The City of Your Final Destination

by Peter Cameron

  “There’s nothing we can do about it,” said Omar. “So just relax.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” said Deirdre. “You’re happily narcotized.”

  Omar was under the influence of sedatives prescribed by Dr. Peni. “I am sleepy,” said Omar. “I just want to sleep. Wake me up in Miami.”

  “I can’t sleep sitting up among strangers like this,” said Deirdre. “Perhaps no one will sit in these two seats, and we can spread out.”

  “I doubt it,” said Omar. “Didn’t they say the flight was full when you asked to change seats?”

  “Yes,” said Deirdre. “It’s fully booked. But someone may not turn up. Oh, no—look: a woman with a baby. Please God, don’t let her sit beside me.”

  God was not listening to Deirdre. The woman, who was young, well dressed, and pretty, assumed the aisle seat and buckled her toddler into the seat next to Deirdre. She smiled at Deirdre as she did this, clearly waiting for Deirdre to comment on the child’s darlingness, but Deirdre only managed a weak smile. There should be a separate airline for people with children, she thought, or at least a separate section of the plane for them.

  The baby was given a bottle of some thick, yellowish milky substance. It looked like eggnog. It sucked at it happily and gazed at Deirdre. Deirdre turned to Omar and tried to complain to him, but he was giving his attention to the flight attendants, who were explaining the disaster procedures. Omar always gave his full attention to these speeches; he even removed and studied the safety brochure in the seat pocket, mostly because he felt sorry for the flight attendants performing to no one (for this reason he never really enjoyed the theater, for he was always aware of how keenly an audience’s indifference could be felt) and partly because he wanted to know what to do in case of disaster. He wished they actually let you practice with the oxygen masks and life vests and (supposed) floating seat cushions: merely talking about it did not seem like adequate preparation.

  They had taken off and he was about to fall asleep when Deirdre poked him. “Look at that,” she said. “Look over there. Look what that baby’s eating.”

  Omar looked past Deirdre. The mother was feeding the baby something pinkish from a small can.

  “What is it?” Omar whispered.

  “It’s cat food,” Deirdre hissed. “She’s feeding her baby cat food.”

  “Why do you think it’s cat food?” asked Omar.

  “Because it is. I can smell it. Look at it. And that’s a cat food can.”

  “Of course it’s not cat food,” said Omar. “And even if it is, it’s none of your business. People have different customs here, different diets. You shouldn’t be judgmental. It’s her baby.”

  The woman smiled at them. She thought they were admiring how well her child ate. “He is a hungry boy,” she said.

  Omar fell asleep and awoke to hear both the baby and Deirdre screaming. Deirdre was standing up—well, trying to stand up, since her seat belt was still fastened—and flailing her arms. Apparently—very apparently—the child had regurgitated his supper all over her.

  Deirdre spent an hour trying to wash and dry her soiled and stinking garments in the rest room, yet she remained damp and putrid the entire trip. In Miami they missed their connection and were forced to spend six hours seated in a lounge where one flight after another was tediously announced with identically complicated and hierarchical instructions for boarding; as soon as one flight was dispatched the entire ordeal began with another, and they decided this was Hell: the fluorescent-lit airport waiting lounge with its incessant and brutalizing public address system which did not allow them to read or talk or think. And they could not escape it because they were on standby for almost every flight, as there were so many lovely ways to get home, via Houston or Atlanta or Pittsburgh or Chicago or St. Louis, and they had been ordered to remain at all times near the podium.

  Finally, after a long interval in which they had both seemed to sink into a catatonic stupor, Deirdre said, “We will not be here forever. That’s what I’m hanging on to. It seems otherwise, but I know, logically, that I will not be spending the rest of my life in this place. I know that eventually, in a matter of hours or days, we will be home. There will come that moment when we climb the stairs and put the key in the lock. I am going to put myself on hold until then.”

  “I just want to sleep in my own bed,” said Omar.

  “But I thought—”

  “What?” Omar asked.

