Strings

Chapter 1 – Airports

Empty. No sounds except flight announcements and Covid precautions over the PA as Grace trekked alone through the wide, carpeted corridors, stepped onto the moving walkways, and passed the shuttered kiosks, shops, and restaurants of the Minneapolis airport.

The few people she saw, behind counters or scurrying past at safe distances, wore surgical masks, except for one or two who had creative, last-minute coverings .

. . red bandannas or black gaiters. The antiseptic smell of hand sanitizer hung in the air, penetrating her mask.

If she closed her eyes, she could think she was in a hospital.

Her hair probably reeked of the stuff. Of course, her gate was the last one.

She shrugged her old, green backpack off and sank into a seat against the wall, leaning her head back and closing her eyes, hoping the flight was still happening.

Except for her, the gate area was deserted. Maybe she could drift off.

But it was no good. She couldn’t sleep. She was tired, and the adrenaline had worn off, but she was growing anxious.

Maybe she wasn’t as brave or capable as she’d thought.

She sat up, pulled the tablet out of her backpack, and began rereading her notes from the last interview she’d done, the one with the middle school English teacher about online classes.

She needed to get it written up and into her editor.

She could not lose this job, her only income.

A seat creaked nearby. She looked up. She hadn’t heard him walk up, but good sign, another passenger.

A man was sitting with his head leaned back against the window, eyes closed, long legs stretched in front of him, a guitar case leaning against the next seat with a tan jacket thrown over it.

Before long, he sat up, glanced at her over his black mask with tiny gold stars, rose, and walked to the bank of windows at the end of the concourse.

He stood there, looking out, a tall, thin man all in black, with a long braid.

Quite the silhouette. She looked back at her notes.

“Cozy, huh? A whole airport and just the two of us.”

She jumped. The voice was unexpected . . . and hoarse. He was six feet in front of her. She stared up at him. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”

“Well, I try to look for the positive.” He paused and cleared his throat but didn’t turn away. “I’m going in search of coffee. If you’ll keep an eye on my things, I’ll bring you some.”

“I’ll watch them.”

He moved the guitar and jacket to a seat in her row, then straightening, looked at her. “You want coffee or not? You didn’t actually say.”

They studied each other then, the way people do when they’re wearing masks — all eyes.

His were dark, almost black, under barely arched eyebrows.

They looked at her steadily . . . with a touch of amusement?

Hers were brown, with the beginning of a worry wrinkle between her brows.

She looked back with a serious expression.

“Sure. Black, one sugar.” She leaned over to get her wallet and noticed her toenails. She had meant to cover the chips with a fresh coat of blue polish. Oh, well.

“I’ll get it.” He walked off.

A red packet was on the carpet below his jacket. She put her tablet down on the little table between her and the next seat, walked over, and picked it up. D’Addario Guitar Strings. She placed it on the worn suede jacket, under the sleeve but visible, and went back to her notes.

************

“I stopped at a hand sanitizer.”

She nearly dropped her tablet this time. “You need a bell!”

“Sorry.” He was in a seat, reaching across his guitar to place her coffee on the little table. “One of my nicknames growing up was Sneak. But you seem a little edgy.”

“Maybe.” She noticed his long, slender fingers and wondered if that was good for playing guitar.

Her mother’d always said it helped with playing the piano.

She picked up the cup and went to remove one side of her mask, but the loop was tangled in her hair.

She put the cup back down. Masks were proving to be a challenge.

She’d given up trying to control her hair long ago, but masks weren’t optional.

Her hair was dark red, dark enough it was hard to see the red unless she was in the sun.

The kind of red hair that’s big and ends up in long twirls unless you comb or brush it which only makes it a bigger, frizzy mess.

She tried to free first one side of her mask, then the other, finally getting one, then a sip of coffee.

She looked his way. He was watching her.

“I hadn’t realized how much I needed this. Thanks.”

“You have a lot of hair.” He turned away, removed his mask with one hand, took a sip, and turned his face toward her, pausing, then going on, “I knew how much I needed it.” Leaning forward, he put his forearms on his thighs and held the coffee between his knees.

He was not unattractive, in an angular, ascetic kind of way — prominent cheekbones, straight nose, full lips, and the dark eyes.

He’d bought her coffee, so she figured she should try to be sociable. “Have you come a long way?”

“Not today. Just from my apartment. But I’ve been traveling. Got in late. You?”

“This is my third airport since five this morning.”

“Sounds like you’ve come a long way. Got somebody in Duluth?” He sipped.

“I wish. I have no idea what I’m doing next.”

He raised his eyebrows and looked over at the clock. “I’d say you have about an hour and a half to figure something out.” Just then, an agent walked up to the check-in desk.

“Do you think they’ll take us, if it’s only us?”

“I don’t know. Probably depends on whether they need to get a plane to Duluth, for commuters. I guess we’ll see. I’ve never had this flight cancel.”

“You’ve done this before?”

He nodded, swallowing a sip of coffee. “Every four . . . six months or so. I’ve got family all around Duluth . . . and this time, I’m staying . . . a while. I figure I’m safer up there than most anywhere.”

“Me, too.”

The PA system came on. “Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 2514 to Duluth. We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes time. Thank you.” The agent looked in their direction and shrugged. “If you guys are ready, you can board.”

They gathered their belongings. He noticed the strings and looked over at her, but she was putting her tablet away. As she passed him, he said, “I’m Robby.”

She replied, “Oh . . . Grace.”

**********

Pushing her backpack under the seat in front of her, she heard him and the female flight attendant laughing and looked up.

The attendant stowed his guitar in the closet just inside the boarding door.

He took a seat ahead of Grace on the other side and stretched his legs into the aisle. Grace’s seat was next to a window.

