The Seat Beside Me (8 page)

He pulled his briefcase onto his lap. “I think this conversation has gone far enough.”

Belinda made clucking noises.

“Stop that!”

She stopped, but even out of the corner of his eye, Anthony could see her smirk.

“You don’t know me, lady.”

“I know your type.”

“I am not a type.”

“Neither am I.”

Touché
.

She tapped a pudgy finger against her lips and studied him like a specimen in a cage. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’re afraid of taking chances.”

“That’s absurd. Taking chances is how I got where I am today.”

“Only to spend all your time being scared of losing everything.”

Anthony looked down the aisle, wishing a flight attendant would come along and save him. Then he thought of a good comeback. “At least I have something worth losing.”

Her eyebrows twitched and she looked away.

He’d hurt her. He felt bad for a moment, but then pushed the conviction away. Served her right. Who was rude to whom first? The lady had a chip—a plank—on her shoulder. Could he help it if he was the one to push it off?

He got out a report he needed to read for the convention. As their silence lengthened, he let himself relax. Maybe it was good she’d been offended. At least now he could have some peace and—

“I have a good life.” Belinda’s voice was very small.

He risked a glance. She was not looking at him but at her own hands, which were busy finding interest in each other.

“I’m sure you do.”

“I’m a good wife and mother. And I volunteer at the homeless shelter twice a week and—”

“I travel overseas and do plastic surgery for free. It’s been written up in the papers.” As soon as he said it, Anthony wished he could take it back. What was he doing, trying to one-up a stranger? A pathetic stranger?

She turned her head toward him, a devious sparkle back in her eyes. “You’re quite a pharisee, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You don’t even know what that is, do you?”

He thought about testing her on the names for the muscles but flipped a page on his report instead.

She got comfortable for her next attack by adjusting her position, pushing her hands against the armrests. He braced himself.

“I know you aren’t interested, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I figure you owe me for that last barb you hurled at me. The Pharisees were a group of religious leaders who thought they were hot stuff. They did everything for show. They prayed big—and in public—and when they gave their offering, they made sure everyone knew about it. Just like you, huh?”

He hadn’t planned on answering her. “I didn’t call the papers about my trips. They just found out.”

She nodded. “I bet.”

“Now you’re calling me a liar?”

She shrugged.

“You’re the one who brought up your acts of charity first. Sounds a little pharisaical, doesn’t it?”

She waved a hand at him. “I’ll judge my motives and leave you to judge yours.”

“Thank you.”

“But the least you could do—if you’re doing charity surgery—is help some people close to home.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

“People like my grandson. He could use plastic surgery, but we can’t afford it. He could use a little of your philan … philian …”

“Philanthropy?”

“Yeah, that.”

Anthony hated to ask. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He has a port-wine stain over half his face. Kids make fun of him, call him scab-face.” She shook her head. “Ronnie acts like he doesn’t care, but he does. He’s only ten.” She shivered. “Kids are bad enough at that age; I cringe to imagine what he’ll have to go through as a teenager. My son and daughter-in-law try to make him feel all right about himself, but it’s hard.”

Anthony felt sorry for the kid. And it was a fixable problem. He would simply use his yellow dye-pulsed laser that was heavily absorbed by the hemoglobin that caused the red color and—

“But that’s that,” she said, slapping her ample thigh. “I suppose trips to Africa and Bosnia make better news than a charity case in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.”

“I—”

“Oh, never you mind, Doctor Do-da. Don’t let it bother your conscience one iota. We’ve done fine enough without you up to
now, and we certainly wouldn’t want to cut into your quest for fame and fortune.”

“You’re extremely rude.”

“Probably am, but I’m too tired to get out my white gloves or raise my pinky.” She let out a breath. “I guess this means we aren’t going to be best friends, huh, Doc?”

“Guess so.”

“So be it.”

“So be it.”

He went back to his report. He read the same paragraph over and over and over.

2:40
P.M.

