The Seat Beside Me

by Nancy Moser

  Sound.

  Tina could hear the rasp of music playing through the girl’s headphones. She despised secondhand music. It reminded her of her first apartment where the two guys upstairs had insisted on playing their stereos deep into the night, the boom, boom, boom of the bass driving into Tina’s nerves like Chinese water torture. She’d broken her lease two months early because of them, absorbing the monetary penalty for doing so as her toll for leaving hell.

  But more than her dislike of secondhand music was her dislike of the current trend for kids to constantly have noise in their lives. Kids mowing lawns, kids shoveling snow, kids walking down the hall at school—from the first thing in the morning to the last thing at night, kids had noise piped directly into their minds, brainwashing them into thinking silence was a thing to be feared instead of cherished. How could they ever hope to have an original thought if they never allowed a moment of silence? Headphones were a modern pacifier, sucking dry the brains of all who used them.

  Tina glanced at the girl and the girl glanced back. Then, to Tina’s surprise, she removed the headphones and shut them off.

  “Sorry. My mom hates hearing my leftovers. I can see you do too.”

  Tina blinked, amazed this girl had been able to read her thoughts so adeptly. “Thanks.”

  The girl tucked the headphones into the seat pocket. With an exaggerated sigh she plopped her hands in her lap. “So, what shall we talk about?”

  Tina nearly choked. “I …”

  “Whatcha reading?”

  Tina turned the book over, revealing the cover: Pride and Prejudice.

  “Is it good?”

  Tina nodded.

  “I like to read too, but I read slow. Found out I was dyslexic a few years ago. It’s no fun, but I was glad to find out. I was beginning to think I was as dumb as everyone said.”

  Great. Another student who was quick to find something—anything—to blame for their—

  The girl continued as if Tina had shown interest. “But I can’t blame my parents for calling me that. They didn’t know about stuff like that, like dyslexia.”

  Tina turned a page of her book.

  “My name’s Mallory. What’s yours?”

  Tina closed her book, realizing once they exchanged names there was no going back. “Tina.”

  “What do you do, Tina?”

  The girl’s manners were impeccable. They did not match the slapdash stereotype of her clothes. Tina braced herself for Mallory’s reaction to her answer. Certainly she wouldn’t be any more thrilled about sitting next to a teacher than Tina was sitting next to a student. “I’m a teacher.”

  “Really? Cool. What do you teach?”

  “Communication arts.”

  Mallory laughed. “No wonder you like to read.”

  Tina stroked the book, wishing she hadn’t been so quick to close it. The book seemed to be the only way for her not to focus on the girl in the seat beside her.

  “I live in Phoenix,” Mallory said. “I’m going back to school Monday. I’ve been visiting my grandpa. He has a lot more rules than I’m used to, but I can handle that.” She grinned. “For a little while anyway.”

  I wish my students would have some of your attitude.

  “I like Grandpa Carpelli’s stories. He was overseas in World War II for two years. He didn’t see my dad until he was seventeen months old.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine? Just getting married and then having to be shipped off for so long? I heard in Vietnam they didn’t let soldiers stay more than a year. That’s better, isn’t it?”

  Tina shrugged. She’d never thought of it.

  Mallory turned in her chair slightly, as if she and Tina were having a heart-to-heart. “But if you’re fighting for something you believe in, then it’s okay, isn’t it? To fight, I mean. To kill. To die.”

  Whoa. What a question.

  “Aren’t we supposed to take a stand? Fight for what’s right?”

  I do not want to talk about this. It’s way too heavy, and I’m not in the mood.

  “I mean, if we truly believe something with our whole hearts, shouldn’t we be able to fight for it—whether or not we’re a guy?”

  She wants to join the military. Tina closed her eyes and inwardly sighed.

  “I’m bothering you. I’m sorry.” Mallory angled her body back to the front again. “I talk too much. My dad tells me that all the time. And lately, I’m worse, as if I’ve got all these thoughts that need to be said out loud.”

  The statement was begging for a follow-up question. To ignore the girl’s lead-in would be the epitome of rudeness. Tina put her book in the seat pocket. “And why is that?”

  Mallory grinned, obviously thrilled by Tina’s attention. “I’m completely confused about my life.”

  Join the club. “You want to join the military?”

  Mallory straightened in her chair and tugged the jeans across her thighs. “My parents are against it. They think college is the only way and anyone who doesn’t go will amount to nothing.” She looked at Tina. “I don’t believe people have to get a degree in order for their life to count, do you?”

  “I think it helps.”

  Mallory looked stricken. “But I’ll learn in the service. I’ll learn about service. Isn’t that what life is all about? Serving people the best we can?”

  How could she argue? “Yes, that’s true,” Tina said, “but a college degree will get you a much better job, more money.”

  “But I don’t care about money!” Mallory lifted her hands and dropped them in her lap. She lowered her voice. “That’s all my parents talk about. Money, money, money. There’s more to life than having a whirlpool tub and driving a fancy car.”

  Tina agreed completely but wasn’t about to say so.

