Every seat lining Concourse L was occupied by restlessness. Chorused commotion rose and fell like an artificial soundtrack dubbed into a TV sitcom. Every soldier appeared to have a cell-phone. For those crowded together, roaming charges didn’t apply, but soon they would. Families and friends screened through a military check-point nested around their camouflaged heroes, soon to fly away, perhaps forever. Some held children in their arms or on their laps; others laughed nervously; some cried; others whispered encouragement; some stared into an ethereal fog; others slept. All but the sleepers were anxious, even Jinny, whose stomach churned audibly. She occupied one of many padded seats hobbled together for life and profiled loiterers of all shapes and sizes who sat the floor, hugged walls, wrapped the corners, or trickled one by one through tiled restroom portals.
Jinny profiled no one, not even brown-skinned men with beards, women wearing abayas, or other clothing foreign to someone from Kansas. Soon she enjoined her eyes to follow the news ticker across the overhead TV monitor.
This C-Span Program originally aired November 2nd. . .. ‘The Chair recognizes Mr. Abernathy, of Kansas.”
“As do I, Mr. Abernathy,” Jinny mused, “but you won’t get my vote come next November.”
Obnoxious compressed air posited to Jinny’s right stopped hissing. The soldier snorted, opened his eyes, and his mouth ejected. “What’s up?”
“Senator Abernathy from the great state of Kansas is UP . . . for re-election next November.” Jinny pointed at the monitor. “But I wasn’t speaking to you, soldier. Oops, what I meant to say is I’m just talking to myself.”
The lance corporal pushed himself upright, yawned, scratched his head, and for the first time laid eyes on his spunky seatmate. “Wo. I mean if you’re talking to yourself, I’d say you’re in real good company, sister.”
“That would be Bravo Company. And yours?”
“Charlie—named after my dog. Pant, pant. Do that make me a dog-soldier, sister?”
“Hmm, no, but I see why you’d ask.” Anxious to disengage from this rambling back and forth, Jinny posited a few facts. “I read someplace that dog soldiers were elite warriors who formed the last line of defense for the Cheyenne tribe. You may go back to sleep now.”
“No, no, please carry on, I may just hook a ride on that big old air-o-plane after all.” He winked.
Jinny shrugged. “As you wish, but I’ll make it quick. If I remember correctly, each dog soldier carried a sacred arrow, dyed red and tied to a ceremonial banner, or perhaps a ribbon. When the battle got fierce, the warrior staked the ribbon to the ground as a sign that he would not retreat and fought until he conquered his enemy or met death head on. The end.”
“You don’t say? I’m rightly impressed. Y’all are quek. I’m Baggar from Buford.”
“Hi, Baggar from Buford, but I’m not ‘quek’, I’m O’Dwyer from Abilene.”
“O’Dryer from Texas? My oh my.” The words slipped from his tongue.
“Sure, you’ve heard of Sam O’Houston and George O’Bush, haven’t you?”
“For real? Naw, your funnin’ me. Yeah, I see the look.”
Jinny pasted a fake smile over her lips and sighed. She pointed at her name tag. “I’m O’Dwyer from Kansas.” They knuckled one another.
“Got it, O’Dryer.” Baggar sat up. His eyebrows danced, his forehead rippled into relaxed wrinkles, and he grinned. “So, you’re sure you aren’t from Georgia?”
“Georgia? Now I’m confused.”
“Well you see, O’Dwyer from Kansas, I’m from Georgia, and I was almost sure I’d dosadoed all the cute chicks down there, don’t cha know. Do you like to square dance?” Without sounding a warning, Baggar sneezed. Loud and wet. When he witnessed Jinny’s reaction he hunkered down, pulled out his phone, and commenced cycling through a gallery of overexposed photos.
Jinny’s eyes narrowed and her pasted smile fell off. She reached up and toweled her face. More disheartened than peeved, she snugged her knees against her chest like a roly-poly bug, curled her head forward, and glared at Senator Abernathy, who continued to ignore her plight. The message-ticker slinked across the base of the screen.
