Rachel Creed almost made her flight from Boston to Portland. Almost.
Her Chicago plane left on time (a kind of miracle in itself), was cleared straight into
LaGuardia (another) and left New York only five minutes behind schedule. It got to
the gate to Boston fifteen minutes late—at 11:12 p.m. That left her with thirteen
minutes.
She still might have made her connecting flight, but the shuttle-bus which
makes a circle around the Logan terminals was late. Rachel waited, now in a kind
of constant low-grade panic, shifting from foot to foot as if she needed to go to the
bathroom, switching the travel-bag her mother had loaned her from one shoulder
to the other.
When the shuttle still hadn't come at 11:25, she began to run. Her heels were
low but still high enough to cause her problems. One of her ankles buckled
painfully and she paused long enough to take off the shoes. Then she ran on in
her pantyhose, past Alleghany and Eastern Airlines, breathing hard now, getting
the beginnings of a stitch in her side.
Her breath was hot in her throat, that tuck in her side deeper and more painful.
Now she was running past the international terminal, and there, up ahead, was
Delta's triangular sign. She burst in through the doors, almost dropped one shoe,
juggled it, caught it. It was 11:37.
One of the two clerks on duty glanced up at her.
'Flight 104,' she panted. 'The Portland flight. Has it left?'
The clerk glanced behind him at the monitor. 'Still at the gate it says here,' he
said, 'but they called for final boarding five minutes ago. I'll call ahead. Bags to
check?'
'No,' Rachel gasped, brushing her sweaty hair out of her eyes. Her heart was
galloping in her chest.
'Then don't wait for me to call. I will—but I advise you to run very fast.'
Rachel didn't run very fast—she was no longer able. But she did as well as she
could. The escalator had been turned off for the night and she pounded up the
stairs, tasting copper shavings in her mouth. She reached the security checkpoint
and almost threw the tote-bag at the startled female guard, then waited for it to
come through on the conveyor belt, her hands clenching and unclenching. It was
barely out of the X-ray chamber before she had snatched it by the strap and ran
again, the bag flying out behind her and then banging her on the hip.
She looked up at one of the monitors as she ran.
FLIGHT 104 PORTLAND SCHED 11:25PM GATE 31 BOARDING
Gate 31 was at the far end of the concourse – and even as she snatched her
glance at the monitor, BOARDING in steady letters changed to DEPARTING,
blinking rapidly.
A frustrated cry burst from her, and a black woman who was hoisting her son
up to the drinking fountain looked around, startled. She ran into the gate area
just in time to see the gate attendant removing the strips which read FLIGHT 104
BOSTON-PORTLAND 11:25.
'It's gone?' She asked incredulously. 'It's really gone?'
The attendant looked at her sympathetically. 'It rolled out of the jetway at 11:40.
I'm sorry, ma'am. You made a helluva good try, if that's any consolation.' He
pointed out the wide glass windows. Rachel could see a big 727 with Delta
markings, its running-lights Christmas-tree bright, starting its take-off roll.
'Christ, didn't anyone tell you I was coming?' Rachel cried.
'When they called up here from downstairs, 104 was on an active taxiway. If I'd
called her back, she would have gotten caught in the parade going out to Runway
30, and that pilot would have had my bee-hind on a platter. Not to mention the
hundred or so passengers on board. I'm very sorry. If you'd been even four
minutes sooner—'
She walked away, not listening to the rest. She was halfway back to the security
checkpoint when waves of faintness rode over her. She stumbled into another gate
area and sat down until the darkness had passed. Then she slipped her shoes
back on, picking a squashed Lark cigarette butt off the tattered sole of one
stocking first. My feet are dirty and I don't give a fuck, she thought disconsolately.
She walked back toward the terminal.
The security guard eyed her sympathetically. 'Missed it?'
'I missed it, all right,' Rachel said.
'Where were you headed?'
'Portland. Then Bangor.'
'Well, why don't you rent a car? If you really have to be there, that is? Ordinarily
I'd advise a hotel close to the airport, but if I ever saw a lady who looked like she
really had to be there, you are that lady.'
'I'm that lady, all right,' Rachel said. She thought about it. 'Yes, I suppose I
could do that, couldn't I? If any of the agencies has a car.'
The security guard laughed. 'Oh, they'll have cars. Only time they don't have
cars at Logan is when the airport's fogged in. Which is a lot of the time.'
Rachel barely heard him. In her mind, she was already trying to calculate it.
She couldn't get to Portland in time to catch her Bangor flight even if she
bulleted up the turnpike at a suicidal pace. So figure driving straight through.
How long? That depended on how far. Two hundred and fifty miles, that was the
figure which came to mind. Something Jud had said, maybe. It was going to be at
least quarter past twelve before she got going, probably closer to 12:30 a.m. It was
all turnpike. She thought that her chances of going the whole distance at sixty-five
without getting hauled down for speeding were reasonably good. She ran the
figures quickly in her head, dividing sixty-five into two hundred and fifty. Not quite
four hours. Well… say four even. She would have to stop once and go to the
bathroom. And although sleep seemed impossibly distant now, she knew her own
resources well enough to believe she would also have to stop for a great big black
coffee. Still, she could be back in Ludlow before first light.
Mulling all this over, she started for the stairs—the car rental desks were one
level down from the concourses.
'Good luck, honey,' the security guard called. 'Take care.'
'Thanks,' Rachel said. She felt that she deserved some good luck.