Etiquette for the End of the World

by Jeanne Martinet

  “We could check one of our bags, I think there’s still time.” Tess thought furiously for a minute. “But … what if the vial broke; what if someone—dogs or something, who knows what they sniff for? If they found it, the airport security people could open it—it could spread to someone’s iPad … . We don’t know … .”

  They sat there, thinking. Tess felt a new chill go through her. We definitely have to get out of here, she thought. What if Orbus finds out one of the vials is gone? “Richie, whatever we do, we need to decide. We need to be on the other side of security, like ten minutes ago.”

  Tess went to the ladies’ room with her brain still racing. She figured they had two choices. They could risk checking it in a bag (which might be a more viable option if either one of them had brought something other than a shapeless nylon carry-on bag), or they could leave the airport and take a taxi straight to Scotland Yard. Just turn the whole thing over to the authorities. Of course, they would probably have as much luck as they did in the United States. And who knows how long Orbus’s arm reached in his own country? His family went way back. For all they knew, he could be related to Scotland Yard.

  Tess went to the sink and threw cold water on her face, trying not to hyper-ventilate. This was really happening. She had to decide what to do—and fast! Drying her face, she looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if she had aged as much as she felt she had aged over the last forty-eight hours. As she looked in the glass, she couldn’t help noticing a navy-blue-clad flight attendant standing at the next sink who had extraordinary red hair, Botticelli hair … . Tess’s jaw dropped. “Betty!”

  Betty Phoenix looked confused for a moment, then exclaimed, “Tess!” They embraced, ignoring the stares of the other travelers streaming in and out who were not used to seeing women hugging in an airport bathroom.

  “What are you doing here?” they exclaimed in unison.

  “Remember when I last saw you at the boathouse?” said Betty as they left the ladies’ room together. Betty rolled a small suitcase behind her. “And remember how I told you I wanted to travel as much as I could? Well, first I checked into joining the international traveling librarians, or signing up for Greenpeace, and other organizations like those, but”—she stopped and looked Tess in the face, her eyes asking for understanding—“I was in too much of a hurry to see the whole world, not just one or two third-world countries. I know it was selfish of me, but … Then one day on the subway I just happened to see an ad for Delta airlines, for their flight attendant program. I was afraid I would be too old, but they don’t really have age requirements—just size requirements. I was so thrilled when they accepted me. Eight weeks of training and here I am—a stewardess!” Betty did a little twirl, showing off her tailored pantsuit.

  “Don’t you mean ‘flight attendant’?” Tess asked.

  Betty was all merriment. “To me, ‘stewardess’ always sounded more exciting. I guess from reading too many novels.” At the library Betty Phoenix had seemed content, but Tess had never seen her exuberant. She was like a new woman. She looked so natural in her uniform, cute little carry-on bag and all.

  Suddenly Tess took hold of Betty’s arm. It wasn’t really an idea, more like a spark of an idea. She guided her back to the table where Richie was sitting and quickly introduced them.

  Then, hurriedly, desperately, and as quietly as they could, Tess and Richie explained to the ex-librarian how they came to be in England, what happened at Orbus Hall, and what their current dilemma was.

  Betty Phoenix was horrified. “I chose that odd little book on beetles as sort of my own ironic joke—you know, computer bugs, beetles? I had no idea it would be that very choice which would lead to its getting into the wrong hands. I can’t believe it—I was so terrified of what might happen with that virus that I … I … actually helped to make it happen!” She looked as if she might fall to pieces.

  “It’s not your fault, Betty,” Tess said. “How could you possibly know some twisted megalomaniac would have a thing for beetles?” She and Richie both patted Betty and soothed her until she composed herself again. “But maybe you can help us now.”

  Betty was silent for a moment, considering, weighing, in the calm way she always had, and then she looked down at her bag. Richie and Tess looked at it too. ”I think it’s destiny that I ran into you, Tess. You all will never be able to get the vial through security—at the very least, it’s enormously chancy. Much better that I should do it.” She patted Tess’s hand. “Do you know how cautious they are here at Heathrow? Tell me, was this … substance … refrigerated?”

