“Good morning, this is your scheduled wake up call.”

Vodka. Never again.

I drag myself out of bed and head straight for the shower where the first cold stream hits like an electric current. I’d step away if I weren’t so focused on finding the handle to the chef’s knife that’s lodged in my brain.

Before long, the shower turns into a suffocating steam bath. I try to heave but come up empty. The effort leaves me dizzy and I start to grab for something, anything, but this shower is too damn big for a hangover.

I kill the water before it kills me. I’m clean enough. The towels are a mile away so I lean against the wall. It’s cool.

Eventually the steam clears enough that I can see myself in the mirror. From head to toe I look hideous—like some sort of dripping discharge. I forgive Liz immediately.

Hobbling across the enormous tiles to the sinks, I do a quick once over with the toothbrush and try a shot of mouthwash which only makes me gag again before I spit it out.

Back in the room, I’m careful to pack my suit neatly but everything else gets stuffed into a heap. Jeans, sweatshirt, and yesterday’s socks will do for today. Check the room a last time, nothing there, and head straight for the door. I need food.

The lobby is packed. People everywhere. People talking everywhere. Can’t they all just be silent for ten minutes?

Thankfully, the dining room is less crowded. I order the breakfast special which seems to have one or two of everything greasy.

The food comes quickly. I swallow it faster.

It’s eight-forty-five. Somehow I’m half an hour ahead of schedule. I drop my head to the table, feeling the rancid soup in my stomach mix with half-chewed eggs, bacon, waffles, and toast—all lubricated by two glasses of pure acid orange juice. Thank God Amy won’t be next to me on this flight.

Before heading to the desk, I make a must needed trip to the restroom which happens to kill twenty minutes. Ten pounds lighter, and feeling only slightly less vile, I step up to the counter.

“Did you enjoy your stay, Mr. Haskins?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it. Please come again soon.”

“I will, thanks.”

I’m about to turn away when I think to ask about Deacon. Technically, he has the same flight booked as me. I ask if he’s checked out. He hasn’t. Could they ring his room? No answer.

“Is there a problem?” The manager asks.

“No problem.” Good riddance, I think.

Back towards the entrance hall, Amy’s standing in a pea coat with a small red suitcase by her side. She looks amazing. I wonder if that was really her drinking along with me.

“Morning!” She says.

“How are you alive?”

“Quick healer, I guess.”

“Going somewhere?” I ask, pointing at the suitcase.

“Thought I’d try to beat the storm.”

We exit the golden entrance together. I feel like I should have words but I don’t. Getting from A to B is all I can muster right now.

Outside, there’s already two inches of snow on the ground with plenty more falling. The doorman takes our bags and we slide into the back of a waiting cab.

“O’Hare, please,” I request.

The ride seems to go quickly. At one point I watch the reflected skyline in the driver’s glass barrier. It doesn’t seem real. As if I might turn around to see New York instead and this cab could just pull right and take the next exit straight on home to Hoboken.

Amy doesn’t say much. I feel bad that I don’t either. I must look a lot like Deacon did when we first drove in. At least I’m collected enough not to say “Wake me when we get there.”

Before I know it, we’re standing inside O’Hare which is a total mob scene. People are everywhere, sleeping against walls, splayed out across chairs.

Without a ticket for today, Amy can’t enter the terminal. I offer to stand in the check-in line with her but the wait promises to be over an hour long. She insists I go ahead. “Don’t miss your flight over me,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say, stopping.

“For what?”

“Keeping me company in Chicago.”

“No way, man, thank you. It was nice to have someone to share it with.”

“Maybe we can share New York, too?”

“Maybe,” she says.

“Well get home safe.”

“You too.”

“Love you.” It fell out. Every time I’d ever left someone at an airport it’d been a family member. Luckily, she just laughs it off.

“Alrighty, Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you, too.”

Walking away, it starts to hit me how pathetic of a goodbye this is. I feel like she deserves better, or more. A quiet place, at least, not this mass of frantic humanity. I’ve seen dive bars more orderly than this airport. I stop to look back, her standing alone in a perpetual line, little red suitcase by her side, and it feels like that, too—the awful feeling that comes over when you can’t see a girl home from a bar, home from all the crazies and malcontents.

I jog back.

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay? I can wait.”

“James. You need to get home. I’ll be okay. I’ll be home again soon enough.” She steps towards me. “Thanks, though,” and throws her arms around me, kissing me on the cheek. That same perfume I’d been chasing on our original flight envelopes me all over again.

“I’ll see you back home,” I say, unwinding from the hug. Our hands touch and she clutches mine. Her eyes have welled up. She says goodbye this time with a smile.

It’s now or never so I give her one last tug and let go, off into the frenzied mass—beyond all the check-in counters, through the maze at security, and back past the dinosaur standing above it all.

Finally at my concourse, I check the Departures screen. Everything before one P.M. is displayed in green as ‘ON TIME,’ while everything after is stained with a bright red ‘CXL’D.’ My flight is at twelve-fifteen.

I turn to look outside. It hadn’t been bad while driving in, but now the great big windows of O’Hare reveal that the snow’s coming down in heaps. I don’t know much about planes, but I imagine it’s a fine line between what they can handle and what they should handle. The old nerves begin to creep up my system as I pray the pilots and controllers know the difference.

In the terminal, I stop at a newsstand and pick up the first book that’s not geared to women, children, or vampires. Something to do with a dying newspaper. I grab a Sports Illustrated to go with it.

The gate is as disturbing as the check-in entrance. The service line is fifty deep and travelers are sprawled everywhere. I’m fortunate to catch a last open chair beside a young couple next to the counter.

