Up in the Air

"You want me to see if they have an extra room free?" he asked when she came up behind him.

"I doubt I could afford it, Paul. I'll probably just head out to the Hilton later on."

"Okay. Why don't you go settle in over there," he said, pointing to some chairs in the lobby. "This won't take long."

She walked over and picked up a Sunday Times; they had until Tuesday afternoon free, and she wondered what plays were on. She looked around, saw the concierge desk and walked over. She asked about shows and tickets and picked up a brochure for a tour bus that circulated around the most popular sights all day, then walked to the front desk and Overton as he arranged to leave his bag with the Bell Captain.

"Room's not ready yet. Hungry?"

"Actually, Paul, I'm starving."

"Good. Let's roll."

A doorman held the door open and they walked out onto the sidewalk; a tepid sun was trying to break through low-scudding clouds that flew by just overhead, and they turned to the right and walked up the shallow incline and crossed the street at the first corner, then walked ahead a few more paces before ducking into another narrow doorway. Smells of frying bacon and eggs and sausage slammed into her, knocking all thought of anything else from her mind. She took a seat at a little table while Overton walked up to the bar; he came back a minute later and sat down.

"Hope you don't mind, but I just ordered a huge breakfast and some coffee and juice."

"Bless your heart. Read my mind."

He smiled, looked around the low-ceilinged room like he was looking at old memories, memories that had once been good friends, and she could see the cares of the world settle on his shoulders again.

"You come here often? I mean, to that hotel? Here?"

"No. Been a while, really. Peg and I used to come here."

"Oh. I'm sorry, Paul. I didn't mean to bring that up."

"Oh, I know Denise. Tomorrow's our anniversary. I just wanted to see the place again."

Overton's wife had passed away the year before, and only now was he getting back to something like his old self. He'd been very much in love, everyone knew, even after twenty years of marriage. They'd never had kids, Evans knew, and she'd often wondered why. Whatever the reason, he was alone now, and that was a bad fit for Overton. Some living part of Peggy in this world would have been a grand comfort to him. Now he often times reminded her of trees in autumn; the one true thing, the one person who above all else had defined his life had been stripped from him, and now he drifted like a reddened leaf on a quiet brook among the wayward currents of fading memory.

Plates of orange-yolked eggs and bacon appeared, the plates heaped with baked beans and broiled tomatoes and mushrooms. Evans attacked her plate with unbridled hunger while Overton looked on with amazed grace as she wolfed down her breakfast. He picked at his food every now and then, but mostly just sipped his coffee. He'd lost thirty pounds in the past year, and he'd never once in his life been considered overweight. His shirt collars were now obscenely loose and his uniform hung on his spare frame like a rag on a scarecrow, but he hardly ever ate anymore. He hardly cared anymore.

"You not going to eat?"

"Not too hungry this morning, Denise."

"Paul? Eat your goddamned breakfast."

He looked at her and shrugged his shoulder, took a bite of egg and a long pull from his glass of juice. "It is good, isn't it?"

"Goddamned right it is. And you need it, too, amigo."

He ate, tentatively at first, but soon he ate and enjoyed it. All of it.

"Whoa, Paul! Making up for lost time, aren't you?" She watched as he polished off his plate and finished his juice.

"Man, that felt good."

"Yeah. Food's a good thing, Paul. Try to remember that from time to time, okay?"

He grinned, first at the bare plate, then at Evans. "We ought to go to the hotel and see if we can change out of these things. They can get 'em cleaned overnight, too. Let's roll." He walked up to the bar and paid while she gathered her stuff, then they walked back down the hill to the hotel. His room was ready, his bag delivered, so he took the key and they rode the lift up to the fourth floor and made for the room. He opened the door and walked in, looked around at the ghosts that met him there, then went to his bag and pulled out his toiletries.

"You want a shower?" he asked.

"No, go ahead."

He walked in and brushed his teeth, then threw on some jeans and a white polo shirt and slipped on a pair of old Adidas tennis shoes. He ran a brush through his peppered blond hair and a razor across the stubble on his face, then stepped back into the room.

He stopped dead in his tracks . . .

