When I wake up she has a breakfast waiting for me—Frosted Flakes and a glass of orange juice. Beneath the bathroom robe I can see she’s borrowed my FDNY t-shirt.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Thanks,” I reply.
“You’re welcome.”
She doesn’t say much else while I eat and I’m afraid to speak, too. I know this is the end but I don’t want to be the one to mark it.
“Mind if I take a quick shower?” I ask when I finish the cereal.
“Why would I mind?”
“Okay,” I say, feeling awfully domestic.
In the bathroom, I leave the door unlocked. Not because I expect her to come in, but because I’m afraid the sound of locking might seem rude. As soon as I turn on the water, I realize it’s an even better opportunity for her to leave. I wash as fast as I can.
She’s standing beside the bed when I come out. Her suitcase lies open and she’s changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater.
“Why did you pack a bag if you weren’t going anywhere?” I ask.
“‘Cause I knew this might happen, as stupid as it sounds. Turns out it happened exactly how I did and didn’t want it to.”
“That why you left it here, too?”
She starts to laugh. “I ran out to leave and the door locked behind me. I panicked, so I left it.”
“Would have come back anyways?”
“I hope so.”
I start to pack my things up while she moves about the room. At one point I think she might be replaying our first night in her head—switching from one sofa chair to another and then on to the bed. I pause to see if she’ll make a tent, but she never does.
“The snow’s stopped,” she says eventually.
“That’s too bad.”
“Yea, I liked it.”
“Me, too.”
Nearly finished, I realize I’d asked all of the lingering questions about what had happened but still can’t bring myself to ask what’s next. Apparently, neither can she.
“All set?” I ask finally.
“Yup.”
We reach the door without mentioning the obvious. I know if I wait until we’re outside it will be too late.
“Let me take you home,” I suggest.
“Okay.”
We grab a taxi outside the hotel and I think Amy surprises the driver when she provides a local address instead of the standard O’Hare request. That will be next, I have to add.
As we ride, Amy keeps quiet, probably wondering to herself if this is a good idea or not. I feel it is, anyways. At the very least, it would make her explanation more real; not that I needed that, but a closure was due. I wasn’t hurt that she lied. If anything, I understood it. I’d lost that same zest for New York myself. Over time, the majesty of the soaring skyline fades and the burning images of the city become a series of subway lines and running meters all along and underneath the ground. Just like that, the million fresh faces that would lead to a million chance encounters simply become a drove of walking, talking impediments. Looking like the tourist I practically was, it made sense that I could make it all new again for her. I was her chance to make Chicago special.
To my surprise, we end up heading straight for the same Wrigleyville neighborhood I had admired only yesterday. A few turns later and we’re stopped in front of a brick row house. I ask the cabbie if he will wait for me. “You got it, boss,” he says.
We step out onto the slushy sidewalk where she allows me to carry the red suitcase for her.
“Should I come inside?” I ask once we reach her porch.
“What for? You have a plane to catch.”
“I’ve been catching it for two days. What’s three minutes?”
“Alright.”
She turns the key into a door with the number 19305 patterned diagonally across it.
“Here it is,” she says, opening the door into a small living room with a thin staircase along the right side. The living room itself is strangely ordinary, decorated with the usual assortment of accumulated furniture facing an old tube TV in the corner. I’m not sure what I could have expected, maybe even just a picture of her with some friends at a bar or at a party, but the room feels as foreign as she had made living here sound the night before.
I peek towards the top of the staircase, hoping to find anything that might help me place Amy here. Instead, there’s only an iron-framed mirror hung on an otherwise blank wall. My memories of her will have to remain in airplanes, hotels, and blues clubs.
“Sorry for the mess,” she says, nodding towards the coffee table which is littered with used wine glasses and magazines.
“Guns N Ammo?” I ask, pointing to the top one.
“My roommate’s.”
“They around?”
“He’s home for the holidays.” A brief wave of excitement rushes over me but passes when I glance at Amy. She looks tired.
“It’s nice,” I say.
“Thanks, I guess.”
She leans her hip against the couch and with her finger outlines a small pattern on the bed sheet that covers it.
“I should go,” I say.
Her face turns up quickly towards me. She hasn’t moved, but she looks further away now. I realize that I hadn’t even stepped a foot from the door yet. I feel like I’m intruding.
