George A. Thomas
First Prize Winner George A. Thomas, formerly of Rochester, NY, now a resident of Sarasota, Florida, recently retired from the Xerox Corporation. During his 31 years there he worked in various positions, the last in marketing. He took the Famous Writers School course. This is his first published work.
He's a member of Toastmasters International, Mensa, American Society for Training and Development, and the U.S. Telephone Association. His many degrees are in electrical engineering, math, management science, nuclear engineering and computer science.
Hobbies include tennis, reading, gourmet cooking, oenology, piano, alto sax, gardening, theatre and travel.
(All this in one lifetime? I'm impressed. Editor)
THE WOMAN ON THE BUS
by
George Thomas (copyright 1997 All Rights Reserved)
He wasn't sure of the precise moment when he decided to
kill her. The decision had been building up for a period of time
until he decided very quietly one day, without even being
conscious of it.
He was sure he had edged toward deciding the afternoon on
the bus when he tapped her on the shoulder to ask for change for
a dollar. He felt stupid not having exact change for the fare
and only realizing it after he'd gotten on the bus and settled
down to reading the paper. He resented asking favors of anyone,
especially a stranger. Her cold stare which pierced right
through him and the wordless, curt shake of her head had nearly
snuffed out his courage to ask other passengers for change. How
he had hated her that day.
He first noticed her on the bus the previous winter. Her
appearance was striking: short mannish black hair matched by
black horned-rimmed glasses, a translucent pink scarf wrapped
tightly around her straight black hair, pink and blue mittens,
and a sweater which clashed with the tweed coat and the orange
woolen knee-length stockings stuffed into high, black rubber
boots.
Most of the passengers smiled at the bus driver and said
hello to the other regulars, or complained about the weather.
But she never said a word to anyone, not a smile, nor a nod of
greeting. One day, inspired by a book he was reading about
influencing people, he smiled directly at her as she passed his
seat and said, "Good Morning." Her silent stare in response
chilled him to the core. He blushed and peered around to see if
any of the others had noticed her rebuff.
On those rare days when she didn't catch the bus, he felt a
flood of relief. He hadn't realized how she upset him until one
day he overheard two of the women at the office talking about
what a grouch he was on certain days. He was becoming so
disagreeable that his boss called him in one day and told him
he'd have to straighten out or they would transfer him to
another division where he'd have less contact with people. That
would be the mailroom where the pay was less. Which meant
working more years until he saved enough to retire.
He grew frantic. He couldn't catch a later bus because that
would get him to the office too late. He tried a few times to
catch the earlier one, but it came an hour before and he
couldn't drag himself from bed that early. He needed that extra
hour of sleep to sustain him through the day.
When spring terminated the long, cold winter, he switched
to another bus route, but he had to walk a mile to reach it. His
behavior at the office improved so much that spring and summer
that his boss called him at the end of June to compliment him
and give him a small raise. And one of the women in the office
who had been avoiding him even consented to date him
occasionally.
But, with the first snowfall in December, he knew he'd have
to go back to his old bus route. The town never plowed the
sidewalks in winter and it was simply too dangerous to walk in
the street for a mile to the new route.
With an ominous feeling of dread, he returned to his old
route one snowy December morning when the radio predicted heavy
snow. As the bus approached her stop, he could feel his heart
beating abnormally faster. As she mounted the steps and sidled
past him, he had such difficulty breathing that several other
passengers shot him alarmed looks. His office mates wrote off
his grouchy behavior that day to the heavy snowfall, but he knew
he'd have to do something or else lose his job.
On the bus home two days later, he watched her descend at
her stop. On an impulse, he started up from his seat and got off
the bus following a dozen other passengers at a cluster of
modern apartment buildings lining the street. He rolled up the
collar of his overcoat against the driving snow and followed her
until she entered the doorway of one of the buildings. In the
courtyard, he scanned her building and saw lights blink on in
one of the second floor windows. There she stood. He could see
her clearly through the large plate glass window. He glanced at
his watch. She sat down in a chair near the door, slowly pulled
off her boots, then stood to put them and her coat and scarf in
a closet by the doorway.
She slipped a key off a hook by the door and left the
apartment, leaving the door ajar. He glanced at his watch again.
It had been only 45 seconds since she had entered the room. She
reappeared on the ground floor landing 35 seconds later, opened
her mail and withdrew some letters. She mounted the stairs and
reentered her apartment 35 seconds later, as he noted again by
his watch. She sat in a chair, opened the letters and started
reading, dropping some quickly in a trash can. Finishing her
mail, she got up from her chair, came to the window, stood for a
moment looking out, and closed the drapes.