George Davanos pretended to read a magazine. He was relieved the widow next to him had gotten the hint and remained silent. She stared out the window at the blizzard.

Actually, it was his other seatmate who concerned him. Why had Henry panicked like that? Acting as if leaving the plane were a matter of life and death?

Henry clutched the plastic cup of water the flight attendant had brought him, fingering the sides, threatening to spill its contents on his lap. He looked straight ahead, but his head was shaking back and forth as if he were repeatedly telling himself no. When one leg started bobbing up and down, making the water slosh from one side of the cup to the other, George took action.

“I assume your watch is shockproof and waterproof?” He pointed to Henry’s fancy gold watch, which was worn on his right wrist and in imminent danger of a bath.

Henry popped out of his daze. “Actually, it is. In four time zones. Why?”

George closed his magazine, put a firm hand on Henry’s thigh, and rescued the cup.

“What are you—?”

George pointed to Henry’s leg, then the water. “I had to stop the earthquake before we had a flood.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

Henry’s leg started its bounce again. They both looked at it. It stopped.

“Anything I can do to help?” George asked. “Call your therapist? Contact the National Guard? Sing you a lullaby?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.”

For the first time since returning to his seat, Henry looked at him. “You should talk.”

George shrugged. “Yeah … well … it appears we’re at an impasse, you and I. I want to die, and you’re afraid to.”

“I am not!”

George let Henry’s ridiculous statement hang in the air. “So you wanted to leave the plane because you forgot something at home?”

Henry’s shoulders relaxed. “I refuse to answer on the grounds it may intimidate me.”

Now that George had been proven right, he wasn’t sure what to do—or whether he wanted to do it. Talking about nothing with the widow seemed more and more appealing. But when Henry pressed a hand into his forehead as though he were restraining pain, George had no choice. “Spill it, seatmate. What got you so riled? I really resent you interrupting our delightful conversation about my suicide by having a panic attack. And here I thought I was being a fine conversationalist by keeping things interesting. It’s time for quid pro quo, Henry.”

Henry hesitated. “I’m not sure
interesting
is the right word. Suicide is serious business.”

“Duh.”

“I meant everything I said. God does not want you to die.”

“Ah. That again.”

“It’s the truth.”

“According to you.” By the tilt of her head, George could tell the widow was listening, so he angled his body to cut her out of the conversation.
Mind your own beeswax, lady
. “Face it, Henry. My situation was not to blame for your surge of adrenaline, and you can’t be that worried about the airline’s delay.” He raised a finger. “ ‘Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of night …’ ”

“That’s for mail carriers.”

“It applies to airplanes too. You’ve never heard of airmail?”

Henry shook his head. “It’s complicated.”

“Try me.”

Henry sat silent a few moments, then pointed at his water. “Can I have that back?”

“As long as you drink it.” George was amazed when Henry downed the water like a troubled man downing a shot of whiskey. “Feel better?”

“Not really. But I am ready to explain myself.” Henry looked at George, his eyes confused. “Maybe you can help.”

“I’ll do my best.” But George didn’t mean it. He didn’t want to help. He had enough to think about without taking on someone else’s problems.

“It all started last night when I nearly had a one-night fling.”

George raised an eyebrow. “This is getting good.”

Henry shook his head. “No, it’s not. It was bad. Really bad.” He looked up. “But I didn’t go through with it—I came close, but stopped.”

“Too bad.”

Henry cocked his head, and George didn’t like his scrutiny.

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

George looked at his lap. “No, I don’t.”

“Were you faithful to your wife all those years?”

“Hey, this conversation isn’t about me.”

“But were you faithful?”

George’s mind zipped back to the summer of 1963. A raven-haired beauty. A hot day. He shook the thought away. “Pretty much.”

“You weren’t.”

George pointed a finger at him. “Don’t go judging me—”

Henry raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not. Believe me, I’m not. I was there too. Or on the edge of there. I understand.”

“Good.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“Good.”

“Can I continue my story now?”

“Gladly.”

