What sounded like shattering glass, at gate 27, turned out to be Charlie’s scream. The few passengers still waiting to board froze. She dragged out the scream into a mad, maddening lament. It sounded like a mentally ill person was trying to force her way onto the plane, or somebody having a panic attack. A couple of airline workers hurried toward her as she sat doubled over on the floor next to a row of seats, her face red and distended from the scream. They helped her up and led her over to a seat. Charlie kept moaning, her cell phone clutched to her chest. They asked her what was wrong, what was happening, and she just shook her head.
At the counter, they made the final boarding call. One of the employees asked if she was on that flight. Charlie nodded. They asked if she was sure she still wanted to travel, and she said yes and begged, please don’t leave me, I’ve got to be on that plane. The employee signaled to his colleague at the counter to wait and asked Charlie for her passport and boarding pass. Shaking, she rummaged for them in her purse. The employee rushed over to the counter with the documents, and the one who stayed behind said, I’m sorry, but you have to board now, they’ve announced the final call. And he asked her again, Are you sure you want to go?, we can book you for another day. At this, Charlie jumped up. No, she said, I’m going, I have to go. Have you been drinking?, the employee asked. She looked at him in confusion. What? I asked if you’ve been drinking, he repeated. Alcohol?, Charlie asked. Yes, alcohol. She stopped sobbing and let out a laugh and shook her head. Let’s go then, he said.
On the jet bridge, a small group was still waiting to enter the plane. Just four or five passengers. Charlie was pulling a small suitcase, though it looked like the suitcase was actually pushing her. Larry was the last one in line, and he turned to look at her. She grabbed the handrail as her knees buckled. She landed on her butt on the floor, alone, in the middle of the passageway, beneath a glaring fluorescent light. The people waiting to board turned to stare at her. Charlie’s agonized sobbing peeled the skin from their bones. Nobody appeared behind her to help, nobody went over. Two more people from the line moved forward into the plane, and Larry was the only one left outside. He peeked inside the plane to see if a crew member had noticed what was going on, but they seemed to be busy helping the passengers settle in. So he walked halfway up the jet bridge, to where Charlie was, and asked in English, “Are you O.K.?”
She shook her head.
“Can I help you?”
She nodded and replied in Spanish, “Help me into the plane.”
Larry helped her up. A flight attendant appeared in the airplane doorway and urged them to hurry. Larry held Charlie’s arm and with his other hand pulled her suitcase behind him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“My father just died.”
“I’m really sorry.”
The two of them boarded the plane. The flight attendant pointed her to her seat. Larry followed behind. Charlie stopped at the fourth row in first class and dropped into the seat. He asked if that was where she was sitting, and she nodded. He opened the overhead compartment and stashed her suitcase inside.
“If you need anything, I’m in the back, row 35,” he told her, but she was crying again, her face in her hands.
He headed further back toward his row, threading his way between people who were still organizing their things. Suitcases, hats, stuffed animals, Selfridges bags full of crap. Larry tried to turn around and go back to tell Charlie that he was on his way to a funeral too. Maybe that would give her a little consolation. She wouldn’t feel so alone, he thought, as if grief could be shared. But it was different too—he was going to a funeral that was twelve years late. Another flight attendant asked him to take his seat, saying that the flight had been delayed already and was being held up even further by the boarding process. Larry obeyed and found his spot, between two strangers. He’d be there for the next eleven hours. He closed his eyes, thinking.
There’s no flight in the world worse than one that’s taking somebody to say a last goodbye . . .