  “Why would they push me toward something I don’t want? I know I’m the oddball. No one understands, not even my friends. Some of them are going to take a year off and bum around. All the military means to them is a shouting sergeant and obstacle courses like you see on TV.” Her face lit up. “But when Grandpa talks about the war, you can understand why people were fighting. Fighting for their country … making a difference. I feel the tug of that.”

  “So you want to wave the American flag? Defend mom and apple pie?”

  Mallory’s face was serious. The stud in her nose heaved with emotion. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  Tina backed down. She hadn’t meant to be flip. “It’s unusual to find such passion in one so young.” She fingered the edge of her book in the pocket. “I used to have that kind of passion.”

  A moment of silence. “For what?”

  Tina was taken aback. How had they gotten on this subject anyway?

  “Come on. Tell me your passion.”

  Tina’s mind flooded with memories. Getting good grades, honor roll, awards—and taunts from the other kids for being smart, fat, and different. Fatty Tina isn’t lean-a …

  “I hate them.”

  “Hate who?”

  Tina sucked in a breath, ashamed at her admission. “Forget I said that.”

  “Somebody didn’t appreciate your passion? Is that it?”

  Tina had to laugh. “You are one smart girl.”

  “It wasn’t hard to figure out.” She twisted a braid around a finger. “It still bugs you?”

  Tina shook her head in shame. “I should be over it.”

  “Not if it’s your passion.” Mallory’s shoulders heaved with an exasperated sigh. “And the passion is …?”

  What do I have to lose? “I’m passionate about books.”

  Mallory’s shoulders dropped. “That’s it?”

  “You were expecting belly dancing maybe?”

  “No, but …”

  Tina could see Mallory file her more exotic expectations away. “When I was in school, it wasn’t cool to like to read, especially if you were homely and overweight, and your face was covered with zits, and …”

  “Not much has changed.”

  Tina nodded. �
�Exactly. And that’s what makes me so frustrated. I see it around me every day: cruelty, intolerance, ignorance. The uncool kids getting ripped and—”

  “And every time you see it happen, you feel like it was you, all over again.”

  Tina’s mouth dropped open.

  “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Tina pulled her purse from the floor and used her ChapStick. She didn’t need to, but she did anyway.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Tina tossed her purse on the floor and nudged it under the seat with a toe.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  Tina shook her head and managed a laugh. “I’m not mad. I’m just surprised … at myself. Why have I just revealed my insecurities and inadequacies? Nothing like making a fool of myself to a student.”

  “A seatmate.”

  Tina accepted Mallory’s smile—and didn’t even mind the nose ring. Much. “Right. A seatmate.”

  Mallory nodded approval.

  “You’re a good listener, Mallory. For a—” She clamped her mouth closed on the word.

  “For a seatmate.”

  “Exactly.”

  They both watched the blizzard taking place a few feet away. It was almost surreal, set apart from their present by a distance no greater than the thin skin of metal and fiberglass.

  Mallory turned away from the snow. “Grandpa says I’m a good listener too. He says no one wants to listen to his stories anymore except me. What he went through makes me proud to be his granddaughter.”

  Tina felt sudden tears push behind her eyes. Tears for the girl? Or tears for the girl who was Fatty Tina, the girl who had desperately wanted to hear such words of approval herself? Or tears for the adult Tina who was suffering through her own search for purpose and acceptance? She looked at her lap until the tears retreated. “You’re quite a girl, Mallory. I’m sure your family is very proud.”

  Mallory looked toward the icy glass of the window. “I hope so.”

  George wanted to die. Now. Forget about killing himself once he got to Phoenix. He wondered if the stewardess had a few dozen barbiturates on her.

  He was in the middle seat of three, with a widowed woman who just loved talking to eligible widowed men seated next to him by the window. There was no God.

  If the woman had been a rambler, George could have tolerated it. All he would’ve been expected to do was nod occasionally while she gave a monologue. But this woman was a questioner. In the five minutes they’d been seated, she’d already asked where he lived, where he was staying in Phoenix, whether he was married, and whether he had children or grandchildren.

  She was in the process of showing him pictures of her grandchild Willy (or was it Milly or Tilly?) when the man seated to George’s left intervened.

  “Excuse me? Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  George studied the fortyish man with black hair and a beard. “I don’t think so. You don’t look familiar.”

  The man nodded toward the woman and winked. “Why, sure I do. Didn’t you belong to Lincoln Country Club?”

  It only took George a moment to catch on. “Yes! Yes, I did!” George angled his body toward the man, leaving the woman holding the family photos in her lap. Once his face was turned away from her, he whispered, “Thanks. You saved me.”

  The man laughed and whispered back, “I’ve needed saving a few times myself.”

  George couldn’t risk even a glance at the woman beside him. “I’ve determined all widows have widower radar. Either that or someone stuck a Single Old Fool sign on my back without me knowing it.”

  The man laughed and held out his hand for George to shake, keeping it close to his chest so the woman wouldn’t see. “Henry Smith, at your service.”

  “George Davanos. I owe you one.” He looked the man over and noticed him wringing his hands. “You nervous about something?”

  “I don’t like to fly. I have to fly all the time for my job—I’m a salesman—but I hate it.”