In front of us, a father pleads his case for boarding the next flight with his five-year old son beside him. A few feet away, the mother watches, holding a newborn in one arm while a third child uses her leg as a stretching post below. From over her shoulder, the newborn attempts to eat his entire fist, totally oblivious to the calamities around him.

Up above, AirStation TV provides the weather report, rubbing in what we already know. There’s a blizzard coming and this is the last chance out of Chicago for two days.

I pull out my book and try to read but the scenes in front of me make it nearly impossible.

The news doesn’t look good for the family. The father has his head in his hands and seems to be pleading. The gate rep can only shake her head as she repeats intermittent apologies. There are only two seats available and everyone in the family, including the baby, needs to have their own seat.

“Where are we supposed to go?” He asks.

“Our concierge can help you book a hotel,” the rep responds. I catch her looking at the kids and it’s clear that the phrase took some effort to say aloud, but what else can she say?

The back and forth continues for a minute longer before she finally asks if he could please step aside so that she can attend to the rest of the customers. He obliges and turns to face his family. The wife, sensing his torment, steps towards him and offers a hug for encouragement. He starts to apologize but she stops him midsentence, reminding him that it will be okay.

“You should go,” he says. “Take the baby with you and head to your mother’s house. I’ll take care of these two.”

“We’re not breaking apart over Christmas!” She harps back.

“But what are we going to do here? We can’t keep the baby in a hotel for two days. That is, if we can still get a hotel.”

“We’ll make do.”

Over the loudspeaker, the attendant finally announces the obvious. The flight has been overbooked. In response, she now offers that any ticketed passengers may delay their travel arrangements in exchange for future credit or alternative compensation. Facing at least two days, including Christmas, no one budges.

At least the flight is still on time. I think of calling of Julie. She had called while I was moving through security and I hadn’t had a chance to call back. I’m about to dial when I get a text from Amy.

“UGH. OHARE = HELL. HOW U DOING?”

“Place is a zoo,” I respond back.

Up ahead, a man wearing a pair of yellow pants with embroidered whales starts to flip out on the attendants. As if by instinct, my eyes follow the invisible line from his cursing to the hand-eating baby from before. Sure enough, the smile is gone and replaced by a stiffened mouth and squenched eyes. The mother, sensing the tensing body in her arms, starts to pull away but never has a chance. Her baby’s now piercing scream echoes through the terminal while she’s caught turning circles in its center, frantically searching for any nook to hide in.

In response, Whalepants takes it upon himself to not only raise his voice even louder, but begins to unleash a firestorm of obscenities for good measure. In thirty seconds, I count six f-bombs, two dammits, and another word that needs not repeating. When he finally calls the attendant a “Robot with tits” two passengers behind him come to the attendant’s rescue. Disappointed I hadn’t thought to do so myself, I have to look away so I’m not called out on my cowardice.

I think about being back in New Jersey. Part of me is happy to be done with this doomed trip, but then again I realize there’s not much I’m returning to either. I’d been growing tired of home for long enough that even this business trip seemed like a vacation. It felt good to be away—from the office, my closet of an apartment, the daily repetition, and every other problem I could associate with home. Even Christmas, which I’ve always looked forward to, has lost its luster. Somehow it’s become a formality of remembrance instead of the happy sort of day it should be.

And of course there’s Amy. I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. She says we will but it’s impossible to say for sure. I hope so.

Up ahead, with security beginning to move in, Whalepants starts to roll out. A small group of people actually begin to clap and I’m amazed to see that the entire incident served to lighten the mood of the line. All their travel plans are still in jeopardy, but at least they can rejoice in the fact that justice was served on this asshole.

I look back at the attendant and am totally impressed that she’s already smiling for the next customer.

“Not my first circus,” I hear her say when someone congratulates her for the same. Moments later, she’s back on the loudspeaker after rejecting yet another, but this time more forgiving passenger.

“We are now offering a three hundred dollar credit as well as a free round-trip flight anywhere in the domestic United States.”

My phone buzzes again. “GOING 2 MAKE IT OUT?”

“Think so. You?” I reply.

I catch the father from before standing beside the line. He’s alone now. I suppose at some point his son had been forced to choose between parents and decided he could better support Mom with the baby. Dad would have to solve the travel arrangements alone.

Left with the impossible burden, the Dad’s face is paled white and his body slouched. Fate has decided that he should stay in a crowded hotel for two more days while caring for a wife and two young children. Maybe if he remains frozen long enough, the days will pass.

“We can now offer five hundred dollars worth of airline credit, a night’s hotel, as well as complimentary round-trips flights to any passengers willing to exchange their tickets for this flight.”

Most passengers roll their eyes but in the corner I spot a gray-haired couple bent over in a strategy session. Every few seconds the wife peaks her head up like a bird to see if anyone’s jumping to hit the bid. It’s obvious that they’re in absolutely no hurry to get home, and with a fair deal in hand, they’re balking the system for more.

Buzz. Buzz. “DON’T KNOW.”

“Yea. Overbooked here,” I text back.

“Hey babe, how many seats she say?” Asks the guy next to me to his wife.

“Not sure.”

“Three,” I say, entering the conversation.

“Three, huh?”

“Yea.”

“What do you think?” He asks her.

“What about your parents?”

“My parents? They’re probably conked on egg nog, dressing Charlie’s kids up like reindeer. We could show up in July and they’d still think it’s Christmas.”

“What about you, though, hun? We went to my house last year.”

“I don’t mind. We still got a shot out tomorrow, worse case we try again in February. Thousand bucks doesn’t sound so bad. You could get that table you wanted.”

“Well they still need another ticket.”