“Why did you come in?” She asks.
“To see you home.”
“You could have done that from the cab.”
“Then to say goodbye.”
“So then, we are saying goodbye.”
“I guess so.”
“What was this weekend then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think we’ll see each other again?”
“I hope so. Do you want to?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe we can fly somewhere warmer next time,” I say, cracking a smile. I’m happy to see that she does, too. “I guess this means there’s strings attached.”
“I won’t cut them if you won’t.”
“Deal.”
Two pools start to develop in her eyes so I move closer and reach out my arms. She steps into them, allowing me to kiss her once beside the temple.
“You know how you said that when you travel, you need something to come home to?” I ask.
“Yea?” She muffles.
“Can this be my home?”
“You want to move in?”
“No, no. You said it doesn’t have to be a place, right? Well, when I’m traveling all by myself, for a little while at least, I want to come back to this, to the idea of finding you and holding you. I want to come back to you.”
“You can always come back to me.”
She pulls away and starts to inspect my face, moving carefully from one spontaneous freckle to the next embarrassed pock mark. Spots I see every day or overlook, spots that are still new to her.
I think about kissing her again. I wonder if we could make this work.
“Stay here,” she instructs instead. Three seconds later and she’s at the top of the staircase followed by the sound of her feet bouldering right above me. Another minute and she’s shuffling back down.
“Take this,” she says, slightly breathless and holding out a lime green envelope.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just take it and wait until you’re in the air to open it.”
“How come?”
“Because it’s my last secret.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll wait?”
“I’ll wait.”
“Thanks,” she says with a blush.
“Maybe I should be thanking you,” I reply.
“For what?”
“For being the girl.”
“Ha. I never thought I’d be the girl.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Well, you’re not so bad either.”
“All I had was a hotel room and now that’s gone. You still have your smile and that voice to fall back on.”
“Shut up,” she says as I notice we’re starting to inch towards the door. “Well, if you ever need a place to stay,” she continues, “you know where to find me now.”
“Does that mean you’re staying?”
“I think so.”
“It’s a great city, you know.”
“I know.”
“You just make it better.”
She lowers her head and reaches for the door. It’s time.
“See you on another flight, maybe,” I say from the porch.
“Get home safe, James.”
“You, too,” I reply, nodding back inside. She laughs.
No more words, I think, no more words to say goodbye. None are good enough and there’s always something more to say. Let it be her laugh in the end.
I turn for the cab and make sure not to look back until we’re rolling forward. She’s moved to the edge of the porch with her arms wrapped around her shoulders. I put my hand up to the glass to wave goodbye, but it’s either too late or too far, and we’re out of sight before I can tell if she’d seen me or not.
Weaving out of Wrigleyville, I flip the green envelope in my hand, mulling over asking the driver to turn around so that I can at least write down the rest of her address. Once we hit the highway, though, the weight of travelling hits me all over again. I place the envelope safely in my bag. I’m ready to be home.
Against the glass panel in front of me, the daytime reflection of Chicago’s skyline meanders back and forth like it had two days before. Eventually all the buildings give way so that only the lonely Sears stands in view. For one mile, then two, it dares not to disappear, as if this were its exact purpose, to be seen and carried with so far as one could ever hope, until finally, it too is gone.
Out the side window the land is flat and flatter. Just before the airport, the signs point once again in each cardinal direction, luring me towards the thrill of the unknown country at ground level—all the places I’ve read about or seen in pictures but have never been, all the people I’ve yet to meet. Certainly Chicago can’t have a monopoly in the latter department. There’s bound to be another aged romantic like Roger in Minneapolis, boasting of a past every bit as good as the future that lies in wait for the rest of us; or a couple like the Weirs in Kansas City, holding their own together because they’re better that way. Who knows, maybe somewhere out there, be it in Seattle or Atlanta, there’s another Amy—someone else who had to go to all these different places before she learned she could fit in just fine in every one.
Watching a landing plane hover perfectly suspended beside us, though, I’m pleased to finally have a ticket that will send me high above it all. I can be in my own bed tonight.
• • •
O’Hare is back on pace, there are no more delays. I drift my way down from one moving walkway to another all the way to the gate. Everything around me seems to be going at twice the speed, but it feels normal at the same time. The panic and despair of the days prior is gone. Instead, travelers bustle about with the confidence of direction, finally assured they’ll get to where they want to be.