  Richie shook his head.

  “And the vial contains no metal?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Good.” Betty swept them both with her cool, calm green eyes, and gave them a determined smile. “I can lock it into a safety deposit box here in London; I’m here on a two-day layover. In about three weeks, I have a schedule that takes me back through London and then on to New York. I’ll pick the thing up then. I can keep it on me when I go through airport security. They scan our bags but they never frisk flight attendants.”

  Richie and Tess looked at each other. Each knew what the other was thinking: that three weeks was a lot of time to lose.

  “This does sound like the safest way,” said Richie.

  “Betty,” said Tess cautiously, “I don’t have to tell you what would happen if … if the vial were to fall into the wrong hands … .”

  “Or spill onto an airport computer,” said Richie.

  “Or even onto your phone. We just don’t know,” Tess added.

  “I understand,” said Betty, tightening her lips. “Believe me. But I do feel responsible. I should have destroyed the document, burned it.” She looked as if she was about to cry and then she gave a little sad laugh. “I guess it’s so ingrained in me, in the librarian in me, to preserve books and documents at all costs … .”

  They stopped talking when the waiter came over to take their check. After he was gone, Richie looked around the crowded restaurant and made an awkward move toward his jacket pocket. “So how do we …”

  Betty shot him a stern look, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. She stood up abruptly. “Well, it was so nice to meet you, Mr. Arnell,” she said, smiling at him.

  At first he looked confused, and then he understood. He reached quickly into his jacket, and then took her hand. Only the three of them knew that more was being exchanged than a handshake.

  ***

  The flight was not crowded; Tess and Richie had three seats to themselves. Tess had taken the window, leaving an empty seat between them.

  “Do you think Betty Phoenix will come through?” Richie asked her, unfastening his seat belt. “How well do you know her?”

  Tess’s closed her eyes. “You know, I think if we talk about this anymore I am just going to lose it. I feel like my head is going to explode. I can no longer process. Any minute now you are going to have to check me in to Bellevue.”

  “I hear you,” he said.

  They were quiet with their own thoughts for a few minutes and then Tess said, “I know what. I never did hear about your furniture business. I really would love to hear about it.” She twisted around toward him. “Please?”

  Suddenly it was Richie who looked tired and depressed. He was silent for about twenty seconds. He moved his seat back slightly. “That’s just it: it’s not a business. For me, it’s more like art. I don’t make any money at it—I don’t know whether anyone will ever buy my designs. I seriously doubt it. Well, okay, especially not after December.”

  “Right,” Tess said with a pained nod (as in, yeah yeah, the world might end, I know). “But tell me anyway.”

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I have this vision about how furniture can change people’s lives, if it is designed right. Take a chair. Everyone sits in a chair, for most of the day, but it is almost always purely functional. If that chair could also be, not just a work of art to please your eye, but somet
hing that actually makes you feel intrinsically connected with the tree it came from, connected with the whole history of chairs, even with the essence of the human form …” He chuckled in a self-deprecating way. “As you can see, this is a passion for me, like a religion.” Tess was truly fascinated and impressed by this side of Richie. He was more animated than Tess had ever seen him. For over an hour, they talked about his designs—where he got his inspiration, who were his favorites among established designers, what tools he liked to use, what he was working on at the moment.

  “I am working hard to build up enough pieces so that I could show somewhere,” Richie said wistfully, “but frankly, I hardly make enough extra money for the wood I need, so it’s very slow going. And then there’s Jason, so I don’t really have enough hours after working at the bar.”

  Tess gazed at Richie, this incredibly kind, cute, smart, interesting guy who was always willing to be there for her at the drop of a hat, more than almost anyone ever had in her entire life. She could not remember him judging her the entire time she had known him. Whether it was a drink, or a trip to England, he was always right there beside her. His sense of humor matched hers in a way she had never found in anyone else before. She looked at the way his hair curled over and into his ear a little bit and suddenly she just wanted to kiss him so much that she had to turned away and look out the window for a moment. Then she turned back to him.