” . . Mr. Oglethorpe, Mr. President, I thank the Senator from the great state of Washington for yielding the balance of her time to me here this morning. We join hands across the aisle and grieve when one of our own comes home draped with the flag he fought so valiantly to preserve. And so, I rise on this occasion to honor the life of SPC Kyle Jalon Copitzsky of the U. S. Army and Topeka, Kansas. Specialist Copitzsky was assigned to F Company, 4th Brigade Support Battalion, and 4th Infantry Division. He was only 24 years old when he lost his life on February 15 while serving bravely in support of Operation Enduring Freedom in the Arghandab River Valley in Afghanistan. He was only three weeks into his first deployment.”
“Three weeks?!” For all of thirty seconds, Jinny longed to be home in Abilene, safely tucked in bed next to her baby sister, listening to her breathe. She felt a nudge.
“Are we okay, O’Dwyer of Abilene?”
“Never better, Corporal, never better. C’est la vie,” she whispered to herself. Jinny’s lips quivered imperceptibly. She buttoned them down for safekeeping. Brown eyes watered her long lashes, but she blinked them dry. Tinseled Timex hands pointed to 17 and 3. No time to surrender. Jinny unfolded long enough to ply her feet and ankles against the rucksack and dead-end it under the bolted-down airport seat without taking her eyes off the Senator.
“It’s my sad duty to enter the name of SPC Copitzsky into the record of the United States Senate for his service to our country and for his profound commitment to freedom, democracy, and peace . . .” Both the Senator and the ticker stopped mid-sentence. The ticker pulsated. Abernathy didn’t blink. He stared at the prepared text then reared back as if someone had taken a swipe at him and missed. Jinny leaned toward the fray and watched his anxious fingers leaf through papers without a word. The Senator’s zig-zagging lips wirelessly telegraphed his confusion.
Jinny blurted out, “Mr. Abernathy, did you lose your place?” Without looking up from his phone, Lance Corporal Baggar shook his head and continued scrolling, pausing, and scrolling some more, oblivious to the Senator’s sad missive.
“Every enlisted man and woman deserves our respect, gratitude, and, may I add, our commitment the passage of SB 242. Service to God and country is . . . let’s see, it’s here somewhere . . .” He pivoted to his right where his aid—a gorgeous, petite young blonde, dressed in a blue suit covered with white polka-dots—peppily popped up like a lawn sprinkler pressured into service. Stepping to the base of the dais, she slipped the speech from the Senator’s tremored hands, reshuffled the pages, handed them back, tapped a line on the top page, smiled, and without a word sat and pretended to be invisible. Senator Abernathy smoothed his thinning hair back from his forehead and plodded on. “Hum, hum, yes, yes, as I was about to say–before the interruption—I am proud to co-sponsor SB 242 with Mr. Galbraith from the great . . . what’s wrong now?” Teased by the touch and whisper of his pretty assistant, he leaned, listened, cleared his throat, and blushed. “Excuse me, I misspoke. I meant to say, Ms. Galbraith, Senator from the great state of Washington. I do know the difference, Ms. Galbraith and Mr. President.”
“HOGWASH, it just isn’t so.”
Jinny and Baggar came to attention like witnesses to a head-on collision between a sixteen-wheeler and a Volkswagen. Two soldiers—one, short, rotund and animated, the other, tall, lean, and sedate—realized they had attracted unwanted attention and turned toward the window overlooking the tarmac. “Them two chili peppers wouldn’t calm my gut. Do you know them, O’Dwyer?” “No, Lance Corporal, but they remind me of somebody.” “And who might that be?” “They remind me of my Papa and his brother-in-law.”
When measured alongside Albert, Caleb stood tall as a Sequoia bent on reaching heaven, resistant to infectious behavior, and ever productive—admired by all. Albert came up short—short on vision, short on patience, and short on productivity—an antonym of admiration. Jinny had long ago christened Albert, Chief Leaky Boat, but had never wished him out to sea. Leaky or not, he drooled small talk, smugness, and self-adulation. Albert was a “something for nothing” kind of guy. He’d labor vigorously on the farm for a few days, and then, without giving notice, he’d jump in his car and drive away—sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a week—with Blondie stretched out near the rear window, perhaps wondering what they were running from this time. Caleb thanked God for the rain; Albert cursed until a bow painted the horizon, then he’d go in search of the pot of gold. Caleb basked in the satisfaction of a job well done; Albert poked his head from behind the curtain, always happy to upstage Caleb and take the spotlight.
