by Ronald Malfi
“So you’re a ‘merry Christmas’ and not a ‘happy holidays’ kind of guy, huh?”
“I’m sorry, did I offend you?”
“Not at all. It’s refreshing. I’m so sick of political correctness. I’m suffocated by it. We’re so goddamn politically correct that we lose our individualism, our definition as human beings. Don’t you agree?”
“I guess I never thought of it that way.”
She downed half the drink in one healthy swallow. Then she set the glass down on the bar and proceeded to pull off her leather gloves. She was sporting a jammer roughly the size of a disco ball on her ring finger. It sparkled like a movie star’s smile.
“God,” she groaned, “can you believe this weather?”
He nodded, sipping his scotch. “Your flight cancelled or just delayed?”
“I had a dream last night that I was trapped inside a submarine and there were all these people in business suits all trying to climb up the ladder and get out of the sub.” She had totally ignored his question. “They started pulling each other off the ladder and fighting and clawing at each other like animals. Women, too, only they were in ball gowns. Just everybody swinging and punching and clawing at each other. I just stood off to one side and watched the whole thing go down. Then, from somewhere deep in the belly of the sub, some big alarm starts going off.” When she imitated the alarm sound from her dream—“WEEE-ooh, WEEE-ooh, WEEE-ooh”— several heads turned in her direction. She didn’t seem to notice. “So, shit, we’re sinking, right? And these assholes are just pawing at each other like children on a playground, grabbing each other in headlocks and rolling around on the floor of the sub.” She sighed and looked instantly miserable. And somehow that made her more attractive. “I guess it was a prophetic dream.”
“Prophetic? You mean you were on a submarine this afternoon? That actually happened?”
“Lord,” she groaned, rolling her eyes playfully. A coy smile overtook her features and he felt something squash that uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. She held out one hand—the one flaunting the massive engagement ring—to address the overcrowded barroom. “Are you really that literal? I’m talking about here, right here in this airport.” She frowned but meant nothing by it. “Where’s your sense of symbolism?”
“I guess I’m not very symbolic.”
“Well, then,” she motored on…then paused, her eyes finally settling on him. They were brilliant aquamarine eyes, shimmering like Caribbean water. “Hey,” she said, her voice softer, “I’m sorry. I’m going off like a firecracker. I’m Kate Jansen.”
“Hey, Kate.” They shook hands. “Todd Curry.”
“Thanks for the drink, Todd.”
“No sweat.”
“I guess you’re one of the terminal,” she said.
“Terminal?”
“A casualty of all these cancellations.”
“Oh.” He smiled. “Terminal. Very clever. I get it.”
“Where’re you headed?”
“Well,” he said, glancing again at his wristwatch, “I was supposed to be on the four-thirty flight to Des Moines, which is now the six-thirty flight…”
“Then we’re both afflicted with the same ailment.” Again, she clinked her glass against his, then took another strong swallow.
“So you were on that flight, too, huh?”
“Guilty as charged. Was tasked with spending Christmas with my fiancé and his family, but I guess it’s in the gods’ hands now.”
“You say ‘tasked’ like it’s some sort of castigation.”
“Oh,” she said, nodding fervently, “it is. His family is atrocious. They’re like the villains in a Charles Dickens novel, all hunched over and swarthy, wrapped in drab, colorless clothing and screaming at peasant children.”
“They sound marvelous.”
She exhaled and he could smell her perfume—something sweet, like candy—mingled with the Midori on her breath. “But I love the son of a bitch, so I put up with them.”
She caught him looking at her diamond ring but didn’t say anything about it. Todd quickly jerked his eyes away and feigned interest in the newscast on the television. Snow, snow, and more snow. Damn it, he thought, still picturing Justin in his Turbo Dogs pajamas. I tried, buddy. I tried.
“How about you?” she said. “Is Des Moines your final destination?”
“Yes.”
“Going home?”
“Visiting my son.”
“So you’re divorced?”
“Yes. He lives with his mother.”
“You two get along? You and the mother, I mean. Not the kid.”
“No.”
“Your fault or hers?”
“That we don’t get along?”
“The divorce in general,” she clarified. “Your fault or hers?”
“I…it was mutual, I guess.”
“Mutual?” She looked skeptical.
“It just didn’t take.”
She laughed once, sharply. More heads turned in her direction. “You say it like a surgeon who’s just botched an operation. ‘The transplant didn’t take.’”
“What I meant was we both agreed it was for the best.”
“So you both equally agreed that she’d keep the kid?”
Her boldness shocked him. “Wow. You go right for the jugular.”
“Oh?” She seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry, was that rude? I get weird talking about divorce. My parents went through a messy one when I was eleven and I took turns playing the hostage for each of them. I’m sure it fucked me up in more ways than one, too. You should have seen me in college, boy.” She lowered her voice a bit. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“It’s okay. I guess there’s no such thing as an easy divorce.”
Kate Jansen offered up that same coy little grin. “Or an easy childhood.”
This made him think again of Justin. What the hell was he doing? It was Christmas Eve and he was drinking scotch in an airport bar while chatting up some stranger. He set his drink on the bar and picked up his laptop. “It was nice meeting you, Kate, but I should go check on my flight.”
