William Boyd - Stars and bars

Henderson crossed his legs and turned away.

“Shoo,”he said. “Clear off.”

The dog sat down and looked patiently at him for the rest of the journey.

♦

At Atlanta airport, where the obliging driver had taken them, Henderson climbed stiffly out of the back and retrieved his suitcase. Bryant had been asleep the whole journey and had to be woken up again. The driver helped Shanda out and shook Henderson by the hand.

“Thank you very much,” Henderson said.

“Good luck, sir,” the driver said seriously. He was a young chap with, Henderson was surprised to notice, no incisors in his top row of teeth.

“God bless you, sir. God bless you.”

“Thanks. Don’t mention it.”

When he’d gone Henderson asked Shanda what she had said to him.

“I said we was married, I was pregnant and Bryant was my little sister who was, you know, not quite right, you know, in the head? And that you had said she could come and live with us. He thought that was real kind. Then I said our car had broke down and we had to catch a plane.”

Henderson looked suspiciously at Shanda. In the clarity of the early morning sunlight she seemed obnoxiously fresh. Her dyed blond hair gleamed and was quite fetch-ingly tousled if one ignored the inch of dark brown root that was exposed here and there. Her large milky breasts and swollen belly strained at the pattern of her dress. She had rolled up the too-long sleeves of Freeborn’s jacket and he noticed for the first time a little tattoo on her right forearm, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

Bryant stood for a moment unsupported, blinking like an idiot, her head wobbling, as if unwilling to rest on the slim pedestal of her neck.

“Duane now,” she said.

“Let’s get inside,” Henderson said. “I’ll get the tickets.”

He couldn’t get on the first four flights out of Atlanta, but eventually found them three seats together on a plane leaving at half past ten. They left Bryant sleeping soundly on a velveteen bench and went in search of a coffee shop. There, Henderson drank some orange juice but pushed away his plate of fried eggs and bacon garnished with a scone and jam. Shanda tackled hers with speed and efficiency.

“What are you meant to do with that?” Henderson asked, pointing at the scone. “I’ve always wondered.”

“The biscuit?”

“The scone.”

“We call it a biscuit. Usually I just cut it in half and leave it.”

He smiled encouragingly and watched her eat. Now he thought about it he should in fact be very angry with Shanda for foisting herself on him in this way, but he was too tired to get indignant. There would be time enough to sort things out when he got to New York. He rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours. So what else was new? He pressed hard, with all ten fingers, on his zygomatic arch, closing his eyes. They would have discovered his absence now at the Gage mansion. Would Duane have realized his betrothed had been spirited away? And would Freeborn, Sereno and Gint have learned of the destruction of the paintings? He supposed he should have been experiencing some sense of outrage but nothing was forthcoming. The usual priorities seemed absurd today.

Shanda lit a cigarette.

“Y’all right?” she asked, blowing a gust of smoke into the air.

“I don’t know,” he said seriously. “I really don’t know.”

♦

Henderson, Shanda and Bryant made their way through the fabulous modernism of Atlanta airport. They boarded a driverless subterranean train in which a robotic disembodied voice told them where to stand and where to alight. At the robot’s first words, Shanda gave a squeal of pleasure and Bryant said “Duane?” They zipped along beneath the airport and disembarked at the correct place. Now the air was filled with a soft maternal voice breathing information about the various modes of transport available within the terminal complex. Henderson felt suddenly safe and secure, until he realized that was precisely the effect aimed for and so became prickly and irritated.

They walked for — it seemed — a good mile down the plush spur of a terminal concourse until they found their departure lounge, full of immaculate businessmen.

Their tickets had been issued in the names of Mr, Mrs and Miss Dores. Bryant fell asleep whenever she sat down and woke up obediently whenever they had to move. An attentive, concerned stewardess allowed the Dores family to board the plane first because of Shanda’s condition. As he ushered a mumbling Bryant—“Duane, Duane,”—down the aisle, one of the cabin staff asked if she were all right.

“She’s retarded,” Henderson said with a sad smile. “She thinks she’s in a train.”

Sympathy and prompt service cocooned them from then on. Henderson asked Shanda to conceal her tattoo (an intertwining of the letters F, G and S, M set in a garland of leaves and flowerlets) as he thought it didn’t chime with the aura of sacrifice and endurance that enshrouded them. They sat down and then had to move when Shanda requested a seat in the smoking section (they lost some moral ground there) but eventually they were established.

The plane filled up with large clean businessmen, slinging, briefcases in the overhead racks, breaking open newspapers, folding expensive trenchcoats with reverential care. Then two dozen enormous young men with very thick necks and wearing identical blazers swayed down the aisle to calls of welcome and good luck from many of the passengers. (A circus act, Henderson thought? A eugenics experiment?) Shanda excitedly told him who they were and what they were doing — the Ranchers gunning for the Cowpokes or something — but he assumed he had misheard.

And then the engines started and the plane moved away from its ramp and taxied out to the runway. Soft bells pinged, calm voices ran through crisis procedures and Shanda tried to order a screwdriver. As the engine noise increased and the plane began to rush down the runway she reached across the dozing Bryant and took his hand.

“I hate flan,” she said.

So did he, he suddenly realized, but hadn’t got round to thinking about it.

Damp palm stuck to damp palm. Shanda shut her eyes and crossed herself. A bubble of saliva popped on Bryant’s lips and Henderson looked past Shanda’s contorted face out of the window. He saw the wonderful airport and the parked planes, then the nose lifted, the plane left the ground and angled up into the sky. In the glass oval he glimpsed spreading suburbs, a new factory, tall glass buildings and a lot of trees. And he left the South and his troubles behind.

At La Guardia airport it was raining heavily. It seemed only right that the weather should have changed. The clouds were low and had that shade of uncompromising greyness that seems to promise their continued presence for a good while yet. But it was surprisingly warm and humid.

Henderson, Shanda and Bryant stood in line waiting for a taxi. He had given Shanda the keys to his apartment and a covering note for the doorman. He didn’t want her around when Bryant was returned to her mother.

He felt some trepidation about this last course of action. He was well aware that in these circumstances relief could turn to anger with illogical speed. The mother hugs the scampering tot who has chased a ball into the road and just missed being squashed by the juggernaut. Then she delivers a stinging slap for ignoring kerbside drill. Melissa would be overwhelmed with joy to see Bryant back, but Henderson expected he would receive the blow. He grimaced slightly. He was glad to be back in New York; glad to be free of the Gage family and Luxora Beach; but he was conscious that some of his failures dwelt here too: Mulholland, Melhuish, Melissa…and Irene. He felt a sudden whimpering need for Irene. Perhaps she would take him back, now that he had no job…And that fact brought the future to mind and all its tedious humiliations: packing up, saying goodbye, returning to London, saying hello again.