The shorter man left the window and sat down. Jinny leaned back, laced her fingers behind her head, and stretched at her seams, fully aware that her thoughts had left no one in stitches. The Senator smiled.
“Our bill passed through committee without amendment last month, but to my chagrin it was hotly debated on this Senate floor until last Friday. Before the vote is taken, I wish to say that the passage of SB 242 will cut in half the red-tape between our veterans and . . ..“
Jinny released her stretch and, like a pheasant kicked out of the weeds by a poacher at sunset, bounded to her feet. “YIKES. Uncle Al-b-e-r-t. You startled me.” She backpedaled a step or two to stake out some breathing room and gazed into her Uncle’s narrowed, bloodshot eyes. Nose hairs, although much shorter than his well-groomed goatee, needed clipping. He wore a stylish, tasseled, tan-colored fedora, pulled down far enough to fan his large ears to the sides; his graying hair had been tightly clipped. A gold stud adorned his left earlobe; a braided leather lanyard, hidden beneath a starched collar and clasped by a silver woggle topped with turquoise, came together on his chest; his darted cowboy shirt and relaxed-fit jeans—still bearing the folds—looked like they just been stolen from Neiman Marcus. A wide, studded, black belt—sporting a shiny buckle engraved with a long-horn’s head—appeared under considerable tension around his belly. By contrast, Albert’s diamond-studded silver ring twisted loosely when aggravated by his thumb and chubby forefinger.
“So, THERE you are.” Albert’s all but flamboyant appearance was overshadowed by a deeply lined scowl which, over man years, had cost him nothing but friends. Jinny inhaled deeply and—tempered like a sniper, defensive and still—she let co2 escape from her lungs a little at a time. On the other hand, Albert fidgeted. He had the well-tended ability to suck the oxygen out of most any room, if he kept at it long enough. And like the Hindenburg dirigible, he was highly volatile.
“Sorry, Uncle. I recognized Senator Abernathy’s face and got lost in his message. Did you just get here?” she asked, her arms outstretched awaiting a hug. Albert didn’t budge, except to fold his arms. He cocked back his head and triggered a few rounds of contempt from below his barrel-shaped nose.
“I bumped through that maze of camouflaged insanity and was shown less respect than I’d give a calf in a slaughter-chute. I was ready to call it quits and skedaddle, but la-de-da, low and behold, here you are, sitting off to the side watching TV.”
“Oh, that. Yes, Senator Abernathy was honoring a fallen soldier from . . . “
“Don’t pay him no mind, kiddo; with them silver-tongued Washingtonites it’s always the same ole same ole.” Sullen and red-faced, Albert stuck his thumbs in his front pockets, leaned forward, and tried to stretch up tall. “I thought you was supposed to fly outta here an hour ago, kiddo.” Jinny inhaled a whiff of his breath.
“Alcohol? Albert, did you drive yourself down here drunk?” He scowled. His eyes darted self-consciously left and right, then narrowed like a gangster’s. Jinny didn’t blink. Albert’s head drooped while he attempted to snuff out an illusory cigarette, stare at his new Justin boots and twist the carpet fibers with his foot. His chin came forward, his eyebrows arched, and his steely grey eyes glowered at his niece. Before answering, he snorted, cranked his head to the side, popped his neck, and then snap-lashed his tongue like a bullwhip.
“Just who do you think you’re talkin’ to, Miss Temperance?”
“But, Uncle Albert, I . . .”
Albert struck again. “I asked you a question, Missy. How come your flight’s an hour late?” His shoulders coiled sideways so he could relocate what was ordinarily a deaf ear and paused for Jinny’s pained reply.