  Deirdre looked away from him, she looked at the board that displayed all the arrivals and departures that were not theirs. “I thought you were coming to stay with me. At least in the beginning. At least until you’re well.”

  “But I really long for my own bed,” said Omar. “You know how that is. I think I will be more comfortable there.”

  “Yes, but it’s not really your bed,” said Deirdre.

  “What do you mean? Oh—you mean it’s Yvonne’s. You mean I don’t have my own bed.”

  “Omar, no. I didn’t mean that. I just meant that I think until you’re feeling yourself again, I don’t think you should be living alone. Especially so far away from everything, out there at Yvonne’s. And in a way, you’re right: it is Yvonne’s bed. Or Yvonne’s guest-room bed. You can’t be sentimentally attached to a bed you’ve only slept in for four or five months. In fact, I bet you’ve slept in my bed almost as often.”

  Perhaps, thought Omar: he had spent many nights in Deirdre’s bed. The two-month interval between the fire and moving to Yvonne’s, and many nights before and after that, nights in Deirdre’s bed, which always seemed to be neatly made, with clean sheets and lots of pillows. Yet it was Deirdre’s bed, in Deirdre’s apartment, and he wanted his own bed. It was not a matter of the number of nights he had slept in it, or who owned it, it was not about history or real estate, it was the way he felt when he lay down upon it in darkness.

  He decided to use another tactic. “I think it will be quieter out at the lake. I don’t want to be in your noisy apartment with Marc Antony and his new boyfriend fucking all the time.”

  “Omar! My apartment isn’t noisy. And I didn’t say they fucked all the time. I just said I heard them twice.”

  “In the same night. Of course they fuck all the time. Everyone does in the beginning. Anyway, it’s a moot question, because unlike you I don’t think we’re ever going to leave here. I think we should resign ourselves to living the rest of our lives here and make the best of it.”

  But about that, at least, Deirdre was right: eventually they did get home. Marc Antony was to have met them at the airport, but because of the delay, they took a taxi.

  Omar paid for it out of his fellowship money: it was, after all, a legitimate traveling expense.

  They did not speak in the taxi. They sat on opposite sides of the backseat with their luggage piled between them (Omar was always afraid to put his luggage in the trunk of a taxi, because he believed they could charge you extra for this). As they approached Hiawatha Woods, which was several miles out of town, Omar looked over at Deirdre, who leaned exhaustedly against the far window. The pale winter light fell upon her face and illuminated her sadness. Omar was overcome with a tender feeling for her: she had done so much for him, she had traveled all the way to Uruguay and brought him safely home. “Deirdre?” he said.

  She looked over at him, attempting to compose and animate her face but the exhaustion was too complete, it filled her to the brim and did not allow for adjustment. Omar had never seen her look like this: her face was drawn and blank, defeated somehow: Deirdre who was indefatigable. “What?” she said.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be alone yet. May I stay with you a night or two?”

  “Of course you may,” she said. She reached across the divide of luggage. “You can stay with me for as long as you want.”

  He stayed at Deirdre’s for three nights, and on the morning of the third night they made love. Perhaps it was something about their dreams, for they turned
to each other upon waking simultaneously predisposed. It was so nice when it happened like that, so tender and spontaneous, slowly, slowly, warm in bed, in the pale light of the winter morning. And when they were finished, when they had successfully passed between them what needed to be passed, they did not speak, they just held each other and closed their eyes while the light gradually filled the room. It was the last time they made love.

  That afternoon Gwendolyn Pierce, who had been house- and dog-sitting while Omar was away, drove Omar’s car into the town. She left it in the bank parking lot with the keys beneath the seat. When he went to claim it, there was a note waiting for him, taped to the steering wheel:

  Omar,

  Welcome back and hope you’re feeling better. Thanks for letting me stay here. It was great and peaceful and I got a lot of work done. It’s a great place to work. Does the TV work? It seemed not to but maybe I couldn’t figure out the cable or something. Everything was fine. I’m not sure about the snow on the roof, should it be shoveled off or something? It’s getting pretty deep—don’t know if that’s a problem or not. Mitzie is fine. I let her out after lunch and couldn’t find her before I left, but I’m sure she’ll be waiting for you, or be back by dinnertime. I looked for her and called but had to run because I have a class at 2:00. Thanks again, Gwen.