The old vultures in the corner are practically falling out of their seats now. It’s like they’re in a casino and they’ve got the house cornered. They can’t wait to roll the dice one more time to see what absurd offer will come next.

Buzz. Buzz. “STUCK.”

Like I have a choice.

“Where’d that family go?” I shout out to the couple.

“They split up,” he answers.

“The mom’s over there,” follows his wife, pointing across the terminal. Mom’s hiding behind a pair of redundant phone booths to dim the noise while her two older children stand backwards on chairs behind her, staring out across the white tarmac.

“There’s the dad in line,” he says. I look up and down the front of the line but can’t find him.

“Where?”

“All the way in the back.” He’s right. Dad, looking utterly hopeless, had made his way back to the very end of the line, behind thirty others.

In front of us, the attendant reaches for the mic to make what’s likely to be the last offer. I’ve seen enough.

“The three of us for that family,” I say to the couple. “I’m okay with it if you are.”

They look at one another and nod in approval. It’s all I need to see or hear.

“We have three tickets,” I say, bolting to the desk and pointing to my new friends. “Two hotel rooms, the five hundred dollars apiece, a flight tomorrow, and make sure that man’s family gets on,” I finish, signaling now to the Dad.

“Done,” answers the attendant without hesitation.

In the corner, the mortified vultures begin to shuffle their way to the desk as fast as they can.

“We’d like to accept that last offer!”

“Well, thanks to these three, we’ve filled the seats we needed most. I can still offer a single first class seat on the next available flight, if you’d like, but I’m afraid that’s the best I can do for right now. Are you still interested?”

Both of them exhale louder than necessary but they know it’s futile. Their gamble failed. The prize of a free vacation swept away at the cost of an on-time arrival. They snarl their noses once more and shuffle away together with drooped faces as if their rotting corpse had been taken from right beneath them.

“Let me get your names real quick,” asks the attendant. I introduce myself followed by the couple, Phil and Claire Weir.

“Great,” she says. “Now if you’ll give me just one minute.”

Then, for the first time since I’d arrived, the attendant leaves her station behind the counter and jogs to the father at the end of the line, handing him five tickets and explaining the situation. He’s stunned. When she points our way, he can hardly react.

We just nod our heads politely.

Finding his composure, he steps back and starts to do circles like his wife had done earlier. This time it’s him trying to find her. Eventually, he spots them by the discarded phone booths and sprints over, presenting the oldest son with the golden tickets. Turning to his wife, he recaps what had happened and she immediately falls into his arms with streaming tears. Below them, the baby, all the while the barometer of their situation, does what looks to be a small fist pump before going right back to where he began—mouthing his tiny fist.

Suddenly, the father points towards us. I start to wish this had been more of an anonymous transaction. They’re all running now.

“I can’t thank each of you enough,” he says when they arrive.

“Happy to help,” Phil responds.

“Do you all have places to stay?”

“We live here and the airline has him covered,” Phil says, gesturing towards me.

“Oh, good.”

“You really have no idea how much this means to us,” adds the mother.

“Travelers’ code,” responds Phil. “We all have to look out for one another, right?”

“But this is above and beyond. Is there anything we can do to say thank you?”

“Just get those kids on home so they can enjoy a Merry Christmas.”

The mother starts to cry again.

“The boarding’s starting,” Phil says to save her. “You all better get in there on time. The way it’s coming down now you won’t want to see the other end of a delay.”

“Kids, say Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas!” They shout like Chipmunks.

“Merry Christmas!” We shout back.

They all step away towards the last line they’ll face today—this time for boarding.

Afterwards, the attendant approaches us again and asks if we won’t mind waiting for the standbys to clear. She’ll help us with our arrangements from there.

Arrangements. It finally hits me for real. I’m about to spend another day, or even more, in Chicago, with Amy.

I send her another text: “Christmas in Chicago?”

The buzzing comes thirty seconds later, “!!!” Followed instantly by, “THANK YOU!!!”

Merry Christmas indeed. Then I remember Julie. I had completely forgotten about her. It’s a phone call I don’t want to make but have to.

“Hello?”

“Hey Jules, it’s James.”

“Hey. Everything okay?”

“I’m not going to make it.”

“What? Why not?”

“You know that snowstorm?”

“Yea? Was your flight cancelled?”

“Actually, I kind of gave my ticket away.”

“You what?”

“I gave my ticket up to another family.”

“Why would you do that? You won’t be here!”

“Well, there’s…” I’m about to tell her about the plan to try tomorrow but I know it’s not realistic. “I know,” is all I can say.

“What are you going to do then? Just sit out there alone in the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? James, you’re supposed to be here. It’s Christmas. That’s what we do now together.”

“I had to do it.”

 

“You didn’t have to do it. Why didn’t you call first?”

“I don’t know. It happened sort of quickly. I’m sorry.”

“You should have called. I’ve got the table all laid out with a spot for you and we’ve even got your stocking and everything. Matt was going to take you to the Knicks game tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry.”

She goes silent for a while before saying, “Don’t be sorry. I just wish you had called first. You really shouldn’t be alone on Christmas.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well you’re going to have to be, I guess. Can we celebrate when you do get back? Can you promise me that?”

“I promise.”

“Alright. Well keep in touch and let me know what’s going on when you find out, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And be safe.”

“I will.”

“Good. Love you, James.”

“Love you, too.”

As we share our “love you’s,” I watch the family board the plane. The son who was stretching against his mother earlier is now dead asleep on Dad’s shoulder. Mom still carries the baby while the oldest son triumphantly leads his family down the jetway. I had felt terrible about not calling Julie before deciding. Even more so while talking to her on the phone. Was I really passing up Christmas to spend a weekend with a girl? Watching the family board, however, eases the pain a little bit. Giving up my seat had been the right thing to do.