“Our flight,” she corrected.
“That’s right. You coming?”
“I think I’ll stay here and finish my drink. Hate to break it to you, bub, but I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight.”
“I hope you’re wrong, honey,” he said, dumping enough bills onto the bar to account for both drinks. “Guess I’ll see you around.”
“Save me a bag of peanuts.”
He pushed quickly through the crowd, the laptop’s carrying case thumping numbly against one knee while he perspired in his coat, hoping against all rationale that the goddamn flight wouldn’t be cancelled, wouldn’t be cancelled, wouldn’t be cancelled.
CHAPTER TWO
The flight was cancelled.
“Fuck me blue,” he uttered under his breath. The electronic sign at the check-in desk flashed the word over and over again—CANCELLED. A mob had formed in front of the desk, the timbre of their mingling voices irascible. Somewhere, an infant was screaming.
“Eh?” It was the big guy in the Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, lumbering up beside him while dragging along a carry-on with squealing wheels. The intensity of his respiration was nearly frightening, and all too obvious was the Texas-shaped blossom of pepperoni grease on the front of his pants. “What’d I tell you, yeah?”
“You must be psychic.”
“They won’t even give out hotel vouchers. They only do that if the cancellation is the airline’s fault. Shitty weather ain’t covered on the insurance plan.” The guy dropped a heavy hand on Todd’s shoulder. “Think I’m gonna have a seat, catch some shut-eye. Happy holidays, bud.”
The carry-on’s wheels moaned as the big guy retreated through the crowd.
It took a good ten minutes for the mob at the check-in counter to disperse. Most of the would-be travelers stormed away looking infuriated; others seemed caught in some suspended c
ombination of shock and boredom. As he watched, he could see all the other gates down the corridor flashing their own CANCELLED signs. Christmas music suddenly spilled out of speakers recessed in the ceiling: a desperate attempt to pacify the distemperate crowd.
“Hi,” he said at the check-in desk. The woman behind the counter looked utterly drained and Todd felt a pang of compassion for her. “Don’t worry. I’m not the yelling type.”
“Amen.”
“And I know you’re probably not the psychic type, but do you think these planes stand a chance of getting up in the air by tomorrow morning?”
“Sir, this storm is supposed to continue straight on through the night and into tomorrow afternoon. They’re talking over a foot of snow. We can’t even get our guys out there to de-ice the planes until the snow stops and the temperature climbs up out of freezing.” She shifted over to a computer terminal and put her bright pink acrylic nails to work on the keyboard. The sound was like tiny birds pecking on a Frisbee. “You can either wait out the storm or I can go ahead and cancel your flight. If I cancel the flight, though, I’m afraid there’s no way to retrieve your checked luggage from the plane until we’re able to send a crew out onto the tarmac.”
“Wonderful.”
“Then what would you like to do, sir?”
He handed over his boarding pass. “Let’s go ahead and cancel the flight, please.”
The woman went back to work on the keyboard, her startling pink talons hammering away. She glanced at the boarding pass. “This was supposed to be your connecting flight?”
“Yes. I flew in from New York this morning.”
“Rotten luck, getting stranded in a strange city. At least some of these folks can just go home. Do you have friends or relatives in the area?”
“No.” He checked his watch again. “How far is it to Des Moines, anyway? Mile-wise?”
“You’re talking about driving? A little over three hundred miles.”
“So about five hours?”
“At least,” she said. “And that’s in good weather. Sir, you’re not planning to actually drive in this mess, are you?”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “I need to get to Des Moines.”
The woman cocked her head toward the rows of seats where all the would-be travelers had planted themselves, their luggage corralled around their legs and their winter coats unbuttoned in the stifling heat of the airport. There was an air of dejection hanging heavy all around them. “All those folks need to get to Des Moines, too. We’ve got a whole airport full of cancelled flights.”
The printer beside the computer terminal whirred and spat out a perforated receipt for his cancelled flight. The woman tore the receipt free, folded it down the middle, and extended it to him over the counter. He grabbed it but she didn’t immediately let go, drawing him closer in an imitation of tug-of-war.
“And while I’m sure your family would love to have you home for Christmas,” she said, almost conspiratorially, “I can bet they wouldn’t want you risking your life to get there.”
She let go of the receipt and he stuffed it quickly into his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I mean it.”
“I do, too. Think about it.”
“I will.” But he already knew that was a lie; he had made up his mind before ever approaching this woman and he had no intention of changing his plans now. Too easily he could recall the guilt he’d felt in having that drawing of the cat on his refrigerator, and all the bullshit that had happened over the summer—ridiculous bullshit that was due only to his own carelessness and irresponsibility—which had prevented him from seeing his son. Just the fact that Brianna was amenable to him coming out for a couple of days for Christmas underscored exactly how important this visit was to their son.
He didn’t think he could live with himself if didn’t make it out to see Justin for Christmas.
Surprisingly, there wasn’t a very long line at the Rent-A-Ride counter. That’s because no one is crazy enough to drive in this weather, a small voice spoke up in the back of his head. For a second, he thought the voice sounded very much like Brianna.