“They haven’t told us, Uncle Al.” Jinny ordered her eyes to search for a foxhole. Four inches taller than her mother’s only brother, she gazed wistfully beyond his spiffy fedora through the plate-glass window and down at the rain-soaked tarmac. Three C-5 Galaxy transports—each one 240 feet long—sat wing-tip to wing-tip, their mouths wide open, their tongues flat, and their pallets piled high with the armaments of war.
Albert caught up with Jinny’s line of sight and stopped where hers did. “It’s nearly six o’clock, Jinn. You sure they can git them things off the ground?” He grumbled.
Jinny nodded. “Yes, but I see they’re still up-loading tanks and Humvees. I’m sorry for the delay Uncle Albert but thank you for coming to see me off.” Her discomfort overshadowed an attempt to smile. Both Albert and Jinny twitched nervously as they stood side by side like two lonely prairie dogs in the middle of an air-conditioned desert. Neither knew what to say next. They hadn’t been close for years, but now they were too close—too close for comfort. Still composed, Jinny spoke softly. “How are Mama, Lance, and Isabelle?”
The nap on the back of Albert’s neck sprang to attention. “Them youngins? They got the measles; don’t you know it? And they’re suckin’ the life out of my little sister. You shoulda seed her last week, she was all paled out and done in. She’s not as spry as she used to be, don’t you know it? Conor’s gone, and here you are, traipsin’ off on a trip paid for by my hard-earned tax dollars. It just don’t add up, your Ma needin’ you, and you flyin’ off to who knows where . . . just like Conor.”
Jinny winced as if someone had slapped her across the mouth and challenged her to a duel. She wanted to slap back. Hard. But not here. Not now. Uncle Albert’s rawhide tongue wagged over the top of three gold fillings.
“I tell ya girl, if I catch the measles, them kids are gonna have hell to pay.”
“Albert. What do you mean by that?” Albert threw up a forearm defensively, unaware that Baggar had clapped his phone shut and was poised ready to jump up, knock down, hogtie, and gag the old bugger with his own army-issue shoelaces, if necessary. Albert didn’t back off.
“Okay, okay, now I git it. What you shoulda asked was, “When did the manure hit the fan?” Albert was in a lather. Jinny felt as if a hot towel were being wrapped around her face while her uncle madly honed his tongue on its hinged strop. “I’ll tell you when the manure hit the fan. It was the day your Pa died without even havin’ the decency to tell me he’d been ailing. And now, since you and Conor have gone AWOL, I’m the only one left to do all the heavy liftin.’ Excuse me for saying so, but its high time it come out of the closet. I should have been emancipated from runnin’ that farm a year ago.” Jinny wanted to be emancipated, break, and run.
“Albert, please,” she whispered, her skin tinted with embarrassment. She had no place to run; no place to hide; no place to scream. Albert continued to spray vitriol like lethal gas from red canister.
“I keep telling your Ma she needs to sell that gol-darn farm and move into town, but she won’t hear of it. And here this, she’ll have a damned poor next-door neighbor if I come down with the . . .”
“Hey mister,” drawled the aggravated Georgian, “if you don’t shut your trap and climb down off your high-horse, I’m gonna drop you like a bag of rotten onions from the third floor.” Barrel-chested Lance Corporal Baggar, uptight, red-faced, and neck arteries pulsing, had smoke pouring out of both ears—so to speak. Albert swung around, ready to incinerate the interloper.
“Why don’t you just mind . . .? His eyes widened; his tongue got a cramp. He almost choked trying to swallow his own venom. Albert shuddered, his knees knocked once, and he shuttled silently into Jinny’s chair where he rewound his watch and mumbled under his breath, “I’m gonna sit a spell. Plane’s late. Blondie needs walking.” He swatted at an imaginary fly and missed.
Jinny mouthed in Baggar’s direction, E-n-o-u-g-h, but thanks. “Did she make the trip with you?”
“No. Your Ma’s home with the kids, don’t ya know it?”
“I meant, is Blondie with you?”
