Circle of Protection
Cage bars of fluorescent lights glared down upon the Pittsburgh Greyhound station’s scattered denizens well after midnight. Bare walls of dingy tiles framed with blackened grout encased foul odors of cheap booze, diesel fumes, and unbathed bodies under unwashed clothes. Rough characters with menacing glares, weather-beaten ramblers clutching one-way tickets, and runaway teens fleeing to anywhere slouched in sticky, crumb-covered orange plastic chairs, threaded with cracks and splinters, and bolted to a buckling linoleum floor with a patina of accumulated funk. It was the summer of 1988.
I’d arrived there through a combination of young love and stubborn pride: love of a college girlfriend living several states away, and pride over paying my own way to see her, in spite of my dad’s offer to help. I was an adult, I had insisted, and should be responsible for my own travel expenses – a principled stance I’d now come to regret. As airfare was out-of-budget for an undergraduate with an hourly wage, Greyhound appeared my only practical option. Plus, the romantic in me had a nostalgic image of a cross-country bus trip through small towns and rolling farmlands – a slice of classic Americana lifted straight from a Woody Guthrie song.
The Pittsburgh station’s filth and palpable desperation shattered whatever remained of that illusion, leaving me feeling vulnerable, foolish and scared – until a new arrival appeared. Dressed in black, prim and pressed, she sat perfectly straight in her plastic chair as if in a pew. Sensible shoes, a veil upon her head, and a cross around her neck identified her as a nun. I moved to be closer to her and place myself within what I imagined was a circle of protection.
We didn’t exchange a word. I wasn’t Catholic, and had never spoken with a nun before. I didn’t know what to say, and we sat in silence. But it didn’t matter. Her habit spoke for her, hinting that light can always pierce the gloom, and goodness intrude where it seems conspicuous by its absence. And insisting that there are those not too proud or privileged or petrified to find themselves seated amongst such company. Unlike me.
Scott Hurd has authored five books, including Forgiveness: A Catholic Approach. His books have been translated into Korean, Polish, and German, and won awards from the Association of Catholic Publishers and the Catholic Press Association. His essays, reviews, and poems have been published in numerous journals, newspapers, and magazines, and he has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He is married to fellow writer Diane Kraynak.
Amethyst Review 