Next to the gate is a gift shop. I had promised Julie a gift for Matt and find it hanging on the first rack: a t-shirt that reads, “Got Wind?” on the front and “Chicago” along with “The Windy City” written beneath on the back. It’s a lay-up.
Just before boarding, I call her.
“Hey Jules.”
“Hi James.”
“I’m coming home.”
“Finally! When will you be in?”
“Four-fifteen.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thanks,” I say, watching a little boy in front of me teach his younger sister how to spell M-O-U-S-E.
“Your turn,” he instructs.
“Squeak!” She shrieks.
“No, that’s the sound it makes. Spellll it for me.”
“Squeak!”
Oh, to go back to moos and meows and quacks and squeaks. To those picture books she’d flip while we fit onto a single seat…
It’s time, I think. Time to include Julie again. No more keeping distance, she’s carried enough on her own.
“Jules?” I say.
“Yea?”
“I think this was a good trip for me.”
“That’s great, James. I’m glad you were able to enjoy it.”
“It was good to get away.”
“I’m sure it was. It’d been a long time since you’d last left.”
“Yea, but you know what sort of makes it cooler though?”
“What?”
“The fact that, right now, more than anything, I can’t wait to be home to tell you all about it.”
“Really?”
“Really, Jules. These last few years, I’ve been keeping too much away from you.”
“No you haven’t. It’s been hard.”
“Yes, I have, and there’s not an excuse for it. But I want that to change tonight. After I get home and after we’ve eaten, I want to tell you and Matt all about Chicago, all about everything that happened here.”
“Aw, James, we’d love to hear about it.”
“And you know something?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s actually a pretty good story.”
“Really? Why? What happened?”
“I’ll tell you tonight.”
“Aw, now I really can’t wait!”
“Me too,” I say as the last of the first-class passengers board. “Anyways, I think it’s finally time to get moving here, but I just wanted you to know that you’ve been a really good sister to me.”
“You’ve been a great brother, too, James.”
“I don’t know if great’s the word, but I’m going to try harder.”
“You don’t have to try, you already are.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping towards the gathering coach line. “Before I go, though, real quick, can I ask you for one more favor tonight?”
“Anything.”
“After we’ve caught up, there’s one other thing I’d like to do.”
“Yea?”
“You think Matt likes The Sparkler Summer?”
“Ha. He’d better like it!”
“Exactly! Or even if he doesn’t, we could just watch it over and over until he does.”
“Could you imagine?”
“It worked on me.”
“Ha, I know! This is great then. I’m gonna go find the movie, you just make it back here safely, okay?”
“You got it.”
“Can’t wait to see you!”
“You, too. I love you, Jules.”
“I love you, too, James.”
When I take my seat on the plane, I wait for my heart rate to pick up but it never does.
The boarding process seems more reserved this time around. Older couples, families, children, businessmen and women all find their ways politely, their panic and rush overcome by that comfort of being on their way again.
At the very last, a young boy dressed in a blue suit, bow tie, and golden toy crown marches up the aisle, stopping at each row to compare the letters and numbers on his boarding pass with those written below the storage bin. Behind him, his mother carries two bags, allowing him to lead the way.
When he finds his match at our row, the bow-tied prince lets out an “Ah-ha!” and swings a Turtles backpack to the floor beside me while his mother finds her seat across from us.
“Would you like to sit next to your son?” I ask.
“He’d much rather sit with the grown-ups than with his mom,” she says. “He won’t bother you, I promise.” She’s right. Instead, he focuses on organizing the seat back pocket with all the notebooks and magazines he’d brought with him.
Within minutes, he’s completely settled and the ground taxis begin to pull us back.
“Whew!” Exhales the old man seated to my right. “I was starting to get a bit antsy there in Chicago.”
“Quite an ordeal, right?”
“You bet. I thought I was going to beat it out the other night but once that snow started, that was it. You think you’ve seen all the same storms before, but that sure was something. Did you have any troubles?”
“A couple extra nights. Nice little adventure.”
