Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2)

by Noel J. Hadley

  “Perfect. And when I leave again I won’t slip out the back or anything. You’ve got my word on that. Pinky swear.”

  Frank Sinatra pretended like he didn’t give a damn as I turned and waved at him from the entrance to Brownstone, and then entered. Had my Great-Uncle Jack attempted what I'd just done, he'd totally have been shot in the ass.

  17

  WHEN LEAH FINALLY DID manage to rise from bed it was almost eleven, and cordially exited the bedroom in a spaghetti strap shirt and pink boy shorts for panties. She was just under my physical height of 5'11”, standing somewhere around 5'9”, with a long neck and textured crown of gold that complimented wide lips and broad shoulders. From her physical demeanor I quickly deduced there was nothing sexual about the exposure of her naval, upside-down heart shaped creasing of her butt or naked legs that seemingly went on for miles. I was actually surprised by the candid nature of her stride, how she crossed the room making minimal eye contact, stretching and yawning something horrid, and her breath smelt not only of morning, but last night’s intoxication.

  “Good morning, sleepy head,” I said from the barstool, as if our recent phone binging had never ended. “There’s some bagels and crème cheese if you want any.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet,” she said. But something about her voice, maybe the clot of obligation in her tone, didn’t flow like water. This coming from Isla Elliot, the most emotionally heart wrenching storyteller on the world’s stage. She crinkled the bag on the counter and studied the two bagels that remained inside.

  “There used to be more of them,” I said.

  “I might have eaten a few.” Richie peeled his head over the couch.

  “That’s a liberal definition of few.”

  “I see you and Richie have met.” Leah clamped her teeth down on a sesame seed bagel, turned her pair of patty-cakes to me, and opened the fridge, making sure to pick at her panties while scouring the fridge of its pathetic contents.

  “We’re practically married,” Richie declared with purposeful flare. “And when you had me pick this guy up from the airport and take him home…. alone… you said nothing about his connection to a homicide or the mob, Miss Bishop. I might have ended up in the Hudson with a couple of concrete blocks tied to my feet.”

  She removed the bagel long enough to speak. “Do they still do that?”

  “They most certainly do.”

  “Mm-hmm, that would be a total shame. I wonder if your life insurance would pay me for the rent you’ve missed, that is, if you had any.”

  Richie lifted his chin in defiance, sighed, bit on a hunk of bagel, and then slunk back down underneath the couch’s headrest, probably in protest. Her lack of enthusiasm was calamitous. I was desperate for conversation, something warm and inviting, listened for a time to the sound of Miranda taking a shower in my former bed, to a garbage truck in the street below, and spoke the first and only words that came to mind.

  “I missed you at the airport.”

  “I was meeting with some very important people.”

  “At the party?”

  “Yes,” she seemed annoyed, “at the party.”

  I decided to change the subject. “This is a nice place that you have.”

  Hidden behind the couch cushion, Richie almost choked on his bagel.

  “So, how was your flight?” Leah finally said, back turned, bagel still clamped between her teeth. I made out her words the best I could.

  “Mostly uneventful. JetBlue has these key lime cookies that I absolutely love, though.”

  “That’s good.” She pulled a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator shelf, removed the cap, and proceeded to gulp from it.

  “Do you normally drink straight from the carton like that?”

  Leah dialed her neck far enough around to stare at me, seemingly unamused. “I absorb nutrients better this way.”

  “Oh girl,” Richie sighed.

  “I’m really excited to be out here with you.”

  “Yes.” She returned the juice to its shelf, closed the fridge, and rotated around to fully face me, uninviting as ever, not the Isla Elliot that I’d seen on stage some two weeks earlier. “I am too.”

  “So what does your schedule look like this weekend?”

  “I’m pretty busy. Shows every night, with two matinees on the weekend, and you’ve got a couple of weddings, I take it?”

  “Friday and Saturday.”

