A Note from an Old Acquaintance

by Bill Walker

  Pressing the accelerator once more, Joanna sped up the ramp to the departure level, watching for the Delta terminal. She spotted it up ahead and nosed the car into a spot near the curb. The car would probably be towed, but she didn’t care.

  A quick glance at the clock confirmed her worst fears.

  Twelve minutes until departure.

  Turning off the engine, she got out and ran into the terminal, ignoring the angry shouts of a State Trooper. Inside, she paused to confirm the gate his plane was departing from—the last one at the end of the terminal—then ran down to the security checkpoint. There were a dozen people waiting to get through, but when her eyes found the sign, her heart sank.

  TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

  “You’re not getting away this easy, Brian,” she said, turning and dashing back up into the terminal. The only area of the counter that didn’t have a wait was First Class. She ran up, breathless. The middle-aged black woman behind the counter regarded her with a bored expression.

  “May I help you?”

  “I need a ticket,” Joanna said, pulling out her credit card and sliding it toward the woman.

  “Destination?”

  “The Columbus flight.”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am, that flight’s sold out, and it’s nearly departure time.”

  “I just need a ticket to get past security. I don’t care where it’s going. There’s someone on that flight I have to see...before it’s too late.”

  The black woman’s jaded expression softened. “Your boyfriend?”

  Joanna nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “Yes, please.”

  “Okay, honey, how about Boise, Idaho? That sound good?”

  “It sounds wonderful,” she said, laughing through her tears.

  The black woman’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “I’m just givin’ you any old seats, Honey, so it’ll be spittin’ outta here in just a second. In the meantime, let me run your card.”

  The black woman slid the credit card through the card reader and handed it back to Joanna, just as the ticket printer started chattering. A moment later the woman ripped it out, slapping it into Joanna’s waiting hands.

  “I hope you make it, dear.”

  “Thank you,” she said and ran off back toward the security checkpoint.

  The line for security was longer than it was before. She craned her neck trying to get a glimpse of his gate, but it was below a rise in the corridor and she couldn’t see past the halfway point.

  Six minutes left.

  One of the Security officers, a swarthy man in a too-tight uniform nodded to her. “Your purse, ma’am.”

  God, she was so stupid.

  Joanna threw her purse onto the conveyer and walked through the metal detector.

  BEEEP!

  Four minutes!

  No!

  Frantic, Joanna pulled off her two bracelets, dumping them into the proffered plastic tray. The swarthy security man watched her, his jaw moving in a lazy circle as he chewed his gum.

  She went through again.

  BEEEP!

  Her necklace!

  She tore it off, breaking the catch.

  The small diamond skittered off across the floor, and she slammed the chain into the tray then went back through the detector.

  Nothing....

  She let go of the breath she’d been holding and glanced at the clock.

  Two minutes!

  She was going to make it!

  She ran.

  She ran past dozens of passengers coming off flights through two opposing gates, nearly colliding with a cluster of chatty flight attendants. She yelled back her apologies and put on another burst of speed.

  The gate was just up ahead. It was...

  ...empty.

  No, please, no!

  She reached the desk, startling the gate attendant, a bottle blonde with too much makeup and round owlish glasses.

  “Has it left?” Joanna said.

  The woman gave her a sour look. “It’s just pushing back now. Where were you during boarding call?”

  Joanna’s lips quivered, her shoulders sagging.

  “Oh, God, no....”

  Her eyes darted to the plate glass window, spotting the tail of the plane reversing from the gate.

  She ran to the glass, moving with the plane, her eyes searching every one of its tiny windows. If she could somehow see him, maybe she could draw his attention. She’d hop around like a madwoman if she had to, she didn’t care. If somehow he saw her, he’d know...

  ...that she really loved him.

  Please, please see me, Brian!

  Where was he?

  Was he seated on the other side of the plane?

  The airliner turned, the windows catching the glint of the sun, now making it impossible for her to see anything, or anyone, behind them.

  “No, no, no....”

  The plane moved farther and farther from the gate. A moment later it stopped. The driver of the truck pushing back the plane jumped out and disconnected the long metal arm from the airliner’s front wheel strut then hopped back into the low-slung vehicle and drove off.

  The plane began taxiing forward, slowly at first, and then picked up speed.

  She placed her hand on the window and watched as the plane moved inexorably out of sight, the tears blurring her vision.

  “Goodbye, my sweet writer....”

  2006

  25

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WE’VE begun our final approach into the Boston area. Please fasten your seatbelts, raise your tray-tables and seatbacks into the upright position and turn off any laptop computers and portable electronic games and devices until the plane has reached the gate....”

  Brian drained the last of his Evian and threw it into the plastic bag held open by the flight attendant, a slim brunette in her early forties. She smiled.

  “Hope your flight was okay, Mr. Weller, it’s been an honor to meet you. And thanks again for the autograph. My husband will be thrilled. He’s read every one of your books.”

  Brian returned her smile. “You’re more than welcome. And please tell him I appreciate his loyalty.”

  The flight attendant nodded and moved past him. Brian lifted the table back into its upright position, turning the catch to lock it in place. He glanced out the window, spotting Deer Island passing below the plane. He stifled a yawn and checked his watch.