Albert shrugged off the question. He looked up at his niece and in a muffled, mean-spirited tone snapped, “Why don’t you go find out what’s holdin’ up the show? You owe me that much now I’ve come all this way just to see you off.”
Jinny hid her feelings under a thin skin. “Those who could answer your question are either not in this concourse or they are too busy to be in this concourse, Uncle Albert. I haven’t . . .”
“Right, that’s just what I expected you to say.”
“But Uncle . . . wo?”
Baggar unfolded like an inflatable superhero. Much taller than Albert, he looked down, his arms riveted to his sides and his fists clenched. “Five-four-three-two-three-two-three-two.”
Albert closed his eyes and braced for the worst.
Baggar double-tapped his own palm hard, quelled his emotions, relaxed his fists, indicated that Jinny could have his seat, then turned and walked away popping his knuckles. Jinny took Baggar’s seat. It was warm.
Albert leaned over, scoured her cheek with hot breath, and said, “Don’t tell me you know that fella.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Your Ma told me you was to board an hour ago.” Jinny’s eyes flashed back and forth across the congested airport concourse hoping to spot and hail down a friend—heck, even an enemy would do.
“Yes, we are late, but if you need to go, please go, Uncle Albert.”
“No sirree, I mean, miss,” he quipped sarcastically as he decompressed at bit. “I promised your mother I’d see you off, and that’s what aim to do. Besides, it’s good to get away from the farm for a few hours.” Unbeknownst to Albert, Gemma had texted Jinny twice—the second time was to inform her that Albert had been AWOL for a week. “Don’t expect him to arrive before you leave, if he gets there at all. Honestly, Jinny, I don’t know what’s happened to the man that used to be my brother.”
Albert pulled out a clean, monogrammed handkerchief and imitated an elk sorting during the rut by blowing his nose. Two startled female soldiers abandoned their seats across the aisle and pranced gracefully away. Albert followed them with his eyes until his neck would swivel no further; then he stood up and followed them up the concourse. Jinny closed her eyes. “He’s gone. What a day this has . . .”
She smelled alcohol and hoped this time it was coming from someone else’s uncle. Her hope was ill-founded. Jinny opened her eyes and there he was, seated again on her right. “Tell me, what did them Federal boys want with you?”
“Do you mean the F. B. I.”
“Yes, them.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“You’re my kin, don’t ya know it? If you’re in a jam I want to help.”
“If I were in a jam, I’d also be in federal custody; and do you really think this is the time and place for me to spill my guts to you? You are embarrassing me in front of strangers.” Jinny tried to avert his gaze, but to no avail.
“Now you’re bein’ rude to your old uncle, don’t you know it? I’ve been treated poor by your family for twenty years, and I’m about done with the lot of you. And after all the blood, sweat and tears I’ve put into making that farm successful. Your Pa, God rest his soul, treated me like a hired hand. ‘Go do this. Go do that.’ The only person that didn’t order me around was Blondie, and if it twarnt for her I’d be all alone every night; besides, who could find a love-life with all them hours I’ve had to spend tillin’, plantin’, and harvestin’. I’m not getting’ younger, don’t ya know it? I need a break.” He briskly turned his head away and chewed on his tongue. “Thank the Lord that by scrimpin’ and savin’ I’ve got a little laid away. NO sir, what I meant to say is thanks to MY OWN thriftfulness I have a made myself a little nest egg, and I want to go hatch it somewhere. The Lord helps them who helps themselves, don’t ya know it?’”
Jinny wanted a break—or to break—but she couldn’t break, not here, not now. She concluded that surviving her uncle’s tongue lashing prepared her for war, but she didn’t get to finish the thought.
Albert jumped to his feet and without looking, bumped into what he figured was just another soldier. He heard a crunch, took a step back, and lifted his foot like Jinny had seen him do after stepping in a pile of cow dung. “What the . . . are those yours?”
Albert’s latest victim flexed muscles concealed beneath her black, long-sleeved shirt, stenciled in bold, white letters, Oorah—Semper Fi. Get Some. She stood as if at full attention, her shoulders back and head erect—then bent to stare at the crumpled frames and broken lenses. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes her head came up ready to blow fire. An audible slush of co2 mixed with saliva whistled between her vocal cords.
