Rafael Yglesias - Fearless

“My name is Bea Rosenfeld. I’m a social worker and a family therapist…” she smiled beneficently, tilting her head as if making a joke: “…and some other things. My husband says I like being a student, but you know how men like to belittle what they don’t understand. I guess women do too — but what do you care? You’re in pain. How’s the leg? Has a doctor seen you?”

Carla nodded. “It’s broken.”

“That looks temporary,” Bea said, glancing at the cast. “I was told you said you were traveling with a little boy. Your son?” She studied a sheet of paper. “What’s your name?” Before Carla could answer, she added: “Or what was the name on your ticket?”

“Carla Fransisca.”

“Beautiful name. Franchesca—”

“No. Fran sis ca.”

“Right…uh huh. Okay.” Bea’s glistening frames rose up from the paper and shined at Carla. “Well, I think you should know that he’s missing.” The glasses reflected two bars of fluorescent light. She told Carla the fact boldly. She put a big warm hand on Carla’s uninjured one. “Was he in a seat or in your lap?”

“I couldn’t get him in the seat! The belt wouldn’t work!” Carla felt stupid yelling, but she was nervous that her story wasn’t going to be believed. “Ask the stewardess,” she pleaded in a hoarse voice. “Even she couldn’t make it work! It got stuck!”

“Nobody’s saying anything to contradict you, honey. Okay? I’m asking questions to find out some fact that might help us find out what happened to your son.” Bea studied her sheet of paper. “The airline hasn’t made a seating plan available. You don’t remember your seat number, do you?”

“Forties. It was in the forties. Forty-eight?” Carla pulled on Bea’s hand to prompt her.

“I don’t know. Really. I’m telling you everything I do know.”

“Is he dead?”

Bea was neither shocked nor wary of the question. “I don’t know. I know he isn’t here in this hospital and they tell me that all the children are here. But that’s not definite. I don’t want you to assume that they’ve got all their facts straight. There’s a lot of confusion. Can I call someone for you? Your husband? The airline is supposed to notify everyone they can reach, but you probably know how to get to him faster. If you tell me a number I’ll call him now and tell him you’re here and you’re fine.”

“He’s at work,” Carla said.

“Do you know that number?”

“It’s in Manhattan. It’s 555-4137. That’s a 212 area code.”

Bea was writing it down. “Okay. What’s his name?”

“Manny.” Carla was exhausted by this conversation. After Bea left, she collapsed. Her head hurt. Feeling returned to her injured leg; it throbbed and there were pangs just below the knee. All her muscles also wakened to pain. Up and down her back, through her shoulders, down to the tiniest muscle in her arms, they were bruised.

She moaned.

A nurse came over and said, “They’ll be getting to you in a jiffy. We’ve got a lot of people who are badly hurt.”

Shut up. What have you got to complain about? You’re alive, ain’t you?

She cried as quietly as she could.

In his room at the Sheraton Max took a shower. He turned on the hot water so high he nearly scalded himself. When he was done he stood between the twin beds facing a wall mirror, rubbed himself dry, let the towel drop and studied the full length of his body. He had a trim and vigorous figure, thanks to both genetics and regular exercise. A fine down of black hair draped over his pectorals and swirled about his dark nipples. Max shut his eyes and touched his chest lovingly, as if it belonged to someone else. Then he skimmed down with the flats of his palms, feeling his rib cage and fatless flanks, his pulsing stomach and rubbery penis. It was a young man’s body. He opened his eyes and saw a middle-aged head on top. His kinky bush of hair was all gray and the curls were exhausted, squashed at their apex, unfinished circles. His face looked overused and it was. He wondered how many times he had scraped the skin with a razor, fried it in summer, blasted it with exhaust or cold. His ears were big, growing into the elephantine excess of old age. His mouth was pinched by fatigue and his pale lips showed disappointment at the corners. Worst of all, his light blue eyes, which used to twinkle with wonder and mischief when he was young, were dead. They cowered beneath a prominent forehead inhabited only by worried and angry thoughts.

He stroked his penis with one hand and held his testicles in the other. He had no sexual fantasy in his head, no tickle of desire prompting him. He wanted to be erect.

The old unhappy face changed. His eyes brightened, his skin relaxed. His cock lengthened, surged away from his shadowed pelvis, and announced him to the world.

Satisfied that everything worked, Max dressed. While putting on his clothes he remembered his fight with Jeff over his choice of jeans and a polo shirt. The purpose of this trip to LA was to win a major job from the owner of a chain of discount electronics stores. The owner was interested in hiring them to design and oversee the construction of his expansion into New York City. The immediate project was worth a lot of money — as much as their architectural firm had earned over the past two years — for what would probably be six months’ work. And there was also the promise of more. Nutty Nick stores planned similar expansions into Philadelphia, Washington, Atlanta, and Miami. If Mr. Nutty Nick approved, it was possible that their design might become the basic model, which meant money coming in for years and years with a minimum of additional effort.

As always, under pressure, Jeff didn’t contribute to the work. He chose instead to fight bitterly with his wife in the evenings and to spend his day at the office placing make-up phone calls. After a week of that he caught a cold and had to go home early to prevent it from becoming much worse. When Jeff finally did put time in, he made elementary errors which required redrafting, no matter what one thought of the concept. In short, by the time Jeff had overcome all his difficulties and announced he was ready to “pull an all-nighter” so they could meet Nutty Nick’s deadline, Max was finished with a complete plan.

“No need,” Max said and showed him blueprints with Jeff’s name listed as co-designer.

Jeff was generous in his praise of Max’s work and he had a suggestion about inventory storage that, although minor, was neat, impressive, and even inexpensive. Jeff seemed unembarrassed to have contributed so little. Perhaps that was because, as Jeff never tired of reminding Max, his socializing had gotten them this opportunity in the first place. A year ago, at his country club on Long Island, Jeff met Nutty Nick’s accountant and got the assignment to renovate a Nutty Nick branch in Great Neck. Max’s work on that minor job so impressed the boss in LA that they were given this chance.

But it was my work on the store in Great Neck, Max said to the Sheraton mirror. You spent that whole month arguing with your wife.

“You want us to get turned down, is that it? You want to fail? That why you’re dressing this way?” Jeff had taunted him as they entered Newark airport.

“He’s hiring architects, not salesmen. These nouveau riche businessmen want to think they’ve hired an eccentric, an artist. That makes them a patron. Suddenly he’s not Nutty Nick interviewing second-rate architects, he’s David Rockefeller hiring I. M. Pei.”

Jeff had blinked, rolling the lids down over his bulging eyes, as if what Max had said was too ugly to see. He said mildly: “We’re not second-rate.”

Max was alone in the room once this memory stopped its replay. More alone than he had been before. He was absent Jeff and also absent the desire to finish their business.