Ruth sees him coming, all the way down the terminal. He rocks up and down in his cowboy boots, gaining a couple inches of height with one step, losing it with the next. His smile is visible at fifty feet, completely phony.
She stands next to the scanner, waiting. His hair is wet, a part straight up the middle, each side swept back. He stands, not saying a word. A bleached white circle marks the front of his red polo shirt, which is too small. The skin of his neck and jaw is discolored, yellows and blues just beneath the surface; he has fresh cuts under his chin, in front of his ear.
“Just shave?” she says.
“You’ve always got hot water here. Mine’s out, where I been living.” He pauses. Up close, his smile looks painful, pathetic. “Lots of people shave in the restrooms, you know.”
“New glasses?”
The frames are gold, tear-drop shaped. The lenses are the kind that change with light, and they’re caught halfway, so his eyes are only partially visible, staring out through a haze.
“My own prescription,” he says. “They made these in under an hour.”
“So what is it now?” she says.
“How’s that? The time?”
“What is it you want from me?”
“Lunch,” he says. “I want to take you to lunch.”
“Right,” she says.
“I got money, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“You must, coming to the airport to buy lunch.” She reaches behind her, lifting her square, leather bag. “I bring my own,” she says, “but I’ll eat it with you.”
“You’re serious?”
“Don’t act so surprised,” she says. “I’ve been waiting for you. We have some things to talk about.”
“Right on,” Scott says, following her.
His boots clock along, while Ruth’s service oxfords are silent. People pull luggage on wheels; suitcases tail around corners, tip onto their sides. Above, a recorded voice circles, warning about leaving cars parked at the terminal curbside, about leaving one’s baggage unattended. Scott waits for the message to finish, for the space before it starts again, and then he speaks.
“I like your hair,” he says. “Those braids and everything.”
Ruth just smiles, nods. They both know it’s an obvious thing to say.
“Where you want to eat?” she says. “Kenny Rogers’?”
“What about him?” Scott says, and then he turns and sees the restaurant. He stares at the people inside, the cashiers in their uniforms, the picture of the man with the light gray hair and beard. He closes his eyes, opens them again.
“What’s the matter?” Ruth says.
“I don’t think I can eat in there.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both,” he says.
Ruth laughs. “What do you feel like eating?”
“Pancakes.”
“Pancakes,” she says. “Follow me.” She points farther down the terminal.
Out on the tarmac, planes wheel slowly around, just missing each other. The ground crews scramble under the wings, wearing orange vests, shorts, and kneepads, headphones over their ears. Above it all, the tower stands, and all the radar, invisible in the air. Scott stays close to Ruth as they move through the crowd.
“Thing of it is,” he says. “I know Kenny Rogers. I worked for him.”
“At the restaurant?”
“Someone must have tricked him,” Scott says. “Or he had some money problems or something. I saw plenty, you know. Saw him sing ‘Islands in the Stream’ with Dolly Parton where I could have reached out and touched her.”
“Who’s this?”
“Kenny Rogers,” Scott says.
“He was a singer?” Ruth says. “I thought he was just a chicken guy, like Colonel Sanders.”
“He is a singer. Not ‘was.’”
“Here,” Ruth says, slowing. “This isn’t the cheapest, but I don’t know where else you’re getting pancakes this late in the day.”
*
They pass through an entryway of cheap stained glass. It’s a cocktail lounge with a restaurant attached; the lights are dimmer than in the terminal, and faint music plays, overwhelmed by the televisions above the bar. Three different baseball games are on, the grass in each diamond a different shade of green. Scott follows Ruth. Over in the smoking section, a gray haze settles five feet off the floor.
They sit in a booth, facing each other. She checks the watch on her wrist.
“Have to get back?” he says, noticing.
“No,” she says. “We’re going to talk some things out.”
“I like the sound of that,” he says.
The waitress pours them each a cup of coffee, then leaves the insulated pitcher on the table.
“Stack of pancakes,” Scott says. “Buttermilk.”
“I’m good with the coffee,” Ruth says.
The waitress looks like she might say something about Ruth bringing in her own food, then sees the uniform, the badge sewn on the blazer, and thinks better of it. Ruth takes out a bag of carrot sticks and points with one before snapping it in her teeth.
