Wednesday at La Guardia (Short Story)

It's December, 1959. Frank, a prolific B movie Director, has made his way to La Guardia airport for a reason even he can't seem to remember. The only thing on his mind is the recent death of his former fiancé.

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Excerpt:

She never picks up the first time. Knowing that and accepting it are the only ways not to become irritated by it. A phone call will always cost double if I ever need my mother. You’d think it’d work the other way around. I pick up the phone, wait for the dial tone and plug in the home number. 913-634-1486. It rings the whole way through and eventually goes cold. I put the phone back on its hook, wrap the chord tight around my finger, pick it up once more, and dial the number again. 913-634-1486. It rings and it rings. The pitch of it is nauseating. It’s still ringing. I swear I’m not spending another nickel on this woman. I look down at my finger. I’ve wrapped the chord so tight around it that the tip of it is starting to look like a cist on the verge of combustion.

            “Hello?” The static voice of an old mid-western woman screeches into my ear. She sort of sounds like my mother. I lose focus on my finger and let the chord go.

            “Hi, mom.” I say back in as warm a tone as I can muster.

            “Jim?” she says with a twinge of hope.

            “No. It’s Frank.” I say back. Why would he be calling? He still lives with the woman.

            “Oh. Hi, honey.” There’s now a sadness in her voice. Not surprised.

            “Hi, mom.”

            “Are you calling from the airport?” She asks.

            “I am.”

            “What time do you fly out?” Her tone is just shy of passive aggressive. I’m sure it has something to do with my not coming home for Christmas. I had work. I have to eat. You’d think she of all people would understand. Then again, I don’t think I’ve done a single thing right in her eyes since I was born. I’m sure if I asked, she’d say that I came out of her at an awkward angle. Perhaps even hint that it was on purpose.

            “That’s actually why I’m calling.”

            “Is this about work again?” There’s that catty tone. I hate cattiness. She’s probably the reason.

            “No. No, it’s about a friend. Do you remember Samantha?”

            “Francis, you know better than to even ask to bring her here. Have you not put that to bed already. That girl was nothing but trouble.”

            “She died.” I say in as neutral a tone as I can muster.

            “I’m sorry?” She heard me. The woman has ears like a hawk.

            “She died. In a car accident. Three. No, two. No, Four. Four days ago. I think.” I can’t think straight. I haven’t truly slept since I found it. I’d love to scream at her. The specfics, I mean. Make her eat her words. Make her trip over her own blind hatred. But I can’t. I’m too tired.

            “Come home.” She tells me. Quite the apt response to a death.

            “I have to go to Michigan. That’s where she’s— from. Her parents are paying to bring the body there.” I retort.

            “You weren’t married to her. It’s been years since the two of you were together.”

            “A year. ”

            “A year is long enough. You don’t need to offer her family any comfort. She certainly didn’t offer you any when she—"

            “I have to say goodbye.”

            “You did." She never cared for her. Three years we were together and the only time she showed an interest is when it ended.

            “Her parents asked me to be there.” I say. I look down and the chord has made it’s way back around my finger. Tight. Red.

            “And I’m asking you to come home.” She says with a harshness that defies all humanity.

            “Why. What is so important that I be there!?’ I raise my voice with as much fury as I can muster. She earned it. She’s gone quiet though. That’s unusual for her during a fight. She hasn’t hug up yet, but now I’m expecting her too. She’s always allowed to be cruel, but no one else has the right to be.

         “Jim enlisted.” She says, coldly.

“What?” My eyes go as wide as they possibly can.

“Into the military. He left the day after Christmas.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My mouth can’t seem to close.

“I tried to get you home. Those people in California changed you Francis.”

“I had work. Nevermind that, you could’ve called.”

“As if that sort of news should be given over the phone.”

“Well, it sure as hell might have gotten me home!”

“Well, here I am, telling you now, and asking you to do something for your family for once Francis. Your father and I are getting older. Come home.”

“I have to go.” I get my coldness from her.

“So, do I. Have to finish making breakfast for your father. I’ll see you tonight.”

The line goes dead. My heart is racing. My finger is about to pop.

         My brother enlisted into the military. I’ve been out of the house for so long that I didn’t even know that was a passion of his. Certainly, wasn’t one of mine, but I guess that’s what happens when you’re going into the workforce before they’re even in high school. You forget to tell them to not go into the military. Oh, I bet mother is proud of him. I’ll never forget how  disappointed she was in me when I moved out to California. She told me over and over that I didn’t have the spirit to make it in Hollywood. I was too timid. I would simply wither away as soon as I stepped off the plance. I remember the quiet on the phone line when I told her I got a contract at paramount. I heard less and less from her the more I worked. I knew I had hurt her pride. Mother never liked being wrong, because she thought she was never wrong. Even if they were just B movies with no chance of making money, I was. That was too hard a truth for her to accept. Even harder was the idea that I was getting to tell stories. Not my own, but still. I always loved stories. Had to come up with so many to make the time go by growing up. I would always try to tell her them, but she would insist that I stop. That I focus on reality. Jim would always beg to hear them before bed. He was always scared. Always needing a story. Funny that he of all people would want to enlist. Stare right into the face of a bullet.

TAP TAP TAP.

I’m inside a freshly cleaned phonebooth. Glass walls hold me steady. I can’t tell if the smell inside is of lemon or orange. My nose hasn’t smelled straight since I had the flu in November. Anyways, someone’s waiting for me to leave. Her eyes are beady. Not only her eyes, but her fingers. Beady tips pointing at me. Accusing me. Of what? I’ve kept the phone up to my ear. I look like I’m in the middle of something. What can’t she understand about that. Do I not look like a man grieving. Well, there is a stroller behind her, so I’m going to assume she’s a mother. Explains the lack of patience and the oh so familiar expression of unwarranted annoyance. I’d love to ignore her. Perhaps that’s a purely vindictive thought. A personal one. Perhaps the father is running late to get here. They could be going on vacation. Flying to Mexico or Paris. Probably the former. It’s warm there. I never had a vacation as a child. Not until I expressed an interest in the arts did my parents ever take me somewhere. The natural history museum. Mother’s idea. Wipe me clean of all the stories I had in my head. Replace them with tales of the past and an abhorrent amount of dust. God, that must have been the first time I was ever depressed.

TAP TAP TAP.

“You aren’t even speaking. Hurry the hell up” she says to me in a harsh demanding tone. Her voice breaks through the walls of the booth and reverberates all over. The bun she put her hair in is coming loose, most likely from tapping her foot like a jack rabbit. I put the phone to my chest and turn to her to mouth the words “One more minute”.

My god, she’s beautiful.