"Shit! I thought you were going to shower!" Evans said. She stood bare-footed in the middle of the room in panties and a bra, and she turned a bright crimson as Overton stood open-mouthed, staring at her.

"Crap, I'm sorry Denise," he said as he retreated to the bathroom. He gathered himself in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection, but all he saw was her flat belly and smallish - though obviously very beautiful - breasts, and her perfect legs crowned by sexy white-lace panties. The sight had taken his breath away, and he shook inside at the thought of her standing out there, untouchable, almost unknowable.

"Alright," he heard her call out, "the coast is clear now."

He held on to the sink now, tried to shake the sight of her from his mind, then ran his hands under cold water and rinsed his face. He toweled dry again, walked out into the room and saw her standing by the window, looking at the building across the lane.

"Is that place empty?" she said, looking at the red stone megaligth.

"Good question. Used to be an MI-6 hangout. You know, James Bond kinda stuff."

"No shit? Cool!" She continued to look out the window, refused to acknowledge what had just passed between them. She had a hard time understanding the wave of feelings that had washed over her while he stood there, open-mouthed, staring at her. She'd felt like taking her clothes off and sliding under the sheets, waiting there for him to come to her, wanting him, needing him. The realization had rocked her world, just as his presence behind her now made her weak in the knees. 'Why?' she asked herself. 'This doesn't make sense!'

"So, times flying. What do you feel like doing?" She heard it in his voice, too.

She turned around, faced him, saw the confusion on his face, in his eyes. She stepped forward, took his face in her hands and kissed him. She kissed him hard, ran her tongue into his mouth and a hand to his belt. She opened his jeans and freed him, moved her fingers until she held him firmly, then pushed him back to the bed, pushed him down, and she knelt there as if in absolution, pulled his jeans down, took him in her mouth. She worked him violently until he grew inside her warmth, then she stood and pushed her trousers off and mounted him. Her hands on his chest, her hair raking his face, she buried herself in their need and in writhing embrace danced to the ancient music until the universe exploded.

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He seemed awkward afterwards, almost shy, like the rules of the game had been broken. Or had they just been rewritten?

But how kind he was, almost too kind, holding her, kissing her face, telling her how beautiful she was, how wonderful this day had become. She kissed him again, felt the strangeness wash over her, then pushed herself up over his chest again.

"Come on, Paul. You promised to show me London, didn't you?"

"That I did, that I did. What do you feel like doing?"

She looked at him, looked at the innocence and happiness dueling with the sorrow and loneliness of the past year on his face. She lifted herself from his groin, felt the watery warmth of their love on the inside of her thighs and her belly stirred again. The impulse was overwhelming, undeniable . . .

She drifted down into this newness and looked up at him. "I'm still hungry, Paul. What do you think I ought to do?"

He smiled as she took him again, but this time she kept him in her mouth, working him frantically until he tensed, until his back arced skyward, and she took him, all of him, in her mouth. And still she couldn't release him: she swirled her tongue over him, felt the sticky warmth coating her tongue and her lips, felt him growing under the subtle glory of the movement that now defined their relationship, and she worked him over again and again until he regained his strength, then she mounted him again, took all he could give her, again.

Later, they stood in the tub and let hot water run down their bodies while they kissed. All the while, Evans felt pelted by gales of confusion, and every time she looked up into Paul's eyes she felt a quiet certainty she had never known in her life. She felt loved, and she felt in love. And these feelings washed over her like the betrayal they most assuredly were.

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They walked along the Thames. Light traffic moved downstream on the brown water; the walkway upon which they wandered was as lightly peopled, and Evans in her uncertainty was glad of that. They had for a while held hands, but she soon pulled away from him, unsure of herself, unsure of the feelings that swirled in the air apparent. She grew wary of the implications that hid behind each passing tree; the sun settled behind walls of insinuating trees as they walked, the air growing cooler as they passed each passive sentinel, then streetlights winked on, calling out sudden shadows all around them. She stopped, moved to the wall and looked down into the swirling waters.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said.

