They make their way through the silent building. “I’d like to talk more,” she says, as they are standing on the front steps. “Perhaps once the conference is over?”
She retrieves a card form her bag and hands it to him. Logan glances at it quickly—“Nessa Tripp, Features, Territorial News and Record,” with both home and office numbers—and slips it into the pocket of his suit coat. Another silence; to fill it, he offers his hand. Students flow by, singly and in groups, those on bicycles weaving through the stream like waves around a pier. The air is alive with the buzz of youthful voices. Nessa lets her hand linger an extra second in his, though perhaps it is he who does this.
“Well. Thank you for your time, Professor.”
Her watches her walk down the steps. At the bottom, she turns.
“One last thing. Just for the record, the dog wasn’t mine.”
“No?”
“He was my brother’s. His name was Thunder.”
“I see.” When she says nothing else, he asks, “If you don’t mind my asking, what became of him?”
“Oh, you know.” Her tone is causal, even a little cruel. She raises her index fingers to make air quotes. “My father took him to ‘a farm.’ ”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
She laughs. “Are you kidding? Couldn’t have happened to a nastier son of a bitch. I was lucky he didn’t bite my hand off.” She hikes her bag higher on her shoulder. “Call me when you’re ready, okay?”
She smiles as she says this.
Logan takes a streetcar to the harbor. By the time he arrives at the restaurant, it is nearly one o’clock, and the hostess directs him to the table where his son is waiting. Tall and rangy, with pale blond hair, he takes after his mother. He is wearing his pilot’s uniform—black slacks, a starched white shirt with epaulets on the shoulders, and a dark, narrow tie clipped to the front of his shirt. At his feet rests the fat briefcase he always carries when he flies, emblazoned with the insignia of the air service. When he catches sight of Logan, he puts down his menu and rises, smiling warmly.
“Sorry I’m late,” Logan says.
They embrace—a quick, manly hug—and settle in. It is a restaurant they have been coming to for years. The view from their table embraces the busy waterfront. Pleasure boats and larger commercial craft ply the water, which sparkles in the bright autumn sunshine; offshore, wind turbines stand in echelon, propellers spinning in the ocean breeze.
Race orders a chicken sandwich and tea, Logan a salad and sparkling water. He apologizes once again for his lateness and the short time they will have together, their first visit in months. Their talk is light and easy—his son’s twin boys, his travels, the travails of the conference and Logan’s next trip to North America, scheduled for late winter. It is all familiar and comfortable, and Logan relaxes into it. He has been away too long, depriving himself of the enjoyment of his son’s company. He has certain regrets about Race’s childhood. Logan was too absent, too distracted by work, and much was left to the boy’s mother. This capable, handsome man in uniform: what has Logan done to deserve such a prize?
As the waitress takes their plates, Race clears his throat and says, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”
Logan detects note of anxiety in his son’s voice. His first impulse, born of his own experience, is that there is trouble in the marriage. “Of course. Say what’s on your mind.”
His son folds his hands on the table. Now Logan is certain: something is wrong. “The thing is, Dad, I’ve decided to leave the air service.”
Logan is stunned beyond words.
“You’re surprised,” his son tenders.
Logan searches frantically for a response. “But you love it. You’ve wanted to fly since you were young.”
“I still do.”
“Then why?”
“Kaye and I have been talking. All this travel is hard on us, hard on the boys. I’m gone all the time. I’m missing too much.”
“But you were just promoted. An airship captain. Think what that means.”
“I have thought about it. This isn’t easy, believe me.”
“Is this Kaye’s idea?”
Logan is aware that his words sound somewhat accusing. He is fond of his son’s wife, an elementary school art teacher, but has always found her a bit too fanciful—the effect, he supposes, of her spending so much time around children.
“It was, at first,” Race answers. “But the more we discussed it, the more it made sense. Our life is just too chaotic. We need things to be simpler.”
“Things will get easier, son. It’s always hard, with young children. You’re just tired, that’s all.”
“My mind’s made up, Dad. There really isn’t anything you can say to change it.”
“But what will you do instead?”