She’d been surprised at her tears on the last flight when she first noticed the flat, Midwestern landscape.

Rectangles as far as she could see. The only trees were around farmhouses and outbuildings, in windbreak lines.

Gradually, the plains had given way to forests, then lakes began to appear, then more tears.

This time she pulled the window shade down.

The flight was short. She couldn’t sleep.

When the pilot announced they were beginning their descent, she lifted the window shade — Lake Superior.

More tears. What the hell? She didn’t need this now. She wiped her eyes and got organized.

He sat up but waited till she’d passed to leave his seat. Walking down the concourse, his long strides caught up to her, but he kept a safe distance. “Come up with anything?”

She glanced over, noticing how tall he was. She walked briskly, looking straight ahead. “Yes. What I came up with is I’m too tired to come up with anything. I’m going to find a hotel, get some sleep, and deal with this tomorrow.”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

They were the only ones in the wide concourse. The escalator down to baggage was ahead. “Yes. I have a reservation, near the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.” She stepped onto the escalator. He did, too. “I just don’t know how I’m getting there . . . from here.”

“Oh . . . well, that could be a problem up here, going there.”

When they arrived at the baggage carousel, he walked past her, closer to the baggage opening. “I probably know people around Ely, if I think about it.”

“I’m not going to Ely.” She was beginning to think this guy might be showing too much interest. She didn’t need that now either.

The warning buzzer sounded, and the carousel began moving. He looked back at her. “Where are you going?”

She looked right at him then. “It’s really none of your business.” Then she saw her tapestry bag a few feet away. She grabbed it, released the handle, and was about to walk off, when he stopped even with her.

“Look. That’s a bad response for a girl with no transportation in an area where there are few options.

I’m trying to do you a favor. I’m going up the North Shore almost to the border.

I’ll overlook your rudeness and offer you a ride, if you’re heading that way.

You don’t have to tell me where you’re going — just say, ‘Stop here,’ and get out. I’m tired, too.”

Grace stared at him. “How are you getting there?”

“I keep a truck here.”

*********

She was tired. She was struggling to think straight.

This whole trip was not like anything she’d ever done.

She was in new territory . . . trying to change her life .

. . and now this . . . a man . . . a stranger.

That he was from this area and kept a vehicle at the airport .

. . that helped, and he was right, she had no options .

. . but still. They went to the main floor, out the front door, and into an elevated, enclosed walkway that took them over to parking, all without speaking, but Grace’s mind was racing.

At the end of the walkway, there was a bank of elevators, leading to the various parking levels, but he took an abrupt right to a heavy, metal door with a keypad.

He punched in some numbers. The door swung open.

Grace gulped. “After you,” he nodded his head.

“Wait.” He stood still. “I have to ask. Your voice. Are you sick?”

“No. I’m in a band. I sang it out. I feel fine. Well . . . that’s not exactly true . . . I could use some sleep.”

“Oh. Well . . . Good you’re not sick.”

They stepped into a private, climatized parking area.

There were three vehicles, a Mercedes, a Porsche Cayenne, and a not new pickup.

He walked off toward the pickup. It was maroon with a hard cover over the bed.

He leaned the guitar against his black suitcase and looked for his key fob.

Grace’s eyes narrowed on a sticker on his suitcase, bright green.

Nagaajiwanaang. She tilted her head. Where had she seen that before?

Then he found the fob in the inside pocket of his jacket and pushed it.

Grace had been glad to stop. She’d tried to pack sparingly, but not knowing for how long and reading it was cooler than usual, her suitcase was heavy, even on wheels. She’d held on to it because she loved the tapestry, but the wheels were old and didn’t turn as smoothly as newer ones.

He lifted the cover and lowered the tailgate.

The truck bed was a jumble of empty cans and bottles, random tools, a bright yellow toolbox, an axe, and a kite with its string tangled up in the spiral tube from an open can of Fix-a-Flat.

Grace picked up her suitcase and struggled to lift it over the open tailgate.

Robby moved back, waiting. She tried again, unsuccessfully.

“Would you like some help, or is that none of my business too?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Please.” He nodded, stepped forward, lifted the bag easily into the truck, then put out his hand. Grace looked at it, then at him. “What?”

“Thought you might want to part with the backpack.”

She exhaled. “Yes,” and took it off, put it on the tailgate, and unzipped the front pocket.

She removed her debit card and some cash, slid them into her jeans, her phone into a back pocket, then shoved the pack into the truck bed, against drink cans.

He lifted his things into the truck, closed it up, and started for the driver’s side, unlocking the doors as he went.

Grace didn’t move. Robby looked back at her. “All aboard.”

“Wait. I don’t know about this.” She put her right hand up to her head and pulled some of her hair back, as if that would help her think more clearly. It didn’t.

Robby took a breath and looked at her tiredly.

“Look. Believe me,” his voice was now barely a whisper, “I’m not used to being in this situation either, but if you’re worried I’m going to hurt you, all I can say is, I’m not.

” She looked at him one more time, went around, and opened the passenger door.

The floor was covered with food wrappers, bags, and soft drink containers.

The smell was oddly familiar . . . heavy and sweet .

. . but she couldn’t place it. She only knew she didn’t like it.

She got in, wishing she were not wearing sandals.

Robby started the engine. “There’s a miracle. ”

Grace turned from putting her window down. “That it started? It’s been a long time?”

“No. That my little sister came and charged it. She must want something.” He sat back, head against the headrest, eyes closed, and let it run. “Let’s get through the city and up the shore a way, then I’ve got to find food.”

Grace buckled her seatbelt. Eventually, Robby sat up and began buckling his. She turned to him as he pushed the metal plate into the buckle. “Just so we’re clear, I appreciate the ride, but no strings.”

The latch clicked. He raised his eyes from the buckle to Grace. “No problem.”