A Wrong Turn
“However, that is the path you have got to go by if you are not wise enough to stop at home.”
Mary Kingsley
“Believe in divine appointments? Not particularly.” he admitted. “But if you told me you were an angel and then disappeared out of that seat, I would probably have to consider it.”
“There are other kinds of divine appointments.” Meg insisted. “I’m talking about the kind where two people are miraculously brought together for a divine purpose.”
“Well, then, that settles it. Because I’m about as far as anyone could get from anything divine. In fact, the way I see it, the only reason anyone of that nature should take the slightest interest in me, would be out of pity during a time of trouble.”
“Are you in trouble, Professor Anderson?”
“I’m in trouble, or going crazy,” he replied. “Either one of which will probably spell disaster.”
“Disaster?” Meg was about to ask if he was serious, but it was at that moment the stewardess came by to gather things in preparation for take-off. He breathed a muffled “Shh...” and momentarily froze like a statue. Which left Meg to hand over her barely touched tea (along with his third empty glass) and dutifully fasten both of their trays into locked and upright positions.
By the time the plane rolled forward to the nearby head of the runway, revved up its motors, and spun its tail around smartly to open throttle and hold back all at the same time, he had come to life, again. With a quick— “Hold on, here we go.”—the professor gripped the armrests, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
The plane shot smoothly forward and began to gather speed. Meg left off trying to figure out the professor for a moment, and turned her gaze out the window to watch the ground change to a blur and see all the buildings race by. It was her favorite part of flying, and she reveled in the sensation of speed it gave her.
Only a fleeting sensation, though, because all feeling of movement was lost after the slight dip and elevator feel of having arrived up on the first “step” of the highway in the sky. And once the city below disappeared beneath mile after mile of white billowy clouds, there would be less sense of movement than riding in a car. When the brief experience was over, Meg gave a contented sigh and turned back to the professor, who had his eyes open now and was watching her with a look of… what was that look?
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Quite. Now that part is over. Taking off is the most dangerous under these circumstances. Once up, you can land a bucket of bolts even if only one engine has half a cough left in it. But I have something of a confession to make, Miss Jennings.”
“Call me Meg.”
“Meg. There’s a reason I wanted to talk to...”
She waited for a moment, but he seemed to have lost the thought. Instead, he cast a hopeful gaze toward the galley. The stewardess was belted into the forward jump-seat and they were still climbing. So, instead, he began to fumble through his pockets, in search of the pill bottle, again. He gave over his attentions to opening it, tipped several pills out into his hand, then gave her a wink before popping two of them into his mouth. Or, was it three?
Meg watched him replace the bottle in his pocket and then feel for it, again, as if to make sure it was still there. “Are you always this nervous on airplanes?” she ventured. “Maybe you should try counseling.”
“My dear, I have enough trouble working out the problems I already know I have, without some young idiot convincing me I’ve got more.”
“I’ll bet you don’t take yearly physicals, either,” she guessed.
“Why would anyone waste perfectly good money just to have someone tell them all their body parts are in working order? It’s a conspiracy of idiots.”
“Hmmm. And what’s your family got to say about all this?”
“My family!” It was more of an expression of exasperation than affection. “Young lady, I get along perfectly with my family. In fact, it just so happens I’m on my way to meet up with that son of mine you claim you don’t know. Who hasn’t seen fit to come home in nearly a year. Even missed Christmas. Now, whether or not that rascal appreciates what I have to go through even to find him, is another thing.”
“Too busy to come home for the holidays, was he?”
“Up to his neck in some new business venture, or other. You know what he’s trying to do? He’s convinced a fortune can be made by turning an old winery into a health spa.”
“At least he’s ambitious, Professor. You can be thankful for that. I have a brother who’s perfectly content to push buttons all his life as long as he can water ski and race boats on the weekends. Practically drives my father crazy. Health and fitness shows quite a lot of forethought, actually. It’s all the rage these days. More rich people wanting to get in shape than buy vintage wine.”
“Waste of a lot of good vines, if you ask me. Ah, here comes the lady.”
