Chapter 4: Seat 23C

I sat on the floor of the closet with the empty box in one hand and the receipt in the other.

A five to a seven.

I am a five.

I knew without asking who was a seven.

I didn't cry. I folded the receipt along its old crease and put it in my jacket pocket.

Then I finished packing.

Remo didn't come home Monday night.

At ten his driver came for an overnight bag.

At eleven the guard at the gate changed shifts.

At midnight the house was just me and the lake.

I slept in my clothes on top of the covers.

At four in the morning I got up and made the bed properly, hospital corners, the way Pop taught me.

His side was cold and flat.

I took the house key off my ring.

I laid it on his pillow.

Then I took the receipt out of my pocket and smoothed it open beside the key, so the numbers faced up.

5. 7.

I didn't leave a note. The receipt was the note.

I carried my two suitcases down the back stairs myself.

The guard at the kitchen door stood up when he saw me.

He was young, one of the new ones. He'd carried my groceries once.

"Miss Bellini. Does the boss know you're going somewhere?"

"He'll know by breakfast."

He looked at the suitcases. Then at the dark hallway behind me.

He held the door.

"Safe flight," he said quietly.

Pop's old Buick was idling at the bottom of the drive, outside the gate, because the guards never let it past.

Tommy was behind the wheel in a brand-new parka with the tags still on.

"You look like a marshmallow," I said.

"A warm marshmallow. Get in."

Pop was in the passenger seat with a thermos of coffee and a foil package on his lap.

"Sandwiches," he said. "Airport food is a crime."

We drove down the Edens in the dark.

Nobody talked much. Tommy kept the radio on the oldies station and sang along badly to all of it.

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