She’d deny it if you asked, but you can’t convince me the thought never occurred to her. We were pre-war and she’d had two more kids by '52, besides, what are the chances someone would get us both, one maybe, what with the stories about gypsies stealing kids or UFO snatches, she’d still have three and lord knows, that was a handful. My older brother and I were sent on the Dog from Barstow to Wickenburg each summer from 1952 until 1955 without parental supervision, just the notoriously reliable bus driver to look out for us. She might as well have printed T shirts for us to wear stating “take these kids, I dare you.”

We’d leave Inyokern at 7 AM, drive two hours to Barstow and catch the 9:30 milkrun to Phoenix, seven stops and nine hours later we’d reach Wickenburg, an hour short of Phoenix where our grandfather would meet us, collect our shared suitcase and drive the two miles east on the Phoenix Highway to his house for a summer of setting fires and blasting to bits every bird, lizard, snake, dragonfly and butterfly that crossed our path with a 410 shotgun. You’d be surprised to learn that butterflies are hard to hit, something about erratic flight patterns. You’ve seen pictures of buses in far off lands carrying people and chickens in the same compartment; well the Dog was nothing like that. It wasn’t the heights of refined travel, but Greyhound ran a tight ship, no drinking, livestock or sex allowed.

That last summer was different. When we reached the insurance office that doubled for a bus station and the block ice depot, both our grandparents were waiting, our grandfather in his usual stance, one hand shading his eyes and the other deep in his front pocket. Our grandmother, however, was dressed in her Sunday outfit complete with pillbox hat and black lace veil, one hand on a suitcase and the other awkwardly covering the side of her neck. As we got off the bus she gave us a pat, what passed for affection, handed her bag to the driver and took a seat on the driver’s side making it difficult to see her. She half stood, looked at the three of us standing there, her husband waving, the two boys absorbed in their new surroundings, a child’s attention span being the exact opposite of the tedium of her old age. 

As the bus pulled away she touched the lime sized goiter on her neck, wishing she had a bigger mirror than her compact provided so she could check for noticeable growth. What started as an olive was now a lime and would soon be an orange and eventually a grapefruit. She hadn’t expected much from the local doctor, a man known for advising his patients to “Go home, get
your affairs in order, I’ll see you again in a week.” and he did not disappoint. He poked around, glanced over at his dusty medical books and shrugged. Her only hope was those smart Jewish doctors three thousand miles away.

As the bus rolled past her house she thought about her husband last seen at the station, his hand perpetually squeezing his rosary beads as he silently repeated his hail Mary’s and Our Fathers, a born monk. She didn’t expect to see him again; the grandkids got no second thoughts. The hours ride to Phoenix and the three day train ride to New York were her focus, along with the
blossoming lump on the side of her neck.