"Probably not worth much more than that," she said, forcing a laugh. She looked upstream toward Parliament, toward Big Ben and the iconic truth that stood silently in the mist.

"Can you tell me about her?"

His words hit her like a blow to the stomach; she felt winded and at a complete loss as the implications of his words washed over her. She had labored under illusions of secrecy for so many years it stunned her to realize the transparency of her deceptions. She shook like a leaf in an errant breeze.

He looked at her, at the set of her chin, at the white-knuckled grip of her hand on the iron railing. My God, he thought, what illusions had she labored under?

"I didn't think it was so obvious," she said, finally, quietly.

"Rumors, really. Mainly the stews, you know; they gossip like hens. Hard to keep things secret in a small family." He laughed gently, then stepped to her side and put his arm around her shoulder. She didn't move away, and he moved his hand to her neck and softly massaged it. "I was kind of curious, you know. Why me? Feel sorry for the old man?"

She turned to him and he saw tears in her eyes, yet she reached up, stroked his face with the back of her hand.

"You're really quite stupid, Paul. You know that?"

He might have felt wounded by her words but for the look in her eyes. "So I've been told. Peg accused me of as much on any number of occasions."

"I feel jealous of her," she said, and the brutal honesty of the emotion stunned her once again.

"Jealous?"

"Of the time you had with her. Of that life."

"Why?"

"I've always considered that life as something I would never know. Could never know. It's just not who I am."

"You could have fooled me this morning."

"Really? What did you feel when I, when we . . ."

"Surprise, in a way. But after I saw you standing out there, in your, uh, out of uniform, well, I wanted you, didn't know I could feel that way again." His words reached her, washed over her, and she leaned into him, kissed him. And she kissed him again.

"Paul? I don't know what we've started, but I know I don't want this to end."

He held her, held her as gusts of confusion and warm certainty washed over them. He looked over her to the sky above, to a 747 climbing from Heathrow and beginning its gentle turn southward out of the pattern.

"I think a lot of things changed today, Denise, but something about this feels so right to me. Something about you feels so . . . right."

She pulled back, looked up into his eyes again and nodded. "Yes. Right. That's a good word. But you now what?"

"Hm-m, what?"

"I'm hungry."

"Can't imagine why. It's only been ten hours." He looked at his watch, then at the river. "You trust me?"

"Implicitly."

"Good girl. Off to Brick Lane."

"Brick Lane?"

"Yip. Best restaurant in London. Kind of spicy, though, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, God!"

"He can't help you now, girl. You're all mine now!"

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They woke the next morning in a dazed fog. They had started in on Kingfisher beers around seven and carried on into the early morning, then poured themselves into a taxi and into his room a little past two. Now they had twenty four hours to let the booze filter out of their systems before tomorrow's flight back to Kennedy, so today would of necessity be a sightseeing day. While Denise showered he called down to get the day's rail schedule out to Canterbury and back, then filled her in on his tentative plan while she dried off and he hopped in the shower.

They made their way to Victoria Station and grabbed a sandwich before walking down the platform to a local that made its way slowly to Canterbury; it was scheduled to get in a little after one that afternoon. They boarded and took a couple of facing seats in the tiny first class compartment and spread out their sandwiches on the table between them while the train pulled out of the station. Within a few minutes they were rolling across gently rolling farmland crossed with narrow stone-lined lanes; both looked out their window at verdant hills and distant steeples until, after almost two hours, the train pulled into Canterbury and stopped.

Making their way through the tiny station and across to the ancient wall that enclosed the village, they walked along an ancient tree-lined path until, rounding a corner, the old cathedral came into view.

"Oh my God," he heard Evans gasp.

"It's something, isn't it?" He looked at her, at the look of sheer astonishment on her face. These old cathedrals never failed to awe Americans, he thought. There was simply nothing comparable to them back home, and he suspected it reminded Americans of how new their country really was, and of how deeply European culture was rooted in a common -- and ancient - heritage. And these cathedrals were almost newcomers on the scene, he reminded himself; the ties that held this culture together were now almost two thousand years old. America was almost an afterthought to this old world.

