The Avesta, Volume 21, Number 2, Summer, 1942 Page: 20
36 p. : ill. ; 30 cm.View a full description of this periodical.
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~f~7
Ticket to Seattle
by NaDeane WalkerI'VE always hated bus trips. This
one to Seattle I was making be-
cause of a railroad washout that
had delayed train service. The ticket
agent at Washington smiled when I
asked banteringly, "Got any tickets
to Seattle, Texas?"
That was an old joke. When I used
to work at a town only fifty miles
away and went home week-ends, I
always went by bus because train
service played out twenty miles from
home, and I always asked the wise-
cracking ticket agent, "Got a ticket
to Seattle left, Joe?" And he'd say,
meanwhile writing the ticket below
the counter level, "Well, let me see.
No-o-o, I'm afraid-ah, here we are
-one left. You're lucky this week."
It had been a long time since I'd
used that old joke-seven years, and
now things were different, and I was
the young American novelist, Lewis
Welby. It sounded pretty good in
the papers, almost like a real author's
name. At Seattle, Texas, seven years
ago I had been Luke, one of them
Welby kids. And now, going back,
I had an idea that I'd still be one of
them Welby kids to folks there.
Things don't change much in Se-
attle.
"Driver, where are we now? How
far to Seattle?"
"Forty miles." The driver had
half turned, was looking past me.
"Rain coming in through that broke
window, Ma'am? Better move up
further."Forty miles . . . forty miles . . .
A girl stumbled over my feet, and I
hastily pulled them in, the rhythm
of thought broken. The girl had
been sitting behind me, and I hadn't
noticed her till now. Nice bronze-
blonde hair, a little limp from weath-
er, lay over the collar of her coat.
Brown seal . . . smart shoes, gloves,
bag . . . nose veil. These were my
impressions as she moved up the
aisle and took the empty seat two up
and across from me.
I settled my shoulders against
cold leather and stared disinterest-
edly at the girl's back. She was look-
ing out at the rain slanting against
her window, and her profile thus re-
vealed seemed vaguely familiar. Quite
possible, I reminded myself: after
all, this is practically home territory.
I have a good memory, yet I looked
at her and could not be sure whether
I had ever seen her before. A little
annoyed, I looked out my window
and found myself thinking of Seattle
again, and of my purpose in going
back there.
This novel had been shaping up
for months. And as it took shape in
me it became Seattle, my hometown
and its people and its scenes and in-
cidents. I had steered clear of that
before, feeling a revulsion against
writing the things that had touched
me so deeply. Though I'd never ad-
mit it, Seattle's dirty linen was still
my dirty linen, and I hated to drag
it out.
The story that assured vague
outlines in my mind centered about a
thing that happened in our little red-land community fifteen years ago. I
always remember the date distinctly
for it was on my tenth birthday that
it occurred.
On that morning it happened that
Mr. Rivers, the mild-mannered ex-
teacher, ex-carpenter, tenant farmer
who lived half a mile down the road
in the unpainted house atop Red
Hill, was quarreling with his wife,
Lolly, as she got breakfast in her
cramped little kitchen. Rivers was
not one to quarrel; he usually took
Lolly's nagging shut-mouthed and
implacably. This time the argument
went out of bounds. Though there
were no witnesses to the early-morn-
ing quarrel, everything that hap-
pened except the actual conversation
was later clear.
Suddenly maddened by something
she said, Rivers snatched the heavy
metal dipper from the bucket on the
wall shelf and hit his wife with it.
The blow caught her on the head
and broke in her skull and Lolly
Rivers fell dead on her kitchen floor,
halfway across the woodbox by the
stove.
Rivers had three little girls, the
oldest nine and the youngest a baby
in diapers. Ethel, the oldest child,
had heard the noise. She stood in the
door and her blue child's eyes took
in the scene, her mother's blood on
the floor, the dipper in Rivers' hand.
She flew at the man, screaming and
beating at him with her fists.
Rivers held the little girl's thin
wrists in one hand and stroked her
hair with the other quieting her.
"You'll have to run for help, Ethy.20
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North Texas State Teachers College. The Avesta, Volume 21, Number 2, Summer, 1942, periodical, Summer 1942; Denton, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metadc2105649/m1/22/: accessed July 16, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting UNT Libraries Special Collections.