No Passengers Beyond This Point (6 page)

But hey wait. I push open the blind again. It looks as if we’re landing. We hit the runway hard, the tires bump and hit, bump and hit like the ground has come up too soon.

My mom must have gotten these tickets cheap. Maybe pilot-in-training flights are half price because this pilot has no idea what he’s doing. I’d have done a better job than him. At least we landed, though. Jeez.

I look over at India.

Her forehead has worry lines. She peeks at her cell. “It’s only been an hour,” she whispers in my ear.

“Time change?” I suggest. “Mom said it was an hour difference. Maybe your cell changes time zones automatically.”

She nods hesitantly, then raises the window shade to peer at the sky. It’s night now, except for this one patch of blue—a puzzle piece from the wrong puzzle.

“You should call Mom,” I suggest. “Now that we’re down, you’re allowed.”

She clicks open her cell and hits the home icon, listens for a minute, then shoves the phone in my ear.
The number you have reached has been disconnected,
the recorded message states.

We catch each other’s eye. The home icon isn’t home anymore.

India stares out into the black part of the night. She takes a deep breath and hits the icon for Mom’s cell.

I hear my mom’s recorded voice. At least her cell isn’t disconnected.

India sighs and leaves a message: “Hi Mom.” Her voice trembles. “We’re here. The plane just landed. Call us, okay?”

Mouse stands up. She’s finally finished copying the helicopter and she’s ready to go.

“C’mon,” she scolds. “We’re the only ones left on the plane.”

W
hen I walk by the cockpit, the door is open and I see the pilot writing on his clipboard. From the back he definitely looks young. How old do you have to be to fly a commercial airline anyway?

My footsteps sound hollow on the Jetway rug as if there’s nothing underneath us, but that’s the way Jet-ways are. They aren’t built to the ground on a solid foundation the way a building is. “India, what was it Mom told us we’re supposed to do now?” I ask.

I steer my roller bag over the metal connector ridges with one arm and hold Mouse’s hand with the other.

“She said somebody would be here to meet us in baggage claim. She said they’d have a sign,” India reports.

“Uncle Red won’t be meeting us?” I ask.

“What kind of sign?” Mouse hops up and down.

“He doesn’t drive in Denver. He drives, but not that far, or not at night. I dunno, something like that. He sent some kind of car service.” India is walking as if she has to think about each footstep.

“What kind of a sign?” Mouse is shouting now.

“One with our name on it,” India explains impatiently.

“That’s how we’ll know to go with him,” I say. “Remember how when we went to New York, there were people holding signs by the baggage claim?”

Mouse’s legs are like springs. She can’t walk normally when she gets excited. “Yeah, but it’s not New York,” she says.

“Duh, Mouse,” India snaps as we move past the gate into the lonely terminal.

“Not Albuquerque. Not Phoenix. Not Salt Lake City. Not Ukiah.” Mouse keeps bouncing up and thudding down. It must be pretty late or else Denver is a smaller city than I thought, but it’s the capital of Colorado . . . isn’t it? Why is the airport so quiet?

Mouse is still holding my hand, stretching my arm as far as it will go. She’s peering intently at something.

“What is she doing?” India asks me.

I shrug. “C’mon, Mouse.” I gently pull her along.

“Not Tucson. Not Las Vegas. Not Grand Junction,” Mouse mumbles, bumping her suitcase behind her.

We’re getting on one of those moving sidewalks. It’s traveling through a long passageway with mostly blank walls, except now and then a mural. A flock of birds in the air on one side, herons in the marsh on the other. The usual airporty stuff—a cross between a doctor’s waiting room and a tunnel.

The airport is dimly lit. A janitor is mopping the floor by one concession stand. Another stand has a roll-down metal curtain, drawn and locked. The man behind the cash register tosses change into his cash drawer, the coins clinking rhythmically with his count.

“India, what time is it?” I ask.

