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Our
third
grandchild
,
a
beautiful
girl
named
Tessa
,
was
graduating
from
the
University
of
Florida
.
We
went
down
on
a
Greyhound
.
Sixty-four
,
I
was
then
,
a
mere
stripling
.
Jan
was
fifty-nine
,
and
as
beautiful
as
ever
.
To
me
,
at
least
.
We
were
sitting
in
the
seat
all
the
way
at
the
back
,
and
she
was
fussing
at
me
for
not
buying
her
a
new
camera
to
record
the
blessed
event
.
I
opened
my
mouth
to
tell
her
we
had
a
day
to
shop
in
after
we
got
down
there
,
and
she
could
have
a
new
camera
if
she
wanted
one
,
it
would
fit
the
budget
all
right
,
and
furthermore
I
thought
she
was
just
fussing
because
she
was
bored
with
the
ride
and
did
n't
like
the
book
she
'd
brought
.
A
Perry
Mason
,
it
was
.
That
's
when
everything
in
my
memory
goes
white
for
a
bit
,
like
film
that
's
been
left
out
in
the
sun
.
Do
you
remember
that
accident
?
I
suppose
a
few
folks
reading
this
might
,
but
mostly
not
.
Yet
it
made
front-page
headlines
from
coast
to
coast
when
it
happened
.
We
were
outside
Birmingham
in
a
driving
rain
,
Janice
complaining
about
her
old
camera
,
and
a
tire
blew
.
The
bus
waltzed
sideways
on
the
wet
pavement
and
was
hit
broadside
by
a
truck
hauling
fertilizer
.
The
truck
slammed
the
bus
into
a
bridge
abutment
at
better
than
sixty
miles
an
hour
,
crushed
it
against
the
concrete
,
and
broke
it
in
half
.
Two
shiny
,
rain-streaked
pieces
spun
in
two
opposite
directions
,
the
one
with
the
diesel
tank
in
it
exploding
and
sending
a
red-black
fireball
up
into
the
rainy-gray
sky
.
At
one
moment
Janice
was
complaining
about
her
old
Kodak
,
and
at
the
very
next
I
found
myself
lying
on
the
far
side
of
the
underpass
in
the
rain
and
staring
at
a
pair
of
blue
nylon
panties
that
had
spilled
out
of
someone
's
suitcase
.
WEDNESDAY
was
stitched
on
them
in
black
thread
.
There
were
burst-open
suitcases
everywhere
.
And
bodies
.
And
parts
of
bodies
.
There
were
seventy-three
people
on
that
bus
,
and
only
four
survived
the
crash
.
I
was
one
of
them
,
the
only
one
not
seriously
hurt
.
I
got
up
and
staggered
among
the
burst-open
suitcases
and
shattered
people
,
crying
out
my
wife
's
name
.
I
kicked
aside
an
alarm
clock
,
I
remember
that
,
and
I
remember
seeing
a
dead
boy
of
about
thirteen
lying
in
a
strew
of
glass
with
P.F.
Flyers
on
his
feet
and
half
his
face
gone
.
I
felt
the
rain
beating
on
my
own
face
,
then
I
went
through
the
underpass
and
it
was
gone
for
awhile
.
When
I
came
out
on
the
other
side
it
was
there
again
,
hammering
my
cheeks
and
forehead
.
Lying
by
the
shattered
cab
of
the
overturned
fertilizer
truck
,
I
saw
Jan.
.
I
recognized
her
by
her
red
dress
--
it
was
her
second-best
.
The
best
she
had
been
saving
for
the
actual
graduation
,
of
course
.
She
was
n't
quite
dead
.
I
have
often
thought
it
would
have
been
better
--
for
me
,
if
not
for
her
--
if
she
had
been
killed
instantly
.
It
might
have
made
it
possible
for
me
to
let
her
go
a
little
sooner
,
a
little
more
naturally
.
Or
perhaps
I
'm
only
kidding
myself
about
that
.
All
I
know
for
sure
is
that
I
have
never
let
her
go
,
not
really
.
She
was
trembling
all
over
.
One
of
her
shoes
had
come
off
and
I
could
see
her
foot
jittering
.
Her
eyes
were
open
but
blank
,
the
left
one
full
of
blood
,
and
as
I
fell
on
my
knees
next
to
her
in
the
smoky-smelling
rain
,
all
I
could
think
of
was
that
jitter
meant
she
was
being
electrocuted
;
she
was
being
electrocuted
and
I
had
to
hold
the
roll
before
it
was
too
late
.
"
Help
me
!
"
I
screamed
.
"
Help
me
,
someone
help
me
!
"
No
one
helped
,
no
one
even
came
.
The
rain
pounded
down
--
a
hard
,
soaking
rain
that
flattened
My
still-black
hair
against
my
skull
--
and
I
held
her
in
my
arms
and
no
one
came
.
Her
blank
eyes
looked
up
at
me
with
a
kind
of
dazed
intensity
,
and
blood
poured
from
the
back
of
her
crushed
head
in
a
freshet
.
Beside
one
trembling
,
mindlessly
spasming
hand
was
a
piece
of
chromed
steel
with
the
letters
GREY
on
it
.
Next
to
that
was
roughly
one
quarter
of
what
had
once
been
a
businessman
in
a
brown
Wool
suit
.
