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She gives him a sour look, but then snorts a laugh. “I think I’d know, don’t you?”
“Babe… you’re only thirty-nine.”
“In my family we start early and end early. My sister Pat went into the change when she was thirty-six. My emotions have been all over the place. As you may have noticed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because then I’d have to admit it to myself.” She sighs. “My last period was four months ago, and since then, just spotting. Like the last few drips from a faucet when you turn it off.” A tear rolls down her cheek, just the one. She drops the half-smoked cigarette into the water glass and covers her eyes with one hand. “I feel dry, Frankie. Old and used up and unlovable. I’ve been a bitch to you, and I’m sorry.”
He douses his own cigarette. He puts the glass on his night table and takes her in his arms. “I love you, Sandi. Always have, always will.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
She reaches past him, her breast pressing his cheek, and turns out the light. For a moment, no more than a second, the screen of his cell phone flashes red.
In the dark, Sandi Wilson smiles.
THE TURBULENCE EXPERT
1
Craig Dixon was sitting in the living room of a Four Seasons junior suite, eating expensive room service chow and watching a movie on pay-per-view, when the phone rang. His previously calm heartbeat lost its mojo and sped up. Dixon was unattached, the perfect definition of a rolling stone, and only one person knew he was here in this fancy hotel across from Boston Common. He considered not answering, but the man he thought of as the facilitator would only call back, and keep calling until he answered. If he refused to answer, there would be consequences.
This isn’t hell, he thought, the accommodations are too nice, but it’s purgatory. And no prospect of retirement for a long time.
He muted the TV and picked up the phone. He didn’t say hello. What he said was, “This isn’t fair. I just got in from Seattle two days ago. I’m still in recovery mode.”
“Understood and terribly sorry, but this has come up and you’re the only one available.” Sorry came out thorry.
The facilitator had the soothing, put-you-to-sleep voice of an FM disc jockey, spoiled only by an occasional light lisp. Dixon had never seen him, but imagined him as tall and slim, with blue eyes and an ageless, unlined face. In reality he was probably fat, bald, and swarthy, but Dixon felt confident his mental picture would never change, because he never expected to see the facilitator. He had known a number of turbulence experts over his years with the firm—if it was a firm—and none of them had ever seen the man. Certainly none of the experts who worked for him were unlined; even the ones in their twenties and thirties looked middle-aged. It wasn’t the job, where there were sometimes late hours but no heavy lifting. It was what made them capable of doing the job.
“Tell me,” Dixon said.
“Allied Airlines Flight 19. Nonstop Boston to Sarasota. Leaves at 8:10 tonight. You’ve just got time to make it.”
“There’s nobody else?” Dixon realized he was nearly bleating. “I’m tired, man. Tired. That run from Seattle was a bitch.”
“Your usual seat,” the facilitator said, pronouncing the last word theat. Then he hung up.
Dixon looked at swordfish he no longer wanted. He looked at the Kate Winslet TV series he would never finish, at least not in Boston. He thought—and not for the first time!—of just packing up and renting a car and driving north, first to New Hampshire, then to Maine, then across the border to Canada. But they would catch him. This he knew. And the rumors of what happened to TEs who ran included electrocution, evisceration, even being boiled alive. Dixon did not believe these rumors… except he sort of did.
He began to pack. There wasn’t much. Turbulence experts traveled light.
2
His ticket was waiting for him at the counter. As always, his assignment placed him in coach, just aft of the starboard wing, in the middle seat. How that particular one could always be available was another mystery, like who the facilitator was, where he was calling from, or what sort of an organization he worked for. Like the ticket, the seat was just always waiting for him.
Dixon placed his bag in the overhead bin and looked at tonight’s neighbors and fellow travelers: a businessman with red eyes and gin breath on the aisle, a middle-aged lady who looked like a librarian next to the window. The businessman grunted something unintelligible when Dixon sidled past him with a murmured apology. The guy was reading a paperback charmingly titled Don’t Let the Boss F**k With You. The librarian type was looking out the window at the various pieces of equipment that were trundling back and forth, as if they were the most fascinating things she had ever seen. There was knitting in her lap. Looked to Dixon like a sweater.
She turned, gave him a smile, and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Mary Worth. Just like the comic strip chick.”
Dixon didn’t know any comic strip chick named Mary Worth, but he shook her hand. “Craig Dixon. Nice to meet you.”
The businessman grunted and turned a page in his book.
“I’m so looking forward to this,” Mary Worth said. “I haven’t had a real vacation in twelve years. I’m sharing the rent of a little place on Siesta Key with a couple of chums.”
“Chums,” the businessman grunted. The grunt seemed to be his default position.