“Great minds think alike.” It was Kate Jansen, coming up beside him in her too-small jacquard coat and knit cap.
“Or maybe we’re a couple of gluttons for punishment,” he said.
“Oh,” she retorted, “I’ve always been that.”
He waved a hand at the Rent-A-Ride counter. “Be my guest.”
“Thank you.”
Kate went to the counter and Todd filed in behind her. As if to emphasize the foolishness of driving in such weather, the few other customers at the desk were canceling their orders rather than picking up their vehicles. When the associate behind the counter finally called to Kate, it was already 6:30 P.M. Todd pulled out his cell phone and dialed Brianna’s number. It rang a number of times before she answered, sounding out of breath and distracted. Again, he pictured her scampering around the little house, scooping up Justin’s toys and stuffing unwashed clothes under the bed. This summoned image then segued into a real image—a memory—of lying in bed beside Brianna, the nakedness of her body accentuated by the pearl-colored moonlight pooling in through the bedroom windows. They were back in the old apartment in Greenwich Village, in a time before Justin was born, and they were both much younger and very much in love. He thought of the way she smelled in the sheets and the perfume fragrance of her hair fanned out along the plump pillows. He thought—
“Hello?”
“Hey, Bree.” Suddenly, his throat was parched. “It’s me. Have you been watching the news?”
“You mean the weather? Because it’s coming down pretty hard here, too. Are the flights being held up?”
“They’ve been cancelled.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” she said, and that was all she said. He knew she was disappointed for their son, but she was not talented enough—or she didn’t care enough?—to mask the subtle relief in her voice. This had promised to be a difficult weekend for the two of them.
“Listen,” he said, running a hand through his hair. The old stress was coming back to him in nauseating waves. “I’m renting a car and driving up. It’ll take most of the night but I’ll be there for Christmas morning.”
“Is that a good idea? The weather’s terrible, Todd.”
What do you care? he almost said, catching himself at the last minute.
“Unless I want to spend Christmas stranded in O’Hare, it’s the only option. And I want to see Justin.”
“Well,” she said, “he wants to see you, too.”
“Is he there? Can I talk to him?”
“He’s watching a Christmas special on television.”
“Can’t you put him on, Bree?”
He heard her expel a rasp of exasperated air. “Hold on,” she said, and set the phone down. Distantly, over the line, he could hear Brianna calling Justin’s name, followed by the blare of the television set in the background. Brianna came back on the line. “He’s coming.”
“Thanks, Bree.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Todd.”
There it is, he thought. Same old Bree, blaming me for the collapse of the world. As if this snowstorm was my own goddamn fault. Fuck you, Brianna.
But that wasn’t exactly fair, either. He’d fucked up enough in their marriage to warrant such accommodation.
“Daddy!” Justin’s smallish voice came over the line, filled with a jouncing glee that shot like an arrow straight into Todd’s heart. He felt his knees grow weak.
“Hey, sport.”
“It’s snowing!”
“It’s snowing here, too. Pretty neat, huh?”
“Can we build a snowman when you come?”
“We can build a whole army of them.” His voice trembled.
“Are you on the airplane?”
“Not yet, buddy.”
“Mommy took me to the mall and we bought you a Christmas prese
nt.”
“Is that right?”
“But I’m not supposed to tell you what it is. Mommy said it would ruin the surprise.”
“Well,” he said, “I guess she’s right.”
“When are you coming, Daddy?”
He closed his eyes and swiped a set of fingers over the lids. “I’ll be there in the morning, sport. When you wake up.”
“Good,” said his son, “because I miss you.”
“Miss you, too, Justin. And I love you.”
“Love you, Dad!”
“Put your mom back on.”
“Bye!”
Brianna came back on the line. “He’s been talking about this for weeks, you know. We shouldn’t have told him beforehand. You should have just surprised him when you got here. This way—”
He cut her off, knowing all too well where she was going. “I won’t disappoint him, Brianna. I’ll be there. I promise.”
Again: that exasperated sigh. “I’ve told you a million times, Todd,” she said. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” And before he could respond, she said, “Be careful driving. Good-bye.” Then she hung up.
He glanced down at his cell phone, and at the flashing CALL ENDED on the screen. The hand holding the cell phone was shaking.
“Next,” said the attendant behind the rental car counter. Kate had taken her paperwork and her small carry-on bag and slid down the length of the counter.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m gonna need something that can get me to Des Moines.”
The attendant—a dark-skinned teenager whose face was peppered in a barrage of pimples—sucked his lower lip. When he spoke, he did so in an indistinct Middle Eastern accent. “Unfortunately, sir, the only thing we have left are economy-size vehicles, none of which—”
“No four-wheel drives? Jeeps? Anything like that?”
“So sorry, sir. I just gave away our last four-wheel-drive vehicle. And I must advise you, sir, that to drive to Iowa in this weather—”
“What about chains? Do you guys put chains on the tires?”
“We do not have these chains, sir. The weather, you see, is very bad right now and we’re—”
“I don’t need a lecture,” he said, the strains of his son’s voice still resonating in his head. “I need a car.”
