The plane glides up to the area near the fuel hose. A worker runs out, he and the pilot talk for a second, then the worker begins to fuel the plane. The pilot approaches the restaurant. I see him shiver and glance around the parking lot. Clearly, he’s looking for something or someone. He steps inside and scans the room, hardly noticing me. He checks his cell, frowns, and heads to the restroom.
There are no other people in sight, and no more planes coming in for a landing—just me, the waitress, the worker, the man in his Chevy, and the pilot. It’s nine on the dot. I put a five-dollar bill on the table and stand. The guy comes out of the restroom and scans the area again before walking out the front door to the parking lot. He’s very tall, early forties, red hair, good looking, dressed in a denim shirt and khakis.
I step outside. “Good morning,” I say.
“Hi there.” He has a faint accent. I can’t quite place it.
“Are you by any chance looking for Alice?”
He turns to face me, sizing me up. I extend my hand. “Jake.” He looks at me skeptically, then shakes my hand.
“Kieran.” The accent is Irish. Instantly, I think of Vivian’s story of Orla and the island in Ireland. “Do you know Alice? She was supposed to be here.” He seems a little irritated.
“I’m her husband.”
“Great. Where’s Alice?”
“She couldn’t make it.”
He smirks, like I must be putting him on. “But she will be here, right?”
“No. She’s an attorney. She’s stuck in court. It’s a very important case.”
“Well, this is a first.” Kieran laughs. “That wife of yours has some moxie.” He takes a stick of gum out of his pocket, unwraps it, and slides it between his teeth. “Maybe not a lot of brains, but definitely moxie.”
“I’ve come in her place,” I say.
He shakes his head. “You two are a trip.”
I’m battling a whole tangle of feelings, trying not to let any of it show, certain that it does. “She couldn’t come, and I didn’t want you to be waiting here for her, so I’ve come in her place. As a courtesy.”
“A courtesy? Seriously? I’m not sure how I’ll explain this to Finnegan.”
“Finnegan told you to come?”
Kieran narrows his eyes. He seems surprised at how dumb I am. Or how na?ve.
“All of it is really my fault,” I insist. It’s true; I got Alice into this mess. Sure, Finnegan was her contact, and she alone invited him to our wedding. Still, the marriage was my idea. Alice would have been happy to continue living together, secure in our relationship, indefinitely. Like I said, I love her, but that’s not why I married her.
“Well,” Kieran says, “I appreciate you showing up, that was admirable, and even a little gutsy—but that’s not how it works.”
“She’d be here if she could.”
He looks down at his watch, scans the email on his cell. The whole thing seems to have him confused. “Let me get this straight. She’s really not coming?”
“No.”
“Okay, nice to meet you, Jake. Good luck to that wife of yours. She’ll need it.” The pilot pivots and gets into his plane. Watching his small silver rig pull up through the fog, I have a sick feeling in my gut.
34
On my way back into the city, I get a call from Huang. He tried to cancel my eleven o’clock with the Boltons, but the missus wanted none of it.
“Mrs. Bolton is scary,” he says.
The Boltons, Jean and Bob, have been married for more than forty years. They were the first clients Evelyn signed up when she started the marriage counseling side. I later figured out why—the Boltons had already burned their way through every other therapist in the city.
I dread the hour I spend with them each week. They’re a miserable pair, made more miserable by the fact of their union. The hour slips by at such a glacial pace, I suspect the clock on the wall is broken. The Boltons would have been divorced decades ago if not for the pushy pastor at their church who demands they attend counseling. Usually I give a client six months, then evaluate how things are going. If I feel we’re not getting anywhere, I make a referral to another therapist. It’s probably not a great business model, but I think it’s best for the clients.
With the Boltons, somewhere around our third week I asked if they had ever considered divorce. Bob immediately responded, “Every single fucking day for the past forty fucking years.”
It was the only time I’ve ever seen his wife smile.
“Okay,” I tell Huang, “tell them I’ll meet with them. The usual time. I’ll be back in the office by ten-thirty.”
“You’re not sick anymore?”
“Define what you mean by sick.”
The Boltons show up at eleven on the dot. I don’t really hear anything they say—or rather, anything Jean says, as she’s the one who does all the talking—but neither of them seems to notice that I’m out of it today. I’m pretty sure Bob is sleeping through most of it too, with his eyes open, like a horse. He actually seems to be snoring. At straight-up noon, I tell them our time is up. They lumber out of the office, Bob complaining about the fog. Last week, the weather was beautiful and he complained about the sun. Once they’re gone, Huang wanders through the office spraying air freshener and opening windows. He’s trying to get rid of the smell of Jean’s terrible perfume.
At 1:47, I get a call from Alice. “We won!” she cries, ecstatic.
“That’s fantastic! I’m so proud of you.”
“I’m taking the team to lunch. Want to join us?”
“Enjoy this victory with your team. We’ll celebrate tonight. Where are you eating?”
“They want to go to Fog City.”
“I hope you don’t run into Vivian.”
“If I disappear, know that my car is parked near the corner of Battery and Embarcadero. It’s all yours.” The levity in her voice makes everything seem so normal, but in my heart I know that nothing is normal. I don’t tell her about my visit to the Half Moon Bay Airport. I want to let her enjoy her victory before burdening her with the news.
After we hang up, I sit at my desk, halfheartedly checking email, trying to make sense of my interaction this morning with Kieran. What would have happened if Alice had been there? Would Kieran have put her on the plane and flown away? Where would they have gone? When would she have come back? Would she have fought with him, or accepted her fate and stepped onto the plane? I remember an eerie photo I saw years ago in Life magazine. It showed a group of men inside a fenced area in Saudi Arabia. The caption indicated that they all had been convicted of stealing, and they were waiting to have one of their hands chopped off. The most disturbing thing about the photo was that all of the men seemed so calm, sitting there passively, waiting for the inevitable horror.
I walk back to our house and drive down to the Peninsula. Destination: Draeger’s. One of the clerks, a short, plump woman named Eliza, gives me a wave as I walk through the door. By now they must consider me a regular. “I love a man who does the shopping,” Eliza says every time I go through her checkout lane.