After 20 years as a full-time wife and mother, I decided to find a part-time job to keep busy now that my children were grown. I chose to drive a school bus.
Charlie began riding my bus in September of my fourth year. He was eight years old, with blond hair and crystalline gray eyes. While other children chattered about their summers, Charlie ignored me completely, not even answering when I asked his name.
From that day on, Charlie was a constant challenge. If a fight broke out or spitballs flew, I knew Charlie was likely involved. No matter how gently or firmly I spoke to him, he remained silent, staring at me with his large gray eyes.
I learned that Charlie's father had passed away and he didn't live with his mother. Believing he deserved patience, I mustered all I could. My cheerful greetings were met with silence; my holiday wishes with sneers. I often wondered how to reach him, but remained convinced he needed warmth. I'd ruffle his hair or pat his arm when he passed by.
Near the year's end, the children gave me a small trophy inscribed "To the Best Bus Driver Ever." I propped it on the dashboard and hung above it a small tin heart a girl had given me, painted with the words: "I love Polly and Polly loves me."
On the penultimate school day, I was delayed speaking to the principal. Upon returning to the bus, I noticed the tin heart was missing. "Does anyone know what happened to the little heart?" I asked. For once, the bus of 39 children fell silent.
A boy spoke up: "Charlie was first on the bus. I bet he took it." Others joined in: "Yeah! Charlie did it! Search him!"
I asked Charlie if he had seen it. "I don't know what you're talking about," he protested, standing to show a few pennies and a small ball from his pockets. "See, I don't have it."
"Check his pockets!" insisted the girl who had given me the heart.
Charlie glowered as I asked him to come forward. His gaze burned into mine. I reached into one pocket—nothing. Then, in the other, I felt the familiar outline of the small tin heart. Charlie stared at me, his eyes showing no tears, no plea for mercy, only the weary expectation of the world's judgment. I was about to pull it out when I stopped. Let him keep it, a voice seemed to whisper.
"It must have fallen off before I got here," I told the children. "I'll probably find it back at the depot." Without a word, Charlie returned to his seat. He didn't glance at me when he got off. That summer, he moved away.
Years later, I had retired. A dozen years after retirement, while in a Kansas City department store, I heard a tentative voice say, "Polly?" I turned to see a balding man approaching middle age. His face was unfamiliar until I noticed his big gray eyes. It was Charlie.
He told me he was living in Montana and doing well. Then, to my surprise, he hugged me. After letting go, he pulled something from his pocket: an old, bent key chain with faded lettering. It was the little tin heart that read, "I love Polly and Polly loves me."
"You were the only one who kept trying," he explained. We hugged again and went our separate ways. I was so happy I had done a good job.