by Focus
© 1999 Focus, all rights reserved
Clara closed the door behind Tommy. He had kindly dropped by to turn off the gas for her. Already a little chill was starting to permeate the air.
Clara had checked the kitchen. The stove and oven were off, the refrigerator was almost empty. The canary had been removed from the parlor, and sent to live with Mrs. Annaforian while Clara was away. Her plants were at Mrs. Annaforian's too. Mousey, her cat, was next door at the Spinney's. (Mrs. Annaforian was not a cat person; besides, Mousey was already well aquainted with the Spinney girls.) The curtains were drawn, and the lights were out except for the room in which she stood. She had notified the post office not to bring mail for the next three weeks. She had told the newsboy to suspend delivery of the paper. Her apartment had a spotless, unlived-in look now. Her large bag was packed and waiting beside the door, with her black faux-fur coat draped over it in readiness for imminent departure.
Three loud blasts of a horn sounded outside. Clara pushed the curtain aside, and peeked out. Yes! It was the cab! The cabbie was obviously no stickler for manners, to sit outside and honk his horn that way, but at least he was prompt, even a few minutes early. Clara slipped her coat over her gray wool pants suit, slung her purse over her shoulder, opened the door, and rolled her bag onto the step. She turned, flicked the light switch, and locked the door behind her.
As soon as she stepped away from the apartment the wind hit her, cold and sharp. Pulling her bag behind her, Clara walked carefully down the cement path. It would not do to slip on a patch of ice now! A turned ankle could spoil her entire vacation.
When she reached the cab she saw that the cabbie was ready. He had the trunk open, and hefted her suitcase into it. "Any other luggage, Lady?" he asked. She shook her head no, and he slammed the trunk closed. "Well, don't just stand there freezin', Lady," he ordered, "Get in." She reached a black-gloved hand out, opened her own door, and climbed into the back seat.
The inside of the taxi was worn, but clean. The heater was on full blast. The cab felt cozy.
"I'm Joe," he informed her. "You are going to the airport. Right?"
"Yes, the United Airlines Terminal." She didn't need to look at her itinery to tell Joe that; she'd had the information memorized for a month. Joe turned the radio on to a loud rock station, forestalling further conversation.
She wanted to tell him, "I'm going to spend Christmas and New Years with my daughter and her family." She wanted to shout in glee: "Good bye, Milwaulkee! Hello, Miami!" But she simply settled into the back seat, and appreciated the fact that Joe was a skillful driver, negotiating his way through swirling snow and rushing traffic with careful ease.
Because of the weather and the heavy traffic, they arrived at the airport a little later than she had hoped, but there was still plenty of time. Clara pulled her bag over to the United Airlines line, and awaited her turn.
There was only one flustered woman working the counter; she overheard her tell another customer that her co-worker had phoned in to say that he had spun out on the road trying to get to work. He was okay, but would not be in that day. The woman was working as quickly as she could, but the line moved slowly.
At last Clara reached the front of the line. She rolled her bag onto the scale, and unzipped her purse to pull out her ticket.
It wasn't there!
But it had to be there! She distinctly remembered putting the ticket into this pocket of her purse. Clara dumped the purse pocket out onto the counter. Bobby pins, pencils, a notepad, her planner, two ball point pens, a packet of photos, a romance she was planning to read on the plane, but no ticket. "I can't find it!" she wailed.
"Step aside while you look," said the harried counter-woman. "Meanwhile, I'll help the next customer."
Clara stepped to the left, and stuffed her things back into the pocket of her purse. She opened the second pocket of the purse: Her wallet, some loose coins, her credit cards, her keys, even her passport. But no tickets.
The counter-woman looked in Clara's direction as she finished one customer. Seeing that Clara was still frantically searching, she helped the next man in line.
Clara stuffed her wallet and other things back into the second pocket of her purse, and dumped out the third pocket. This was makeup: lipstick, nail polish, chapstick, powder, nail clippers, a brush and comb, breath freshener, a pack of Dentyne, cough drops, and a pack of mints. But no tickets. She stuffed everything back again. Her purse had no more compartments.
The counter-woman was helping a third customer. The speaker blared, "Now loading for United flight 238 to Miami."
Now Clara was really frantic. She checked the pockets of her coat. She checked the pockets of her suit. She opened her suitcase, and looked among her neatly folded clothes. No tickets.
The counter-woman looked at her compassionately. "I'm sorry," she said. "You can get your money back, Monday, when your travel agent opens. But for now, if you cannot find your ticket I have to sell the space to one of these people on stand-by."
The speaker blared, "Last call for United flight 238 to Miami."
Clara felt tears well up in her eyes. She looked down, to hide them. "I understand," she said.
Sadly she rezipped her suitcase as she watched the counter-woman sell her seat to a delighted young man, who ran swiftly toward the gate. Sadly she pulled her suitcase away from the counter, over to a bench. She collapsed there, her head in her hands, while the noisy bustle of the busy airport swirled about, ignoring her and her grief. She saw the number for her flight disappear from the television screen, to make room for another flight that had not yet departed.
At last she stood, and made her way to the phones. She opened her planner to find her daughter's number, and let her know that she had missed the flight. And there it was, carefully secured inside the planner: her ticket to Miami.