“There you go, son. Young man like you shouldn’t be bothered by a little delay—you gotta go out and make the best of it.” He elbows me softly in my arm. He’s a lively, scrawny little man, like a sixth grader wrapped in the loose skin of an eighty year old.
“I tried.”
“Course you did,” he says, tapping the armrest. “So where you flying to?”
“Flying home to New York,” I respond.
“Ah, New York. Heck of a place to call home. Heck of a place.”
“What about yourself?” I ask.
“Oh, nowhere in particular after New York. Maybe it’s the cold up here, but I’m thinking Charleston. It’s been a while since I’ve been there. Always lots to do in Charleston.”
“I’ve never been,” I admit.
“Oh, but you should. Wonderful people and just as pretty a town as you’ll ever find. Why, I think you’ve got me sold, son. I may actually find myself a little bit disappointed if there’s nothing headed to Charleston once we get in.”
“So you’re just going to hop straight onto another flight?”
“Oh sure. I’ve seen plenty of New York for one lifetime. At my age, it’s a better hub than a destination. All flights lead to New York, as they say.”
“And if Charleston’s all booked up?”
“Then I’ll find somewhere else. Sarasota, New Orleans, Fort Worth, Phoenix. Always plenty of places to choose from.”
“And on and on?”
“And on and on.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“Ha! I always get a kick out of that question. Well let me ask you something,” he says, turning his head down so his eyes peek above thin glasses. “Why do you fly?”
“In this case, to get home.”
“And before that?”
“Business.”
“Exactly. Everyone has their reasons. Always one reason or another to go from here to there.”
“Can I ask what your reason is?”
“Ah, you get right to the point, don’t you? The reason I fly is because it’s what I love to do. That’s the beauty of it. Everyone else has a destination, I’m just here for the ride.”
“Has it always been that way?”
“As long as I can remember. Starting with my father, actually. He was ten when the Wright brothers first arrived in Kitty Hawk, went on to fly in both Wars, and eventually became a pioneer in commercial flight. By the time he died at eighty-two, he’d witnessed the entire birth of aviation.
“Think about that for a second,” the old man says, gripping the armrest between us. “For all of human existence, man has dreamt about flying. Thousands and thousands of years passed by and we remained ever-convinced that the sky was solely the place of birds and angels. But then in one lifetime, his lifetime, we did it. Just over a hundred years ago we finally glided on the beach’s wind and in the next breath we were forging tin with jet propulsion and setting off into the heavens on our own.
“That’s the magic, son. You ever feel that bolt of adrenaline rush though you just before you fall asleep at night, right between when you’re wide awake and dreaming? That special instant when you’re hit by some maniacal idea that you’ve just got to see into fruition? Well let me tell you, if we can get one of these hundred-and-eighty ton horses to gallop thirty-thousand feet in the air and cross an entire ocean in a matter of hours, then never tell yourself something’s impossible.”
Now the old man’s eyes are wide open while his hands motion wildly in front of him. To describe the plane crossing the ocean, he collapses the middle fingers of his right hand together, spreading his thumb and pinky out like wings as he glides them across the seatbacks in front of us.
“The funny thing is, as much as my father loved flying, my mother hated it. She was scared to death, always telling us that, ‘There’s a reason men weren’t born with wings on their shoulders!’
“Well, I got to thinking about that. Why weren’t we? Why shouldn’t we be like the birds that watch us from high above? And I’ll tell you, son,” the old man says, leaning in so his face is only inches from mine, “the answer to that question changed my life.
“You see, before all this,” he says, waving his arms, “we used to stretch for all the reassuring answers we could come up with—stories like Icarus and how dare we fly so close to the sun. Somehow, in the face of failure, we decided a lesson in humility was the right way to go and we resigned ourselves to a life on the ground.
“But the truth of the matter is, and we know this now, is that the reason God didn’t give us wings is because He knew we were capable of building them ourselves. It’s the same with everything in life, son. There’s no cherub out there waiting to shoot you with an arrow, you have to go and find the girl on your own. Or that little idea that’s been scratching around in your head for all these many months. It doesn’t just cooperate and form itself out of mid-air. No, the wings God gave us are of a different variety. They’re up here. It’s your imagination that flies. Couple that with a little determination and you can get anywhere. Icarus had the right idea. He just had the wrong tools!