For all the mess of airline bookings, the arrangements are simple enough. We’re each placed on the same flight scheduled tomorrow, provided vouchers of up to three hundred dollars for wherever we are staying, plus given credits of five hundred dollars each with the airline. They even wait for me to reserve my room again to ensure I’m not stuck overnight. Much to the amusement of the attendant, I call The Frohman. At three hundred twenty dollars a night, the twenty to me is well worth it.

By the time we leave the gate, the earlier buzzing of the terminal has screeched to a halt. It’s like one of those movies where there’s only room for so many passengers on a rescue ship and a group has to be left behind. Here, all around, are the sacrificed hundreds that weren’t picked. Where earlier they were busy running from gate to gate in search of options, pleasantly or angrily making their inevitably losing case as to why they should be the last to board, they now either sit in some makeshift space with their heads down to collect their thoughts or trudge softly down the concourse with rolling bags thumping behind. We are still the lucky ones.

I text Amy and tell her to meet me by the security entrance to the terminal. Earlier, the area had looked like a cattle drive. Now, beyond all the metal detectors and rows and rows of retractable belt posts, it’s just her, standing in a single shaft of light, red suitcase beside. It’s been two hours but I feel like I’m returning from a two-year voyage. I start to run.

She doesn’t see me until I’m about to bowl her over. When she opens her arms instead of stepping aside, I nearly do.

“You’re back,” she says.

“I’m back.”

“What happened?”

“You happened.”

“Shut up!” She yells, pushing me out of our embrace. “But I’m glad you did,” she immediately follows, pulling me in for another hug.

“So this is why you stayed,” Claire says, once they’ve caught up.

“Don’t really have a choice, right?” I say, looking back towards Amy. She squints at me, but it’s not enough to prevent her from turning flush red first.

“I’m Claire, by the way, and this is Phil.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Amy.”

“So, you couldn’t get out either?” Asks Phil.

“No, not today.”

“Sucks, I guess, but look at the bright side. You guys are going to be snowed in for Christmas in Chicago, with all expenses paid, and balled up at Frohman no less. F’ing James, I still can’t believe you got away with that. Babe, next Christmas, let’s book the Ritz in Saskatchewan or something.”

“You really want to spend Christmas in Saskatchewan?”

“I want to spend Christmas at the Ritz.”

“Alright, so let’s just pay for it and go someplace warm.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Yea, it’s better.”

“Alright, alright,” Phil concedes. “Let’s get moving before I talk myself into something I can’t afford. Babe, what do you think, Blue Line? The highway’s gonna be a disaster.”

“Yea, hun.”

Phil starts to lead the way with Claire next to him. Amy and I follow.

“You want me to carry that, babe?” I whisper to Amy.

“Thanks, hun. I got it, though.”

• • •

To no surprise, the trains are backed up, as well. When one finally comes, there’s a dash inside. We manage to secure two seats for the girls while Phil and I stand beside them.

As soon as we start to roll alongside the highway, it’s clear Phil had made the right call.

“Unreal,” he says. “Thought they’d at least be moving.”

The highway slush piles halfway up the wheels of cars with no signs of slowing. I start to imagine what it would look like if the storm kept up and traffic stopped moving forward—an entire highway snowed over so that all that showed were the rolling mounds of submerged cars and the few boxed tops of trucks protruding upwards like square stones through a pond of ice.

“So what are you all going to do with yourselves?” Phil asks.

“Not sure yet. Amy, any ideas?”

“Something will come to mind.”

Suddenly, we start to hear a woman’s voice singing, low and tinny, as if there was a phonograph on board. I look up at the train’s speakers but they’re mute. Below me, Amy’s head is stretched back, her eyes focused down the row towards where an old woman sits, crooning a song to herself—

 

Swept away, by the cold snow blowin’
Made me pray, my skin still showin’
Led by midnight white, below the moon
Bless cold snow, help me get home soon

 

“This train, man, what a riot,” Phil says.

“We get a lot of singing in New York, too,” I respond. “Usually not as good as that, though.”

“She was pretty good, right?”

“Yea.” I look down at Amy. She’s still leaning back to see if the woman might attempt a reprise, but the woman’s head is bent forward now with eyes shut.

“How you like New York?” Phil asks.

“It’s fun,” I say.

“Yea. My family’s still out there, in Stamford.”

“Yanks fan?”

“No way. I only went to high school in Stamford, I really grew up in Baltimore. Die hard O’s fan. One day we’ll get it. You like the Yankees?”

“Yea.”

“Oh well, shit happens, right.”

“Twenty-seven times.”

“Yea, yea, yea. Claire’s brother’s like that. Kid’s spent his whole life in San Francisco and somehow he’s a Yankees fan, too.”

“Give him a break.”

“Listen, Claire, I love your brother, but that’s one thing I’m never giving him a break on.”

“Amy, do you watch baseball?” Claire asks.

“Huh?” Amy says. She hadn’t been paying any attention.

“Who’s your baseball team?”

“Don’t really care, to be honest.”

“I knew I liked this girl!” Claire yells. “I can’t get Phil to shut up about the Orioles, or the Ravens and Magicians.”

“Wizards, babe.”

“Whatever, I knew it was some magic crap.”

“Yea, it’s all the same to me, too,” Amy replies.

“James,” Claire says, “I think you’ve got a winner here.”

I start to laugh. It’s funny to hear strangers imply that we’re a couple. Amy comes up smiling, as well. When both Claire and Phil aren’t looking she gives me an impulsive wink as if to play along. It’s more encouragement than I need.

