It Started On The Bus

I believe her name was Cathy. We were in second grade. Her father
was the local veterinarian and they lived about a half-mile down the
road from us. The school bus arrived at her stop first. She always sat
on the first bench in front, right behind the driver, and saved the
space next to her. At least I know it was still empty by the time the
bus got to my stop. I can't be absolutely sure about the seat saving,
though.

The first time this happened, I thought there was a mistake of some
kind. Why should there be an empty seat in the front, especially next
to this nicely dressed and very cute girl?

Then it occurred to me that maybe she actually wanted me to sit next to
her! She was, after all, grinning a little. It took a day or two, but I
finally bucked up my courage and sat down next to her one morning,
books on my lap, looking forward and glancing sideways at the same
time. She did not push me away or yell at me to leave. In fact, she
smiled with what looked like a sense of accomplishment. I guess she was
saving the seat after all, perhaps even for me!

I don't remember what we talked about, if anything. It couldn't have
been very sophisticated. As I said, we were in the second grade. Cathy
was in Miss Doll's class with me, and I recall that she was quite an
intelligent and cheerful girl.

Now, this thing on the bus might have happened a few times, or maybe it
happened every day for the whole year. I don't remember. It was over
forty years ago. I do recall that Cathy invited me to her birthday
party once. I went. I remember her answering the door all smiles. "Come
in!" she said. I don't remember the party itself, but I remember her
saying "Come in!" I was welcome there that day. I always remember when
I am welcomed someplace.

I also remember going to her house some time later and asking if Cathy
could come outside and play. I could see her through the screen door,
past her mom's shoulder, standing in the dark at the top of the little
stairway. Her mom wouldn't even open the screen door to talk to me. I
don't recall for sure whether her mom told me Cathy wasn't home or if
she told me Cathy couldn't come out and play for some other reason.
Either way, Cathy bolted when her mom started telling me this obvious
lie. She must have been embarrassed. I never went back.

Then one day Cathy wasn't on the bus. She wasn't in school either. I
asked our teacher where Cathy was.

"She's going to a different school now," Miss Doll told me.

"Will she be back?" I asked.

"No," Miss Doll told me, smiling sadly. "I'm afraid she will not be
coming back. She is going to a different school." She could see I was
disappointed and confused. She did her best not to hurt me. I always
liked Miss Doll, despite her funny name.

Mom told that Cathy's parents have more money than the rest of us in
the neighborhood and think they're better than us, so they put Cathy
into a private school. Mom had been the daughter of the town drunk
where she grew up, so I guess she had a lot of experience with this
kind of thing.

It sounded extreme to me. Even in that neighborhood, being a
veterinarian (for pets, mind you, not even for farm animals!) was no
big deal. Still, that's the explanation I got. Cathy and her parents
eventually moved away, no doubt to a better neighborhood.

I never saw Cathy again. Her father's old pet hospital, however, is
still in the same place to this day. I drove past it not long ago on my
way back from Mom's funeral.

Cathy was the first girl to take an interest in me and make an effort
to attract my attention. Then she was taken away. I guess I wasn't good
enough. At least that's how I saw it at the time. I was only in second
grade. I remember trying to figure out what was so wrong with me that
her parents would take such extreme action. Nothing ever happened. We
just sat on the bus.

Eventually I just swept the memory under the carpet where things like
that usually wind up. Lumpy carpets are easily explained, aren't they?
I would like to be able to say that with the benefit of experience, I
can now see that Cathy's parents did not take her out of school and
leave the neighborhood because of me. Rather, they just did what they
thought was best for Cathy and gave no thought at all to me.

That's what I would like to be able to do, but if I could do that, I
wouldn't be crying so hard that I can't see the paper through the tears
as I write this little story forty years after the last time I saw
Cathy, the girl on the bus.