“Did he have a prominent nose?”
“Miss, I had better things to do than take notes on the guy's nose.”
“Well, what about his hair? Was it dark and stringy? Sort of in his face?”
Levenduski had the tip of a ballpoint pen in his mouth. He was biting down on it, stretching his lips so that all his teeth were showing. He looked like a hungry Irish Setter. “No. This I do remember.” He pointed the pen at me. “The guy was completely bald. Not a speck of hair on his head. Honest to God, I remember thinking, This poor joker's got all that hair on his face but none on his noggin.” Levenduski laughed. “Yeah, I remember the guy's head just like I seen him yesterday. Looked like a freakin' cue ball.”
My initial reaction was more letdown. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe Will Lucien and Paul Hudson were not one in the same.
My memories of that night were vague. Not moving pictures, more like photographs. I flipped through the snapshots in my mind: Paul on the porch, Paul sliding my hand under his shirt, Paul above me on the bed, Paul grabbing my arm when I tried to take that stupid orange hat off of his head.
“What's the matter, you get a bad haircut?” I'd joked.
“Something like that,” he'd said.
I crashed through Michael and Vera's front door ready to report my discovery, certain I was going to convince my brother and astound Vera at the same time.
Michael was sitting on the couch with a TV tray in front of him, Fender resting at his feet. Vera was halfway between the kitchen and the main room carrying a wooden salad bowl.
“Michael, I—” were the only words I got out before my brother stood up and swooped down on me like a vulture.
“Outside,” he said, dragging me in the direction of the door.
Vera looked curious, and Michael said, “It's about your Christmas present.”
At the end of the block, Michael stopped in front of a vacant basketball court. “Are you out of your mind?” he yelled, and then turned his back to me, gripping the chain-link fence and breathing heavily. His head was pressed so hard into the metal I thought he was going to have a fence pattern on his forehead when he turned around.
“I just came from the police station,” I said. “You're not going to believe this, but the officer on duty the night Paul—”
“Jesus, Eliza!” Michael spun to face me. There was no pattern on his head, only redness. His whole body seemed shaky. “You didn't tell the police about your little theory, did you?”
“I didn't tell them anything, I was asking—”
“Who else have you told?”
“No one. Stop yelling at me. Will Lucien was bald.”
“What?”
“And so was Paul that night. At least I'm pretty sure he was. He wouldn't take off his hat, not even during sex.”
Michael rolled his eyes and started frantically pacing the fence line.
“I found this site on the Internet,” I said, “it's for lawyers and companies that have to check up on people, I guess. Anyway, for $39.99 you can find out almost anything about a person if you have their name and date of birth.”
Michael ceased moving. “And?”
“It takes twenty-four hours. I'll have Will Lucien's vital stats by noon tomorrow. And if it just so happens Will Lucien was born in Pittsburgh in 1972, is there a chance you might start to believe me?”
I watched Michael's face.
That's when I saw it. And my mouth fell open.
“What?” Michael said nervously.
The whole time I'd been waiting for a reaction—a flinch, a nod, one of his Abe Lincoln scowls—anything that suggested my brother was starting to take me seriously. Now I saw something else.
His was not the face of a man trying to figure out the truth. His was the face of a man who knew the truth, but was torn by whether or not to expose it.
“Damn you…” I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or kick his kneecaps in, but I settled on a mixture of the first two options. “You've known all along, haven't you?”
He leaned his body backward, resting all his weight against the fence so that it curved and flexed behind him.
“Michael, this is my life! You have to tell me!”
“Jesus Christ, it's my life too, Eliza!” He rubbed his face and tried to catch his breath. “Please, just sit tight for another day or two. And stop asking questions. Can you do that please?”
I didn't want to agitate Michael any more than I already had, but I also thought the world might end if I didn't make one more appeal.
“I swear over my life I won't ask to see him or talk to him, if that's what he wants. I won't ask where or how or why, and I won't tell a soul. I just need to know. I need to hear you say it. Is he alive?”
Michael glanced around, then picked up a rock and skipped it violently down the sidewalk.
“No more police,” he said.
I made an x over my heart, and then the tears fell harder, because I knew what Michael was going to say.
“Yes,” Michael sighed. “He's alive.”
The street lamps in Tompkins Square Park were like electric candles. They gave off heat, Michael was sure they did, because it was twenty-seven degrees outside, but as long as he and Vera remained within the light's radius they could unbutton their coats and still be comfortable.
Michael and Paul had talked that morning. At lunchtime, Michael had called Eliza and told her to meet him at the fountain at eight.
“Eight?” she'd whined. “That's hours away. Can't we meet now?”
“I have some things I need to take care of first.”
At 7:49, with Vera at his side, Michael spotted Eliza walking down Ninth Street at a swift, urban pace emblematic of Manhattanites.
Eliza looked stunned by Vera's presence. Her eyes went to Michael, then to her sister-in-law. “You know too?”
“Not until today, I didn't.”
“Sit,” Michael told Eliza, nodding at a bench. He could tell she was nervous, she was biting her cheeks. “First of all, I want you to know I had no hand in the decision-making that led to the deal I'm about to offer you.”