The train plows its way east on through the blizzard, stopping at station after station without anyone stepping on or off. At one point, Phil and I try to sit on our luggage but there’s not even room enough to bend our knees.

“Want me to sit on your lap, hun?” Claire asks Phil.

“I’m okay, babe.”

“Do you want to sit on my lap, James?” Amy says, looking about ready to burst.

“No thanks, sweetheart.”

“Any time, pumpkin.”

“Wise-asses,” cracks Phil.

The train finally banks away from the highway, though it makes little difference from a viewing standpoint. It’s essentially a white out now. Phil says we’re getting close, which is good, because I’m not sure how else we’d make it back if this thing were to break down.

As the stops continue to tick by, Phil rambles on while I try to acknowledge what I can. Mostly, however, I check on Amy who has since laid her head sideways on the red suitcase.

For just about everyone else onboard, the ride’s a slow grind back, each stop a cold reminder of a vacation delayed or a return to loved ones foiled. But as Amy makes a pillow out of her suitcase, I’m not sure there’s anywhere else I’d rather be. I know it’s a sham, maybe just an extra day of pretend, but after wandering alone in New York for so long, why shouldn’t I have that chance again?

The train screeches and stops and starts onwards once more.

Eventually, the crooning woman becomes the first to reach her station. In age, she’s easily passing sixty, yet she stands tall beneath an oversized winter coat.

“‘Scuse me, angel,” she says, brushing past.

On the platform, an overhang keeps the pathway dry for only fifteen feet before a two-foot snowdrift blocks the stairwell down to the adjacent lot. The woman, armed with rubber boots, barely hesitates, charging straight through the drift’s wall as the doors close.

Bless cold snow. I hope she gets home okay.

“Hey hun,” Claire says.

“Yea, babe?”

“Since we’re probably not going anywhere, let’s have people tomorrow night. I know Becky and Casey are still in town. Isn’t Tom, too?”

“Yea, think so.”

“Guys,” Claire says, turning to Amy and I, “I don’t know what your plans are, but you’re welcome to come if you’d like.”

“You sure?” I ask.

“Definitely! You shouldn’t be stuck on Christmas with no one to visit. Here, give me your cell phone.” I pull my phone out and am surprised when she takes it from my hand to enter the digits herself.

“Claire Weir,” she says under her breath, adding her name to my contacts. “Hey hun, look at me, I’m adding my number to some random, cute guy’s phone.”

“Good for you, babe.”

The train starts to thin out as we move deeper into the city. When we hit a station named Grand, Phil announces that it’s their stop.

“Take it one more to Clark, cross the river, and you’ll be close from there,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Nice meeting you, Amy,” he says, leaning down to shake her hand. “Same to you, James,” turning to me now. “I think we did the right thing.”

“I do, too,” I say.

Claire swings around quickly to kiss me goodbye. “You’d better come!” She says.

“We’ll be there,” I respond as they both turn to walk out.

When the doors shut, I take a seat next to Amy.

“Want me to drop you off at your hotel?” I ask.

“That’ll take too long. Can I change at your place?”

“Why? You have something planned?”

“Let’s get to the hotel first. If I tell you now, you might shoot it down.”

“I doubt that.”

“You say that now.”

We pull up to Clark/Lake a minute afterwards and find a short iron bridge a block away. Halfway across, Amy stops to take a picture of the city river canyon which she says reminds her of a snow globe. As soon as she says it, I realize she’s spot on, and take a picture myself—of the honeycomb building to the left and the square glass pedestals to the right—all standing still amidst a white swell while the river rushes beneath.

Once we’ve crossed, I ask Amy if she’d prefer to catch a cab the rest of the way.

“Let’s keep walking, this is fun,” she says as her red suitcase crackles along the salted sidewalk.

“Okay.”

Fourteen blocks and only one spill later, we arrive at the hotel with frozen hands and icy blue cheeks. Amy waits for me in the lobby while I check in for a second time.

“Is 1426 available by chance?” I ask the clerk at the front desk.

“It is if you’d like. I was going to put you in a corner room, slightly larger, but if you’d prefer 1426, we can do that.”

“It’s been good to me so far.”

“Very well,” says the clerk. “Here’s your keycard and welcome back to The Frohman, Mr. Haskins.”

“Happy to be back,” I reply, before turning towards the lobby. I find Amy engulfed within a massive loveseat.

“Excuse me, Ms. Pattison, but your room is ready.”

“Oh my, I thought I’d waited a lifetime.”

“Oh, but what’s a lifetime at The Frohman?”

She laughs and I offer her my arm on the way to the elevator.

“You do travel well, hun,” she says.

“All for you, babe.”

Reaching the fourteenth floor, she asks if I managed to get the same room. I hold her in suspense until we stop at 1426 and I swipe the door.

“Very impressive,” she says.

“I know people.”

“I bet you do.”

Inside, the room is just as miraculous as it was before, only better now with Amy’s company.

She heads straight for the bathroom “To get ready.” I ask if I need to dress up, as well. No more than you already are, she says. Ten minutes later, she comes out looking as pretty as ever in a green dress.

“Mind if I leave this here?” She asks, pointing to the suitcase.

“Not at all, but are you going to tell me what you have planned?”

“Alright,” she says, rebuttoning the top of her pea coat. “What do you think of blues?”

• • •

During the ride over, I had expected to walk into a dark, smoke-filled room with a single spotlight shining over a melancholy figure in a black turtleneck. Instead, this blues club is straight out of a southern, back roads, tin-roofed rattling joint. The walls are unabashed concrete, covered with crude murals of past performers painted alongside neon beer signs. Picnic tables loaded with baskets of wings and beer mugs replace cloth tables and the benches are all packed by weather blind locals sporting Bears-logoed knit caps and matching sweatshirts. This isn’t an audio therapy session at all—it’s a backyard bar-b-que with a beat.