  P.S. I made a few long-distance calls to Tempe and New York City. Let me know what I owe when the bill comes. There is leftover lasagna in the refrigerator (veggie). Thought you could eat it for dinner tonight!

  P.P.S. Did you hear? Garfield retired (finally) and Lucy GK is new chair (eek!).

  That night, finally in his bed which was not his, in the house that was not his, deep in the silent woods, Omar lay awake, listening for any sound that might be Mitzie. He had been out much of the night, trekking through the snowy woods, looking for her, but she was gone. He thought of Mitzie, alone in the woods. He remembered from The Call of the Wild that sled dogs dug cocoons for themselves in the snow and slept warmly. Would Mitzie know to do that? Was it instinctual or genetic or learned behavior? Or perhaps Mitzie was dead on some road somewhere. He would take the car tomorrow and drive around the surrounding roads. Oh, how awful: first the fire and then this. There was always some tragedy about to happen, there was always something lurking, an unseen violence ; he could not escape it. He was doomed. He had forgotten that he was doomed. He should know it by now, he should know it well by now, but he always forgot. He remembered drinking the champagne on the flight down, toasting himself, Deirdre, his future. What a fool he had been.

  The next day he was putting up LOST DOG posters around the campus when Lucy Greene-Kessler approached him.

  “Omar!” she said. “How are you?”

  He turned away from the kiosk and saw her. She was wearing a loden-green cape and a mannish hat with a little gold feather in it. Her eyes were keen and gold and her cheeks were red.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Well, actually I’m not. I’ve lost my dog.” He indicated the poster. “Yvonne’s dog. Congratulations, I hear you’re the new department chair.”

  “Well, acting chair,” said Lucy. “But how are you? How are you feeling? We’ve been worried about you. We understand you were very ill.”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “I was. But I’m feeling better.”

  “You were in a coma?”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “Did you manage to get any research done? It would be awful to go that far for nothing.”

  “I did a little,” said Omar. “But I’d like to talk to you about the fellowship.”

  “Of course,” said Lucy. “Could you come by my office later this afternoon? About four?”

  “Yes,” said Omar.

  “Great,” said Lucy. “I’ll see you then. Oh, I’ve moved into Garfield’s office. So don’t go looking for me down in the basement.”

  “Okay,” said Omar. “I won’t.”

  Lucy had obviously spent much time redecorating Nicholson Garfield’s office, which was a large room on the top floor of Dawe Hall with a windowed bay and a fireplace. She had installed a couch and some easy chairs in the bay and had replaced the paper blinds with curtains. It was all very homey.

  Lucy saw Omar looking around at the changes and said, “Since I’ll have to spend so much time in here, I decided to fix it up a bit, make it more like home. My home away from home! I don’t know how Garfield could stand it, although all I think he did in here was sexually harass women and smoke that awful pipe. I had the windows wide open for days getting the stink out.” Lucy shuddered. “I nearly froze myself to death, but at least I can breathe now. Let’s sit over there.” She indicated the alcove. “It’s cozier, I think. I feel too much like Garfield behind this desk. He wanted to take the desk with him, which was fine with me, but we couldn’t get it out of the door. And there was no way it could go down the stairs. Apparently it was hoisted through the window centuries ago, so I’m stuck with it. C’est hideous, non?”

  “Oui,” said Omar. It was a huge desk, intricately carved, with an abundance of claw feet.