She gets her cell out again. “Now it says almost midnight. That doesn’t make sense,” she mumbles.

“Maybe it’s wrong.”

“Oh no . . . that’s right,” Mouse says. “That’s what the man with the green socks said.”

India rolls her eyes. “Whoever he is.”

I look around at the deserted airport. “No one flies at night here?”

“Apparently not.” India’s voice doesn’t have her usual bite to it. Her eyes are watchful.

I’m so busy trying not to think of all the bad things that could happen to three kids in an airport at night that I can hardly see straight. I took karate a few years ago, but I’m not even a yellow belt.

The moving sidewalk ends and we walk across a carpet that looks like a thousand birds with interlocking wings and then another moving sidewalk begins. Where are we going to meet this guy with the sign? How long will it take to get to Uncle Red’s?

Mouse looks beat. She’ll probably fall asleep in the car. That doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me either. I’m in no rush to get to Uncle Red’s house. The only house I want to see is the one we left behind.

Another short moving sidewalk takes us to the baggage area and there up ahead leaning against a wall is a short guy holding a white board that says TOMPKINS in careful capital letters.

“Look! That’s us!” Mouse points, hopping on one foot.

The man has a yellow vest, buttoned-down shirt, and gray suit pants but no jacket. He has a baby face with big bushy eyebrows, a thick mustache, and long sideburns, black like skid marks. He’s wearing a taxi driver’s cap that makes his ears stick out.

The driver smiles as he takes India’s suitcase, sensing she’s the one who would want princess treatment. Or maybe he thinks she’s cute. I’ve had trouble with guys on my basketball team checking her out before. What do you do when the center on your team says your sister is hot? I’m hoping she gets a lot more zits or grows an arm out of the middle of her forehead really soon.

India’s hand combs her long hair, holding it back as if she wants to put it in a ponytail. She can’t like
him,
can she? This little man is peculiar, plus she’s taller than he is.

“I’m parked thataway,” the driver says, and we follow him across an almost deserted street.

The only vehicles on the airport road are Segways.

“Don’t mind them,” our driver says. “They’re always here.”

“Segway riders?” I ask.

“Yep. They’re waiting for flights that won’t ever arrive.”

“Why not?”

“Not on the schedule.”

I’m trying to make sense of this as Mouse twists my arm like taffy. “It’s going to be a limo. I know it.”

But the car is a shocking pink taxi with silky white feathers stuck to it in even rows as if someone had spent the better part of a month with a glue stick and a bag of feathers, carefully laying them end to end. It has bright pink whitewall tires and a pearlescent license plate that says WHTBIRD. It’s the kind of car you might see down by the boardwalk at Venice Beach where the kooks all live.

This can’t be the taxi, limo, whatever. We shouldn’t get in this car.

Mouse has a funny look on her face, as if she’s found a hair in her hamburger. She hangs back with me, but India doesn’t seem worried.

“Cool,” she says, snapping shots with her cell phone. She smiles at the little man as if this isn’t the slightest bit odd. The little man clicks his keys, and the feathers all rotate outward. The door opens automatically, revealing lush pink upholstery inside.

Mouse’s lips pucker uncertainly. “Bing is not sure this is safe,” she whispers.

“Just who I wanted to take a safety lesson from . . .” India snorts. “Bing.”

“India, Mouse is right. This is too weird,” I whisper. “You need to call Mom.”

India raises an eyebrow, but she clicks open her cell phone and pushes Mom’s icon, a bright red teacher’s apple. Once again, the call goes directly to Mom’s recorded message.

She clicks the cell closed. “Does it look like we have a lot of options here?” she asks.

The airport is eerie at night. The usual traveling hustle and bustle is completely missing. It’s cold and dark, and I’m exhausted. The soft plush taxi seats and the warm glow of the light inside beckons to us. There’s something that doesn’t quite add up about the driver, but he has a nice smile—clearly genuine.

“It’s an unusual vehicle,” he concedes.