  Nearly 1:30.

  It wouldn’t be long, now.

  He’d been traveling for nearly twelve hours, counting the interminable layover in Houston.

  Now he knew why they called it the “Red-Eye.” His own eyes felt as if someone had ground sand into them. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to sleep on the plane, but as in times past all it got him was a throbbing ache in his temples and the feeling he’d been steamrolled twice over.

  He leaned his head back against the seat and watched the Boston skyline glide by. Ancient brick and brownstone landmarks sat nestled among sleek glass towers, proud and unbowed by age. Even from a distance he could sense the city’s racing pulse, its eager headlong rush into the twenty-first century. Yet, in so many ways, it remained as he remembered it: a small town playing dress up in big city clothes. And that was why he loved it, its lack of pretension and its cosmopolitan flair, its stuffy conventions and its contradictions, all thrown together into a patchwork quilt of close-knit neighborhoods rich in diverse ethnic flavors. Brian smiled, feeling a pang of nostalgia for the golden city of his youth.

  And then there was Joanna.

  They’d managed to speak a couple of times a week in the time leading up to his departure and the conversations were friendly and easy, her musical laughter ringing in his mind even now. But she never once asked him what had happened, and that both comforted and disturbed him. Perhaps she was feeling her way, too nervous to ask the most burning questions in her mind for fear of putting him off. He could understand that—all too well. All during those conversations his mind kept replaying
the events leading up to his leaving Boston, her final desperate scream echoing in his mind.

  It still sent a chill up his spine and made his heart ache with guilt and shame. His father had been right; he’d beaten himself up over it for all these years. Brian sighed as another, more poignant ache washed over him. The old man had been such a pillar of support in those first few weeks back home in Nelsonville. It was hard to believe he’d been dead for nearly a decade, his mother following her husband three years later.

  Maybe now, he’d be able to find some measure of peace. Maybe Joanna had truly forgiven him.

  He’d find out soon enough....

  The plane landed moments later and Brian stared out the window while the airliner taxied into position at the gate. It was the same terminal from which he’d departed fifteen years before, now completely renovated inside and out, as was the rest of Logan. He almost didn’t recognize it.

  When the door opened, Brian stood waiting with his carry-on. He was the first out, striding up the Jetway, his mind a jumble of emotions. Inside the terminal, he took a moment to get his bearings then struck out toward Baggage Claim.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Weller?”

  Brian stopped and turned, spotting a tall man in his early twenties dressed in a Brooks Brothers blazer and tie, standing near the desk. The young man stepped forward, offering his hand.

  “Gerald Pomeroy, Mr. Weller. I work for Kevin Romano.”

  Brian took the younger man’s hand, surprised at the strength of his grip. “Nice to meet you, Gerald. Anything new from my publicist extraordinaire?”

  Either Gerald had no sense of humor or was too intent on making a good impression to acknowledge the light humor. “He wanted me to help you get settled. I’ll also be accompanying you during your signings. We’re all set with your first one at the Prudential tomorrow. Where are you staying?”

  “Park Plaza.”

  Gerald nodded. “Great hotel. How about I pick you up there around 10:30 and we’ll drive over?”

  They began walking toward Baggage Claim, the earnest young man keeping up a steady banter.

  “Do you have any other bags?” he asked, indicating the suit bag.

  “Just one more.”

  They made their way downstairs to the baggage carousels and waited nearly ten minutes before the one designated for his flight began turning.

  Gerald nodded. “I’ll get my car and meet you outside. It’s a blue Ford Explorer.”

  The younger man disappeared through the sliding glass doors, leaving Brian to his thoughts. His bag showed up moments later.

  Outside, the November chill cut through Brian’s light jacket, making him wish he’d worn the heavier one he’d packed. He looked up a moment later, spotting Gerald’s SUV threading its way through the airport traffic. It pulled up to the curb and Brian signaled the younger man to stay put then stowed the bag into the rear seat and climbed in.

  The ride into Boston proper was faster than he’d anticipated, with Gerald taking the new Ted Williams Tunnel into the now underground Central Artery. Brian had read about the “Big Dig” for years, thinking it was all lunacy. But here they were zooming through the gleaming tunnel at a time of day where it would have been bumper-to-bumper in the old days.

  They reached the hotel at 2:45.

  After thanking Gerald and retrieving his bags, Brian entered the lobby and approached the front desk. The clerk, a balding man in his late thirties did a mild double take, a sure sign he’d been recognized, something to which Brian had never grown accustomed.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Weller. I trust you had a good flight.”

  “Well, I got here in one piece, at least,” Brian said, cracking a grin.

  “And we’ve got to be thankful for that,” the clerk replied, looking down at his computer screen, his fingers dancing on the keys. “I’ve got you set for the Presidential Suite, it’s on the Penthouse level—”

  “Can I have something lower down? Just a bit superstitious.”

  The clerk nodded. “Certainly, Mr. Weller. Let me see what else we have available.”

  “As long as it’s non-smoking.”

  “All our rooms are, sir.”

