“来点葡萄酒吧？”那个女孩说。他微笑着喝了一大口，说声谢谢，再次陷入沉思。她也回到其他人中，温格则低着头睡着了。
清晨，他们醒来时，汽车已经停靠在另一家约翰逊连锁餐馆前，温格这一次也进去了。那个女孩极力邀请他加入他们。
他似乎很害羞的样子，当那些年轻人谈论如何在海滨过夜时，他只是在一旁喝着黑咖啡，不断地抽烟，心事重重的样子。当大家回到车上时，女孩又坐在了他旁边。
不一会儿，温格慢慢地说起了他的痛苦往事和经历。他在纽约坐了四年牢，现在刑满释放，打算回家了。
“你结婚了吗？”
“我不知道。”
“你不知道？”那女孩疑惑地问道。
“是的，我在狱中曾给妻子写过一封信，”他说，“告诉她，我要离开很长一段时间，如果她无法忍受孤独，如果孩子不断地追问，如果这使她非常痛苦，那么她可以忘了我，我会理解的。我说，她是个很好女人，让她重新找一个男人，忘了我。
我叫她别给我回信，因为没用。结果她真的没有回信，三年半来音讯全无。
“那么，你就这样盲目地回家去？”
“哦，”他略带腼腆地说，“也不是，上周末当我确知自己获得释放后，又写了一封信给她。以前我们住在布伦斯威克，就在杰克逊维尔前面，在进城去的路上有一棵高大的橡树。我告诉她，如果她愿意我回来，就在树上挂一方黄手帕，我就会下车回家。如果她不要我了，就忘掉这件事。我看不见手帕，也就不下车了。”
“喔噢，”那个女孩惊叫道，“是吗？”
她告诉同伴们这件事，于是所有的人都期盼能快点到布伦斯威克。温格又给他们看了他妻子和三个孩子的一张照片，那是一个面容端庄的妇女和三个年幼的孩子。照片显然因被多次触摸显得有些旧了。
现在，离布伦斯威克只有20英里了。那些年轻人将车右边靠窗的座位都占满了，等待路边的那棵橡树出现。汽车里陷入一片沉重、肃静，气氛肃穆得好像失去了岁月。温格不再张望，紧绷着脸，一副囚犯们特有的样子。他不敢往外看，唯恐无法承受再次失望的打击。
离布伦斯威克只有10英里了，很快，只有5英里了。突然，那些年轻人尖叫着从座位上跳起来，大喊着，大哭着，手舞足蹈。只有温格例外。
温格坐在那里，目瞪口呆，他看着窗外的橡树。
那上面挂满了黄手帕，20块，30块，不，可能有上百块。这棵树像一面迎风招展的大旗，欢迎他的归来。在年轻人的叫喊中，这个往日的囚徒站起身来，走到车的前门，坚定地朝家走去。
Going Home
I first heard this storya few years ago from a girlI had met in New YorksGreenwich Village. Probablythe story is one of thosemysterious bits of folklorethat reappear every few years， to be told a newin one form or another. However， I still like tothink that it really did happen， somewhere，sometime.
They were going to Fort Lauderdale threeboys and three girls and when they boarded thebus， they were carrying sandwiches and wine inpaper bags， dreaming of golden beaches as thegray cold of New York vanished behind them.
As the bus passed through New Jersey，they began to notice Vingo. He sat in front ofthem， dressed in a plain， ill-fitting suit， nevermoving， his dusty face masking his age. He keptchewing the inside of his lip a lot， frozen intosome personal cocoon of silence.
Deep into the night， outside Washington，the bus pulled into Howard Johnsons， andeverybody got off except Vingo. He sat rooted inhis seat， and the young people began to wonderabout him， trying to imagine his life： perhaps hewas a sea captain， a runaway from his wife， anold soldier going home. When they went backto the bus， one of the girls sat beside him andintroduced herself.
“Were going to Florida，” she said brightly.
“I hear its really beautiful.”
“It is，” he said quietly， as ifremembering something he hadtried to forget.
“Want some wine？” She said.
He smiled and took a swig. Hethanked her and retreated againinto his silence. After a while，she went back to the others， andVingo nodded in sleep.
In the morning， theyawoke outside another HowardJohnsons， and this time Vingowent in. The girl insisted that hejoin them. He seemed very shy，and ordered black coffee andsmoked nervously as the youngpeople chattered about sleepingon beaches. When they returnedto the bus， the girl sat with Vingoagain， and after a while， slowlyand painfully， he told his story. Hehad been in jail in New York forthe past four years， and now hewas going home.
“Are you married？”
“I dont know.”
“You dont know？” She said.
“Well， when I was in jail Iwrote to my wife，” he said. “I toldher that I was going to be away along time， and that if she couldntstand it， if the kids kept askingquestions， if it hurt too much，well， she could just forget me， Idunderstand. Get a new guy， I said shes awonderful woman， really something andforget about me. I told her she didnt haveto write me for nothing. And she didnt.
Not for three and a half years.”
“And youre going home now， notknowing？”
“Yeah，” he said shyly. “Well， lastweek， when I was sure the parole wascoming through， I wrote her again. Weused to live in Brunswick， just beforeJacksonville， and theres a big oak treejust as you come into town. I told herthat if shed take me back， she should puta yellow handkerchief on the tree， and Idget off and come home. If she didnt wantme， just forget it； seeing no handkerchief，Id go on through.”
“Wow，” the girl exclaimed. “Wow.”
She told the others， and soon allof them were in it， caught up in theapproach of Brunswick， looking at thepictures Vingo showed them of his wifeand three children. The woman washandsome in a plain way， the childrenstill unformed in the much-handledsnapshots.
Now they were 20 miles fromBrunswick， and the young people tookover window seats on the right side，waiting for the approach of the great oaktree. The bus acquired a dark， hushedmood， full of the silence of absenceand lost years. Vingo stopped looking，tightening his face into the ex-consmask， as if fortifying himself against stillanother disappointment.
Then Brunswick was ten miles，and then five. Then， suddenly， all of theyoung people were up out of their seats，screaming and shouting and crying， doingsmall dances of joy. All except Vingo.
Vingo sat there stunned， looking atthe oak tree. It was covered with yellowhandkerchiefs， 20 of them， 30 of them，maybe hundreds， a tree that stood like abanner of welcome billowing in the wind.
As the young people shouted， the old conrose and made his way to the front of thebus to go home.