  “I’m sorry, Richie,” Tess said, unable to stop herself, the color rushing to her face. “I have to tell you something. I’m sorry, I can’t help it, I just wish to god you were not gay.” There, she had said it.

  Richie stared. He blinked slowly, twice. “Um … . I am assuming you mean ‘gay’ in some kind of British sense—as in positive, optimistic? Because any other meaning and I might just be insulted.”

  “What?” Tess said, startled.

  “Why would you think that?” He was incredulous.

  She gaped at him, her brain trying to catch up to what was happening. “That you’re gay? Well—for one thing, Patrick told me you were.”

  “Patrick? That asshole? Tess, why would you even talk to that guy about me, much less … Jesus!” He said it loud enough that the woman across the aisle turned her head to look.

  “But … what about Jason? Aren’t you seeing someone named Jason? You know, the guy you told me you got no sleep because of?”

  Tess was still confused. She was thinking, could Jason be one of those new masculine girl’s names, like Jamie or Murray?

  “Tess, Jason’s my son.”

  “Your … your son?”

  “My six-year-old son. And I got no sleep because he was up all night with a stomach bug. So you really thought …” Richie stared at Tess.

  Tess buried her head in her hands, feeling that it might spin right off her neck if she did not keep a firm hold on it. Then she peeked at him out of one eye. “So, you’re married?”

  “Divorced.” Tess felt something inside her chime a major chord. The flight attendant suddenly appeared beside them with the drink cart, and for a few minutes they were busy with the mundanities of refreshments. And then, Richie proceeded to really talk about himself, at long last. He told her about growing up in Philadelphia, about how he met his wife in college in Boston, how they had moved to New York for her work. But his marriage left him feeling crushed and insecure.

  “Lauren and I were fine at first. I actually felt very hopeful about everything, but then when Jason came along, she became intent—no, it was more fixated—on my giving up my furniture design dreams and making money. She wanted me to make a lot of money; she wanted to quit her job; she wanted a better apartment, private school for Jason. And P.S., she ended up marrying an Upper East Side dermatologist, so she eventually got what she wanted. But after the divorce, I just … well, I took myself out of the romance game, kind of, at that point. I had Jason, and … I get him for weekends. It’s hard for me not seeing him all the time, so I don’t talk about him at work.” Tess remembered Patrick saying “Every week his boy toy Jason comes in on Friday” and she put her head in her hands again and kind of groaned.

  How thick she had been. As it dawned on Tess that this man she already adored was not only straight but potentially available, she felt a great rush of relief, followed by a flood of intense self-consciousness. It was like finding out she had been dancing naked down the street for a very long time, after having been sure she was wearing a dress.

  “So then, Richie, how come … why … ? I gather I’m just not your … your typeface?” It never failed, this tendency of Tess’s to make the corniest joke possible when she was embarrassed.

  He looked uncomfortable, so she tried to take it back. “No, I’m sorry, never mind—”

  “Tess,” he looked at her exasperated as if she were a clueless four-year-old and he was trying not to lose patience with her, “of course I’m attracted to you. I’m crazy about you, you idiot, what do you think I’m doing here?”