Their conversation broke off then, long enough to choose between chilled salmon and pasta salad or chicken cordon bleu, and whether or not they would like a plate of bread and cheeses before dinner. All this while being handed a warm steamed towel to wash with. The deliciousness that enveloped Meg at the anticipation of enjoying such luxuries (not to mention the adventure that lay ahead of her that was once again beginning to cause a little thrill to ripple through her at the mere thought) all mingled together to distract her.
Then, again, maybe just putting a safe distance between herself and Vidalia Harbin (a psychic, of all things!) was what made her feel better. At any rate, she momentarily lost sight of those “footsteps” she’d been following, and simply ignored the many little things that just didn’t add up.
Such as the professor’s frequent forays past the barrier curtain into coach, when he had presumably paid extra not to have to stand in line with ordinary people. Or during snatches of conversation when his son’s name kept alternating between Tom, and John, or even Robert. Or how, after returning from the lavatory, herself, she distinctly remembered her Bremen Tours bag had been sitting upright rather than on its side. Not that it mattered. She hardly expected anyone who could afford an international holiday to be interested in rifling through some fellow-passenger’s carry-all.
“Will your son be meeting you in St. Louis?” Meg inquired politely, though secretly, it was beginning to prick her curiosity whether his son and that gentleman in the rain might not be one and the same. Absurdly farfetched. But hadn’t she asked for a second chance? Was she a woman of faith, or wasn’t she?
“That would be the day,” the professor replied. “No, he doesn’t even know I’m coming. I figure I’ll at least have until that bloodhound of his spills the beans. Might be just enough time to find out what’s really going on. You know he’s managed to liquidate nearly twenty percent of my assets without asking me? From overseas, yet. Up to no good, if you ask me. Been up to no good for a long time, now.” He sighed with a rather poignant despondency and pushed his half-finished dinner aside. “I think he’s trying to prove me incompetent.”
“Professor Anderson…” Meg swallowed the last bite of her salad as if it were pure ambrosia, dabbed her mouth with the cloth napkin (real linen!), and took a sip of her tonic water. No gin in it, of course, but she had purposely cultivated a taste for the tangy soda over the last few months because it contained quinine. Which was what a person planning a trip through the tropics should do. Back in 1894. “Are you sure he isn’t just trying to take care of you?”
He was tipping the brown pill bottle into his palm again, and gave an involuntary gasp when only one last pill rolled out that seemed at least twice bigger than all the rest. “Blast…blast! Who’s been” —he twisted around in his seat and glared back into coach— “tinkering with my blasted pills!”
The stewardess, who was now collecting dinner trays two seats ahead of them, turned around long enough to reveal a hint of impatience that was beginning to replace her former professionalism. She took two steps backward without losing an item off the overloaded tray, and said rather firmly, “Is there something else I can get for you, Mr. Anderson?”
“Another double gin!”
“I’m sure no one’s been tampering with your pills, Professor,” Meg soothed. “You’ve been popping them like candy all by yourself.”
“I don’t know many people who could choke down thirteen pills in less than an hour unless they were nothing but sugar,” he argued. “Somebody’s definitely been…”
“There, you see? We’ve been flying for well over two hours, already, and you had no idea. Which is just what mixing wine and spirits in the afternoon will do.”
“Listen here,” the professor insisted, “If I had taken that many of anything other than antacids, which is all they were, I tell you, I’d be on my ear about now. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say it depends entirely on whether they really were antacids. Because if it was something like heart pills, or…”
“My heart’s strong as an ox.”
“How wonderful for you. Then again, if they were nerve pills…”
“Never taken a nerve pill in my life. Why, I’m in better shape today than I was at forty! And that’s why I resent all the bloodhounds. Especially the ones who treat you like some kind of mental case and tamper with your pill bottles.”
“I can see how irritating that would be.”
“Irritating! It’s degrading! But I’ll tell you something, Meg”—he took a long swallow of his fresh drink and then gave her a conspiratorial wink. “There’s a certain Mr. Gilbert Minelli who should still be wandering around that Paris airport, right now, wondering where the devil I got to this time.” The mere thought gave him a delighted chuckle.
“Hmmm. So that’s what became of him.” Meg took another sip of her soda. “Whatever is Tom going to say? Or is it John.”