Two beats, actually. Split by an open doorframe, there’s a second room competing with the first. In ours, a woman who has to be nearing fifty rips her pick across an acoustic guitar and bellows out lead vocals that batter against the concrete like a wrecking ball as the three-man band behind her sweats to keep pace. In the second room, only two men sit, one at a piano and the other carrying a guitar and harmonica, stretching out a soulful ballad together. The simultaneous double bill leaves me paralyzed by choice, but Amy saves me from looking like a confused tourist by pulling me towards the din of the original room.

We find two spots at the end of a center bench—still only twenty feet from the stage. When I sit down, the man next to me lets out a great, “WHEW!” and I jump up thinking I’ve done something wrong until another fan across the room hollers towards the stage, too. It seems like every line is met by a chorus of reactions from the crowd:

That’s how you raise the stakes

“That’s right!”

The game comes around

“Round an’ round!”

And now it’s your turn

“My turn now!”

Watch it’s your heart you don’t break

“Lord! You’re breaking mine!”

The band buzzes their instruments up for one last crescendo and with a final burst goes silent. Once the howls subside, I’m able to hear the second band through the open doorway and suddenly the genius of the dual-room set up reveals itself. They’re not competing at all, they’re complementing one another—filling any melody gap by one room with the beating of the other. It’s like having two taps pouring simultaneously. Taste a little of this, sip a little of that, so long as the beer is always flowing.

The opposite harmonica fades as the woman starts to croon again. I look over at Amy to see if she’s getting a buzz off the music like I am but she seems to be watching it all from a distance. While the crowd’s heads and shoulders all beat in unison, her head and shoulders remain still. To my relief, she is smiling, though. Especially whenever someone lets out a big “Yow!” and then a grin whips right across her face.

“For all ya’ll that don’t know us yet,” starts the lead singer between songs, “I’m Sally, and the fellas behind me call themselves The Third String. Here’s a local tune for you.”

 

What a name for a mile, Magnificent
Let ’em walk with a smile, all those innocents
Amongst the rising glass and steel
Down that path of love and wealth

 

Well I’ve lived my life north of the Loop
But my soul never rose from this three-step stoop
While giving all the thanks and pray
I never felt those winds of change

 

Yes, I used to believe it was coming to me
They’d lay that gold two miles then three
Right beneath my Sunday shoes
By then, you know, I’d be Magnificent, too

 

“What can I get you all?” Asks our waitress.

“I’ll take an M’s, please,” Amy says.

“And yourself?”

“Same, thanks.” When the waitress steps away I ask Amy if she’s hungry.

“You have to order in the back,” she explains. “I’ll go. Cheese fries and wings work?”

“Perfect.”

“Cool. Wait here, I’ll be back in five.”

Amy jumps up and strolls down the back corridor. In the other direction, Sally’s returning to the mic. “Now every now and then, our bassist Head here likes to sing a song. Which is funny, ‘cause he only knows the words to one song, which is why he can’t do this every night, but lend him a hand if you would.”

“I actually know two songs,” Head interjects in a baritone like gravel, “but the first one’s not appropriate, not even for here. So what I’m gonna do is sing this second one. You might say it’s my favorite song, which it should be, considering I wrote it. And also, to help you appreciate it a little more, I will tell you that I did write it in order to get in bed. The reason that is, is because when you spend your whole musical life off to the side as a bassist, you always have this sort of notion that if you were to maybe write a song and then perform it, maybe then you’ll get lucky. And I am serious when I say that Sally here gets more offers than Cindy Crawford. So under this assumption, a while back I wrote this song, I sang it here, and then I start on home, excited I’ve done my part, and the first thing my wife tells me when we get there is that she always preferred drummers. So now I got to learn how to drum. Anyways, it’s called ‘Soapbox.’”

 

Racing away, down another highway
Don’t know where it is I’m speeding to
My soapbox is sturdy, I win every derby
Just thinking at the finish line I’ll find you

 

Yes, my soapbox is sturdy, I’ll win every derby
Won’t you be there so I can say my racing’s through

 

Amy returns with baskets of golden grease which we devour as if it were some kind of competition. In the food coma that follows, time passes by the count of riffs and refills, which is to say, by no count at all—either five M’s and six songs or the other way around, it becomes harder and harder to tell and less and less important.

At some point, the songs begin to take on religious meaning and I can feel my insides being tugged in by guitar strings only to be blown back again by Sally’s vocals. When she starts to wail about a crumbling apartment I have the urge to hunt down the landlord. Next song, anger turns to sympathy when she’s got the feeling that’s she’s leaving and the leaving ain’t fun. Eventually it’s all one—me, this building, these songs—and if I don’t slam my heel to the floor to support every pulsing beat, the music and night will all collapse at once.

Across the table, Amy still sits motionless and lost in thought, as if maybe she’s wondering why she’s here. I can’t understand why. Wasn’t this her idea? Feeling like she might be missing out, or to least cheer her up, I ask her to dance.

“I’m okay,” she says, and sensing my bewilderment, follows, “Thanks, though.”

I sit back and let her be. To my encouragement, at least, she begins to bob her head to every other beat. On stage, Sally says she needs another short break and invites the piano player from the other room to sing a solo. “This is for anyone that might need to get away,” he says.

