thought and then left the house to pick up his crew and deliver them to school.

     All was quiet at Arlis’s house.  The captain’s favorite crewmember boarded Miss Mabel with a broad smile.  “Morning, Captain.”

     “Arlis.”

     Arlis took a seat.  If he knew about the confrontation between the captain and his father, he never let on. 

     That afternoon the tingling had turned to numbness and he started to feel a flutter in his chest.  He took the wheel of Miss Mabel even though he felt nauseous.  He greeted the high school students as they boarded the bus.  Arlis made his way up the steps and immediately became concerned by his Captain’s pasty complexion.  “You okay, Captain Francis?”

     “Fine,” he said.  His breathing was uneven.  “Shouldn’t you be at football practice?” 

     “It’s Friday.  We got a home game tonight, but I don’t have to report to the field house until 6:00.  Mom and Dad are going to let me drive to the game.”  He smiled.  “The old man must be getting soft.”

     Captain Francis smiled back and drove off.  He picked up the small ones and set out to deliver them safe and sound to their homes.  Pulling onto Route 8 off the main highway Captain Francis blacked out for the briefest of seconds.  Startled, he shook his head and pulled over to the side of the road.  “Arlis,” he yelled.

     Arlis moved to the front of the bus.  “Something wrong, Captain?”

“Think you can drive Miss Mabel, Sailor?”
“Me?”
“I’m not feeling very well.”

Arlis thought about it.  “Yes, sir.”

Captain Francis stood up and let Arlis take the helm.

The Captain saw the confused faces staring at him and said “Don’t worry, your captain’s just a bit sea sick today.”  He sat down next to Mickey.

     “My mom gives me ginger ale when I’m feeling sick,” Mickey informed his captain.

     “That’s a mighty fine idea, Mickey Anderson.” 

     Arlis drove surprisingly well for his first time behind Miss Mabel.  As the road passed beneath him, his confidence grew.  For a moment he forgot that Captain Francis was sick.  Suddenly, a scream.  Arlis quickly gazed into the rearview mirror.  His captain was slumped over.  Mickey Anderson was screaming as he tried to push the large limp body off him. 

     “Help!” he shouted.

     Arlis stopped the bus.  He jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran to Captain Francis’s side.  Carrie Schumer, a lifeguard during the summer, was already kneeling down taking the fallen captain’s pulse.  She looked at Arlis and shook her head.  Arlis sprang into action.  He ran back to the driver’s seat and threw the bus into first gear.  Masterfully, he turned the bus around and headed back to the main highway.  He was driving 65 miles per hour on the old dirt roads.  The crew was bouncing violently in their seats as he went over bumps and potholes.  He reached the paved road and turned toward town.  He looked in his rearview mirror and saw that some of the older kids had moved Captain Francis to the aisle.  Carrie was administering CPR.  Arlis turned a hard right at the next stop sign without slowing down.  Ahead of him, third house on the left, was Captain Francis’s house.  He didn’t know why he had driven there, but it was closer than the hospital.  He screeched to a halt and opened the doors.  He instructed the first kid he saw to go in the house and call an ambulance.  Quickly he and some other students lifted Captain Francis and carried him off the bus.  They laid him gently on the ground and Carrie continued to provide CPR.  Mrs. Francis rushed out of the house.  At first she would not allow herself to believe what she was witnessing.  The children were huddled around her husband, their faces panic-stricken. Her eye caught Mickey Anderson standing just inside the door of the bus crying and suddenly she knew it was really happening. 

     She moved to her husband’s side and held his huge hand.  The same hand that had held hers in the park forty years before.  The hand that pounded rocks into gravel in the quarries.  The hand that clumsily fanned out cards during their countless games of Continental.  The hand she would hold for the very last time.  She could not speak.

 

Rusty’s

     The sun peeked over the horizon and the first sounds of morning invaded Miss Mabel’s steel hull.  Mickey awoke, disoriented yet rested.  He had slept through the night.  Or through several nights for all he knew.  He looked around the empty bus and felt at home.  He recalled the last time he saw her, parked in Gray’s Cemetery in Clarkton.  Mark, Captain Francis’s son-in-law, had arranged to use her to transport the coffin from the funeral home to the Captain’s graveside. 

They buried him in his hat.  It was a strange fact that Mickey remembered all these years later.  They buried him in his captain’s hat.  This man who went through life largely unnoticed, who never set himself apart as a sailor or a laborer, shined as a bus driver.  His crew loved him.  He made driving a bus seem noble and extraordinary.  He was a captain in every sense of the word.

Mickey missed Captain Francis dearly and it took him months to adjust to life without seeing him every school day.  Arlis never really recovered.  His mother had told him about the confrontation Captain Francis and his father had in the diner.  She told him that the captain had said a man becomes a husband and father to provide and protect.  They were words Arlis cherished.  Words he remembered every time his father smacked him around for striking out or missing a free throw. Words he remembered the day he struck his father back.  Words he remembered when his father left in the still of the night and never returned.

Arlis eventually married and despite his wife’s initial apprehension, they named their first child, a boy, Francis.  And much to Arlis’s mother’s delight, her son lived up to Captain Francis’ idea of a man. 

Mickey turned in his report to his supervisor shortly after returning to Springfield.  Besides the land, there was only one thing of any real value.  An old school bus that still had plenty of good miles left in her.  She should be put back into service.

Three months later Miss Mabel returned to Pearl County.  She was assigned a bus driver who served the school district part-time, a retired journeyman relief pitcher for the Brewers the kids called Captain Davis.

 

THE END

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