  “But today's a Friday. It's almost noon.” Leah stared at me with strained eyes and a tightened mouth, the identical mask she used to wear at times as a teenager in high school. It was the glance of uncool that so many young women gave to the boys who so often longed for them.

  “He already drove out there and back.” Richie's voice.

  “Technically, I was fired.”

  “They found he's employed by the mob.” Richie's voice again.

  “I'm not employed by the mob.”

  “Well, he’s on the run from the FBI then.”

  “I’m hiding out from the press; huge difference.”

  “You said there was also one in New Jersey?” Leah.

  “Same one. Technically, Connecticut was tomorrow. But that wedding sort of canceled on me too, after they saw my name in the news. The answering machine on my phone is completely filled by members of the press trying to track my whereabouts. This Hitchcock tale of murder and suspense apparently has more nutrients to squeeze than that carton of orange juice.”

  Leah stared at me for a time, totally unreadable.

  “Oh sure,” Richie peeled his head over the couch, “When I was the first gay man getting married last night it was Jersey. How embarrassing. You never said anything about Connecticut. I'd marry a Connecticut man in a heartbeat.”

  Leah stared at Richie now, partially amused, perhaps annoyed, and maybe even confused. I was having a hell of a time reading her body language; not at all how I saw our reunion going. Women, the great mystery of our universe; and then there’s God.

  “You plan on hitting up the town then, today?” She said. “I guess we'll both be in and out.”

  I was heartbroken. Didn’t she know I’d waited for her… and waited and waited, that one serial chapter of my life had ended, by my measurements, and another had begun? Surely I hadn’t confused our phone conversations, or the fact that our plans dictated we spend every possible moment together. The countertop that separated us felt like a chasm or unfathomable distance, and I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but here.

  “It’s been a while since we’ve been able to connect in person. Well, there was Boston, but you know how frantically busy weddings can be for a photographer. I was kind of hoping we could do something together.”

  “Normally I would, but this really isn’t the best time. Didn’t I tell you this was my last weekend ever in REPUBLICAN BLUE? It’s been kind of a difficult few days leading up to it.”

  “No, you didn’t seem to mention it on the phone. Richie did, though.”

  Richie peeked his head over the couch, mouth opened. “Oh, I gave him the down low, sweetie. Just call me the town choir. I can’t say the same for you though, setting me up on blind dates with murder suspects and mobsters.”

  Miranda exited the bathroom wearing only a towel tightly wrapped over her breasts and made the short trip to her bedroom, abruptly closing the door behind her. In the daylight Leah's roommate was maybe 5'3”. She was mostly of Caucasian descent but her skin portrayed almond features and her hair was somewhere in the range of dark brown to jet black, and freckles littered both shoulders. Broad hips welcomed each leg and several moles could be counted on her back.

  Noticing those features became the topic of conversation for the moment, almost a relief from the tension, despite the fact that no words were employed, and the silence after she shut the door was once more unbearable. Even Richie looked uncomfortable, and I suspected Leah might be hanging around solely out of obligation. If only this were the movie Groundhog Day, the one where Bill Murray repeats the same
twenty-four hours over and over again through reincarnated cycles in hopes of finally getting it right, because I could have totally used a restart button on this one.

  I said: “Are you feeling okay? I hate hangovers.”

  “I don’t have a hangover.”

  “You seem….”

  “I’m fine. Just because I was out to a party last night doesn’t mean I have a hangover.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Leah smiled, but it came across as a judgmental smirk. “What is there to be sorry about?”

  “Nothing, I guess. I should probably take this opportunity to use the bathroom.” I was already out of words as I scooted off the barstool and made my way around the couch. It was this or excusing myself to the Museum of Natural History. “I don’t want to get in the way, but…”

  “You’re not in the way.” Leah repeated her obnoxious smirk.

  “Well, if there’s any time that you can manage to move around on your very busy schedule, and I totally understand if you can’t, but if you can, I’d love to do something with you. You know, two high school friends reconnecting, maybe a bite to eat or something?”