 

Depart from all your worries
Take off to somewhere new
Arrive at that destination
Where all your dreams come true

 

She said, all my skies are clearing
And my roads are open, too
She’s headed for salvation
Where all her dreams come true

 

It’s a different kind of hurry
Yes, it’s time that I find you
I’ve saved your invitation
That’s where all my dreams come true

 

So depart from all your worries
Head off to somewhere new
Find that destination
Where all your dreams come true

 

“Do you play?” Amy asks, her hand rolling over a bottle of hot sauce.

“Nah. Never meant to be,” I respond. “You?”

“Afraid not,” she says.

“Did you ever want to?”

“Maybe. You?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Why’d you really stay?” She asks, dropping the bottle.

“For the blues,” I answer, knowing she won’t buy it.

“Not any other reason?”

“Like what?”

“Work? Something else?”

“Work is over,” I say.

“Then something else.”

“This something.”

“Then you’ve gotten what you’ve wanted.”

“Tonight, yes.”

“You’re easily pleased.”

“That’s probably true. Are you?” I ask.

“I don’t know. It’s harder when you’re not always sure what you want.”

“Will you let me know when you do?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to see you pleased.”

The music mellows as the night lengthens. The once brazen guitars begin to tire while the piano tries its best to surprise with a few random keys. Up front, Sally’s still going strong, but she’s starting to take on more of the lounge persona I first expected—sitting heavy-minded on a stool, chanting her plea to a lost love.

 

At the time we had to do it
It was like losing my St. Louis
So come back now and stay now
Let me be the Chi-town that you keep

 

Amy seems to be fading slightly, as well. The head bob is gone and her eyes are glazed over the stage like the way people watch the toy boats glide across the pond in Central Park.

“Did you get to talk to your family?” I ask.

“What’s that?”

“About probably missing Christmas. Did you get to talk to your family?”

She looks at me for a while and then says, “No.”

“My sister was upset,’ I say, lending encouragement.

“Why?”

“Christmas is her thing. Being together and all.”

“You should have gone,” she snaps back. It’s the first time I’ve heard a sharp tone from her and I don’t know how to answer. I hadn’t meant a thing.

“It’s better that I’m here,” I finally say.

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes.”

She turns her head away. I’m not sure if she believes me but I have no choice but to let her make up her mind. Somewhere between a piano and a sax she does.

“Hey James,” she says.

“Yea?”

“Thanks for coming here tonight.”

And suddenly, before I can even respond with “You’re welcome,” she stands and walks towards the band as they adjust between songs. Motioning Sally down, Amy whispers something into her ear. Next, Sally turns around and passes the message on to Head and the rest of the band mates who look eager to find out what’s going on. Count me among them.

In a moment, they’re all nodding in approval and Amy’s climbing onstage as Sally steps up to the mic.

“Since I’ve been going for so long, our friend Amy here has offered to help out for a song. Please give her a warm hand.”

Amy sits carefully behind the microphone, glancing through a covering strand of hair that nearly hides a blush. For a second I think she might turn around, but then she takes a deep breath and silences the room with the soft exhale that follows.

It’s an unusual hush. All night, even between songs, there seemed to be a beat playing, a rhythm maintained. But now, everything stops. The quaking drums cease to rumble, the clanking mugs sit still, and all those raucous cheers hold mute in wonder of what this little, red-cheeked girl will do. For all its roughneck appeal, I can tell this isn’t a place that offers guest appearances lightly, and with the band behind her anxiously in wait, the stage becomes a noiseless vacuum ready for her to break it.

“My Dad used to sing this to me,” she opens in a raspy whisper that falls like a mist. “I hope you like it.”

She takes one last second to herself, as if this time she were drawing in every last remaining open breath from within the room, and then, barely opening her lips, releases the air back to us, one delicate lyric at a time.

 

Sweet little angel
Your toes on mine
I can’t imagine
When little girls grow old

 

At first it’s just a bedtime lullaby, only you wonder if the angel of the first verse was ever meant to sing it back.

 

Tiny baby button
Here’s my shoulder
Time has no hand in
When little girls grow old

 

And then it feels even more personal—the sung melody of an unclasped locket and the picture inside. Until finally…

 

Oh pretty pretty princess
You danced alone
Here I’ll be standing
When little girls grow old

 

…it’s over, the last notes echoing through the room like the angel’s parting call and the pause that follows absorbing our need to ask for more.

Eventually, a roar in the back is the first to break the spell and the room quickly erupts in earthly cheers and claps and whistles for Amy who, with head down, turns to thank the band as she steps down from the stage and drifts back to her seat across from me without a word. When our waitress comes to congratulate her, Amy orders us another round before the complements can be shared.

As for me, I’m speechless. All I can do is stare across like a fool. Eventually, her great big baby browns sneak out of their shells just long enough to say, “Surprise,” before shying back away in embarrassment. I realize I should look away, too, but when adoration sings its chorus in the form of a nursery rhyme sung from the lips of a hauntingly gorgeous girl, who’s now sitting just three feet away, chewing on a cheese fry just to distract herself, well, free will has that magician’s habit of disappearing. I have to look. There isn’t a choice in the matter. Only hope and prayer can protect me at this point and even those seem beyond my capability.

For two full songs I sit that way, studying her. Those eyes that had been lost in thought are now wide with content, even if they won’t look my way. In reverse, her small mouth that had never dared to reveal its siren-like secret is safely sealed shut once again—dare further she put this entire music hall under permanent spell. And the loose strand of hair that had earlier tried so well to cover a blush? It now curls around the soft contour of her chin, coming to an end at a pin dot freckle I hadn’t spotted until now. As the music hums along, I watch her.