He took her hand and they walked through a little residential neighborhood, then out onto a lively commercial street full of modern shops and huge throngs of people out doing their marketing. They stopped and browsed at market stalls full of produce and woolen goods as they made their way to the cathedral, then they walked through a timbered passage onto the cathedral grounds. Here, surrounded by green grass, the sheer mass of the structure was overwhelming. They walked down the crushed stone path toward the main entry and walked in.

Again, Evans stumbled to a halt; again, he heard her whisper an exclamation of simple incredulity. The nave stretched off into the distance under soaring vaults; explosions of random light scattered from the clerestories above and fell on the ancient stones below in psychedelic swarms. The scene elicited, he imagined, every thought and feeling the original designers had intended: overwhelming awe at the sheer majesty of man's interpretation of their God's greater glory. It was simply impossible to take in the scene and remain unmoved.

He walked down the nave to the transept and looked up; fan vaults framed the ceiling there, the delicate tracery above imparting a sense of movement toward heaven, and again he heard Evans take in a sharp breath as she absorbed the sight above. He kept moving, first to the altar and the adjacent choir, then the chapels beyond; he moved slowly yet purposefully, wanting her to see as much as possible in this brief time they had, wanting to share this moment with her as he had nearly twenty years ago with Peggy.

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They made it back to London just before nine that evening and rode to the hotel in another taxi. He took her to an old Italian restaurant nearby he'd always enjoyed over the years, and the owners recognized him and sat with them for a while, accepting Denise warmly. They ate carpaccio and spinach and spaghetti carbonara, then walked through Leicester Square and looked at posters for shows before taking the tube back to the hotel.

The flight home hung in the air that night like a bad dream; they knew what was coming and couldn't keep it from happening; they wanted, in fact, to do anything and everything possible to keep the sun from rising the next morning.

They held hands for a while, then kissed. She led him to the bed and lay beside him, took his face in her hands once again and looked deeply into his eyes. Unable to restrain himself, he caressed her body until he felt her respond, then undressed her slowly and lowered his face to her belly. He nibbled tentatively, moved lower, took her in his mouth and tasted her, led her to the precipice and helped her over the edge, then was carried along in the currents as she lowered herself on his face and took him in her mouth. He buried his tongue inside her as she danced above, and before long he shuddered and came in her mouth. Again she swirled the warmth over and around his head; again she nursed him to renewed life and again took him to the edge - and over. He shuddered and trembled under her assault, then felt his body drifting away into the night, drifting toward the sunrise.

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"United two-two heavy, taxi to position and hold."

"Two-two, roger," Overton replied, then he switched over to the intercom: "Flight attendants, arm and cross-check; prepare for takeoff."

"Give me take off flaps," Evans said. It was her turn to do the takeoff and landing, Overton handled the checklist and callouts this time around.

"You decide on ten?" The flight today was full, the headwinds furious, so a full load of fuel was onboard as well. The 747 was loaded right up to the maximum permissible takeoff weight, just shy of a million pounds gross weight, and though the air was cool outside this afternoon, he knew this would be an interesting takeoff.

"Yeah. I think I'm going to start the run from back here, too. We're gonna need every inch of runway today."

"Okay. Flaps ten." He reached across the center console and moved the lever until ten degrees indicated, then set the departure control frequency on the secondary comms unit. A Singapore Airlines 777 on short final drifted by and settled onto the runway, it's wings sprouting spoilers above the blue smoke of screeching tires returning to earth.

"United two-two heavy, clear for takeoff. Contact departure on one two seven decimal one, altimeter two niner-niner five, wind two five zero at five."

"Two-two heavy," Evans said as she put her left hand on the throttle levers. "Well, here goes nothing." She advanced the throttles to near full takeoff power while still holding short of the runway; the grossed-out airliner shuddered then began to move ever so slowly. She dialed-in nose-wheel steering while the jet lumbered forward and expertly lined up on the runway centerline, then she shoved the throttles all the way to their stops.

To Overton the engines seemed to howl in protest as they tried to move the incredible mass down the runway. "God, she's slow," he said. "Fifty knots. Eighty. Got about half the runway left. One hundred . . ."