She never said much, but her silence was heavier than a bus full of tired people with nowhere left to go.
Back when route 34 still ran down Hastings, before they paved over stories with brewpubs and boutiques, I was behind the wheel six days a week. Union job. Good pension. Straight back, clean shirt. My name’s Leo, and I drove the #34 for 27 years.
But this story isn’t about me.
It’s about her.
Her name was Miss Alberta. Folks just called her “Ma’am,” like she was royalty — and in a way, she was. You’d never know it by her looks. She didn’t wear jewelry. Just a brown wool coat year-round, hair always wrapped in a paisley scarf. One of those quiet women who didn’t take up space, yet somehow owned the whole room just by sitting still.
Tuesdays, always Tuesdays, she’d get on my bus at the same stop near Grand River and 12th. Took her time climbing the steps. One hand on the rail, the other on that cane with the brass tip. I’d give her a nod. She’d give me one back. That was our routine.
She sat front row, window seat. Never a word unless it was necessary.
But I started learning her rhythm.
If she took off her gloves and folded them in her lap — good day.
If she kept them on and stared out the window the whole ride — bad news.
If she clutched that black leather purse of hers like it was filled with gold — scared.
You get good at reading people when you drive a bus. No room for fantasy in public transit. Every stop’s a story, but most folks don’t notice. I did.
Especially with her.
One Tuesday, maybe ’92 or ’93, I heard her whisper something for the first time.
We’d just passed where the old Lafayette Pharmacy used to be. It had been gutted, turned into a neon pizza joint that didn’t even take cash. Miss Alberta looked at it, then at me, and said, barely above the diesel hum, “That used to be mine.”
I didn’t say anything. Just kept driving.
But I never forgot it.
Turns out, she hadn’t meant the pharmacy. She meant the whole damn block.
Back in the 1950s, she and her husband had owned two apartment buildings, a cleaners, and a grocery on that stretch. Black-owned, Black-run. Before the riots. Before the freeways came slicing through like butcher’s knives.
They called her “Queen of Hastings.” But by the time she got on my bus, all that was gone. Eminent domain. Fire. Back taxes. I don’t know all the details. She never told me more than that one sentence.
“That used to be mine.”
That was enough.
The city changed faster than anyone could fight it.
Abandoned houses turned to rubble. Rubble turned to lots. Lots turned into condos none of us could afford.
And yet every Tuesday, there she was. Same time. Same seat.
It was like church, the way she showed up.
Some drivers didn’t like it. Said she took too long. Said she smelled like mothballs. Said she looked like a bag lady. I shut that talk down fast.
“You don’t know what she’s seen,” I’d say.
Because I didn’t either. But I wanted to.
There’s a certain reverence that comes with repetition. When someone shows up for decades, even if they don’t say much, their presence becomes a kind of anchor. Like old trees or corner stores with creaky doors — you just expect them to be there.
When she didn’t show up one Tuesday, I felt something shift in my chest.
Wednesday came. Nothing.
Thursday, still no sign.
By Friday I called in a favor. A buddy at the garage gave me her address from the route logs. Said, “You sure you wanna go out there?”
I was.
She lived in the last brick row house on an otherwise empty street. Boarded windows, grass knee-high. I knocked. Nothing.
Just as I turned to leave, the door creaked open.
There she was. Standing in the shadows, smaller somehow. Eyes sunken like time had finally won a round.
“You’re the bus man,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She opened the door wide and let me in.
Inside smelled like old paper and lavender. Faded photographs on every surface. One showed her in a yellow dress, smiling next to a man with suspenders and a cigar. Another had her standing beside the storefront of “Alberta’s Cleaners,” sign painted by hand.
I sat on the couch while she boiled water for tea she never drank.
“My legs don’t work so good anymore,” she said, settling into a chair across from me. “Don’t think I’ll be riding your bus no more.”
I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice just then.
She looked at me for a long time.
“You remember where I used to sit?”
“Front row. Window.”
She smiled. First time I’d seen it.
“I liked riding with you,” she said. “Felt safe.”
Then she handed me a brown envelope. I didn’t open it right away. Just took it and nodded.
“Take me one last time,” she said. “Next Tuesday. Same time.”
That Tuesday, I showed up in my street clothes, borrowed a van from my cousin.
Carried her out in my arms. She was light, like all the weight had gone into memory instead of muscle. She wore that same paisley scarf. Same coat.
Didn’t say much, just pointed now and then.
“That’s where the grocer was… they had the best peaches in summer.”
We drove slowly, like ghosts don’t like rushing.
When we got to the block with the neon pizza sign, she asked me to stop.
“I’m going to close my eyes now,” she said. “You just keep driving like before.”
So I did.
I circled the block six times.
By the fifth, her hand had slid off her purse and into mine.
By the sixth, she was gone.
The funeral was quiet. No preacher. Just me and a social worker from the city. I brought the photo of her in the yellow dress and set it next to the urn.
I finally opened the envelope.
Inside was a folded map of the old neighborhood — hand-drawn. Names of shops. Arrows pointing to stoops and streetlights long gone. A note in cursive:
“If they ever ask who used to live here, tell them I did. Every Tuesday.”
I drive by that corner sometimes.
People walk their dogs. Take selfies by murals of folks they never knew.
But I remember her.
The woman who sat quiet on the #34, week after week, riding past everything taken from her — and never asking for it back.
Because some stories don’t need a stage.
They just need someone who’ll listen.
Because silence doesn’t mean forgotten.
And every Tuesday still echoes like a hymn down Hastings.
