Salmonella Summer

We left from the bus depot in Trenton, New Jersey one morning and arrived in Bremerton, Washington a hundred hours later. It felt much longer. For entertainment, we had a window, a revolving band of fellow travelers, and each other.

“Did you tell her yet?”

He didn’t answer. We didn’t do much talking, but we should have. The first eight hundred miles went by quickly. We barely slept from the novelty of the adventure, secretly laughing at the odd looking passengers and the quirky greasy spoons we visited, but a few hours west of Chicago everything changed.

The bus became a local at the Iowa state line. People got on at one lonely corner and stood in the aisle as best they could with their grocery bags, tool chests, and chickens in cages for a few miles before getting off at another lonely corner. At first, I thought I’d caught a cold, but it was the feathers. Every five minutes, my husband crossed or uncrossed his legs brusquely and bumped against me to avoid the people swaying in the aisle. He sighed and clenched his fists like he was going to have a tantrum. Getting to Nebraska took a full twenty-four hours.

“I’m ditching,” I said as the bus pulled into a rest stop outside of Omaha. “Where’s the closest airport? I need a shower and a good night’s sleep.”

“Annie, we’re almost halfway there. If you leave we’ll miss seeing the middle of America together—the prairie, the Rocky Mountains, and the Salt Lake. It’s the chance of a lifetime. Please don’t go.” He took my hand and kissed it. I stayed.

I’d met him through mutual friends at a cold, rainy Memorial Day picnic. He was tall with red hair, a blond mustache and a laugh you couldn’t ignore. He was a great date always suggesting interesting things to do like an impromptu camping trip at Sunfish Pond, a rock festival in Philly or an archeological dig on the Delaware River, but he was often depressed for days. He was constantly on the search for the next great experience, new job, interesting course or brilliant friend that would bring him the contentment he craved. Jobs were gained and lost with the seasons and relationships with friends soured. It was as if he was sure a particular combination of components, when found, would deliver happiness, like a Wheel of Fortune game with lots of slots. I think I always knew my name would pop up eventually, but for a while it was a thrill living with him. Everyone has to come home from the circus sooner or later.

The steady hum of the bus made me drowsy in the afternoons as the AC strained and I’d have fitful dreams of drowning under an angry sea or baking in a small oven with the bakers telling jokes about me outside the door. My husband didn’t seem to need to sleep at all.