  Lucy assumed a rocking chair and nodded at the couch. Omar sat down. Lucy took a shawl off the back of the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. “It’s chilly over here by the windows. I’m having maintenance come look at the fireplace. Garfield had it filled with junk. No one seems to know if it works. Wouldn’t it be lovely if it does? I was thinking I could host fireside teas in here, a few members of the faculty each week, and select a topic to discuss. You might speak one week about your work with Gunk. I really think the intellectual life and the social life of the university should be more entwined.” She laced her fingers together by way of illustration. “Or perhaps not just the English faculty, perhaps inviting people from other departments, bring them together, a chemist, a historian, someone from gender studies: bringing a group like that together for fireside teas, I think it could make a world of difference.”

  Omar allowed as how it would.

  “Speaking of tea, would you like some? I can ask Kathy to brew us a pot, if you’d like. I’ve got some lovely loose Darjeeling.”

  “No, thank you,” said Omar.

  “Well,” said Lucy, leaning back in her chair and rocking a little. “I’m so glad to hear that despite your trouble your trip was a success. I think it’s wonderful you got the Siebert Petrie Award, Omar. Really, I do. Have I ever told you? You know I was on the committee, don’t you? Some people—Garfield for one—were a little skeptical about your project; they didn’t think Gunk was a known-enough commodity.”

  “It’s Gund,” said Omar.

  “What?”

  “It’s Gund, who I’m working on: Jules Gund. Not Gunk.”

  “Gund, of course, Gund. I thought I said Gund. Whatever. My point is, I went to bat for you. Garfield was all excited by Teresha Lake’s work on Hawthorne. Personally, I think we know all we need to know about Hawthorne, but someone like Gund, well, we’re breaking ground here. We’re on the cutting edge, and that’s where I want this department to be.”

  Omar stood up. He looked past Lucy, out the bay windows. It had gotten dark while they sat there and the lamps along the pathways were lit. It was snowing, the flakes falling quickly and thickly, with a depressing insistency, as if they were in a hurry to bury the earth.

  “I’ve decided not to write the biography,” he said. “I’ve decided to return the award.”

  “Omar! What are you talking about? I thought you said you had done some research down there—”

  “No,” said Omar. “I’m sorry. I was lying. I’ve decided not to write a biography of Jules Gund.”

  “Why?” asked Lucy. “Why not?”

  Omar shook his head. “And I won’t be coming back next semester. I’ve decided to leave academia.”

  “Why? Is this something to do with Garfield? I’m committed to change, Omar, really I am. I want things to be different in the department.”

  “It’s nothing to do with the department,” said Omar. />
  “Then I don’t understand. Do you have a better offer someplace?”

  “No,” said Omar.

  “Then what?” asked Lucy.

  “It’s just not what I want,” said Omar.

  “Oh,” said Lucy. “What do you mean: writing the biography or teaching?”

  “Both,” said Omar.

  “Oh,” Lucy said again. “Well, I’m sure you know what’s best for you. At least I assume you do. And perhaps you’re right. I mean, I was looking over all the student evaluations—one thing I mean to do is to improve the level of teaching throughout the department—and I did notice some comments about you that frankly gave me pause. Perhaps you aren’t meant to be a teacher, Omar.”

  “Yes,” said Omar. “Perhaps not.”

  “Well, it can be a curse, you know,” said Lucy, with a faux-bright laugh. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Best to cast the mantle off now, before it weighs too heavily upon you, and all is lost.”

  “That’s exactly what I think,” said Omar.

  “But it’s such a shame: your work with Gund, and the fellowship. But perhaps he is too negligible.”

  “I think he is,” said Omar. “I found there really isn’t much there.”

  “Yes,” said Lucy. “That’s often the case with writers: the dreariness of their lives! And we critics vainly rooting through things, trying to find something—anything—in the prosaic murk. That’s why it’s so wonderful working on Woolf—there’s so much there. Simply no end to it. But with someone like Gund, you’re well out of it, I suppose. But I’ll miss you. It was nice having someone from your cultural background in the program. We will all miss that.”

  “Well,” said Omar, “I just wanted to let you know as soon as possible, so you could plan accordingly for next year.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy. “You will finish out the semester, won’t you?”