I know she’s aware of me, but she hardly reacts except to reach for another fry or to take a sip of beer. Eventually, beer becomes my ally, as well, with its focus-deteriorating capabilities distracting my attention back towards the confusion on stage. There, the clangs and bangs of the guitars and drums now fuse into a blended soundtrack for my increasingly disoriented senses. I try to concentrate my wobbly eyes on the drummer, thinking it might be important to keep pace, but a ringing chord or an errant yell elsewhere consistently upends me. Where my pulse had matched the music’s rhythm at the beginning of the night, it’s since diverged and any spontaneous sound from the stage or elsewhere hits me like a nearby clap of thunder.

Amy notices and looks my way for the first time since her gotcha moment before.

“Hey bobblehead,” she says. I turn immediately to find her eyes, bigger than ever, aimed towards mine. Everything else in the room shifts, but those eyes hold still.

“Yes,” I mutter.

“I think you’ve had enough blues for one night.”

I gurgle something back. She laughs.

In a blur of motions, she signals the waitress and rises to grab our coats. When the check comes, I have to put my nose down to the paper to differentiate the numbers. Amy returns, seemingly moving at an inhuman speed, but kindly allows me to stand at my own pace as I swing one leg after the other over the bench and use the tabletop for support. Walking towards the exit, she leads the way while I find the small of her back to be the steadiest point of focus.

Outside, a single cab sits idling in the pouring snow. I trip my way ahead so I can open the door first for her.

“Thank you sir,” she says.

“Any—, you’re welcome.”

Sliding in, I blurt out, “The Frohman,” trying not to slur. I’m sure it comes out closer to Fromer. The driver catches enough and begins to drive.

I look to my left. Amy’s facing out the fogged window but her hand lies between us. I want to grab it but I don’t. A moment later, she turns her head so it rests against the back of the seat and closes her eyes. I close one of my own to focus, she looks stunning. Her coat is open and her dress dangles just slightly over her cleavage. I catch myself staring once again, the space between is too inviting.

Suddenly, with eyes still closed, she murmurs in that angelic voice that’s just now added her own slur—

“Here I’ll be standing.”

And rolls her head in my direction, catching me in my one-eyed gaze. She laughs, then continues, this time as if she were just speaking to me—

“When little girls grow old.”

I can’t help myself and I lean over to kiss her. She doesn’t back off, allowing my lips to meet hers, holding still for just a moment, hardly a kiss, more like a sweet experiment, and then pulls away as if to register her thoughts. Before I have chance to doubt myself she leans back in and kisses me this time.

Heaven is a cab ride amidst a blizzard in Chicago.

The driver carefully winds through the city neighborhood. When we turn left, she falls slightly towards me and I catch her torso with my left hand. We turn right, my mouth dips slightly beneath her lips so I kiss her chin. She smiles. I kiss her smile.

We ramp onto Lakeshore Drive which is a heap of slush and snow. Twice the driver taps the breaks to ensure they’ll work. The first time we fall forward and laugh. The second time, she draws her lips away from mine.

“That’s all for now.”

She gives me a blink and then turns away, leaning her head back once again to watch the snow glide past the drifting orbs of light outside. I’m desperate to ask if there will be a later but I think I know better than to interrupt her now. Somehow aware of my unease, she reaches her hand out towards mine, cupping it within her own.

I look out my own blurry window and grin. Four days ago, I wasn’t even supposed to be on this trip. Had I pictured it then, my Christmas Eve would have consisted of a baked ham and three hours of keeping face in front of Matt before calling it an early night. Instead, thanks to Kaminsky’s bad can of tuna, here I am, riding in a cab at two A.M., in the midst of a Chicago blizzard, while holding the hand of a mysterious girl I’m completely falling for.

Oh, how life can rise and rise and rise…

When we hit a bump, Amy tightens her grip ever-so-slightly. I reciprocate to see if I can get a reaction from her but her eyes and thoughts are lost in the swirling constellation of white outside. The cab plows on.

Eventually, we arrive in front of the hotel. To slight disbelief, there’s still only one digit in front of the decimal on the meter. I hand the driver the full twenty I had pulled out anyways. “Happy holidays,” I say.

Amy still hasn’t let go of my hand but I don’t think to question it. Entering the hotel lobby, the Christmas tree in the center looks like it’s on fire. Amy pulls me past it.

In the elevator, she leans her head against my shoulder. I rest my own head on top of hers.

The doors open. We walk down the long hallway in silence. It’s been a long day and yet here we are together.

At the room, I try the key card twice but it doesn’t unlock. Amy snatches the card with her open hand and spins it back around into the slot. The lock clicks and she twists the handle in one swift motion.

“Very tricky, aren’t they?” She says, handing the card back.

“Very,” I reply.

She slides backwards into the open door and our hands break apart. As she disappears into the darkness, I tell her I have to go to the bathroom.

Before coming out, I look in the mirror like it’s some sort of out of body experience. That same stupid grin comes back. I don’t know how I got here, to this city, to this bedroom, with her, but I’m glad I did.

I leave the bathroom open to shed enough light to reach the bed. I can see Amy’s feet balled together towards the middle and then her knees. The tip of the dress rises up across her thigh but politely covers the rest. I follow her lines on across her body all the way to where her risen arms rest gently beneath her head. Her eyes are closed and her nose twitches just a touch as she lets out a gentle whimper. She’s asleep.

The disappointment melts in an instant as her shoulders rise and fall in rhythm and her delicate eyelids show no sign of opening. She’s in that place where I was only moments before—where snow falls around a meandering cab in a bright and unfamiliar city. Oh, where hands get held by girls that are oh so pretty.

I pull her legs out just enough to wrap the blanket over her before I kiss her carefully on the cheek. It’s still cool from outside. I kiss it once more for warmth and turn for the other side of the bed as quietly as I can.

“Sweet dreams, Amy. Merry Christmas.”