Ronald Malfi - Snow

“That’s right. You coming?”

“I think I’ll stay here and finish my drink. Hate to break it to you, bub, but I don’t think we’re going anywhere tonight.”

“I hope you’re wrong, honey,” he said, dumping enough bills onto the bar to account for both drinks. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

“Save me a bag of peanuts.”

He pushed quickly through the crowd, the laptop’s carrying case thumping numbly against one knee while he perspired in his coat, hoping against all rationale that the goddamn flight wouldn’t be cancelled, wouldn’t be cancelled, wouldn’t be cancelled.

CHAPTER TWO

The flight was cancelled.

“Fuck me blue,” he uttered under his breath. The electronic sign at the check-in desk flashed the word over and over again—CANCELLED. A mob had formed in front of the desk, the timbre of their mingling voices irascible. Somewhere, an infant was screaming.

“Eh?” It was the big guy in the Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, lumbering up beside him while dragging along a carry-on with squealing wheels. The intensity of his respiration was nearly frightening, and all too obvious was the Texas-shaped blossom of pepperoni grease on the front of his pants. “What’d I tell you, yeah?”

“You must be psychic.”

“They won’t even give out hotel vouchers. They only do that if the cancellation is the airline’s fault. Shitty weather ain’t covered on the insurance plan.” The guy dropped a heavy hand on Todd’s shoulder. “Think I’m gonna have a seat, catch some shut-eye. Happy holidays, bud.”

The carry-on’s wheels moaned as the big guy retreated through the crowd.

It took a good ten minutes for the mob at the check-in counter to disperse. Most of the would-be travelers stormed away looking infuriated; others seemed caught in some suspended combination of shock and boredom. As he watched, he could see all the other gates down the corridor flashing their own CANCELLED signs. Christmas music suddenly spilled out of speakers recessed in the ceiling: a desperate attempt to pacify the distemperate crowd.

“Hi,” he said at the check-in desk. The woman behind the counter looked utterly drained and Todd felt a pang of compassion for her. “Don’t worry. I’m not the yelling type.”

“Amen.”

“And I know you’re probably not the psychic type, but do you think these planes stand a chance of getting up in the air by tomorrow morning?”

“Sir, this storm is supposed to continue straight on through the night and into tomorrow afternoon. They’re talking over a foot of snow. We can’t even get our guys out there to de-ice the planes until the snow stops and the temperature climbs up out of freezing.” She shifted over to a computer terminal and put her bright pink acrylic nails to work on the keyboard. The sound was like tiny birds pecking on a Frisbee. “You can either wait out the storm or I can go ahead and cancel your flight. If I cancel the flight, though, I’m afraid there’s no way to retrieve your checked luggage from the plane until we’re able to send a crew out onto the tarmac.”

“Wonderful.”

“Then what would you like to do, sir?”

He handed over his boarding pass. “Let’s go ahead and cancel the flight, please.”

The woman went back to work on the keyboard, her startling pink talons hammering away. She glanced at the boarding pass. “This was supposed to be your connecting flight?”

“Yes. I flew in from New York this morning.”

“Rotten luck, getting stranded in a strange city. At least some of these folks can just go home. Do you have friends or relatives in the area?”

“No.” He checked his watch again. “How far is it to Des Moines, anyway? Mile-wise?”

“You’re talking about driving? A little over three hundred miles.”

“So about five hours?”

“At least,” she said. “And that’s in good weather. Sir, you’re not planning to actually drive in this mess, are you?”

“You don’t understand,” he said. “I need to get to Des Moines.”

The woman cocked her head toward the rows of seats where all the would-be travelers had planted themselves, their luggage corralled around their legs and their winter coats unbuttoned in the stifling heat of the airport. There was an air of dejection hanging heavy all around them. “All those folks need to get to Des Moines, too. We’ve got a whole airport full of cancelled flights.”

The printer beside the computer terminal whirred and spat out a perforated receipt for his cancelled flight. The woman tore the receipt free, folded it down the middle, and extended it to him over the counter. He grabbed it but she didn’t immediately let go, drawing him closer in an imitation of tug-of-war.

“And while I’m sure your family would love to have you home for Christmas,” she said, almost conspiratorially, “I can bet they wouldn’t want you risking your life to get there.”

She let go of the receipt and he stuffed it quickly into his jacket pocket. “Thanks,” he said. “I mean it.”

“I do, too. Think about it.”

“I will.” But he already knew that was a lie; he had made up his mind before ever approaching this woman and he had no intention of changing his plans now. Too easily he could recall the guilt he’d felt in having that drawing of the cat on his refrigerator, and all the bullshit that had happened over the summer—ridiculous bullshit that was due only to his own carelessness and irresponsibility—which had prevented him from seeing his son. Just the fact that Brianna was amenable to him coming out for a couple of days for Christmas underscored exactly how important this visit was to their son.

He didn’t think he could live with himself if didn’t make it out to see Justin for Christmas.

Surprisingly, there wasn’t a very long line at the Rent-A-Ride counter. That’s because no one is crazy enough to drive in this weather, a small voice spoke up in the back of his head. For a second, he thought the voice sounded very much like Brianna.

“Great minds think alike.” It was Kate Jansen, coming up beside him in her too-small jacquard coat and knit cap.

“Or maybe we’re a couple of gluttons for punishment,” he said.

“Oh,” she retorted, “I’ve always been that.”

He waved a hand at the Rent-A-Ride counter. “Be my guest.”

“Thank you.”

Kate went to the counter and Todd filed in behind her. As if to emphasize the foolishness of driving in such weather, the few other customers at the desk were canceling their orders rather than picking up their vehicles. When the associate behind the counter finally called to Kate, it was already 6:30 P.M. Todd pulled out his cell phone and dialed Brianna’s number. It rang a number of times before she answered, sounding out of breath and distracted. Again, he pictured her scampering around the little house, scooping up Justin’s toys and stuffing unwashed clothes under the bed. This summoned image then segued into a real image—a memory—of lying in bed beside Brianna, the nakedness of her body accentuated by the pearl-colored moonlight pooling in through the bedroom windows. They were back in the old apartment in Greenwich Village, in a time before Justin was born, and they were both much younger and very much in love. He thought of the way she smelled in the sheets and the perfume fragrance of her hair fanned out along the plump pillows. He thought—

“Hello?”

“Hey, Bree.” Suddenly, his throat was parched. “It’s me. Have you been watching the news?”

“You mean the weather? Because it’s coming down pretty hard here, too. Are the flights being held up?”

“They’ve been cancelled.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”