“Deal?” She eyed Vera, who was fidgeting beside Michael, twisting her hands as if she were wringing out a dishrag. “What does he mean deal?”
“Don't look at me,” Vera said. “I'm still in shock. It's not everyday someone you know is resurrected.”
Michael pulled a standard-sized white envelope out of his breast pocket. Eliza took it and studied her name typed across the front.
The envelope wasn't sealed. She lifted the flap and removed the packet of papers. The next few moments passed in formidable silence, and Michael and Vera watched Eliza's face contort like dough being stretched in all directions as the proviso of the “deal” revealed itself to her.
She was holding a nudge. A dare. Choice in the form of an airline ticket made out in her name for a flight that would be departing JFK right after the New Year.
There was a printed itinerary with the ticket, as well as a voucher for a discount on a car rental the airline must have thrown in.
“Remember, don't shoot the messenger,” Michael said.
Eliza remained silent until she unfolded the itinerary. “Over water?” she shrieked. “He expects me to fly over water?”
Michael flipped the page to where it listed the equipment. “Look, a 767-400. Practically brand new—I checked before I booked it. Oh, and he wanted me to point out you'll be sitting in first class, so you know how much he was willing to spend on you.”
“I have an idea…” Her voice was dry and sputtering. “I could take a train to Boston…somewhere on the coast…catch one of those ocean liners and…”
Michael shook his head. “He figured you'd try that. He said, and I quote: ‘Tell her no dice unless she gets her ass on the plane.’”
“Those were his exact words? He actually said ass and dice?”
Vera pointed to the envelope. “I think you missed something.”
Eliza looked in and found a small scrap of
paper that read: If you want me you're going to have to come and get me.
“Bastard.”
I entered JFK's Central Terminal with a scarf tied around my head, covering my eyes, completely obscuring my vision.
Michael carried my bags; Vera held my hand.
I was a soldier being led to the firing squad.
Joan of Arc on her way to the barbeque.
“Eliza,” Vera said. “People are staring.”
“I don't care. Pretend I'm blind.”
“If you were blind, you wouldn't need the scarf.”
Vera guided me all the way to the ticket counter, where I listened as Michael gave my name and flight number to the chipper lady behind the desk who sounded so much like Glinda the Good Witch, I imagined the woman wearing a pink dress made of tulle and a big golden crown on her head. It helped.
“May I have a window seat?” I held my passport out until Glinda took it. “I know it's safer to sit in the aisle, but I'm going to need a view of the outside world at all times.”
Glinda told me I was in luck. There was one window seat left in first class. And for a brief second I thought I felt brave.
Glinda gave my boarding pass to Michael. “They'll begin boarding in about forty-five minutes,” she said. “But before I let her go, I'm going to need to see her face.”
“Eliza,” Michael said.
I lifted the blindfold a smidgen, allowing Glinda to verify that I was indeed the girl in the passport photo. Glinda was appeased. I, on the other hand, was fearfully taken aback. The appearance didn't match the voice. Glinda was hard-edged, with a crispy mess of hair. Her head looked like it had been deep-fried.
I put the blindfold back on and let my escorts lead me in the direction of the gate. We walked slowly, and then Michael stopped.
“Security checkpoint,” he said. “You're going to have to take that thing off.”
I untied the scarf, and when I opened my eyes I could have been standing at the entrance to a shopping mall. There were retail stores and fast food counters up ahead, and the only thing that disturbed me was the big machine waiting to make sure I wasn't carrying any weapons.
Michael, Vera, and I took our places at the end of the line. We moved when the people in front of us moved. At the halfway point, Michael put his hand on my back and said, “We should say goodbye here. Only ticketed passengers beyond this point.”
I jumped out of line and Michael asked the guy behind me to hold my place. I was panting now. Not only because I was terrified, but because I realized there were questions that needed answers, major issues that, due to the wondrous reality of being reunited with Paul, I had failed to address.
On Michael's advice, I had told Burke and Queenie that I was going to Europe “to find myself,” or something asinine like that. But I had never discussed with Michael and Vera how or when I would be able to communicate with them.
“I am going to see you again, right?”
Michael chuckled. “Yeah. I mean, not right away, but yes.”
I threw my arms around Vera and the tears came on both sides. Eventually Michael tapped my shoulder and said, “You should get going.”
Michael's eyes were watery too, but he pretended they weren't.
“Thank you,” I said, squeezing him as tight as I could.
When I let go, he pushed me back in line.
“What if I can't do it? What if I get to the gate and can't go any further?”
“You can do it,” he said.
I passed through the metal detector without incident. Then I picked up my carry-on and stopped to take one last look at my family.
“Go,” Michael said.
“You first.”
Michael and Vera waved without smiling. I waved back. Then Michael put his arm around Vera, and they turned and walked away.
I kept my head down and took small steps, heel to toe, until I arrived at my gate. I chose a seat facing the inside of the airport, to watch the travelers and learn their secrets, and so as not to actually set eyes on the plane this time.