  “Of course,” Leah said, colder than ever. “I’ll definitely let you know.” And then, as I started to enter the bathroom, Leah’s voice stopped me. “I’m hitting up another party tonight after the show. Miranda and Richie were already planning on going, but now that you're free you’re definitely welcome.”

  “Are you sure I’m welcome?”

  “Of course,” she twisted her face and exhumed a sarcastic stream of breath, more annoyed, perhaps even confused than ever, but I’d already given up on reading her body language. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

  18

  I ONLY MADE IT SO FAR as the fourth floor stairway banister, sad as a biscuit without butter, when Brownstones very own resident documentarian poked his head through the apartment door marked 401, made this pssss sound through his teeth, and said: “Hey, you got any plans?”

  I looked in both directions, just to make sure Mahoney wasn't speaking to somebody else. “You mean, like before I die or specifically this weekend?”

  “How about today?”

  “I think I could manage a few minutes of my time.”

  “Got anything going for you tomorrow?”

  “Nope.”

  “For the rest of your life?”

  I chose not to answer that one.

  “Hey, I know what might perk you up. Care to check out some recent footage from my movie? You know, give me a little feedback. Especially since the only appointment you've apparently got is the one with the grim reaper. And from that conversation you had with Richie Cunningham last night, I'd say it was sooner rather than later.”

  “His last name is Cunningham?”

  “It is.”

  “Like in Happy Days?”

  Mahoney cracked his lips.

  I glanced at Apartment 402; door very likely forever closed on my life, and considered the emotionally minotaur-of-a-maze woman behind it. And Richie Cunningham. And Miranda, who almost killed me with a curling weight. Sometimes plot lines end with a whimper. This was probably one of them. I finally said: “Sure, why not?”

  Except when Mahoney opened 401 it was immediately apparent that he was only wearing briefs under his button-up shirt, white and saggy too, thereby exposing two hairy tree-trunk legs (thank the Lord nothing else), because there was a lot of filler.

  I commented on the obvious. “You're not wearing any pants.”

  “I think better this way.”

  “You're not, um, you're not inviting me in to....” I didn't want to finish my thought.

  But I didn't have to. Mahoney stiffened his shoulders and shook his head at the realization of my implications, and I thought I may have detected a rosy blush on his cheeks. “Whoa boy. Hey, I didn't say anything when you spent the night with Cunningham across the hall last night.”

  I interrupted him. “Leah is an old high school friend of mine.”

  But Mahoney didn't hear me. “What you've discovered within yourself is none of my business. This is America, and in this country we've got a little ditty called Don't Ask Don't Tell. I like girls, and only girls, how about you?”

  “I'm not quite sure if questions like that is how Don't Ask Don't Tell really works. But since we're on the subject, I'd have to say I harbor the same enthusiasm towards girls, adult girls. We're talking about women, right?”

  “Well, okay then.” Mahoney sniffled, loosening a few upper-body bones as he cleared his throat, and if he'd been wearing a tie he probably would have straightened it. And just to make sure nobody else was listening he glanced towards the staircase banister. “Come on in then, my heterosexual friend.”

  I did just that. But I didn't stay long. Long enough for a late-morning beer, Sam Adams Summer Ale, but not long-long. Maybe the fact that he wasn't wearing any pants had something to do with it. Actually it didn't really bother me that much. Richie Cunningham's banana boxers were testament to that. If the saggy briefs thing was any distraction then the recordings on his screen brought an immediate end to worry. Some of it was your typical transcendental stuff. You know, rays of light, drips from a faucet, gentle hum of morning traffic, or rain trickling over window panes. Poetic overdubbing and Parisian church music would fill in the gaps. But then there was the stuff interwoven in, lots of fast moving images. There was an unidentified man running down the hallway screaming irrationally about a bear on the loose. Close ups of a woman's lips pronounced the number two. Elsewhere a room was brimming with the smoke of probably two-dozen cigars while someone coughed three times in the center of it.

