The Bus Driver Who Bought Her House

“Before you go,” he said, “there’s something I owe you.”

He looked at the letter. Then he looked at my children again. Then he took his phone out of his other pocket and dialed a number off the bottom of the page.

He held the phone to his ear. I could hear it ringing. Out on the lawn, none of my kids moved.

“This is Dale Rasmussen, out in Hollis,” Dale said. “About the house on Third and Elm.”

A man’s voice on the other end. I couldn’t make out the words.

“No,” Dale said. “It’s sold. It closed today.” A pause. “To the renter.” Another pause, longer. “Yes. The bus driver.”

The man’s voice got louder. I heard the word Wednesday. I heard the word promised.

Dale stood there in his doorway and took it. He didn’t argue. He didn’t hang up on him. He let the man say every bit of it.

“I know I did,” Dale said finally. “I told you something that wasn’t so. That’s on me, not her. I’m sorry for your time.”

He ended the call. He stood there a second. Then he took the Omaha man’s letter in both hands and tore it in half, and in half again, and put the pieces in his cardigan pocket.

“Wasn’t going to throw it in your leaves,” he said.

I laughed. I didn’t mean to. It came out of me before I could stop it, and Dale’s mouth twitched, and for a second we were just two people from Hollis standing on a porch.

Then he said, “I’m sorry, Lori. For what I said. About bus drivers.”

“I know you are,” I said.

“I drove a feed truck for thirty one years,” he said. “I don’t know what made me talk to you like I was something better.”

“Being scared, I’d guess,” I said.

He looked at me. He nodded once. “Being scared.”

Out on the lawn, Jess had started to cry. Morgan put an arm around her. Tyler didn’t move, but I saw him wipe his face with the back of his hand, quick, the way his grandpa used to.

Dale cleared his throat. “I’ve got two favors to ask,” he said. “You can say no.”

“Go ahead.”

“That empty lot next to your place. I still own it. I’m not selling it, nobody wants it anyway. You’ve been mowing it for years and never sent me a bill.”

“It’s right there,” I said. “It’d look terrible.”

“Would you keep on? I’ll take something off…” He stopped. “Well. I can’t take it off the rent anymore, can I.”

“I’ll keep mowing it, Dale,” I said. “No charge.”

He nodded. Then he stepped back into his house and said, “Come here a minute. Bring your boy.”

I waved Tyler up. We followed Dale through his kitchen, which smelled like coffee and an old dog, though there was no dog anymore, and out the back door to the garage.

In the corner, under a moving blanket, was my porch swing.

It was white, the paint going soft and chalky. The chains were coiled on the seat. They weren’t rusted through. They weren’t rusted at all.

“Arlene picked that out the summer we moved in,” Dale said. “Nineteen eighty one. She sat on it every evening when the weather let her. Shelling peas. Reading her paper. Watching for me to come home.” He put his hand flat on the arm of it. “I took it down because I couldn’t stand the idea of some fellow from Omaha hauling it to the dump.”