The Yellow Ribbonby Pete HamillThey were going to Fort Lauderdale, the girl remembered later. There were six of them, three boys and three girls, and they picked up the bus at the old terminal on 34th Street, carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, dreaming of golden beaches and the tides of the sea as the gray cold spring of New York vanished behind them. Vingo was on board from the beginning.As the bus passed through Jersey and into Philly, they began to notice that Vingo never moved. He sat in front of the young people, his dusty face masking his age, dressed in a plain brown ill-fitting suit. His fingers were stained from cigarettes and he chewed the inside of his lip a lot, frozen into some personal cocoon of silence.Somewhere outside of Washington, deep into the night, the bus pulled into a Howard Johnsons, and everybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted in his seat, and the young people began to wonder about him, trying to imagine his life: Perhaps he was a sea captain, maybe he had run away from his wife, he could be an old soldier going home. When they went back to the bus, the girl sat beside him and introduced herself.Were going to Florida, the girl said brightly. You going that far?I dont know, Vingo said.Ive never been there, she said. I hear its beautiful.It is, he said quietly, as if remembering something he had tried to forget.You live there?I did some time there in the Navy. Jacksonville.Want some wine? she said. He smiled and took the bottle of Chianti and took a swig. He thanked her and retreated again into silence. After a while, she went back to the others, as Vingo nodded into sleep.In the morning they awoke outside another Howard Johnsons, and this time Vingo went in. The girl insisted that he join them. He seemed very shy and ordered black coffee and smoked nervously, as the young people chattered about sleeping on the beaches. When they went back on the bus, the girl sat with Vingo again, and after a while, slowly and painfully and with great hesitation, he began to tell his story. He had been in jail in New York for the last four years, and now he was going home.Four years! the girl said. What did you do?It doesnt matter, he said with quiet bluntness. I did it and I went to jail. If you cant do the time, dont do the crime. Thats what they say and theyre right.Are you married?I dont know.You dont know? she said.Well, when I was in the can I wrote to my wife, he said. I told her, I said, Martha, I understand if you cant stay married to me. I told her that. I said I was gonna be away a long time, and that if she couldnt stand it, if the kids kept askin questions, if it hurt her too much, well, she could just forget me. Get a new guyshes a wonderful woman, really something and forget about me. I told her she didnt have to write me or nothing. And she didnt. Not for three and a half years.And youre going home now, not knowing?Yeah, he said shyly. Well, last week, when I was sure the parole was coming through I wrote her. I told her that if she had a new guy, I understood. But if she didnt, if she would take me back she should let me know. We used to live in this town, Brunswick, just before Jacksonville, and theres a great big oak tree just as you come into town, a very famous tree, huge. I told her if she would take me back, she should put a yellow handkerchief on the tree, and I would get off and come home. If she didnt want me, forget it, no handkerchief, and Id keep going on through.Wow, the girl said. Wow.She told the others, and soon all of them were in it, caught up in the approach of Brunswick, looking at the pictures Vingo showed them of his wife and three children, the woman handsome in a plain way, the children still unformed in a cracked, much-handled snapshot. Now they were twenty miles from Brunswick and the young people took over window seats on the right side, waiting for the approach of the great oak tree. Vingo stopped looking, tightening his face into the ex-cons mask, as if fortifying himself against still another disappointment. Then it was ten miles, and then five and the bus acquired a dark hushed mood, full of silence, of absence, of lost years, of the womans plain face, of the sudden letter on the breakfast table, of the wonder of children, of the iron bars of solitude.Then suddenly all of the young people were up out of their seats, screaming and shouting and crying, doing small dances, shaking clenched fists in triumph and exaltation. All except Vingo.Vingo sat there stunned, looking at the oak tree. It was covered with yellow handkerchiefs, twenty of them, thirty of them, maybe hundreds, a tree that stood like a banner of welcome blowing and billowing in the wind, turned into a gorgeous yellow blur by the passing bus. As the young people shouted, the old con slowly rose from his seat, holding himself tightly, and made his way to th