At a bakery across the concourse from gate C12, Chance watched Faye hand the gate agent her boarding pass and disappear into the gloom of the tunnel. A few minutes later her plane taxied away, assuming its position at the head of one of the runways. Sipping a cup of lukewarm coffee and tearing off pieces of a stale bagel, he waited a while longer until he was certain that Faye’s plane had taken off.
In the parking lot he unlocked the passenger door of the Monte Carlo, flipped open the glove box, and grabbed the prescription vial of Xanax he always carried with him to combat his not infrequent episodes of melancholia.
When the middle-aged woman behind the ticket counter looked up from the update she had just been handed announcing the cancellation of a flight to Minneapolis, she saw a handsome young man with long blond hair ambling across the terminal, headed in her direction.
May I help you?
Good morn . . . I mean good afternoon.
Good afternoon. May I help you?
Well I hope so—he glanced down at her nametag—Melissa. I’m looking for flight, uh, ’scuse me a sec. Frowning, he fished in the pocket of his sweatshirt and retrieved a scrap of paper while Melissa gave him the once-over. Like many flyers who came through her line, he was dressed for comfort, just this side of slovenly. Corduroy slacks, a green Oregon University sweatshirt with attached hood, black Nikes. He squinted down at the scrap of paper.
So I’m looking for the gate for Flight 322. Wait a sec. Yeah, that’s it, Flight 322, Indianapolis to Atlanta.
Flight 322, Melissa hummed, glancing at her screen. Here we are. Flight 322, Indianapolis to Atlanta, gate C12.
C12? Great. Thank you! Chance spun around to leave but the agent’s voice halted him.
Hold on a minute, sir.
Yes?
I’m afraid that flight’s already departed.
What’s that?
Your flight. It’s already taken off.
It has?
At twelve-fifteen. Melissa tapped her screen with a red fingernail. Twenty minutes ago. I’m sorry, but that plane’s already in the air.
Chance grimaced. I am such a space cadet, he groaned. I must have written down the wrong departure time.
Well I’m sorry you missed your flight. If you’d like I could—
No, no, it wasn’t my flight, it was my sister’s.
Your sister’s?
Yeah, my sister’s. She stayed at my place last night—she always does when she flies out of Indy, she’s corporate you know—and the thing is . . . well the thing is she left her pills, her blood pressure pills. He fished through his sweatshirt again, this time retrieving the prescription vial of Xanax, which he rattled at Melissa then quickly pocketed.
Oh my.
Listen, I’m sorry to bother you like this, but could you check for me, make sure she got on the plane?
No bother at all. Melissa leaned over her keyboard, rapidly clicking keys. Your sister’s name?
Lindstrom, Faye Lindstrom, he replied, spelling the last name.
Oh yes, here she is. Faye Lindstrom, seat 16B. Indianapolis to Atlanta with a connection to Tallahassee. That the one?
When he heard the ticket agent say Tallahassee, a little light in his brain blinked on. Went dark. Then blinked on again.
Did you say Tallahassee?
Yep.
Well that’s the one alright. My sister’s company, they have an office there. He rapped the counter with his knuckles and flashed the ticket agent the inauthentic smile he saved for such occasions. Thanks, Melissa, you’ve been a big help.
Is there anything else I can do? We could call ahead and notify her if you’d like.
No, no, that’s all right, you’ve been very helpful. I’ll overnight the pills to Tallahassee. Or maybe she can pick up a refill down there. Anyway, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Gracias.
Tallahassee? The Florida panhandle? Driving back to Terre Haute, he considers the situation from every angle he can think of, convinced that he’s right. Who better for Faye to turn to at a time like this than a trusted old friend?
The next day, finished packing, he lingers for a few minutes at the window of his room at the Drury Inn. For the second straight morning the rain that streaks the glass pummels the cars in the parking lot. Yet in two or three days he’ll arrive in the sunshine state where, instead of slashing rain, he’ll be greeted by a horseshoe harbor shining in the sun, the open arms of a shrimp trawler draped with glistening nets, the antebellum neighborhoods he read about in Dieter’s book.
In the breakfast room, idly munching on a slice of whole wheat toast, he flips open a road atlas and traces his route. Kentucky. Tennessee. Georgia. The dreaded Deep South. The great confederacy. Dolly Parton, Lynyrd Skynyrd, pecan fucking pie. And finally Florida, the end of the proverbial line. Or if all goes well, he muses—and why would it not?—the beginning.