At eye level, most of the luggage bins above the seats were standing open. I moved forward, waiting for the college student ahead of me to shove a canvas bag the size of an ottoman in the overhead compartment. As I passed row eight, I saw the duffel, half concealed by the pregnant woman’s folded raincoat, both items shoved in between a bulging canvas garment bag, a briefcase, and a luggage cart — the very items destined to tumble out and bonk you on the head on landing. If I’d had the nerve, I’d have simply picked up the duffel and toted it with me, shoving it under my seat until I had a moment to search the contents. The pregnant woman glanced in my direction. I turned away from her casually.
I took my seat and tucked my shoulder bag under the seat in front of me. The two seats next to me were empty, and I sent up small airline-type prayers that I’d have the row to myself. In a pinch, I could flip the arms up and stretch out for a nap. The pregnant woman got up just then and stepped out into the aisle, where she reached up into the overhead bin. She pushed the garment bag aside and wrestled a hardback book from an outer pocket of the duffel. The girl stewardperson moved down the aisle behind her, snapping the overhead bins shut with a series of small bangs.
Shortly after the doors closed, the girl steward-person stood up in front of the assembled company and gave detailed instructions, with a practical demonstration, on how to fasten and unfasten our seat belts. I wondered if there was anybody present still befuddled by this. She also explained what to do if we were on the verge of being smashed, crushed, and burned by hurtling at high velocity from our flying altitude of twenty-six thousand feet straight down through the earth’s crust. To me, the little hang-down oxygen bag seemed irrelevant, but it apparently made her feel better to pass along tips about the application of this device. To distract us from the possibility of death en route, she promised us a drink cart and a snack once we were airborne.
The plane rolled away from the terminal and taxied out onto the runway. There was a pause, and then the plane began to surge forward, picking up speed with much earnest intent. We rumbled and bumbled like the little engine that could. The plane lifted off into the night sky, the lighted buildings below becoming rapidly smaller until only a hapless grid of lights remained.
7
I checked the seat pocket in front of me: barf bag, laminated card with cartoon safety procedures, boring airline magazine, and a gift catalog in case I wanted to do my midair Christmas shopping. This was going to be a long trip, and me without my trusty Leonard novel. I felt my gaze return to the pregnant woman, who was seated across the aisle and two rows forward. At this remove, I could only see a portion of her face. The tangle of auburn hair made me long to have at her with a brush.
I still couldn’t believe I was doing this. I decided I’d better do a quick inventory to assess my situation. I had the clothes on my back, which consisted of my Reeboks and socks, underwear, jeans, turtleneck, and blazer. I put my hands in my blazer pockets and came up with last week’s movie receipt, two quarters, and a ballpoint pen, plus a paper clip. I felt my right-hand jeans pocket, which was empty. In the other pocket I had a wadded-up tissue, which I pulled out and used to blow my nose. One by one, I removed the items from my handbag and laid them on the seat beside me. I had my wallet with my California driver’s license and my PI license; two major credit cards, one of which was good for $2,500 (less the current balance, of course), the other of which I now noticed had expired. Well, damn. I had $46.52 in cash, my telephone charge card, and an ATM card, which would be useless outside California. Where was my checkbook? Ah, sitting at home on my desk, where I’d been paying bills. Virtue is pointless in a crunch, as it turns out. If I’d neglected my debts, I’d have my checkbook with me, extending my tangible assets by three or four hundred bucks. Tucked in the inner compartment of my wallet, I had my key picks, always a handy item for the impromptu jet-setter.
Additionally, I had the toothbrush and toothpaste and the clean pair of underpants I always carry with me. I also had my Swiss Army knife, my sunglasses, a comb, a lipstick, a corkscrew, the key from Johnny’s safe, two pens, the used grocery list on which I’d made a note of the Taurus’s license plate number, a small bottle of aspirin, and my birth control pills. Whatever else happened, I wasn’t going to get pregnant, so why fret? I was, after all, on vacation, and I had no other pressing responsibilities.
I didn’t have the faintest idea what I’d do once we’d landed. Obviously, I’d wait and see what course of action my traveling companion elected. If she was leaving the country, there was nothing I could do about it, as the one thing I didn’t have in my possession was my passport. I could probably travel into Mexico using my driver’s license, but I didn’t like to do that. I’d heard too many stories about Mexican jails. On the plus side, my return ticket was paid for, so I could always get straight back on a plane and come home. In the meantime, the worst that could happen was I’d make a fool of myself … not exactly unprecedented in my experience.
As soon as the seat belt sign went off, I unbuckled myself and searched through the overhead bin for a pillow and a blanket. I moved to the back of the plane and utilized the in-flight plumbing, washed my hands, checked my reflection in the lavatory mirror, and picked up a copy of Time magazine as I returned to my seat. The pilot came on the intercom and said some piloty things in a reassuring tone. He told us about our flying altitude, the weather, and the flight course, along with our estimated time of arrival.
The drink cart came by and I treated myself to three bucks’ worth of bad wine. I could hardly wait to eat my four-hundred-and-eighty-seven-dollar snack, which turned out to be a cherry tomato, a sprig of parsley, and a “deli” bun the size of a paperweight. Dessert was a foil-wrapped chocolate wafer. Once we’d been fed, the cabin lights went down. Half the passengers opted for sleep while the other half flipped on their reading lights and either read or did paperwork. Forty-five minutes passed and I noticed the pregnant woman walking past my seat.
I turned and watched with interest as she headed toward the two lavatories at the rear of the plane. I scanned the other passengers in the immediate vicinity. Most were asleep. No one seemed to be paying any attention to me. The minute the woman closed herself into the toilet, I eased out of my seat and moved two rows forward, where I sat down in the aisle seat two over from hers. I made a brief display of checking the seat pocket, as if searching out some pertinent item therein. I wasn’t going to have the time (or the audacity) to take down the duffel. The woman had apparently taken her handbag with her — not very trusting of her — so I couldn’t riffle the contents. I checked her seat pocket. Nothing of interest in there. All she’d left behind was the hardback Danielle Steel novel, closed now and lying in the middle seat. I checked the inside cover, but there was no name written in the book. I noticed she was using her boarding pass as a bookmark. I plucked it out, slid the stub in my blazer pocket, and returned to my seat. No one shrieked or pointed or denounced me on sight. Moments later, the pregnant woman passed me again, returning to her seat. I saw her pick up her book. She rose halfway and checked the seat cushion under her, then leaned down and searched in the area around her seat for the missing boarding pass. I could almost see the question mark appear, cloudlike, in the air above her head. She seemed to shrug. She got up again and took a pillow and weensy blanket from the overhead bin, flipped the light out, and settled down in her seat with the blanket across her chest.
I eased the stub of her boarding pass from my blazer pocket and took in the minimal information printed on it. Her name was Laura Huckaby, her destination Palm Beach.