Late one night--or rather, early in the morning--at the lonely hour of three
o'clock, I sat in the waiting room of a bus depot. There were only three of us.
One other waiting passenger, a tired-looking little grandmother--or
great-grandmother--sat hunched on the other end of the bench from me. The
too-thin gray coat she wore opened below the buttons to disclose a much-washed
cotton dress. A long-used and dilapidated purse lay beside her on the seat. Her
head bent forward finally, and she slept from weariness.
A boy, who appeared to be of high school age, sat on a bench across the room
from us. Because of vicious crimes that had been committed in this city recently
by teen-age boys, I found myself glancing at him somewhat apprehensively. Yet,
he was cleanly dressed in neat brown slacks and a blue ski jacket. His hair was
trimmed conservatively, which was reassuring to some extent.
Then I noticed that he was watching the little grandmother quite intently. I
pretended to continue reading my magazine, but kept the boy under surveillance
out of the corners of my eyes.
He took out his billfold, and rather restlessly, it seemed, examined its
contents. His eyes shifted to the elderly lady's hands folded in her lap, to her
neglected purse beside her, and back again to her hands. Once more he turned to
his thin billfold, taking out what was clearly its entire contents, a one-dollar
bill and a five-dollar bill, a picture of a girl, and his ticket. He counted the
small change in his pocket, shook his head, rubbed his mouth, and glanced once
more at the sleeping grandmother.
When he stood up, my heart began to pound. By now my full attention centered
upon him, but, for some reason, he did not seem to be aware of my presence at
all. As he walked toward the sleeping woman, I prepared to spring into action
should his hand reach for her purse.
Did he dare, I wondered? He stood above the little woman, hesitating for an
instant, his right fist closed. Then, lowering his hand, he slowly opened his
fist, and a bill dropped into the cup formed by wrinkled hands on a worn gray
coat. It was not the one-dollar bill. It was the five.
By Grace Shults Davis, These Times, March 1968. With permission from Dale E.
Galusha Pacific Press Ministries
dalgal@pacificpress.com
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