W Is for Wasted

He claims he can barely bend over to tie his shoes.”
    “Five o’clock? Great. As in thirty minutes from now?”
    He straightened up. “
What
time is it? It can’t be that late.”
    “Four thirty-five by my watch.”
    Henry said a word that was so out of character, I had to laugh.
    “I can pick him up,” I said, getting to my feet. “It’ll give you a chance to finish your chores and take a quick shower.”
    “I hate to ask you to do that in the thick of rush-hour traffic. I’ll go as I am. I don’t smell that bad.” He gave his T-shirt a whiff and made a show of crossing his eyes while he held his nose.
    “The airport’s a twenty-minute drive. It’s no big deal. You can pour me a glass of Chardonnay as soon as I get home.”
    “I’ll do better than that. I’ll buy you both supper at Emile’s-at-the Beach, assuming William can sit that long.”
    “You got a deal.”
    •   •   •
    Construction of the Santa Teresa Municipal Airport was begun in the early 1940s and the terminal opened for business with six gates that served two national airlines and three puddle jumpers. The pint-size structure was done in the usual Spanish style—a stucco exterior, a red tile roof, and a blaze of magenta bougainvillea artfully draped across the entranceway. Boarding and deplaning were accomplished on foot by way of a rolling set of stairs. Baggage claim was located outside the building in what looked like an extensive temporary carport.
    I pulled into the parking lot at 4:59 P.M . just as a United flight was trundling along the runway toward Gate 4. It was a small commuter craft, one of the no-frills short hops where the best one could hope for in the way of food-and-beverage service is a box containing two small pieces of Chiclets chewing gum. The flight attendant would offer the gum in a wicker basket and you were welcome to help yourself as long as you took only one. I was in no particular rush, thinking William would be last off the plane, hampered by his painful, possibly life-threatening condition.
    I passed through the ticketing area and out the French doors into the small grassy courtyard. I took my place near the chest-high stucco wall and watched through the length of window glass along the top as a uniformed gate agent pushed a wheelchair toward the prop jet. The engines shut down. Stairs were rolled into place. After a brief delay, the door was wrenched open, and William appeared, his cane hooked over his arm. The natural eddies of air along the runway ruffled his white hair and tugged at his suit coat. A stewardess followed in his wake, supporting him gently by the elbow as he came down the stairs. He didn’t actually smack her hand, but he was visibly offended by the gesture, and he jerked his arm free. He was properly attired for travel in the same dark three-piece suit he wore for funerals and visitations. He took his time, descending the portable stairs like a toddler, first one foot down and joined by the other before he undertook the next. The remaining passengers crowded against the doorway, trying to determine what the traffic jam was about. William was not to be hurried. He was an elegant gentleman, with the same lean frame Henry had been graced with. When he reached the tarmac, he turned and waited at the foot of the stairs, leaning on his cane while the other passengers pushed past him, giving him cross looks.
    The pilot appeared next, carrying a bulky red canvas duffel bag with a mesh panel on each end. Behind the pilot, the copilot, or possibly the flight engineer, stepped out of the plane toting William’s black rolling suitcase. Somehow he’d not only claimed the right to deplane first, but he’d enlisted the assistance of the entire crew. They’d probably jumped at the chance to be shed of him. Whatever the motivation, William seemed to take the personal ministrations for granted.
    As far as I could tell, he was fine—ambulatory at any rate. He had the pilot place the canvas duffel in the wheelchair, which he manned himself, pushing it toward the terminal. When he caught sight of me, he winced and placed a hand at the small of his back as though stricken with sharp pain. The copilot/flight engineer extended the handle on William’s suitcase and tagged after him dutifully, pulling it along behind. As William and his merry band approached the terminal, I moved out to meet them and took over responsibility for the suitcase, murmuring my thanks to the crew.
    William