Sophie and the Rising Sun by Augusta Trobaugh Read Free Book Online Page A

lurched in alarm at the amorphous clumps of spoiled food, he found some scraps of bread that were miraculously clean, and he ate them greedily, thinking that it was the best bread he had ever tasted. After he swallowed the last morsel and licked his fingers clean of any stray crumbs, he wept and remembered his father’s house and the plentiful food on his father’s table. And the faces of his brothers.
    The second night, he slept under the same cardboard box and dreamed of the garden behind his father’s small house in faraway California, of the bougainvillea and
    the pink petunias and the tiny pool with water lilies and a few beautiful, small goldfish in it. But in the middle of that beautiful dream, he awakened to loud voices and scuffling and grunting sounds, and he drew himself quietly into a small, quivering ball. But just as quickly as he felt the terrible fear and huddled against it—like an animal hiding under a fallen log—he realized that, truly, he had nothing to fear. The money was gone, and all that was left was his life. At that very moment, should someone have taken that, he would have considered it to be a just repayment for his foolishness. And perhaps even a blessed relief from his suffering.
    But whoever was in the alley that night did not look under the box.
    At the first gray daylight that came into the alley, Mr. Oto came out from under the box, hungrier than ever. His only thoughts were of food—great bowls of steaming rice and crisp garden vegetables and succulent sauces—but then he saw a black wallet on the ground near the trash cans. He glanced around quickly and then grabbed it, praying that it would contain money for food. Clean food. And hot. Please! Just a bowl of rice! Clean, steaming rice.
    But the wallet was empty—stripped of everything of value. Still, his fingers prodded relentlessly into the tiny pockets—and found a small, obscure rectangle of cardboard tucked deep into a corner of the wallet. Cardboard? What good is that? He had trouble reading the words printed on it, but finally he made them out: ONE WAY, JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA . A bus ticket.
    Despite the desperate and disappointed lurch of his belly—which had anticipated food—he nearly laughed aloud. Providence had given him a way to flee the city, the terrible city full of false friendliness and rotting food in open cans and scuffling and grunting in the dark. He put the ticket carefully away into his pocket and kept his hand over it. He had absolutely no idea where this new place—this Jacksonville—was located, but it was where he would go. Good fortune had provided the way, and he would go.
    He brushed off his clothes as well as he was able and straightened his collar before he went back into the bus station—to where he had arrived with his father’s money and with great responsibility upon him. And with all his false pride. Once there, he waited for a long time, watching the rivers of people coming and going. Seeing people embrace each other, laughing and crying at the same time. Those were the people who still had families. He saw also others like himself, who had no one to greet them and who moved along with their eyes blank and flat.
    Finally, he approached the information window and held out the ticket. The clerk glanced at it briefly and at Mr. Oto for a long, breathless moment before she pointed an indifferent finger and mumbled, “Gate Three.”
    When he found the gate, the bus was already parked there, purring and waiting—only for him, it seemed. Mr. Oto handed the ticket to the driver, but by then, he was so weak with hunger and shame and relief that he could hardly walk. Still, with whatever remote and final bit of strength he had left, he climbed into the bus, sank into an empty seat, and promptly fell asleep. He slept away the miles and the hours, on his way to a solitary life. One without family or friends. In Jacksonville.
    But of course, he never arrived there, but ended up in the little town