  “But … but … but …” God! Now she sounded like a chicken! “You never, I mean, all the time at the bar, and …”

  “Tess! Until that day we went to Homeland Security, and you told Whitman about Peter not showing up on New Year’s Eve, and that you suspected some kind of foul play, I thought you were still with him, even though he was out of town. Even in Suffolk, when you asked Orbus about Peter, I wasn’t sure …” He shook his head. “Really, this whole time you thought I was gay?” He unclasped his seat belt and stood up. At first Tess thought he was leaving in disgust, but he was just moving over to the middle seat toward her. Tess felt her sleeping libido sit right up and take notice. He grinned at her. She blushed. This was a man she had told all her troubles to, who had been in her bedroom, seen her drunk—the man who she had braved the realm of Wayne Orbus with—and still she felt as awkward as if she were a teenager on a blind date. She didn’t know where to look, what to do. Richie solved this for her by reaching over, picking up her right arm, and leaning his beautiful head over to kiss the underside of her wrist. Her whole body instantly lit up like a bonfire. (Whoever said men were lightbulbs and women were irons?) Then he kissed her on the mouth, and she melted away. She had never kissed a man with a beard; it somehow made his mouth a sensuous and silky surprise, hidden inside all that woolly fur. He tasted like coffee and peanuts. She never wanted the kiss to end.

  He sat back and stroked the hair back from her forehead. “Look, I guess I never thought I was in your league, because I made no money. I thought, Why would you, Tess Eliot—‘Tess Knows Best’ Tess Eliot—go out with a lowly bartender?”

  “What, you thought I was some kind of a snob?”

  “Come on, don’t tell me women don’t care about men having money.” She could hear the hint of bitterness in his voice. “Listen, to me, you were a well-known New York columnist, and okay, when you were down and out, after you got fired, and broke up with Matt, I thought I might have a chance—I’m sorry to put it like that … . But then you suddenly come in with the god-like Peter Barrett … and yes, I can actually be aware he was a good-looking man, and that doesn’t make me gay!”

  Tess smiled at him and laid her head on his shoulder. She could tell that his first wife had really done a number on him, making him feel like a lousy breadwinner, emasculating him. Well, her loss was Tess’s gain. She couldn’t believe her good fortune. Her fortune … Tess flashed back to Aunt Charlotte’s tarot card reading, when she had said, “the man you love is being kept from you by a woman who has cut him down to size.” She had meant Richie!

  “Oh my god, the Queen of Swords!” Tess yelled suddenly. Everyone near them on the plane turned and looked at her as though she had lost her mind.

  “Good lord, Tess! What!?”

  Tess giggled. “Nothing, never mind.” She put her head contentedly back on his shoulder and slipped her hand inside one of his bear-size ones. At this moment she did not care one whit about prophecies, deadly computer viruses, earthquakes and tsunamis, or anything, except the
amazing miracle of Richie Arnell.

  Chapter Thirteen

  CHAPTER 9

  Hospitality in Inhospitable Times

  Heavenly Hosting:

  It can be difficult to decide to open your home to guests when it seems safer to lock the door and keep the rest of the world out. It’s also sometimes hard to find the motivation to entertain when you may feel you have so little to offer. On the other hand, if you are one of the lucky few who has a wealth of supplies, you may feel uneasy about showing off your belongings to those who literally don’t have two sticks to rub together. Sharing is the key to happiness for people who have a lot. Be generous, but do not brag about your possessions. Always try to make the guest feel they are doing you a favor, not the other way around.

  You must be certain to make the guests feel safe in your home, since any guest always feels a conscious or subconscious trepidation when crossing a threshold that is not his own. However, do not try to detain the guests longer than they wish to stay. You may be having a wonderful time with them, but be sensitive to their desires. They may need to get back to their own abode. These days, if you leave a shelter empty for more than a little while, you may find someone else living there when you get back.

  Conversely, the guest should always be attuned to the mood of the host; humor the host. Your host is vulnerable—he has let you into his house and is sharing an intimate part of his life with you. Be complimentary about the host’s décor and lifestyle. Be polite and make him feel proud of his choice of furnishings and any personal domestic touches, like his new security system, which makes such ingenious use of rabid squirrels. The best guest makes the host feel better about his surroundings, by letting him see them through the guest’s eyes.

  Cohabitation:

  You may feel one of the best things about living with someone is that you can just let it all hang out. (Let something hang out these days, and it might just get chopped off.) But even people sharing living quarters need to adhere to a certain code of manners.