“Gets off at Oak Avenue.”
“You knew?”
“I thought somebody knew.”
Marla looked at him.
“You let a cat ride a school bus for four months?”
When phrased that way, Mr. Halverson looked less confident.
“The children like him.”
“That is not an explanation.”
“No.”
He admitted.
“It is not.”
One child called:
“He behaves better than Tyler.”
Tyler protested.
Mr. Halverson rubbed his forehead.
Marla stared at Winnie.
The cat looked completely relaxed.
“Where does he go?”
Mr. Halverson shrugged.
“Oak Avenue.”
“After that?”
“No idea.”
Marla looked toward the street.
Then at Winnie.
“I need to see.”
Mr. Halverson frowned.
“Ma’am, I cannot just add an adult passenger.”
“Then I’ll follow somehow.”
The bus route was moving.
Children needed school.
Mr. Halverson thought.
Finally:
“Sit behind me.”
“One stop.”
“You get off with the cat.”
Marla nodded.
“Thank you.”
She sat three rows back.
Winnie did not acknowledge her.
That offended her more than expected.
“You little traitor.”
She whispered.
At each stop, children climbed aboard.
Every child greeted him.
“Morning, Scout.”
“Hey, buddy.”
“Scout!”
One girl produced a tiny piece of bacon from a napkin.
Mr. Halverson said:
“No feeding the cat.”
She hid it.
Winnie stared at her pocket.
Marla watched in disbelief.
Her quiet grieving cat had become a local celebrity.
He knew children.
A bus driver.
A schedule.
A seat.
A route.
This entire social life had existed beyond her knowledge.
Seven minutes later, the bus slowed near Oak Avenue.
Winnie stood before the doors opened.
He stretched.
Walked forward.
Waited.
Marla stood.
Mr. Halverson opened the doors.
Winnie stepped down.
Marla followed.
“Thank you.”
She said.
Mr. Halverson nodded.
Then:
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“If you figure it out…”
“I’ll tell you.”
“Please.”
The bus left.
Winnie trotted down Oak Avenue.
Marla followed.
Three blocks.
Left turn.
Across a narrow residential street.
Then he stopped.
847 Oak Street.
A modest two-story house.
Fresh cream paint.
Blue shutters.
Small front porch.
Winnie walked to the door.
Scratched once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then sat.
Marla stopped at the sidewalk.
Her heart beat faster.
The door opened.
A man in his early forties appeared.
Brown hair.
Casual sweater.
Coffee mug.
The moment he saw Winnie, his face brightened.
“There you are.”
He crouched.
Winnie immediately rubbed against his knees.
The man scratched behind his ears.
“You’re late.”
“I was starting to worry.”
Marla stared.
The familiarity hurt.
Not logically.
Emotionally.
Winnie behaved with this stranger as if they shared a relationship.
The man stepped inside briefly.
Returned with a ceramic bowl.
Cat food.
Winnie ate.
Marla walked forward.
“Excuse me.”
The man looked up.
Surprised.
“Hi.”
“I’m sorry.”
Marla pointed toward Winnie.
“That cat is mine.”