“Who knows,” he continues, rubbing one arthritic hand over another, “maybe this dream is already history now. Maybe I am just carrying the torch of my father’s generation. After all, flying was their dream come true. My generation’s just the embodiment of it. If anything, we’re the ones that took the mystique and wore it so thin that no one concerns themselves with flying anymore. It’s become as secondhand as riding a bus or taking a leak. But if you’ll excuse me for it, and allow me to indulge, it’s still my dream. I still feel a part of it. I mean, it took us thousands of years to get here, why shouldn’t a second generation bask in its success?
“So to come around and answer your question, that’s why I fly. It makes me feel a part of something, alive even. I’m thirty-thousand feet above most of human existence. For you, maybe, that’s old hat. This is all you’ve known. But for me, this is what I feel connected to, this is my passion. It’s knowing the science works and then feeling it in my groin with that first tug of lift. Take that straight on up through the clouds and into heaven. That’s right, heaven is just outside that window and our wings are sliding through it like a hand across a prairie.”
He leans back to glance outside, his words reminding me of the story my Dad had told me years ago. As if on cue, the plane banks to the right, offering me a brief glimpse of the storm clouds below, before tilting back up to where all I can see is blue again.
“Maybe you won’t feel the same about flying specifically,” he continues, “but rest assured there’s a new dream ahead—bigger and even more inspiring than this. I can’t fathom what it is, but it’s yours. One day you’ll find it and it will take over your life in much the same way.
“And then, many years from now, you’ll be sitting next to a young kid like you are to me, and you’ll ramble on and on about it—because that’s what you’ll live for, that’s what will connect you to life. And, son, when you realize that you don’t get another hundred years to enjoy this, you’ll want to share every last bit of it you can.
“It’s that simple. All of it. May you find everything you dream of and allow me to enjoy this one. Either way, I’ve been talking too long and you’ve been patient enough. I should let you sleep, let you come up with your own dreams.”
The old man of the sky turns away from me, resting his head against the side panel overlooking the window. For a short while, I allow myself to stare out, as well. Beneath us, the storm that had kept me grounded marches its way eastward towards where we’ll soon meet again. Further out, the white haze of the distant horizon stretches out across the oval windowpane like the wide glimmering mist at the end of an ocean.
“What do you see?” You asked.
The same as you saw. Everything that matters but sometimes can’t be touched.
Eventually I’ll reach that end, the mist will clear, and you’ll be there, waiting on some opposite shoreline, and it’ll be as if this time were nothing at all. Only by then, I’ll have so much more to tell you, there will be so much more to share. You’ve already missed so much.
And all those times I had wondered what you all were like, what had moved the both of you before Julie and me? I finally understand. You were just like us, you were just like we are now. And you made it. You found each other on a floating dock. In our own ways, so will we.
Blink my eyes one last time to let the colors soak through—the blue prism between space black and cloud white. Thirty thousand feet above all human existence. For someone who’s kept so close to the ground, what a remarkable place to be…
I turn to pull Amy’s envelope out from my bag. I’m safe now.
It’s so neatly kept I don’t want to tear it. Next to me, amongst the boy prince’s desk full of items, I spot of all things a letter opener.
“Can I?” I ask.
“You may,” he responds, handing me the equivalent of a small dagger.
“They let you through security with this?”
He shrugs.
One neat slice is all it takes and I hand the bronze piece back. There’s a single postcard inside—the familiar Chicago skyline looking back at me, a new crease running through the Hancock building.
She’d had it with her all along.
I flip the card over. Beneath The Frohman’s bold letters, next to where I’d written ever so coyly, “Where all your dreams come true,” she’s added in parenthesis, “(They did).” Far to the right, in large bubble print, run the numbers “19305” along with the rest of the Wrigleyville address I knew I should have remembered. And lastly, in the large open space to the left, there’s just a single line. I read it once. I read it again. Three times, fourteen.
Each time sends me higher and higher, faster and faster. I’m in New York. Read again. I’m in Chicago.
Read over and over for the places I’ve yet to see—London, Sydney, San Francisco—then read again for the places this plane won’t reach—the inside of a cab, seated on a bar stool, underneath cotton white sheets.
Read again—signed “Amy,” the A like a half-drawn star. Signed “Amy” like she’s holding my hand.
Read again.
“Anywhere you want to go.”