  George leaned back in his chair as much as he dared without opening himself up to the old hot-to-trot beside him. “It doesn’t bother me. The wife and I traveled a lot before.” He shrugged.

  “When did she die?”

  He decided to give the shortened version. “Seven months ago. Cancer.”

  “I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you moving on, traveling without her.”

  George slapped the armrest between them. “But I’m not moving on!”

  Henry edged away from him, and George reined in his anger. “Sorry. But what you said … that’s what our daughter has been trying to get me to do, and it galls me big time. I don’t want to move on without Irma. We were married fifty-seven years and knew each other a dozen before that. She was my life. And without her I’ve got no reason for living another—” What am I saying? Shut up, you old fool! Don’t give yourself away.

  Henry’s voice was soft. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

  “Yeah? Who says?”

  Henry studied the man’s eyes. They were hard and determined. Lord, give me the right words.

  George jabbed a finger into Henry’s arm. “Answer my question. Who says I don’t have a right to talk about dying? About moving on in the ultimate way so I can be with my wife? I’ve had a long life. A good life, though I have to admit there are a few things I’d do differently. Nobody but me has a right to tell me how to live the last of it.”

  Henry drew in a breath, hoping wisdom would come with it. “It’s not up to us to choose the time, George. It’s up to God.”

  George flipped a hand. “God schmod. He and I aren’t on the same wavelength since He decided to take Irma from me. We weren’t doing anything wrong. We were living a good life. There was no reason for Him to break us up like that. Didn’t He have anything better to do than mess with us?”

  “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

  “Exactly.” George squinted one eye and wrinkles formed a star burst at the corner. “If you’ve got an answer to that one, Mr. Henry Smith, I’ll forget my plans and marry this husband hunter next to me.”

  Henry’s stomach contracted. “Your plans?”

  George banged the palm of his hand into his own forehead. “Now I’m a dumb fool!” He pointed at Henry. “Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?”

  Henry decided it was time for bluntness. “Are you really planning on suicide?”

  George blinked once, then lifted his chin as if he were telling Henry he’d just won first place in a contest. “Sure am.”

  Henry did his own blinking, trying to blink the knowledge away. Now what?

  Do what you do best. Sell to him. Sell him on life.

  Henry shook his head, wanting the idea to go away. Who was he to sell anyone on life when his own was so up in the air? So unexciting? So unfulfilling?

  George slapped his leg and sat back, laughing. “You don’t know what to say, do you? Talk about a conversation killer.”

  “Don’t do it.”

  “Now that’s original.”

  Henry’s mind swam, trying to think of something profound. “God wants you alive.”

  This earned him a raised eyebrow. “Oh, He does now, does He?”

  Hoo boy … “He does.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because you’re alive right now.”

  George snickered. “Alive? Barely. Hardly.”

  You got me there. “God said ‘you shall not murder.’ That includes murdering yourself.”

  “I hate to tell you, Mr. Henry Smith, because I can tell you’re a believing man, but God’s not in charge of my life. I am.”

  “No, you’re not. If you were, your wife would still be alive.”

  George opened his mouth to speak, shut it, then opened it again. “I—”

  A male voice came over the speaker system. “Attention, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. As you may have noticed, we’ve had a slight delay in takeoff. It seems we continue to have a weath
er problem. We’ll keep you informed.”

  George clapped his hands together once and glared at Henry, triumph in his eyes. “See? None of us are in control. None of us. Chaos reins.”

  Henry looked out the window where snow buffeted the glass. He could barely see the terminal. Maybe George was right. Chaos ruled outside the plane—and inside too. If he was honest with himself, what he really wanted to do was hide in a corner where he didn’t have to deal with bad weather, air travel, suicidal seatmates, or the turmoil in his own heart. In fact.

  I have to get out of here! Now.

  Henry unbuckled his seat belt and began to stand.

  George tugged at his arm. “Hey. Where you going?”

  “I have to leave. I can’t be here. I’m not supposed to be here!” Henry saw the panicked eyes of the widow by the window. He took a step into the aisle and reached for the overhead bin. A flight attendant hurried to his side, her arms waving.

  “Sir! You’ll have to sit down.”

  He shook his head, an absurd fear welling up inside him. “I have to go. I have to get off this plane. I have to—”

  “You have to take your seat and wait like the rest of us. We have delays like this all the time. There’s nothing to worry about. The captain has everything under control and he—”

  George raised a finger and interrupted. “You’re wrong there, miss. According to Henry here, God’s the one in control.”

  The woman looked at Henry with new understanding in her eyes. She thinks I’m a religious fanatic.

  Her voice became patronizing, as if he were a deranged sicko who needed talking back from the edge. Hey, I’m not the one who wants to kill myself; George is.

  She smiled and continued her placating monologue. “Take a seat, and I’ll get you a glass of water. You’ll feel better then. Would you like a pillow? Or a blanket?”

  Henry looked around the cabin. All eyes were on him. Some were puzzled as if they, too, wondered if they should be asking to get off; others looked disgusted, as if they resented having to witness a lunatic. A few showed compassion. Perhaps doubt seeped into their sanity too?