Pilots with starched uniforms and sharp posture passed by. Kids hopped around chairs. An elderly couple waited for their flight. Businessmen paced in corners with phones against their ears. None of them exhibited one iota of concern for their lives.
I tried to tell myself I was no different from any of these people.
Breathe, I whispered.
Every time a plane took to the sky, the walls screamed and the ground vibrated. Nine nauseating takeoffs later, a forty-something airline employee with a high-pitched voice punched in a code on a keypad, unlocked the door to the Jetway, and made a falsetto announcement that anyone with kids, disabilities, and those sitting in the first class cabin were welcome to board the aircraft.
I rose, brushing crumbs from the back of the leather pants I'd purchased for the flight. Then I put on my imaginary blinker, merged into the line of passengers, and before I knew it I'd handed over my boarding pass, shown my passport to the woman at the gate, and was making my way down a telescope-shaped tunnel.
The closer I got to the plane, the colder the air became. There was a loud sucking noise coming from the engines. I was shivering and sweating, something I didn't know a body could do at the same time. And the man behind me was carrying a briefcase that kept banging into the back of my legs.
I stopped and spun around. “Two foot rule,” I said, trying not to throw up.
“Sorry?” The man had an accent. Norwegian, or one of those other cold, blond countries.
“You're invading my body bubble, and I really need some space right now. How about taking a few steps back?”
But he couldn't. There were other passengers prodding the man to keep going. He had no choice but to push on, and I let myself get swept up in the horde, knowing that otherwise I'd never make it.
And then, just like that, I was on the plane.
It was big inside. An oversized waiting room.
The air in the cabin was stale and insipid, exactly like it had been on the Lear jet, and I couldn't understand why, after decades of aviation, no one had figured out how to make a plane smell safe or pleasant.
I found my seat, which was considerably larger than the coach seats I could see behind me, and I immediately began the pre-takeoff checklist I'd prepared. First, safety issues: I stowed my carry-on, fastened my belt low and tight around my waist, made sure my seat was in its full, upright position, double-checked that my tray table was secure in its compartment, and memorized the locations of the two nearest exits.
All was good to go. And for what I knew would be a very short period of time, I felt ready. Not calm. Not comfortable. But more ready than I'd expected.
The problem was the passengers. There were dozens of them still boarding, all in a row, like cows on their way to the slaughter. They moved close together with dumb cow looks on their faces, and couldn't seem to find any space for their bags. They spent a lot of time standing around, opening and slamming the overhead bins. I was afraid all the slamming was going to damage the plane. I started sweating again.
A narrow-faced flight attendant humming “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” brought over a blanket and pillow, a little ramekin of smoked almonds, and offered me a glass of either champagne or orange juice, neither of which I took. The flight attendant's blouse advertised her as Samantha.
I asked Samantha if she was acquainted with the pilot and copilot.
“Yes,” Samantha said.
” To the best of your knowledge, are they heavy drinkers?”
I was certain I had just made an enemy of Samantha. “No, Miss—” Samantha perused the papers on her clipboard. “Caelum. I assure you they are not.”
To ease my nerves, if that was possible, I reviewed a few of the facts I'd recently learned about the 767-400, mostly from the Boeing website, which meant it was probably propaganda, but it was all I had: The plane had never crashed. Its safety record was impeccable. It sat approximately three hundred and seventy passengers, de
pending on its configuration. And it was the first plane to implement a vacuum waste system in the lavatory. This was a good thing, I guessed, but not really going to come in handy in the event the plane went into a nosedive.
With departure imminent, it was time for a weather check. Channel Seven had promised that the skies in the New York area would remain clear until the following morning but, tragically, two small clouds were forming directly above the airport.
Things only got worse when the captain's voice came blaring out of the ceiling. He introduced himself as James Morgan, and he sounded nice enough at first. But then he had to go and say he was anticipating a smooth ride once we got to our cruising altitude of thirty-seven thousand feet, and I could taste the bile.
I darted to the bathroom, pulled my hair off my face, and threw up in the toilet. If nothing else, the experience demonstrated the merits of the vacuum waste system.
Moments later, there was a tap-tap on the door. A flight attendant who was not Samantha, but an older woman named Vicki, peeked in and said, “I'm sorry. I gather you're under the weather, but we're going to need you to sit down very soon.”
Vicki handed me a damp cloth, a disposable toothbrush, and a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. After freshening up, I stepped out of the lavatory, and Vicki asked me if I was feeling better.
“I'm not a very frequent flier.”
“I know,” Vicki said, smiling brightly. “Your fiancé told me.”
Vicki said she thought it was sweet, the way Paul and I fell all over each other, kissing and laughing and crying like we hadn't seen each other in months.
“But you really need to sit down,” she told us.
I hadn't recognized Paul right away. He'd been standing in the middle of the aisle when I rounded the corner, but I was looking to my seat and almost walked past him until I heard him say, “There's my betrothed.”
He had the green suit on, paired with a dress shirt and a hideous yellow tie that was covered in tiny green golf clubs. He was attempting to look unlike a rock star—an attempt that wasn't remotely successful. No matter how hard he tried, Paul would never be kempt enough to pull off the businessman vibe.