“Uncle Red would have chosen a good taxi service. And Mom trusts Uncle Red, otherwise we wouldn’t be going to live with him,” India announces, but even she sounds doubtful.

“Bing thinks we should call Uncle Red,” Mouse announces.

“Now there’s an idea,” I say.

India grinds her teeth, but she pops open her cell and dials the number Mom made her program in for Uncle Red.

Mouse and I move in close to hear what Uncle Red has to say, but Uncle Red’s phone is a fast busy signal, which means the call isn’t going through.

India and I look at each other.

“Would you prefer to stay here?” the little man asks gently. The car is weird, but the guy couldn’t be nicer. I trust him, I don’t know why.

“He did have our name. How else would he have our name if Uncle Red didn’t give it to him?” I offer.

Our suitcases are already loaded in the trunk. They fit perfectly too—as if the trunk was custom-made for three roller bags.

“Okay,” India says to the driver. “We’ll go with you.” She tosses her hair back over her shoulder and gets in.

Mouse’s bright blue eyes are half hidden by her red lashes in a strange un-Mouse-like way.

“You okay with this, Mouse?” I ask.

Mouse’s little chest heaves, like she’s hyperventilating. “Will Bing get to sit in the front?” she asks, digging Bing’s wallet out of her suitcase. She opens it and flashes her handmade ID.

The driver nods as if this makes perfect sense to him and opens the front passenger-side door, then closes it again, presumably after Bing is inside.

The car looks so comfortable I can hardly wait to climb in. I scoot into the backseat after India. Mouse follows me.

When we’re all buckled in—including Bing, Mouse insists on this—the feather taxi glides out of the dark airport parking lot, along the mostly deserted streets.

What I notice first is how comfortable the backseat is. It doesn’t even feel as if the tires are making contact with the road. It’s more like they’re hovering over rather than rolling on the street.

When we reach the open highway, there are mountains everywhere, beautiful mountains with snowcapped peaks. At the foot of the mountains is a bright, shiny lake glistening like a mirrored welcome mat. Through the skylight you can see how bright the stars are. The scenery is spectacular. My mom was right about that. Who knows . . . maybe she’ll be right about Uncle Red too.

On the dashboard is a brass plate engraved with
Property of FB. FB
must be Fort Baker. On the sun visor is the taxi driver’s name.
Charles,
it says. I can see India reading it too. “So.” India clears her throat. “Um, Charles. You know the address. Uncle Red already gave it to you, right?”

Charles takes the radio—it’s an old-fashioned kind that fits neatly in the palm of his hand, like the sort taxi driver dispatchers in movies have, except it’s attached by a pink curly cord to the dashboard. He mutters into the microphone, then he turns back to us. “You can call me Chuck,” he says in a high, sweet voice.

India and I look at each other. She seems to be thinking what I’m thinking. Inside the cab, we can hear Chuck much more clearly. His voice has brought him in focus. I lean forward to inspect his sideburns and mustache. They’re fake, glued right on. Chuck isn’t a short man, he’s a kid.

“Um, Chuck, we want a real taxi, okay?” My voice is pinched. “We need an adult driving.”

“Yes, well, driving is a kid’s job,” Chuck observes.

India snorts. “Is that so?” she asks.

“That’s the way it is here, yes,” Chuck answers politely.

I peer out the window, looking for a sign. “Where is here? Fort Baker or Denver?”

Chuck shakes his head. He seems genuinely apologetic. “Always happens. Can’t ever get the signage just right. People think this is Portland or Chicago. Dallas or New Orleans. We put up as many signs as we can, but . . .”

“What signs?”

“The ones I’ve been telling you about. The ones that said:
Not Albuquerque. Not Las Vegas. Not Denver,
” Mouse pipes up.

“Trouble is there’s so many places this isn’t, it’s hard to cover them all. Just yesterday we had someone from Duluth.” He sighs. “You know, there isn’t a single sign that says
Not Duluth
.”