mattered to him was his family. I had spent around sixty hours cooped up in a patrol car with the guy, and the only time he seemed human was when he talked about his son.
That was before Melissa was born. If I’d had a kid at the time, maybe Roscoe and I would have been real friends. Maybe I would know why he had trusted me. And then maybe I would have gone to L.A. when he’d asked me. And maybe he’d be alive today.
I was glad it was not night. In the bright Miami sun coming into the cabin of the plane, the maybes were bad enough. In any case, I had to do this. I owed it. I didn’t know if I owed it to Roscoe or to me, but I owed it.
The man in the middle seat next to me was fidgeting. He was huge, and he was sweating like only a big man can. The drops ran off the bald top of his head and into a neat fringe of dark blond hair. Then they would roll down the curve of his ear, onto his lobe, and fall onto his magazine with a tiny “plaf” sound. He turned the page of the magazine, carefully separating the damp pages. He let the magazine fall into his lap, limp. He stared at the seat in front of him, then at the intercom speaker above him, then took a deep breath. He loosened his red power tie and flexed his neck muscles spasmodically. He turned to me.
“Excuse me,” he said, in a voice that sounded like it came from the bottom of a rusting old oil drum. “I’m getting very claustrophobic. Would you mind changing seats?”
I turned to face the man. Beyond him at the window seat I saw a profile like they used to put on coins. She was maybe thirty, with a shower of light brown ringlets falling away from her face and across her shoulders. Under the hair her neck looked impossibly delicate. I felt my heart kick and turn over in a way it hadn’t for almost two years. “Sure,” I said, quickly sliding into the aisle to let him out. “No problem.”
The big guy lurched out after me and I slipped back into the middle seat. The woman at the window turned and gave me a brief smile, and then turned to look out the window again. It was only a small smile, a smile for a stranger. But even after she turned away I felt the smile sticking to me, making my face hot and my palms clammy. I wanted to bite her neck, spend a week chewing on her lips—
—and the bottom fell away as I realized what I was thinking. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t feel this way. Like Los Angeles, this part of my life was over; it all ended at the Rossmore on March 18. I hadn’t done more than think about a woman since that day. The thinking had left me shaking and guilty enough. If I were ever to do something beyond thought, like touch that creamy olive skin—I couldn’t. In the deep three A.M. of my head and heart I was still married.
But here I was, going back to L.A., back to all the old ghosts. Maybe it was fitting that those other dead parts kick up, twitch into brief life, on that long plane ride back to my dead self. And yet—
I still didn’t want to think about the feelings this woman was raising in me. If I had to go to L.A. I would, but I could not visit those sealed-off places in myself. I had put up heavy doors and locked them. To open those doors would let all the pain out again, and this woman was already fingering the padlocks. And yet—
Maybe I should just talk to her; odds are she’d be so dumb the feelings would die away again. Nobody can look like that and still be worth talking to. Every perfect profile I had ever met had nothing to say beyond advice on nail care. This profile was so far beyond the perfection of any other I had ever seen—how could anybody possibly live in there? She had to be what Nicky called a Twinkie; all delicious, bubbly dumbness in a transparent wrapping.
As a way to prove it to myself I looked at her hands. I have known guys who would chase a humpbacked sheep if she had large breasts, or great legs, or a firmly rounded butt. I have always been more attracted to a woman’s hands. To me they
That was before Melissa was born. If I’d had a kid at the time, maybe Roscoe and I would have been real friends. Maybe I would know why he had trusted me. And then maybe I would have gone to L.A. when he’d asked me. And maybe he’d be alive today.
I was glad it was not night. In the bright Miami sun coming into the cabin of the plane, the maybes were bad enough. In any case, I had to do this. I owed it. I didn’t know if I owed it to Roscoe or to me, but I owed it.
The man in the middle seat next to me was fidgeting. He was huge, and he was sweating like only a big man can. The drops ran off the bald top of his head and into a neat fringe of dark blond hair. Then they would roll down the curve of his ear, onto his lobe, and fall onto his magazine with a tiny “plaf” sound. He turned the page of the magazine, carefully separating the damp pages. He let the magazine fall into his lap, limp. He stared at the seat in front of him, then at the intercom speaker above him, then took a deep breath. He loosened his red power tie and flexed his neck muscles spasmodically. He turned to me.
“Excuse me,” he said, in a voice that sounded like it came from the bottom of a rusting old oil drum. “I’m getting very claustrophobic. Would you mind changing seats?”
I turned to face the man. Beyond him at the window seat I saw a profile like they used to put on coins. She was maybe thirty, with a shower of light brown ringlets falling away from her face and across her shoulders. Under the hair her neck looked impossibly delicate. I felt my heart kick and turn over in a way it hadn’t for almost two years. “Sure,” I said, quickly sliding into the aisle to let him out. “No problem.”
The big guy lurched out after me and I slipped back into the middle seat. The woman at the window turned and gave me a brief smile, and then turned to look out the window again. It was only a small smile, a smile for a stranger. But even after she turned away I felt the smile sticking to me, making my face hot and my palms clammy. I wanted to bite her neck, spend a week chewing on her lips—
—and the bottom fell away as I realized what I was thinking. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t feel this way. Like Los Angeles, this part of my life was over; it all ended at the Rossmore on March 18. I hadn’t done more than think about a woman since that day. The thinking had left me shaking and guilty enough. If I were ever to do something beyond thought, like touch that creamy olive skin—I couldn’t. In the deep three A.M. of my head and heart I was still married.
But here I was, going back to L.A., back to all the old ghosts. Maybe it was fitting that those other dead parts kick up, twitch into brief life, on that long plane ride back to my dead self. And yet—
I still didn’t want to think about the feelings this woman was raising in me. If I had to go to L.A. I would, but I could not visit those sealed-off places in myself. I had put up heavy doors and locked them. To open those doors would let all the pain out again, and this woman was already fingering the padlocks. And yet—
Maybe I should just talk to her; odds are she’d be so dumb the feelings would die away again. Nobody can look like that and still be worth talking to. Every perfect profile I had ever met had nothing to say beyond advice on nail care. This profile was so far beyond the perfection of any other I had ever seen—how could anybody possibly live in there? She had to be what Nicky called a Twinkie; all delicious, bubbly dumbness in a transparent wrapping.
As a way to prove it to myself I looked at her hands. I have known guys who would chase a humpbacked sheep if she had large breasts, or great legs, or a firmly rounded butt. I have always been more attracted to a woman’s hands. To me they
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