He crossed the deserted courtyard, entered her apartment
building and glanced at the mailboxes. Hers was number 203. He
mounted the stairs, glad for the carpeting which muffled his
footsteps. Treading lightly, he climbed at his usual pace. It
took him 20 seconds to reach the second floor landing outside
the door numbered 203. She was a slow walker. Off the hallway he
spied a small recess which contained a trash chute. The recess
could shield someone from the view of anyone in the hallway or
on the stairs.
Exactly two weeks later as he watched her get on the bus,
he felt an uncontrollable rage well up in him. He cringed as
she edged past him and he could taste the bile in his mouth. He
thought of the food, energy, and air which was wasted on her. He
decided that this would be the day.
Realizing he was nervous and irritable that day, he tried
to control his temper, but he noticed that the women in the
office gave him a wide berth. The hours dragged until five
o'clock. He rushed to the bus stop and paced impatiently until
the bus pulled into view. As he climbed aboard, he scanned the
interior frantically until he spied her hideous pink scarf. His
thoughts boiled during the trip and he was afraid someone would
notice his nervousness.
At her stop, he got off last among the descending
passengers and, buffeted by blasts of wind, tracked after her
toward her building. As she entered the front door, he quickened
his pace, arriving less than ten seconds after her. Heart
pounding, he hurried up the stairs and crouched in the trash
chute recess on her landing. Almost immediately, he heard a door
latch. He peered out and saw her descending the stairs. He
waited a few seconds and slipped out into the hallway. He pushed
open her door, entered and closed it to its half-opened position
and glanced around the living room. It was sparsely and cheaply
furnished, everything neatly in its place. He wanted to close
the drapes, but he knew she would notice them when she returned.
The wind swirled snow past the window obscuring the building
across the courtyard, so it was doubtful anyone could see into
her apartment.
He opened the closet door, saw the despised scarves,
umbrella, and overcoat, all neatly hung on hooks. He took one of
the heavier woolen scarves, closed the door and walked down the
carpeted hallway toward the bedroom, coiling the scarf into a
tight rope in his gloved hands. He heard the front door latch
click and froze in the darkened doorway of the bedroom. Light
footsteps moved off the living room carpet into the tiled
kitchen. He walked noiselessly down the hallway and entered the
kitchen.
She must have sensed his presence, or perhaps she heard the
rustle of his clothes, for she turned toward him and he heard a
sharp intake of breath. As he rushed toward her, part of his
mind recorded the fact that she did not cry out nor did she put
up her arms to fend him off. He twisted the scarf around her
neck and tightened. Horrified, he watched her eyes stare calmly
back at him. He could have sworn there was the faintest trace of
a smile on her lips. Only when she started to lose consciousness
did she instinctively start to flail, pounding him on the chest
and clawing at his face. But it was too late. Her eyes bulged
and her face took on a pasty pale blue color as she crumpled
against him. He held the scarf coiled tightly around her neck
for what seemed like minutes until he finally let her collapse
on the floor, a dead weight.
He felt for a pulse. There was none and she was not
breathing. He walked briskly to the living room and glanced out
to verify there was no one in the windswept courtyard, then
pulled the drapes closed. He scooped up her pocketbook from the
chair where she had dropped it, tore it open and emptied the
contents onto the floor. He was amazed at how steady his hands
were, how clear his thoughts.
He strode into the bedroom, ransacked the dresser and
tossed the contents of a jewelry box onto the bed. It was mostly
cheap gaudy stuff. He pulled open a few clothes drawers,
rummaged around in them and left them half-open. He threw open
the closet door and ripped a few dresses from their hangers. In
the doorway he paused to appraise the scene. It looked like the
debris from a robbery.
As he started to leave the apartment, he spotted an
envelope propped up on a small table beside the door.
Hand printed in bold block letters were the words "TO THE MAN ON
THE BUS." He gasped, thrust the envelope into his overcoat
pocket, then turned the door handle and peered cautiously out
into the hallway. No one was in sight. He fled down the stairs,
regained the ground floor landing and left the building without
meeting anyone. When well away from the apartment buildings he
stepped up his pace and walked quickly the mile and a half home.
Safe inside his living room, he flicked on the light switch.
Without removing his coat, he yanked the envelope out of his
pocket, ripped it open, and started reading the neat, clear
handwriting:
"Sir:
I don't know who you are or why you hate me so much, but
I've known for some time that you would try to kill me. I've
seen you glare at me on the bus and spy on me in my apartment.
But I'm not afraid. Since the operation which removed my larynx,
I've been in a lot of pain, and the pills don't seem to help
anymore. It's getting harder and harder to drag myself to the
office each day, seeing all you healthy, normal people on the
bus who can talk and who have so long to live.
I've thought of suicide, but I don't have the courage to
take my own life. It will be a relief, in a way, to get it over
with.
I cannot, of course, let you get away with murder. So, I've
sent a detailed description of you to my lawyer, to be opened on
my death."
The letter had no signature. It slipped from his hands onto
the floor and he fell back into the chair, staring into the
deepening dusk.
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