Henry took a deep breath. “Anyway, I came close to giving in to the temptation of this woman. Even had her at the door of my hotel room when I got this sudden burst of decency and shut the door in her face.”

“You get an A for ethics and an F for manners.”

“But even though I’d done the right thing, I was still upset. I tried distracting myself with TV.”

“That might do it.”

“But it didn’t. Not completely. What got me calmed down was the verse.”

“The verse?”

Henry squirmed, and George guessed why.
He means Bible verse. This story is going to turn into some praise-the-Lord testimonial. Great. Just what I need. Maybe the widow still has photos to show
.

“You know the Bible that’s in the nightstand of hotel rooms?”

“Sure. I use it as a coaster sometimes.”

Henry’s mouth dropped.

“Just kidding … Yes, I know the Bible. Sheesh, don’t get so serious.”

“But it is serious. It changed my life. Or at least I feel it has the potential to change my life.”

“The Bible in a hotel nightstand changed your life.” George shook his head. “This I gotta hear.”

“I was upset about what I’d just been through—”

“I prefer a cold shower—”

Henry gave him a scathing look. “
Anyway …
I was looking for comfort, for guidance, and I opened the Bible and noticed there was a verse highlighted.”

“By what? Glowing lights from heaven?”

For the first time, Henry smiled. “By a yellow highlighting pen.”

“I like my version better. More drama. What did the verse say?”

“It was Isaiah 30:19–21.”

George sighed, not in the mood to be preached to.

Henry hesitated for a moment. “They were good verses about God having a plan for us. They ended with ‘This is the way; walk in it.’ ”

“What is the way?”

“That’s the part I didn’t know—don’t know. I’ve been waiting for God to give me details, to tell me what to do next. I have this enormous feeling of anticipation, as if I’m on the verge of something big.” He looked at George. “Does that sound crazy … or presumptuous?”

Yes, and yes
. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what God’s told you to do.”

Henry raked his fingers through his hair. “Nothing! Don’t you see? This feeling of anticipation has grown stronger since it happened, but there aren’t any details. It’s like I’m being brought to the edge of a cliff, and I don’t know if I’ll find a bridge there, a parachute, or be expected to fly.”

“Or if you’ll be pushed off.”

Henry sucked in a breath, and George regretted his words. “Don’t mind me. I’m suicidal.”

“But I’m not!”

George put a hand on his arm. “But you’re afraid … of death. You must think this ‘way’ has something to do with death.”

“No, I don’t.” He lowered his voice. “I think the way will have something to do with how I’m supposed to live my life. Something I’m supposed to accomplish. I’ve tried to be a good person, tried to stay out of trouble, tried to be a good father and husband, but as far as doing anything huge or monumental, I can’t imagine what it would be.” He put a fist to his gut. “And yet the feeling is so strong.”

“Hey, Henry, none of us have all the answers. None of us know the future.”

“You do. You’re going to take the future by the horns and—” “Flip it over, dead.”

Henry rubbed his face. “I shouldn’t have told you. This conversation isn’t helping either of us.”

“Sure it is. This conversation reminds you that you have a distinct destiny to play out.”

“God has a plan for your life too.”

George shook his head. “I’ll talk destiny; you can talk God. God’s never given me a verse. He’s never told me—in any way—what to do with my life. Guidance, even confusing guidance, is better than silence.”

“Have you asked Him for guidance?”

“Why would I do that?”

“You’ve never prayed?”

George fingered the top of the magazine in the seat pocket. “Sure I’ve prayed. I was brought up praying. And don’t think I didn’t pray buckets when Irma got sick—little good it did.”

“God said no.”

He’d never heard it put so bluntly. “You could say that. God said, no way, no how, uh-uh, see you later. Don’t call Me, I’ll call you.”

“He must have had His reasons.”

George shook his head. “Can’t think of a single one.”

“Sometimes we don’t understand—”

George laughed. “That’s an understatement.” He pointed at Henry. “And you are further proof. God gives you this direction, but He doesn’t have the decency to tell you what it means.”