  I distinctly recall footage of Leah Bishop, some sort of party. I even recognized the man she was playfully kissing; Mr. Secretary of State from REPUBLICAN BLUE. They seemed to know the camera was present, and responded accordingly with more flirtatious kissing. I had seen them practicing the same foreplay to baby making in that NYC Subway some two weeks earlier, just after the show, and I was really beginning to dislike not only Mahoney's movie, but New York City's public transportation as a whole. Oh, and I counted four kisses. Same woman's lips said Five. And then sprang an image of Richie Cunningham, shirt off, wrestling a bear on the roof. At least, that's what I thought I saw. It could have been a man in a bear suit; I wasn't sure, seeing as how it all happened so fast. I'd have to ask him about that later.

  Mahoney said in a sort of concentrated daze: “None of this is edited, of course. Some scenes are more randomly placed than others. I guess I'm going for the Terrence Malick sort of feel in a film, with voice narratives to be added later. When I'm through this is going to be art at its purist.” More gentle sunlight in the early morning dawn, close-up of a woman's lips sipping coffee (they might have been Miranda's), the number six on an envelope, silhouette of a rooftop water tower backed by the setting sun, flock of birds darkening the sky (was it the number seven?), more traffic hums, those sort of things. And then a yea-hawing donkey on the stairway, stubborn ears folded back, with somebody's parrot-like squawk of a voice demanding that they arrest the wild ass or set it free, what the....?

  More footage of Richie, only this time he was dressed up in one of those martial arts jump suits, with a headband tightly bound around his balding skull, and he was doing yoga stretches on the roof.

  “Is that.....Richie?”

  “Oh yeah, he's a black belt, you know.”

  “As in Karate?”

  “Oh yeah, he's a killer.”

  “Cunningham?”

  “Let me tell you something. If the mafia's really after you, you're in the safest apartment in all of New York, my friend.”

  Richie’s murder pose came to mind.

  The sights and sounds of Mahoney's movie continued flickering within the screen. A female mannequin stood fixed in place outside of Apartment 402. That was Leah's apartment. I didn't see if it was Gracie's plastic stunt-double (the camera was hiding on the stairway banister), but she was wearing the same
gray flapper hat. How odd. The camera quickly cut down to someone screaming as a trunk closed in on him.

  Mahoney: “I'm practically pulling my hair out trying to make sense of it all.”

  More footage included a beautiful middle-aged woman walking her greyhound on the concrete four stories below Mahoney's window, first in summer, and then again in autumn, only her clothes were swapped from a pink blouse and white chinos to a green and yellow long coat, and the potted tree, once lush with green in summer, had now turned to a blazing display of sunset reds and oranges. Then she walked by again, same tree and greyhound, but all the branches were bare and a fresh layer of snow blanketed the sidewalk. The greyhound even sported a fleece sweater. Next scene involved the silhouette outline of a man and woman laughing in the shower. Did they know he was in the bathroom filming them? I hoped it wasn't Leah. And then the footage switched over to the New York City skyline, I presumed from Brownstone's rooftop, where two unmistakable columns of smoke rose towards heaven.

  I had its zip code memorized. 10048.

  “This footage here is several years old. It's never gone public. I just couldn't bring myself to share it with the media until I had my movie. That's when I began my documentary, you know. It's my inspiration for everything that follows in some sort of PTSD fashion.” Mahoney spoke in a daze of sorts as his eyes transfixed to the images on screen, particularly those of that horrible day that I remembered so well, only from a somewhat different point of view. “I think I'll intertwine the entire feature with spliced glances at the event that pivoted America's universe away from its true north.”

  There was more film of the man with the squawking parrot voice saying Oh my God! as the South Tower fell. Mahoney said: “That's Brownstone's landlord.”

  “The guy who sounds like a parrot?”

  “Mm-hmm, Chester Hamilton the Third.” Mahoney emphasized the Third with delight as Hamilton turned towards the shaky camera and said Oh my God (adding in a slight variation of forking before God), just in case Mahoney missed it the first time. And perhaps most shockingly of all, it involved another Leah sighting.