The one bus out of Welch left at seven-ten in the morning. I needed to be
at the station before seven. Mom announced that since she was not by
nature an early riser, she would not be getting up to see me off. "I know
what you look like, and I know what the bus station looks like," she said.
"And those big farewells are so sentimental."
I could hardly sleep that night. Neither could Brian. From time to time,
he'd break the silence by announcing that in seven hours I'd be leaving
Welch, in six hours I'd be leaving Welch, and we'd both start cracking
up. I fell asleep only to be woken at first light by Brian, who, like Mom,
wasn't an early riser. He was tugging at my arm. "No more joking about
it," he said. "In two hours, you'll be gone."
Dad hadn't come home that night, but when I climbed through the back
window with my suitcase, I saw him sitting at the bottom of the stone
steps, smoking a cigarette. He insisted on carrying the suitcase for me,
and we set off down Little Hobart Street and around the Old Road.
The empty streets were damp. Every now and then Dad would look over
at me and wink, or make a tocking sound with his tongue as if I were a
horse and he was urging me on. It seemed to make him feel like he was
doing what a father should, plucking up his daughter's courage, helping
her face the terrors of the unknown.
When we got to the station, Dad turned to me. "Honey, life in New York
may not be as easy as you think it's going to be."
"I can handle it," I told him.
Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his favorite jackknife, the one
with the horn handle and the blade of blue German steel that we'd used
for Demon Hunting.
"I'll feel better knowing you have this." He pressed the knife into my