Эд Макбейн - Barking at Butterflies and other stories

He thought, It’s all over.

“We have just landed at Los Angeles International Airport,” a voice said. He knew for sure it wasn’t the pilot this time, unless they allowed women to fly jet aircrafts. “The local time is six forty-five p.m., and the temperature is seventy-eight degrees. May we ask you to please remain seated until we have taxied to the terminal building and our engines have stopped? It has been our pleasure to serve you, and we hope you will be flying with us again in the near future. Thank you, and Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you, ” he said aloud, “and a Merry Christmas to you, too.” He immediately unfastened his seat belt and rose to take his coat from the rack overhead. The stewardess’ voice came over the loudspeaker in gentle warning. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated until the aircraft has taxied to a stop. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he said again, “you forgot to say Merry Christmas.” He did not bother to sit because he figured the aircraft must surely have taxied to a stop by now, although he could still hear engines. He was putting on his coat when the blond stewardess came up the aisle to him. “Sir,” she said, “would you please remain seated until we have taxied and stopped?”

“Certainly,” he said, but he did not sit.

“Sir, we’d appreciate it...”

“You are the most poised young lady I ever met in my life,” he said.

“Thank you, but...”

“Are you Swedish?”

“No, sir, I...”

“We have a girl in our office from Sweden, she’s very poised, too. At the Christmas party today, she jumped off the window.”

“She what? ” the stewardess said. “She jumped out of the window?”

“No. Of course not! She jumped off the window. Off it. The sill.”

“Oh,” the stewardess said.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Miss Radley.”

“That doesn’t sound Swedish at all,” he said. “ My name is Arthur. Everyone calls me Doc.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, I’m an art director, but everyone calls me Doc. What did you say your name was?”

“Miss Radley. Iris Radley.”

“Boy, that is some funny name for a Swedish girl,” he said.

“Why do they call you Doc?” she asked.

“Because I wear eyeglasses.”

“Well, Doc,” she said, “you’ve successfully remained standing all the while we taxied.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Have a nice time in Los Angeles.”

“I will. I’ve never been here before.”

“It’s a nice city.”

“I’m sure it’s a beautiful city. It has beautiful lights.”

“Do you know where the baggage area is?” she asked, concerned. They were walking forward now, toward the exit. His overcoat felt very bulky all at once.

“No,” he said, “where is the baggage area?”

“Have you got your claim tickets?”

“No,” he said.

“Oh, dear, did you lose them?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I don’t have any baggage. I’m traveling light. Well,” he said, turning to the exit and peering through it down the steps and beyond to the terminal building, “Los Angeles.” He extended his hand. “Goodbye, Miss Radley, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

He went down the steps.

He knew at once that he had done the right thing. The air was balmy, it touched his checks, it kissed his face, it riffled his hair. He took off his coat, oh, he had done the right thing, he had most certainly done the right thing, though it was unimaginable to even imagine having done the wrong thing after so many drinks and kissing Trudy in MacLeish’s darkened office. It was impossible to imagine having made the wrong decision, not after feting old Mr. Benjamin of Benjamin Luggage, and racing out of the building with whoever the hell those girls were from Accounting, her hand so warm and moist in his pocket, the air crisp, church bells bonging, bonging someplace, Salvation Army virgins playing horns and drums. Oh what a city at Christmas, what a New York, how could anything be wrong, everything had to be right, right, right. They talked an off-duty cab driver into taking them out to Kennedy Airport. The cabbie was anxious to get home, “too much goddamn traffic in this goddamn city,” but he slipped him a fin even before they opened the door, and suddenly there was no more traffic in the city, suddenly everything was Christmas Eve again and church bells were bonging joy to the world.

Long Island was where Kennedy International Airport was, you had to remember not to call it Idlewild anymore because that would automatically date you as being forty-one years old, that was very bad, going on forty-two imminently. Trudy was nineteen, she wore candy-striped stockings and a short suede skirt, and he had kissed her in MacLeish’s office. She had said, “Why, Mr. Pitt, how nasty,” but he had kept right on kissing her, and she, too, back. The girls from Accounting, and Arthur, and Benjamin had made the plane in plenty of time, the cabbie was that anxious to show his Christmas spirit after the five-spot tip, had to get old Benjamin Baggage, excuse me, Benjamin Luggage, onto that Chicago plane or else Lake Michigan would drift out to sea or something. They stole a plaque from one of the airline counters, it said, “Mr. Schultz,” and they gave it to Benjamin as a keepsake. The Chicago plane took off in a roar of screaming jets. Arthur and the two girls from Accounting stood on the observation deck and watched as it soared almost vertically into the sky and then vanished into the clouds. He had an arm around each girl. They were all very drunk, and the girls sighed when the plane disappeared.

“Tomorrow is my birthday,” he said to the redhead.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

“I only get one present,” Arthur said, “because they fall on the same day. My birthday and Christmas. I mean, I get a lot of presents, but only once . We only celebrate once, do you know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t,” the redhead said, “but you’re very cute. Do you know what he means, Alexis?”

Alexis said, “No, I don’t know what he means, gee I miss Mr. Benjamin.”

“Listen, I have an idea,” Arthur said. “Let’s go to Chicago.”

“Why not?” the redhead said.

“Listen, what’s your name?” he asked.

“Rose.”

“Rose, let’s you and me and Alexis here go to Chicago and surprise Mr. Benjamin, what do you say?”

“Okay, why not?” Rose said. “But first let’s have another drink.”

“Boy, will he be surprised,” Alexis said, and giggled.

“Okay, so let’s go,” Arthur said, but he knew even then they would not go to Chicago. He knew at once that they would all have another drink, and then the girls would start reconsidering and remembering that it was Christmas Eve and they should be getting home to family and dear ones, and after all Benjamin wasn’t expecting them, and did anyone even know where he lived, and how long would it take them to get to Chicago, and all the rationalizing crap that people always came up with when something exciting or adventurous was proposed. He knew they would back out, and he wasn’t at all surprised when they asked him to get a taxi for them.

Well, tomorrow is my birthday, he thought, standing just outside the terminal building and watching their taxi move into the distance. Well, happy birthday old Doc, time to go home to the family and dear ones, the loved ones, time to go home. Nobody ever wants to go anywhere anymore, boy, what a bunch of party poops. He looked at his watch, but couldn’t read the gold numerals on the dial because it was late afternoon, with that curiously flat winter light that causes whites to become whiter and gold to blend indefinably into them, and besides he was drunk. He went back into the terminal to look at the big clock over the counter, and he saw that it was twenty minutes to four, well what the hell, he thought, home James, home to Merry Christmas and such, boy, nobody ever wants to go anywhere anymore, boy, what a drag. He heard them calling a flight, and he walked over to the counter and said, “Excuse me, Captain, but what flight was that you just called?”