  While the clerk did a check for available rooms, Brian glanced around the lobby, noticing a couple of other people from his flight, including the flight attendant to whom he’d given his autograph. He caught her eye and smiled.

  “Mr. Weller, I have a room on the second floor. It’s not a great view, but it’s comfortable.”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  Ten minutes later, Brian opened the door to room 264. It was large, about fifteen by twenty, with a king-sized bed and a clean, spacious bathroom. And while the view wasn’t much, the room had a homey feel that soothed his frayed nerves. He’d had enough of “Presidential Suites” to last a lifetime.

  Pulling out his cell phone, he checked for messages. Then he dialed the number for the school.

  “Boston Art School.”

  “Professor Richman, please.”

  “She’s in class, sir, would you like voice mail?”

  His first impulse was to say no and hang up. He resisted that urge. “Sure,” he said.

  There were a series of clicks and then he heard her voice: “Hi, this is Professor Richman. I’m either in class or off campus. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible. If this is about setting up an evaluation meeting, please leave me at least three choices for dates and times and I’ll schedule the one that works best. Thank you.”

  BEEEP.

  “Hi, Joanna, it’s Brian. Just got in to the hotel. It’s been so long that I’d forgotten how close it is to Newbury Street and your school. Hope all is well. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  He hung up, feeling a bout of butterflies coming on. He had to be nuts to do this. What did he hope to accomplish except to open old wounds?

  And what to do with himself over the next two hours?

  He debated calling the front desk and putting in a wake-up call for 4:00, but visions of some idiot clerk going on break and forgetting to have his relief make the call ran through his mind. He could see himself waking at 6:00 groggy, disoriented and devastated.

  No, the best thing to do was to stay awake.

  Grabbing his suitcase, he threw it onto the bed, opened it and withdrew his russet-brown leather A-2, an expensive and authentic reproduction of the bomber-style jackets worn by the Army Air Corps during World War II. He always loved its dashing look with the colorful squadron patch on the left breast and his name embossed on a leather tag sewn above it, plus the heavy horsehide made it one of the warmest jackets he’d ever owned. He pulled it on and left the room, taking the stairs into the lobby and out onto Arlington Street.

  Time for some Starbucks coffee. Maybe then he’d be able to keep a clear head for the evening ahead.

  “Okay, everyone, that’s it for today,” Joanna said. “Remember to have your fall projects in to me by the end of next week.”

  There were a few of the requisite groans from the class, but most of her students took it in stride, packing up their tools and books and exiting the class, laughing and chattering about the upcoming Thanksgiving break. Joanna smiled. Some things never changed, except that her students looked more and more like babies every year, more like her son, Zack. Of course what that really meant was something she preferred not to contemplate.

  Turning out the lights, Joanna locked the classroom and headed to her office. Inside, she saw the blinking light on her phone indicating active voice mail. She dialed the access number and put the phone on speaker. The first one was from Erik. As usual, he sounded rushed and annoyed.

  “Hi, Honey. I’ll be home late. Got another meeting with the inspectors. I’ll really be glad when this building’s done. Don’t wait up for me.”

  Joanna frowned. There’d been a lot of these meetings, as of late, not that she was all that disturbed by them. It was also convenient in that she wouldn’t have to make
any excuses about being out with Brian.

  The next message was from Zack telling her that he was also staying late at school to finish up the sets on the play and would she pick him up at eight. She made a mental note to tell Brian. There were three messages left: two from students, the last one from Brian. She listened to it and smiled, her eyes moving to the white rose sitting in its fluted cobalt blue vase atop her bookcase—nearly identical to the one he’d given her so many years ago. She’d purchased it on a sentimental whim, as a reminder of him; and even now, gazing at its unsullied perfection, it evoked a bittersweet pang.

  Was she being a fool for doing this, for having contacted him after all these years? As much as she wanted to see him again, there was a tiny part of her that wanted to run—take the back stairs and escape. But even the thought of standing him up was something she could not bear. Hadn’t he had enough pain in his life already, losing a son and a wife?

  Joanna glanced at the photo of her son on the desk, its tarnished silver frame shining dully. It was like looking into a mirror, his curly red hair, big green eyes, and that winning smile. He was going to break hearts someday, if he wasn’t already. And looking at his image now nearly broke hers.

  Keep my little boy safe, she prayed.

  Sighing, she looked at the clock. It was nearly 4:00. In half an hour she would be walking down those stairs into the lobby and there he’d be. She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. She didn’t think she’d changed all that much, but now on the cusp of forty, she wasn’t the starry-eyed kid she’d been when they’d last seen each other, and she’d never lost the last ten pounds she’d gained from her pregnancy with Zack. Funny thing was, those extra pounds really hadn’t bothered her that much, until today.

  Shaking her head to rid her mind of those kinds of thoughts, she spent the next twenty minutes updating her class notes and checking her evaluations schedule. Then, as the clock reached 4:25 she touched up her lipstick, straightened her skirt, grabbed her handbag, and left her office, nearly forgetting to turn off the lights and lock the door.

  Get a grip on yourself, girl...

  ...Yeah, fat chance.