Congirl

There is a bus stop on the corner of 8th and Elm. Beside which a seldom-used bench sits, adorned with the faces of conventionally attractive real estate agents, smiling their slick sales smiles. It is on this bench that another self sat, young and naive as only an adolescent can really be, and it is on this bench that this girl grew up.

Her name was Mary. She said her name was Mary when she sat beside me on the first day of the second year of high school. Mary was her name, she said. Her straw yellow hair fell limply on her head, making her face seem too big for the rest of her. If her face was too big, then her eyes were too small, two Caribbean blue beads engulfed in the high cheekbones of a thin face. The large flat planes of her forehead and cheeks were so dotted with freckles they were filled, and when she looked straight at me, her lips were pulled down into a wretched, permanent-looking grimace. She asked me something more, but I did not understand her. Her horrible stutter dismembered the Y’s and T’s of “Are you taking the 8 o’ clock bus?”

Upon deciphering her meaning, I quickly replied that I was waiting for the 8:30. She pulled her lips back and bared her teeth in a way that I assumed was meant as a grin and said, “Well, then, looks like we will wait together.”

I knew not what to make of this peculiar girl, who could not have been more than my 16 years, but whose face already was wrinkled and weathered. She talked of nothing but her little brother Charlie, and the mischief he found. I deduced she must be crazy, an orphan of sorts, but I humored her while I sat.

She was not unpleasant to talk with, this crazy orphan who said her name was Mary. She seemed happy most of the time, and consolable the rest. She told me her story, a story of an orphan left in the streets by an addict of a mother. She and her brother scrounged, but it was difficult to find enough. Her poor brother suffered because of it. This story was terrible, truly heart-breaking to hear. And I pitied her. Her love for her brother was evident in her ugly, freckled face. My pity was so much that I reached into my pocket, in a gesture of goodwill, and gave her what was left of my weekly allowance. This was difficult to part with, for I was not terribly wealthy and my father’s unemployment had brought hard times upon our house, but I felt the cause was worthy. Mary attempted her grin again when she saw the money and I had no doubt that she felt gratitude.

Then the bus came. I stood, readying myself to board, and seeing that she had not, asked, “You coming?” Mary looked at her hand, full of money then she looked at me. That’s when I noticed the change in her expression. She was no longer pitiable. She was done. Finished with something she had set out to do, it seemed. She looked at my face, dead on, and replied, “No, I think I’ll find my brother Charlie.”
With this, the girl who said her name was Mary walked off. I watched her, ignoring the bus driver as he asked if I was getting on, clearly irritated. Mary walked to the end of the block, and a gray bus with two windows picked her up. She did not say a word to acknowledge the driver, nor did she make any indication that she didn’t want to get in. This weathered and wrinkled girl, pitiful with her freckled face and limp hair got into that van, finished with her day’s work.