“Not a thing, because he isn’t going to find out. That nincompoop Gilbert wouldn’t have the nerve to tell him. He’d get fired. You can’t beat an old fox! Look here…” He withdrew a folded, well-used map from another inside pocket, set his drink on her tray to clear his, and spread it out so she could see. It was a map of France, where someone had marked a neat red circle around a small town in the southern part of that famous peninsula known as Brittany. “Tom’s place is just outside of Port Louis, here, and when I pop in on him unexpectedly, he’ll have to…”
“Port Louis!” Meg gasped. “You mean St. Louis, don’t you? In Senegal?”
“No, I mean Port Louis, in France, where Tom has his blasted broken-down vineyard along the banks of some river in the countryside there.”
“But I distinctly heard you ask the stewardess if this was a non-smoking flight all the way to St. Louis.” Meg had a brief moment of panic, during which she could only calm herself by a reassuring glance over the back of the professor’s seat for a glimpse of her fellow Bremen Tour participants. Just in time to catch an accusing glare from Vidalia, who happened to be waiting at the end of a long line to the lavatory.
“Port Louis, St. Louis, what’s the difference?” The professor grumbled irritably. “There’s a St. Louis in Missouri, too, but I’m not worried we’re headed there – I just changed planes in Paris!”
“Oh, Professor, you’ve made a mistake! This is Air Senegal, it’s going to… “
“Of course I know we’re on Air Senegal, young lady, I’ve flown thousands of miles on these blasted African airlines! I often have business in Ghana. I’m going there at the end of the week.”
“Yes, but we talked about Bremen Tours…and how I was going to…”
“Bremen Tours ends up in Ghana. Does it not? I know because I happen to be a shareholder in that company. I like to help out young companies, now and then. I also happen to know they land first in Dakar. I’m headed that way, too. Next week. To get to St. Louis, Senegal, you have to change planes and double back from Dakar.”
“This airplane is headed for St. Louis right, now, Professor,” Meg argued. “It’s landing there first. But whatever made you think an African airline would stop off in some small city in France? It’s not a bus service.”
“Well it…” Now he glanced back toward coach himself before turning to her with an expression that was beginning to show traces of confusion. “Why it must have been that nincompoop Gilbert! Doesn’t even have enough brains to get the tickets straight! He told me we didn’t need to change airlines. It was already one of the stops on our tickets and Tom would be…”
Now, his words slowed down and began to slur. Whether from all that alcohol or the pills, she had no idea, but Meg suddenly felt he was not only losing his grip on reality, but about to slip away entirely. “Whatever the problem, we’ll get it fixed,” she assured. “We’ll call Tom as soon as...”
“No-o-oh, we can’ tell Tom ‘bout this…” He lifted a hand toward his breast pocket, but it was as if he had shifted into slow motion and seemed to have trouble connecting. “We’ll tell ‘im…tell ‘im I had some bi’ness to take care of an’...went on ahead…then I’ll – blassst! Blassst-blasss…”
The clutch of items slipped from his hand and tumbled onto the tray. His wallet fell to the floor, and a cell phone skidded onto Meg’s lap before he finally came up with a white business card and shoved it toward her. “You call. Jus’ tell ‘im that…what I said.”
“I can’t call now, we had to turn these off, remember? But I will as soon as we get there. I promise.”
“Tell tha’ rascal his ol’ dad…has figgurd out what he’s up to…and he’ll never…” He folded his arms on the tray in front of him and laid his head down, then. “Get away with it… ‘cause I…blass-it-all, now I am tired…”
“Oh, honestly!” Meg retrieved the small airline pillow that was wedged between their seats and placed it under his head. She tucked the cell phone back into his pocket and then turned the business card over in her hands.
J. T. Anderson
Professor Emeritus, UCLA Film Institute
Yes, film institute! This must certainly be her second chance at that divine appointment. It had to be. Because what were the odds of being randomly upgraded to first class, only to be seated next to an authority on filmmaking? At the very moment she was taking her first hesitant steps toward her dream of producing educational films! But what did his son have to do with any of it if he didn’t even live in the country? Of course, meeting the son might eventually have led to meeting the father. Especially if the conversation had taken that sort of turn. The only question now was…
What exactly was she supposed to do next?