They were going to Florida－three boys and three girls－and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches and sea tides as the gray cold of New York vanished behind them.
As the bus rumbled south, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He chewed the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into a roadside restaurant, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.
“We’re going to Florida,” she said brightly. “I hear it’s beautiful.”
“It is,” he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
“Want some wine?” she said. He smiled and took a swig. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another restaurant, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he told his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.
“Are you married?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” she said.
“Well, when I was in the can I wrote to my wife,” he said. “I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn’t stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt too much, well, she could just forget me. I’d understand. Get a new guy, I said－she’s a wonderful wo
Going Home
by Pete Hamill
They were going to Florida－three boys and three girls－and when they boarded the bus, they were carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches and sea tides as the gray cold of New York vanished behind them.
As the bus rumbled south, they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front of them, dressed in a plain, ill-fitting suit, never moving, his dusty face masking his age. He chewed the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.
Deep into the night, outside Washington, the bus pulled into a roadside restaurant, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: perhaps he was a sea captain, a runaway from his wife, an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, one of the girls sat beside him and introduced herself.
“We’re going to Florida,” she said brightly. “I hear it’s beautiful.”
“It is,” he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.
“Want some wine?” she said. He smiled and took a swig. He thanked her and retreated again into his silence. After a while, she went back to the others, and Vingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning, they awoke outside another restaurant, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy, and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously as the young people chattered about sleeping on beaches. When they returned to the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully, he told his story. He had been in jail in New York for the past four years, and now he was going home.
“Are you married?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” she said.
“Well, when I was in the can I wrote to my wife,” he said. “I told her that I was going to be away a long time, and that if she couldn’t stand it, if the kids kept asking questions, if it hurt too much, well, she could just forget me. I’d understand. Get a new guy, I said－she’s a wonderful wo