“Old man, you just crushed my driver’s glasses.” Albert grunted.
The crusty old man reached down and flicked a few shards off the lady’s penny loafers. After scooting a fractured lens to the side with his boot, he picked up the other lens—still whole– and dropped it in her outstretched hand. “Here’s your moniker, and you’re welcome.”
“The word is monocle.” The indignant woman—possibly a veteran—was tall and wore no make-up. A sliver-moon-scar over her left eye signified that she knew when to fight and how to survive. Her coal-black hair was done up in a bun—minus the butter and honey. Her dander had gotten up but not her dukes. Thin, lubricated, pursed lips signaled that, like Albert, she burned on a short fuse and needed but a short rule to take a measure of her opponent.
Jinny tensed and sprang between them, fearing the bell announcing round one was about to clang.
“Albert, I’ll handle this. Ma’am, I am so sorry this happened. I have to leave soon, but if you’ll give me your name and . . . “
The formidable female’s features softened into a pleasant smile. She patted Jinny’s arm. “My name is Nadine Norris, but no need, dear. Go with God and thank you for serving as referee, because I was about ready to . . .” She turned, iced Albert with her glare, and then walked away, pausing only long enough to drop the battered lens in the trash.
“I will do that, Ma’am,” Jinny called after her.
Albert’s phone rang. “It’s Sis.” Jinny brightened.
“Mama?”
“No, not Gemma, its Dorothy. She wants to tell you goodbye.” He handed Jinny the phone.
“Hi Aunt Dorothy . . . I love you, too.” . . . “What? Come again, please.” The public-address system blared—
“THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE. BOARDING FOR FLIGHTS 206, 207, and 208 COMMENCES IN TWO MINUTES. GEAR UP AND LISTEN CAREFULLY. ALPHA COMPANY REPORTS TO GATE 12, BRAVO COMPANY TO 13, AND CHARLIE COMPANY TO GATE 14. ALL ABOARD.”
Jinny snugged the phone to her ear, wrestled her rucksack from beneath the seat, and straddled it so she could cup her free hand over the other ear. “Dorothy, are you still there? . . . Yes, we’re boarding now.” Jinny looked pleadingly at Albert, who put his thumbs in his pockets and ignored her plight. She dead-lifted her bag and followed her mulish uncle as he clip-clopped across the marble floor toward GATE 12.
Soldiers merged like cattle onto a narrow chute, oblivious of the slaughter ahead, but well-aware of family members being cut from the herd. “No, no. I still have a few minutes. The plane? It’s a Lockheed Galaxy C-5,one of the largest aircraft in the world—nearly as long as a football field and as tall as a six-story building.” Jinny had no free hand to cup over her ear.
“Come again?” Jinny paused to breathe and listen. “And it’s so good of you to call . . .Yes, I promise, I’ll write . . . What? . . . Well, sure, okay. Hi, Uncle Rudd . . . Let’s see, try to imagine this: Four turbofan engines hanging from pylons under the wings. Each engine nacelle is one and a half time longer than a Cadillac, the total engine power is that of 800 cars, and the cargo compartment alone is the size of an eight-lane bowling alley. . . Hello, are you still there? I guess we got disconnected, Uncle Al. Thanks for sharing your phone.”
“Look Jinn, I may of over spoke a little.”
“Stressful times, Uncle Albert, stressful times. Don’t worry about it. Do you want to walk alongside ‘till I reach check-in?
“Well, no . . . yeah, sure, why not.”
“OH, Lance Corporal Baggar. What a small world,” Jinny said, smelling his scent but not looking to her left.
“Too small, if you ask me,” grumbled Albert.
Baggar closed in, bared his upper teeth, and sniggered sarcastically, “Sure, Uncle Al, why don’ cha walk with us. Walkin’, walkin’, keep walkin’.”
“NOW BOARDING FOR BABUR GARDENS AIRPORT, KABUL. ALL ABOARD.”
