Free The Whore's Child by Richard Russo Page A

plane.”
    In fact, I don’t trust him. In his shoes, I would not get on the plane. Or maybe I’d get on and then off again, circling back to the departure lounge to watch whoever was seeing me off wave as the plane taxis down the runway. No, I intend to see him onto the plane, and then see it airborne. After that, if he wants to get off it’s his business.
    Blessedly, the gate is not far. I’m not looking forward to driving back home. I almost asked Faye to come with us, but that would’ve left Julie home alone. It occurs to me it’s not just the drive I’m dreading.
    â€œWhen you get there,” I say, facing Russell, “let me know how to contact you. We’ll need your signature to get you and Julie out from under the house.”
    â€œSometimes I think it’s the house that killed us,” he admits without much conviction, as if it’s one of a dozen equally plausible explanations he’s considered in the last twenty-four hours.
    â€œAt least you don’t have to go back to it,” I say.
    He gives a rueful laugh, then turns somber. “I wish you’d let me take the car,” he says suddenly. “It’s really not fair that I should end up in a strange city and not even have a way of looking for a job. I mean, I’ve been a shit and everything, but—”
    In truth, I hadn’t thought of this. Failures of imagination abound. And now that he’s brought the unfairness of it to my attention, I know I can’t put him on that plane.
    â€œI swear to Christ,” he says. “If you let me take my car, I’ll go far away. Farther than Pittsburgh.”
    Right now, he seems about the most generous person I’ve ever known. After all, he doesn’t need my permission. The keys I’m holding are his keys. They fit the ignition to his car. Only a combination of generosity and scalding guilt can account for the fact that he hasn’t put up a fuss. By hitting Julie he has unmanned himself, losing everything but kindness. And I am suddenly sure he’ll do as he says.
    A voice comes over the intercom announcing that those needing assistance will be boarded first, then passengers traveling with small children. I hand Russell his keys.
    â€œI didn’t mean that about you being a cold son of a bitch, Hank,” he says as we start back to the terminal.
    â€œAnd you’d never poke me in the stones,” I add, smiling.
    At the sliding doors we shake hands, and I watch him lug his two suitcases across the huge parking lot. I don’t feel too bad about him. Almost anyplace he ends up will be better than where he is now.
    I’m left standing there holding an airline ticket to Pittsburgh that will need to be cashed in. Then I’ll have to call Faye and admit to her what I’ve done. She will have to come collect me. It seems too much to ask—of either of us, so instead I head back to the gate. I arrive just in time to see the Pittsburgh flight airborne. “You’re too late,” says a young man in an official airline blazer.
    â€œI guess so,” I tell him. In fact there’s no doubt about it. Odds are that she’s no longer in Pittsburgh. She’s probably married again by now, not that it matters, really. I only wanted to see her at some restaurant with half-moon booths where I might tell her about my surgery. For some reason I’m convinced that my brush with mortality would matter to her, and that I’d feel better after confessing to someone that I fear the nausea, that I consider it prophetic, a sign that some terrible malignancy remains. I remember her body and the way we made love, and I guess I was hoping that she would remember my body too. Maybe she would be afraid for me in the way I want someone to be afraid.
    Back in the terminal I feed coins into the pay phone, dial and let it ring a dozen times before hanging up and trying Julie’s number, which does the same