Chapter Six (Untitled)

[Note: Earlier posts contain previous chapters. If this is your first visit, I highly recommend that you read the chapters in order. Also, be warned that as this is a work in progress, consistency is not guaranteed. For instance, names of characters — and och aye, that does include ghosts — are not written in stone. Example: the protagonist, who began as Debra, is now Gloria.]

The journey was every bit as brutal as I had feared it would be.

My late reservation had landed me a seat in the back-most row of the DC-10, which meant it didn’t recline, and I spent seven miserable hours absolutely unable to sleep. In an attempt to exhaust myself, I edited down biographies of the Society’s annual award winners to fit onto the single program page assigned to each. These men’s CVs (and they were all men) were tomes weighted with ponderous lists of accomplishments and honors. The work was dreadful, boring to the point of tears, and I was certain that after a few hours of it I’d simply drop off with my head nodding over the screen.

No such luck.

To be truthful, it wasn’t just the non-reclining seat that kept me awake. It was that damned Kurt Vonnegut.

As I’d stood at the rear of the line waiting to board, I’d glanced toward the rush of people on the concourse and, dear Lord, there he’d been again, leaning against the wall that separated gate G from gate H, watching me. As my eyes met his, he’d tossed an egg into the air with one hand, caught it with the other other, then tossed it up again.

I’d watched, mesmerized. Something about the egg had seemed odd — its color, its texture.
It wasn’t an egg at all, I’d realized.

It was — what?

A stone?

“Ma’am?”

Vonnegut’s hand had closed over the egg, the stone, whatever it was. A wink in my direction, then he’d turned and was — gone. Just gone.

“This way please, ma’am!”

A hand touched my elbow.

“It’s time to board now, ma’am.”

Tearing my eyes from the spot where Vonnegut had been, I’d been confronted by an American Airlines steward and ten feet of empty space between me and the boarding ramp. All of the other passengers had already passed through.

“Oh!” I’d muttered. “I’m sorry. I was distracted.”

“Yes, of course.”

Bored but polite. And insistent. He’d given my elbow a tug, but I’d been unprepared just yet to move.

“There was a man over there ... ”

“Yes, ma’am. Your boarding pass?”

“It was, well, never mind. But it looked like he — ”

“If you’ll step this way, please, ma’am.”

So no, I didn’t sleep on the plane Sunday night.

As a result, the long hours of my layover in Glasgow airport were a blur of head wobbling, chin sagging, and open-mouthed drooling as I languished on a series of hard plastic seats, dozing and dreaming of eggs and stones and a particularly trying old author. On the flight to Kirkwall, I finally dropped into a deep sleep, but unfortunately that flight didn’t take very long.

Poked into awareness by a stewardess, a young woman who told me with exceeding politeness that it was time to disembark, I dragged on my cashmere cardigan, collected my bags, and staggered off the plane, through the airport, and into a sub-arctic torrent. My gasp brought a laugh from a passing couple clad in oilskins and reeking of whisky.

“A wee bit chilly is it, hen?” the woman called to me.

I neither gave her the finger nor told her to fuck off, an accomplishment for which I remain proud to this day.

Instead, I struggled to remember where I’d stashed my parka, gave up, and looked around wildly for my driver.

There, I spied him, a man standing beside a car (small and blue), holding a sign with my name on it. I ran as quickly as it is possible to run while pulling a wheeled suitcase and lugging a computer bag and oversized purse.

The drive was blessedly short. Through the car’s windows, fogged and streaming with rain, I had an impression of a compact town of grey stone under grey skies. The driver was a taciturn man who responded with a grunt to my attempt at humor regarding the weather. But he redeemed himself by insisting on carrying my luggage into the hotel.

There, waiting for us in the lobby, stood perhaps the most handsome man I had ever encountered, looking more uncomfortable than I had ever seen a man look.

“Mrs. Davidson, how do you do. I’m Malcolm MacLean. Welcome to Kirkwall. We have your room all ready of course and, I, em, well, why don’t I show you up? We’ll bring up the rest of your luggage shortly.”

“There is no more.”

“This is it then? A light traveller, are you?”

His demeanor was friendly enough, but something was off. Even in my exhausted and dripping state, I could see that.

I followed him up a narrow, creaking wooden stairway and along a corridor carpeted in blue. My room was snug and vastly over-furnished with a bed,  a full-sized chest of drawers, and a dresser with a mirror. A tray atop the dresser contained a bone china cup and saucer, electric kettle, and two bone china sugar bowls containing tea bags and instant coffee. A delicate pitcher contained actual milk.

While Mr. MacLean settled my suitcase, I crossed to the window and with some effort pulled the curtains aside. The impression I’d received on the drive from the airport was confirmed: gray stone buildings under a steel gray sky.

“Heavy curtains,” I observed.

“Aye, you’ll want them, as well,” my host replied, facing me. “Unless you’re the sort who doesn’t require darkness to sleep.”

Of course. This far north, I was in a land of the midnight sun. How could I have forgotten?

“Well, it certainly isn’t the land of the midday sun, is it?” I joked.

Mr. MacLean just looked at me.

“The rain?” I prodded.

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

He tried to produce a chuckle, failed, and stood there some more, obviously hesitating. I had the distinct impression he was loathe to tell me something that he felt he ought to.

“Thank you, Mr. MacLean,” I said. “I suppose I should contact the funeral parlor as soon as I’ve changed into something dry. Would you happen to know their number?”

“Ah, yes, that. Well.”

He looked toward the window and shifted a bit on his feet and seemed so uncomfortable, I had a sudden desire to put him at ease.

“Is something the matter?”

“I take it you didn’t get the e-mails from myself or Mr. Corse?”

“E-mails? Why no. I made my arrangements, packed, and headed straight to the airport.”

No sense mentioning the cholesterol-laden breakfast and mimosas, or the exuberant bout of farewell belly-slapping that had followed.

“Why? Is there a problem?”

Mr. MacLean actually shuffled his feet and cleared his throat and then, as if he’d finally worked up the courage, said, “Aye, well, I’m afraid there’s no funeral service scheduled for Mrs. Faley.”

“Oh, I see. Well, it was just an assumption on my part that it would be held there. I hadn’t realized that Kirkwall was as large as it is and assumed there was only the one ... ”

I trailed off, seeing the negative shake of his head. What in the world was going on? As Mr. MacLean didn’t seem inclined to offer any more information, I said, possibly just a bit ascerbicly, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Aye, and that would make two of us.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mr. McLean’ eyes went to the window and then over his shoulder to the door, as if he was looking for — hoping for? — someone’s arrival. Finally, he spoke.

“We’ve made enquiries. I’m afraid there’s no record of Mrs. Faley’s passing.”