Rafael Yglesias - Fearless

“What was stupid, Max? The crash?”

“Yeah,” Max said, returning his attention to the furry red therapist. “It was pointless.”

“That makes it very hard,” Perlman agreed. “That seems to be the hardest thing for everyone who’s hurt by an accident to deal with. They feel it’s senseless.”

Max’s heart hardened, his tears evaporated. He looked over at the big man. Perlman filled up even the relatively spacious first-class seat. “Have any of your patients succeeded in making sense of it?” he asked the plane-crash therapist.

“Well…after a while — it takes a while — they find a kind of peace about it. I think it’s appropriate for survivors and relatives to feel that it’s senseless, because it is senseless.”

Unless I give it sense, Doctor, Max thought. Unless I give it a point. Max nodded agreeably at Perlman, pretending to agree with his philosophical bumper car, bouncing merrily off all the hard jolts of life. Max had his mission now and saw no reason to share it with a civilian. He was glad the FBI had found him and turned him around. He had been going the wrong way, into the failed past. Now things were set right. He put his head back and listened to the engines, thrilled by their power. Mr. President, he thought, I’m ready. Max was launched, roaring out of Perlman’s orbit, able and willing to land on the strange terrain of his home.

Max was aroused by his wife. Debby greeted him with a firm wholehearted embrace, pressing herself against him from toe to head. They were almost the same height, had always seemed to fit nicely, although it had been years since Max had felt so thoroughly hugged. He squashed himself against her, ran his hand down her strong straight back until he reached the top slopes of her ass. He was erect.

“Isn’t almost dying a wonderful thing?” Max whispered in Debby’s ear.

She bit his earlobe hard. He jerked his head away and saw her face was animated, eyes brilliant, face flushed. “Why didn’t you call?” she said, angry and excited. Her voice was loud, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Everyone was Debby’s parents, Max’s mother and sister, his son, his wife’s closest friend, and someone he didn’t recognize, a mild fellow wearing a light gray business suit. The man in the suit had a youthful, fleshy face, no chin, bashed-in shoulders, and appeared both shy and obtrusive, that is, his body hung back while his head jutted forward, apparently straining to overhear what Max had to say.

Entering his home Max had ignored them, even his son Jonah, who was half-hidden anyway, slouched by the hallway to his bedroom, willing to observe, but keeping distant from his father’s arrival. Max moved past them all into Debby’s open arms.

Getting to her arms from the airport had been difficult and dramatic. On landing at La Guardia two Transcontinental employees entered the plane before anyone had a chance to depart. They led Max out into a car that was waiting on the runway. The other passengers from Pittsburgh watched him go, impressed by how Max was ushered ahead in this special way, hustled off as if he were an important official. Max had said goodbye to Dr. Perlman at their seats. The therapist handed him a business card and said, “Call me anytime. I’m either at that number or my service will know how to reach me.” Perlman then shook Max’s hand and stepped back to wave goodbye. He did this with the insecure reassurance of a parent sending his child off to the first day of school.

Max went down the ramp and into a waiting car, an ordinary dark sedan. One of the airline employees got in with him. He was a short blond man with wire-rimmed glasses. He introduced himself as a media liaison for the Transcontinental New York office.

“Does that mean you’re in public relations?” Max asked.

The blond admitted it did. He got right to his job, even before they had cleared the airport, while their sedan still swayed through the exit loops onto the Grand Central Parkway. “There’s probably gonna be press at your apartment building. I saw two TV crews at the terminal, but we’ve got you past them. They have your name. Not from us. Our policy is not to release names — but you were wandering out there for a day — and we didn’t…” he waved his hand, “Anyway, do you want to avoid them at your building?”

Max wondered why reporters wanted to talk to him. What did they know? Did they know he had seen Jeff dead? Did they know he had left the scene? Did they know about his dropping acid? No, of course not. What was especially interesting to them about his experience?

“That is,” the airline man said, “ if we can avoid them. Is there a back entrance, a service entrance?”

Max told him there was, although it was only halfway down the block, within view and a quick jog from the front doors. This information caused a long silence from the PR man that lasted until they had crossed into Manhattan. “You know what?” he came to life as they bucked on the city’s streets. “We don’t know if they know what you look like. They may have paid the doorman to tip them off, but they’ll be expecting you to come by car. If you approach on foot — no,” he interrupted himself guiltily, as if he had committed a taboo. “That’s a nutty idea—”

“What?” Max was game. “You mean, let me out and I’ll walk in? I’ll do it.”

“No, no,” the PR man said, vehemently shaking his head. “I can’t.”

He’s not supposed to let me out of his sight, Max guessed. They’re worried I’ll run again. Why do they care? Was there some sort of general faith in Max’s life, in his marriage and his work, in his friendships and family relations? What was it to Transcontinental Airlines whether he returned home? “I don’t mind going in alone,” Max said.

“No, no.” The blond took off his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Terrible idea,” he mumbled.

“I’d prefer it,” Max insisted.

“If anything went wrong,” the blond replaced his glasses and stared earnestly at Max to emphasize his point: “they’d fire me.”

“Come on,” Max protested.

“Oh yes indeed,” the blond nodded solemnly. He turned to the driver. “Can we take a pass by the entrance and see how bad it is?” The PR man bit thoughtfully on his index finger. They were about twenty blocks away from Max’s building on Eighty-fourth and West End Avenue when the PR man abruptly turned all the way in his seat to face Max, removed his finger from between his lips and demanded, “Why did you leave the crash site?”

Max said, “I’m not sure,” which was the truth.

“Shock?” the blond offered.

“Probably,” Max agreed.

There was only one television crew and one print reporter camped in front of his building. They loafed under the awning. The video and news reporters were chatting near the doors; the TV crew was idle by the curb, their video camera drooped to the pavement, unprepared for a sudden appearance by Max.

“Let’s do it now,” the blond decided on the first go-by. “Stop it here.” He spoke rapidly and with great excitement. “Come on, Mr. Klein, get ready. We’re gonna run past them. My suggestion is just say, ‘No comment.’ Better still, say nothing.”

The driver stopped. The blond hopped out, rushed around to Max’s side, opened his door, and practically dragged Max from the sedan. They had to squeeze between two parked cars on their way to the curb. That allowed the television crew time to start shooting and for the reporters to get between Max and his building. The television reporter stood to one side, angling a mike at Max’s face; the newspaperman bounced ahead of him, hopping back as Max advanced.

“How do you feel?”