Albert did a double take, and snarled at Jinny, “But you told me you didn’t know . . . “
She toothed over her lower lip instead of biting her tongue and drew Albert’s attention to the tarmac. “I have a question for you, Uncle Al. Fully loaded the Galaxy C-5 requires runway eighty-three hundred feet long by ninety feet wide.” She paused long enough for him to latch onto the numbers. “You’re good at math, so how many football fields, laid end to end, would that require?”
“That’s after ya removed the goal posts,” blurted Baggar.
Albert did a quick calculation in his head.
“Okay, gal. Got it,” he sneered. “You can’t outfox your favorite uncle. The answer is twenty-eight football fields.”
“Did ya remember to remove the goal posts?” Baggar goaded.
Albert pulled up. Seeing he was about to be separated from his niece, he queried, “Will you have enough fuel to get all the way to Afghanistan?”
“The answer is no. Our 12,000-mile flight is non-stop. You’ve seen movies where a snorkel drops down for in-flight refueling, right?”
“Of course I have, I think.”
“Probe and Drogue, they call it. It’s very dangerous.”
Hearing one another became more difficult. Jinny turned and backpedaled so she could keep eye-contact with her shrinking uncle. “I could have learned all that from Google a lot quicker,” he yelled.
“Bye, bye, Uncle Albert.”
“No need to say goodbye, Jin. I’ll be seeing you, someday.” Albert stepped back and anxiously fondled his wrist and pants pocket to be sure he still had his watch, wallet, and keys. “Oh JINNY, I MEANT TO ASK YOU HOW YOUR MEET WITH THE FEDS WENT. IT’S IMPORTANT, don’t you know it. Darn, darn, darn,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Some other time, Uncle Al, some other time.”
Corporal Virginia O’Dwyer of Abilene, Kansas, shifted her rucksack, tendered a lame salute, nervously brushed back her short, dark hair, did an about-face, and held back the tears. Relieved, re-energized, and unhobbled from Uncle Albert, she paused at the gate while her orders for travel were reviewed and her ID scanned.
“Next.”
Jinny stretched in an attempt to outpace the rawboned recruit at her side as they traversed the carpeted jet-bridge that would dump them on the tarmac. “I wonder if this is like the tunnel people go through after they die. O’Dwyer, I see the light, I see the light,” quipped Lance Corporal Baggar as they emerged onto the tarmac. Jinny ignored him.
Two platoons, ordered four abreast, heard the load-master’s whistle and walked up the tongue into the belly of the whale without so much as one backward glance. Lance Corporal Baggar made an unsuccessful attempt to wrest Jinny’s rucksack from her shoulders. He got an elbow instead. Jinny’s rebuff slowed Baggar long enough for her to gain separation and seclude herself in a seat between friends.
At the far end of the Econo-Stay parking lot, clouds had unplugged and rain fell in sheets from where it had been bedded up. A cloistered gate attendant had her supervisor on the phone while she stared at a shiny red Caddy—engine still running—detained at the pay-booth for ten minutes. The driver’s window was down, and rain-soaked clothing clung to the prostrate, unconscious man who lay across the posh front seat with one hand still lapped over the open glove box. Albert had been feverishly reaching under the seat and patting the floor mat in the dark, searching for his time-stamped ticket, when Jinny’s giant C-5 galaxy suddenly powered up to roll down the runway. Startled, Albert banged his head on the dash and knocked himself out. A full bottle of rum rolled off the seat, decapitated itself, and glug-glug-glugged its contents on the floor.
Blondie lapped so energetically that her tongue tuckered out and took refuge in her mouth. She turned, pawed her way up to her spot near the rear window, stretched out, burped, and stared disgustedly at Albert. The car purred and the cat slept, but residents within a ten-mile radius of the airport plugged their ears and cursed as giant turbofan engines screamed louder than the entire population of nearby Albuquerque.
With Jinny settled in and enjoying the ride, the giant C-4—end to end longer than the Wright brothers’ first flight—lifted off. For at least ten minutes everyone on board hoped there was a God in heaven. Jinny knew.