Out there, I mean. With them.
I can’t say about that. We’ll have to ask them.
Yes, she said. All right.
She hung up and went into the bathroom and gathered the few things she’d purchased since she’d been in Denver, and put them in a little zippered bag and returned to the bedroom and silently sorted out from the closet the few clothes he’d bought her, and she had them folded over her arm ready to walk out of the room when he turned over and opened his eyes.
What are you doing? he said.
Nothing.
What are you doing with those clothes?
I want to do some laundry, she told him.
He looked at her for a moment. What time is it?
It’s early.
He stared at her. Then he closed his eyes and almost immediately drifted back to sleep. She returned to the front room. His wallet and keys were on the kitchen table inside his upturned cap, and she took money from his wallet and folded her meager belongings into a cardboard box together with her few toiletries, and tied a string around it, then left the apartment, wearing her new maternity pants but the same shirt she’d come in, with the same winter coat and red purse she’d had all along, and carrying the box by the string she went down the hall and stepped outside into the cold air. She walked fast to the bus stop and sat waiting there for more than an hour. Cars went by, people going to work or going early to church. A woman walking a white lapdog on a piece of ribbon. The air was chill and crisp, and westward above the city the foothills rose up stark and close, all red rocks now in the early morning sun, but the high dark snowy mountain ranges beyond were hidden from view. Finally the city bus came and she got on and sat looking at Sunday morning in Denver.
At the bus station she waited for three hours for one going east out across the high plains of Colorado and from there eastward toward Omaha and still farther to Des Moines and Chicago. When they finally called her bus, she carried her box of clothes and stood in line with the others, moving forward toward the black driver who stood at the door, checking tickets. When she reached the front she discovered that Dwayne had come looking for her, and she felt suddenly frightened of him. Standing in the station exit, looking around, he saw her and came over, hurrying in a kind of stiff-legged trot, looking uncombed and angry in the dark interior of the bus bay.
Where do you think you’re going? he said. He took her by the arm and pulled her out of line.
Dwayne, don’t. Let me go.
Where you running off to?
What’s this here? the driver said.
Was I talking to you? Dwayne said.
The driver looked at him, then turned to the girl. Do you have a ticket? he said.
Yes.
Can I see it?
She showed it to him. He looked at her closely, taking in the fact of her pregnancy, then inspected her face and looked once again at Dwayne. He took the cardboard box from her. It was labeled simply Victoria Roubideaux Holt Colorado. This belong to you? he said.
Yes, she said, it’s mine.
You go ahead and get on then. I’ll stow it underneath. That what you want?
Stay out of this, Dwayne said. This don’t pertain to you.
No sir. I’m going to tell you something. I believe this girl here wants to get on this bus. He moved between them. He was a medium-sized man with a gray shirt and tie. So that’s what she’s going to do.
Goddamn it, Vicky, Dwayne said. He grabbed at her and got hold of her red purse and jerked it. The strap broke.
Oh, don’t, she said. Let me have that.
Come and get it. He held it away from her.
Here now, the bus driver said. That don’t belong to you.