Lynne Heitman - First Class Killing

He looked one way. I looked the other.

“You know what?” He turned sideways on the bench, pulled one of his long legs up, and folded it like a coat hanger. “I don’t usually talk about nine-eleven, but I’ll make an exception for you.” He inhaled deeply and, as he let go of the breath, seemed to age ten years in front of my eyes.

“On the morning of September 11, 2001, I was in Fort Myers at the airport getting ready to work a flight home. We heard something had happened, something bad. We all went up and crowded into this bar to watch TV. It was one of those rare moments in life when you feel completely accepted, totally on equal footing with everyone around you. There were passengers there, first class and coach. Pilots. Ramp rats. CEOs. Janitors. We all had our arms around each other, and anyone who wasn’t completely struck dumb by what we were seeing was crying or trying to get through to someone on a cell phone. I was one of the ones crying.

“The next day, I picked up the phone and called Barry, and I told him yes, I would move in with him. He’d been asking me for months. Then I rented a car with a couple of the gals from the crew, and we drove back to Boston, and two weeks later, Barry and I were cohabitating like an old married couple, and now here I am participating in a ‘committed relationship,’ something I said I would never do because even the term itself makes me retch, and I’ve never been happier. Next thing you know, we’ll be having babies, God help us, and in case my point is not obvious enough for you-”

“It is.”

“I’ll say it anyway, because I love hearing myself give sage advice. You could get up to go to work tomorrow, Alexandra, board your flight, and never come back.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“One minute, you’re serving up orange juice and seltzer on a tray, and the next, you’ve become part of some dreadful historical event, and you disappear from the face of the earth. Poof! You’re gone. I meangone gone. Vanished. Not even so much as a molar left-”

“Tristan, I get it.”

He tipped his head and looked at me. “Think about it this way. If you had to make that last call on your cell phone, who would you call? If it’s your brother, don’t you think you should know his phone number?”

ON MY WAY BACK INTO THE CITY, I CALLED information on my cell phone and asked for the number of Jamie’s firm in Manhattan. Then I paid the outrageous fee to have them connect me, because I was afraid if I did it myself, I would crash my car.

After one ring, a woman with a soft voice and a prim tone answered.

“Mr. Shanahan’s office. Can I help you?”

Mr. Shanahan. How could that kid who used to leave his coat on the floor be Mr. Shanahan? I wondered if he still did that, if he waltzed into his office, walked out of his cashmere overcoat, and left it lying in a heap where it fell. Did his assistant come in behind him and hang it up for him?

“Is he in, please?”

“May I say who’s calling?”

“I’m his sister.”

I saw him through the window, and it stopped me. Jamie sat on a stool at the street-facing counter, bathed in that mellow, hip-and-happening-but-not-adequate-for-reading Starbucks lighting. It was dark out, so he couldn’t see me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had made room for the possibility that he wouldn’t show, that he would leave me waiting for him, watching the clock with a sick feeling in my stomach. But here he was, and he was waiting for me.

I walked through the door behind a large man who took up a lot of space. Jamie didn’t see me, so I surprised him when I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Hi, Jamie.”

He did a pirouette on the stool and stood up, all in one graceful motion. “How did you…I didn’t see you come in.”

Unlike when we’d met on the plane, I felt like hugging him, so I did. He was only a little taller, so neither one of us had to bend down. It felt comfortable, the way it used to, but when he started to pull away, so did I, making the parting seem as mutual as the embrace.

I started but not well. “Um, I wanted to apologize for-”

“Watch out.” He took my arm and guided me away from the door. It kept opening and closing with each new latte-starved customer. He reached up and scratched the back of his head. “Can I get you something? Do you want tea?”

“I’ll get it. Do you need a refill?”

“No, thanks. I’ll just…” He reached around for his wallet. “But let me get this.”

“Don’t be silly. Tea costs all of a dollar here. I’ll be right back.”

I didn’t have to go far to join an ordering line that snaked almost to the back of the store, and it didn’t take long to figure out that waiting for a cup of hot tea behind the venti caramel soy macchiattos and grande decaf nonfat with whip white chocolate mochas was a bad idea. Given the sound level, it also occurred to me that I had not picked the best place for a reconciliation discussion, not if we actually wanted to hear each other.

I bailed out of the line and walked back. “Do you want to get out of here? Maybe go for a walk?”

“Let’s go.” He was off his stool before I had even finished the question, which reminded me of how much Jamie liked being in motion. Not in the hypercompulsive way Dan did but because he had always thought he was better at doing than thinking.

We stepped out onto the sidewalk, which was crowded with workers who had fled the surrounding office towers when the white-collar whistle had blown. I directed us toward the Common and, as we walked, practiced in my head all the things I had thought of to say.Jamie, I’m sorry about what happened on the flight to LA, and I’m really sorry about last Christmas. If what I did hurt you or Gina-

Wait.If I hurt you? I sounded like every rap star, movie star, sports star, or ex-president who ever offered a conditional apology, one designed to shift responsibility to the victim for having the audacity to feel hurt. What I mean is…what I meant was…damn, this was hard.

“Jamie.”

“What?”

“On the flight to LA the other day, I wasn’t nice to you. I was surprised, and I didn’t handle it well, and I’m sorry I hurt your feelings.”

“I was sorry not to spend the time together.”

“Yeah, well…of course. That, too. Me, too.”

We walked for a ways without saying much and ended up at the traffic light in front of the State House. I looked up at the dome. It was beautiful, especially at night when it was all lit up. It looked as if it had been covered in gold tin foil.

“That’s nice,” he said.

I turned to see that he was looking also, gazing at it the way he used to peer into the sky at the fireworks on the Fourth of July. He was always trying to see them before they exploded.

“Jamie, I want to talk about last Christmas. I’ve been thinking about things…everything…and I’m sorry about the way I reacted.”

The light changed, and I followed him across the street, over the sidewalk, and down the steps into the Common, trying to talk the whole way. “I was wrong. What I did was wrong, and…I was…I think I was angry about being out of work for so long and not having any money and…none of which matters, because the end result was I took it out on you, I guess, and I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.” It was getting harder to keep up with him, and not because I was slowing down. “Do you mind if we stop?”

We did, but I should have asked for us to stopand look at each other, because all he did was stare over my right shoulder at one of the dozens of memorial statues scattered about the park.

“I’m sorry I backed out on you. I should have explained myself better or maybe come after Walter had left. I missed seeing you. I missed being with you guys. I screwed up, and I’m sorry.”