“Take off the glasses,” she says. “I want to see your eyes while I’m talking to you.”
Scott takes off his glasses. His small eyes, surrounded by bruises, blink at her. His hair is almost dry, one side sticking up above a hidden cowlick. She can hardly find the anger in her, looking at him.
“One thing I’m trying to understand,” she says. “Is why we keep coming together.”
“Fate?” he says.
“No, it’s definitely not fate. What it is is one of us must be making it happen. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the one.”
“Fair enough,” Scott says.
“It made me angry,” she says. “At first. Now I’m over that.”
“Good.”
“Not that it couldn’t come back. Now, though, I’m curious. What is it? Me? My little brother? I don’t know.”
“I’m not sure this is going the way I wanted it to go,” he says.
“That’s right.” Ruth reaches into her bag and pulls out a piece of paper. She sets it, face up, on the table. It’s the MRI image of his head, taken from the side, showing all the twists of his brain.
“Found this in my house,” she says. “Terrell’s room. Know anything about how it got there?”
“No,” Scott says. “I lost it.”
“I don’t believe that—you were so proud of it.”
“It got old, after a while.”
“I want you to talk to me, here. Did you give it to him? Did he take it?” She sips at her coffee, trying to calm her rising impatience.
“He must have found it,” Scott says. “I guess.”
“And what about you and Terrell? What’s going on there? You saying you’re friends and everything.”
“Nothing,” he says, setting down his fork for a moment, playing with his glasses. “I just know his name—that’s about it.”
“And what happened to your face?” she says.
“Thought you hadn’t noticed.”
“Who did it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, unfolding his napkin. “Listen, he’s a smart kid, Terrell is. But you get a group of smart ones together and they go beyond stupid. The stupidity multiplies. You got to watch that—I do what I can, but here pretty soon I’ll be doing some work in the hospital where it won’t be real easy for me to get out, keep anything from happening.”
“Now you’re talking like it’s more than just knowing his name.”
“Listen, Ruth—”
“Don’t even start,” she says. “Am I supposed to lock him in? Worry more than I do already? And why should I be listening to you? Do I want him to live like you?”
“Whoa,” Scott says, his palms up, flashing at her. “I’m not saying he pisses sitting down—nothing like that.”
“I don’t know what it is,” she says. “I just want you to stay away from him. I want you to promise me.”
“That goes both ways,” he says. “You know that. I can try to stay out of his way, but he comes looking for me, what am I supposed to do? You know I just want to help him.”
“I don’t know that. Not at all.”
Scott looks away, pretending to study the painting next to him, of a horse race—twenty horses, the jockeys on their backs wearing all different colors. Before Ruth can speak again, the waitress returns, setting a plate on the table.
“Decent stack of pancakes can really stay with you, over the course of a day.” Scott sets to work, cutting the stack all one way, then the other, at right angles. “This way’s more efficient—gets your appetite going, and the syrup gets down into the whole stack.” He takes his first bite of the pancakes, then spreads the butter with his fork, then takes another bite. He doesn’t pause until half the plate is clean.
“I can’t believe you never listened to Kenny Rogers,” he says, then, pushing the crumbs into a pool of syrup, licking his finger. “You never heard ‘Lady’? Or ‘Don’t Fall in Love with a Dreamer’? How about ‘You Decorated My Life’?”
“You ever see any black folks at his shows?” Ruth says.
“I don’t know. Can’t remember. That’s a real good point, though.”
“My break’s over,” Ruth says, standing. She lays two dollar bills on table.
“No way,” Scott says, handing them back to her. “My treat. That was the deal. I could’ve afforded a lot more, too. Could’ve had sausages on the side, anything.”
“I want you to stay away from Terrell.”
“You’re leaving this for me, right?” He holds up the paper, the picture of his brain.
“Did you hear what I said? About Terrell?”
“How about except under your supervision?” he says. “Like if we were all together? Because this lunch, here, I think it’s a productive step. I can see you’re warming to me.”
“Unbelievable,” Ruth says. “All right. Just stay away from him unless I’m there, too. How’s that?”
“Perfect.” Scott says. “I can see the three of us already.”
She walks away, uncertain of what she’s accomplished. Looking back, she sees Scott taking a handful of change from his pack. He counts out the coins, concentrating, stacking them in quarters, dimes, and nickels.