SWITCH BACK: ONE

  

The wheels of our flight touched down in Waco, Texas at half-past eleven on a very late hot August night. I would’ve been so much happier had those wheels touched down at Dallas/Fort Worth since that’s where we were heading, but after circling most of north Texas for over two hours to avoid a batch of wicked storms, I was happy enough to just get on the ground.

It took another thirty minutes for an airport employee to push the stairs out to the jet and another twenty to herd us into the small terminal. My traveling companion, Mrs. Zibby Archibald, who at eighty-six still looked ducky in her best pink suit and matching hat, sat next to me on the worn pleather bench while we pondered our options.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, dear,” Zibby said. She pulled a tissue from her oversized pocketbook, then snapped it shut on her sleeve. “Though I’d think a flight from South Carolina would be shorter.”

I patted her leg and tried to eavesdrop on the group of pilots in the corner. The place was jammed with cranky, crumpled passengers, none of whom planned on visiting Waco in the middle of the night. Including the pilots of no less than seven jets who’d been diverted over the course of the last six hours to an airport without the personnel to handle any of it. They’d closed at nine that evening and had no plans to bring the crew back until morning.

“Air traffic control isn’t even responding to my calls anymore,” one pilot said to another.

“Yeah, same with the base office and the union. I radioed a friend diverted to Abilene. Says DFW’s shut down until dawn, no matter what they told us earlier. Book the first hotel you can get because they’re going to be scarce.”

Two little boys in the seats across from ours fought over a sticky handheld video game. Their mother snifled and sneezed out a half-hearted warning, which they ignored.

I inched closer to Zibby and lathered on my nineteenth layer of hand-sani in the last four hours. Even though being in the airport made my skin itch, I reminded myself it was one level better on the germ-scale than being on that airplane.

A lone security guard walked past me to the pack of pilots near the gate. He raised his hands and spoke to the crowd. “Ladies and gentleman, due to the weather, flights won’t resume until first thing tomorrow morning. Please keep your boarding pass to re-board your flight. The airport will be closing in twenty minutes. After you leave the secure area, you may not return until we reopen at five a.m. Thank you.”

He said all this with the practiced air of a flight attendant instructing passengers to fasten their seatbelt by placing the metal flap into the buckle via posted placard. Clearly this wasn’t the first group of flights to land at Waco’s gate in the middle of a storm.

After telling the crowd everything it did not want to hear (no, there are no nearby hotels; no, you may not sleep inside the terminal; no, there are no restaurants open this time of night; no, the luggage will not be retrieved as there is no way retrieve it; no, I do not have a manager you can speak with), he calmly walked through the angry throng toward the security gate.

“So glad the rain stopped,” Zibby said. “It would be terrible to get my new hat wet after all this. I bought it just for the Honeysuckle Festival.”

“Agreed,” I replied, but I was much more worried about Zibby than I was her honeysuckle hat. She couldn’t sleep on the hard dirty sidewalk in the dark, surrounded by strangers and whatever else slinked through the night. How could they just dump us without our bags, then shoo us into the night like unwanted refugees?

My brain tried working out different departure scenarios as I gathered up my one belonging, a small quilted handbag, and helped Zibby to her feet. We limped our way to the exit with only minimal pushing and shoving. By now most of the crowd was too tired and hungry to put up much of a fight.

Once we hit the fresh air outside, I eyeballed the last two spots on a metal bench at the far end of the sidewalk. I was about to make a dash for them when a woman with big brown hair and a big bouncy bosom approached us.

“Miss Zibby,” she hollered, then wrapped her in an exuberant hug.

“Why, Rita Whitaker,” Zibby replied. “What a pleasant wheel of fortune running into you. Our flight was diverted and that pilot plunked us right where you are.”

“It’s why I’m here, sugar,” Rita said. “Gonna take you both into town. I couldn’t leave y’all stranded way out here.”

I was so relieved, I wanted to hug her myself. “I’m with Zibby, definitely our good fortune to see you. And you must be from Little Oak?”

“You bet. Lived there my whole life. Own the inn where you’re staying, assuming you’re Miss Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. I was almost to DFW to pick y’all up when the storms ripped through the sky like a hurricane in July, so I kept driving. Figured it was either going to be Waco or Abilene, and I’m tickled as a turnip it wasn’t Houston.”

She tucked her arm in Zibby’s and looked around our feet. “Y’all have any bags?”

“Oh yes,” Zibby said. “I brought three suitcases for clothes and one for shoes, but they won’t let them off the plane. Guess we’ll just have to follow the wind.”

“We really appreciate the ride,” I said as we walked through the small lot to a very large pickup truck. “I wasn’t sure what we’d do for the night. Any idea what they’ll do with our luggage?”

“Sure, happens all the time. They’ll fly it over in the morning. I’m driving down to DFW first thing to pick up more guests. I’ll grab it then.”

We clamored into the enormous cab, after I gave Zibby’s behind a nice big shove, and pulled out onto the dark highway, about a hundred fifty miles from our destination.

“Oh Rita, I’m so excited to be back,” Zibby said. She belted herself in with her pocketbook on her lap. Inside the seatbelt. “I’ve missed my dear Bea. How’s her spirit?”

“Not the same since Austin passed,” Rita said. “But she’s doing her best. She’s so looking forward to your visit. We all are, ready to show off the town.”

“Elli, wait until you see Little Oak. So beautiful. And vibrant! It’s the envy of all Dallas.”

“Only take about three hours to get us there,” Rita said. “Might want to take a doze if you can.”

She didn’t have to tell me twice. I tilted my head against the passenger window as the black asphalt sped by. I closed my eyes and hoped my travel theory held solid. Sometimes when a trip starts out terrible, you get the bad out of the way and the rest is all rainbows and cupcakes.

Turns out for this trip, there would be no rainbow after the storm. Just more storm.