Lou is waiting at the Port Authority terminal, watching for the Washington bus. She waits at bay number 5. She is bracing herself, preparing herself, in case Samantha is not, after all, on board. This would not be a new script.
The bus arrives. She cannot see in through the dark-tinted glass. She has to wait. Most of the passengers are black: mothers with sleepy children in their arms, old women struggling with bulging soft-sided bags, young men with shaven heads and jeans so loose it seems a minor miracle that the pants stay up.
And then Samantha appears at the top of the steps and Lou feels vertigo. She feels stuck in the zoom lens of a camera that is fixated on a white-faced child at the top of a chute. The child turns back to look inside the plane. She does not want to leave. Somebody pushes her. Helter-skelter, limbs cartwheeling, she hurtles toward Lou.
“Lou,” Sam says, hugging her. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m just—I’m not,” Lou protests. “I’m just happy you’re here.”
“Lou, this is Lowell. Lowell, this is my aunt.”
Lowell is carrying what Lou at first takes to be a baby in a blue canvas sling. He wears the sling low, against his heart, and cradles the infant with his arms.
“Do you have your car?” Sam asks.
“No. You told me not to.”
“Right,” Sam says. “Right. I forgot I said that. It’s good you don’t have it. But we need to get out of sight as quickly as possible. Can we take a cab direct to your place?”
“Sure,” Lou says, slightly dazed. “By the way, someone called and asked for you today.”
Lowell and Sam look at each other.
“Uh-oh,” Sam says. “Who called?”
“Well, I don’t know. They didn’t leave a message.”
“How did they ask? What did you tell them?”
“It was a man. Very pleasant. He said—let me think now … I’ll try to get this exact … He said, ‘I’m trying to get in touch with Samantha Raleigh and I understand that you’re her aunt.’
“And I said, ‘Yes, I am. But she doesn’t live in New York.’”
“Then what?”
“Then he said, ‘I know that, but she isn’t answering at her Washington number. I’m a close friend and I need to reach her urgently. Do you happen to know where she is?’
“I said, ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. Would you like to leave a message?’
“And then he hung up.”
“On second thought,” Sam says, “we won’t go to your place.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s get coffee here in the concourse.”
As soon as they are installed at a bistro table, Sam excuses herself. “Phone book,” she says. “Won’t be long.” She finds a Bell booth and a telephone directory and flips to the yellow pages. She makes a call.
“Okay,” she says, back at the table. “I’ve reserved a room at some nothing little motel near JFK. Lou, can I ask a very big favor?”
Lou purses her lips, half affectionate, half amused. “Is this a new trend? Asking permission to ask big favors?”
“Would you be able to fly to Paris today?”
Lou blinks. “That’s a … whew! Well. That certainly sets a new benchmark. Your visits are never humdrum, Sam.”
“Just for a couple of days,” Sam says.
“Oh well,” Lou says. “Piece of cake.”
“We’ve got some videotapes we have to get out of the country. Lowell’s father was murdered for them.”
Lou makes a helpless gesture with her hand. “When you put it like that,” she says dryly, “how can I refuse? Let me think. Let me think … I’d have to call the college and the gallery. Make arrangements. I suppose I could do it.”
“Could you make the calls after you get to Paris?”
“Sam, honestly.”
“I’m serious. In case your phone’s tapped. Or can I make them after you’re gone?”
“It’s not the sort of thing that a call from a stranger can arrange, Sam. But I suppose I could call from Paris, or e-mail the department. Claim emergency.”
“I love you,” Sam says. “Take a cab to your apartment, pick up your passport and toothbrush, and then meet us at the Flyaway Motel near JFK. I can explain everything now, or later at the motel, whichever you’d prefer.”
“I think you’d better explain now,” Lou says.
“Okay. Then we’ll need another round of cappuccinos.”