Foregone. Russell Banks

Waving neither hello nor goodbye, but, Here I am again.

      So why should he be afraid?

      In their bedroom Fife leans down in the soft grey light to kiss his wife’s sleeping face, and her eyes flutter open, like a bird taking flight.

      You look very beautiful. I’ll miss you, he says. Are you feeling all right?

      She smiles. Have you got everything you’ll need?

      Yes. He kisses her on the lips once and then on each cheek.

      Will you be able to call me tonight?

      From Reinhart’s, yes. I’ll call, don’t worry.

      Is Cornel going with you?

      Just to the airport.

      That’s what I mean, silly. Good. I’m glad.

      Why?

      I don’t know. She shrugs. I guess because it’ll make it easier for me. To explain why you’re not here for the next week. He’s going to miss you, you know. He’s used to having you around all the time.

      I’m his only father.

      He’s your only son. At the moment, anyhow. Do you want to talk more about last night? About Daddy and Uncle Jackson and Doctor Todd’s?

      Tonight. On the phone.

      Yes, of course. I didn’t mean now.

      Right. Listen, I’ve got to get going or I’ll miss the plane. I love you, take care of yourself. He waves casually as he leaves the room, his suitcase dangling from his left hand, his briefcase stuck under his arm. He shuts the bedroom door on her, then hears her call.

      Leo! Did you forget to shave?

      Jessie and Cornel are already seated in the car, waiting for him. Fife flings his two bags ahead of him and climbs heavily into the back seat. His son looks around from the front and gently smiles. Can I get a Popsicle? he says, this time asking sincerely for permission. A Creamsicle! Can I get a Creamsicle?

      I don’t know, Fife answers. It’s too early. There isn’t enough time.

      What flavour, sweetie? Jessie asks.

      Orange on the outside, vanilla on the inside!

      Fine, dear. We’ll stop and get you one after we take Daddy to the airport. We’ll have more time then. Sit down on the seat now, sweetie. It’s dangerous to stand while the car’s moving.

      She backs the green Mercedes out of the garage and heads it down the long, gently curving driveway to the street.

      Fife lets his weight sink into the upholstered seat behind and beneath him, and his body once again feels heavy to him, a solid mass yanking him deeper into the seat. He tries to raise one hand to lower the window and discovers that he can barely lift it off his lap. His feet press themselves against the carpeted floor, and his thighs crush the cushioning beneath them. He slowly turns his head to the right and finds that he’s looking out the car window at nothing but blurs and flashes of coloured light that turn out to be large brick homes with impeccable lawns, and in front of them and on either side, chalk white and rosy pink clumps of fruit cherry and flowering trees. There are gardenias, dogwoods, drooping willow trees, tulips and deep pink Judas trees, all coming abundantly to life and sweeping past him, as if in flight.

      To stop his flight, he runs through his schedule. He will leave Richmond at 9:15 a.m. and arrive in Washington at 10:03. Then, changing from Piedmont to Eastern Airlines, he’ll take off from Washington at 11:30 and arrive in Boston at 1:20 p.m. He’ll rent a car and leave Boston before 2:00 for Reinhart’s home in Plainfield, Vermont, which will let him have dinner that evening with Stanley and his wife, Gloria. The business of completing the purchase of the house can begin in earnest tomorrow morning. He recites this as if memorizing it.

      Jessie says, We won’t get out of the car, Leo. It’ll be easier to say goodbye here. For C-O-R-N-E-L. Okay?

      Sure.

      Have a pleasant flight, Leonard. And call us tonight when you get in.

      Call us. Not call me, not call Alicia, your wife, or Cornel, your child. Call us. The family, Leonard.

      Fife looks out the car window and sees that they have arrived at the entrance of the terminal. A young, moustachioed Black porter stands next to the glass door of the terminal, peering over at the Mercedes, waiting for the occupants to indicate whether they’ll need his services. Fife leans forward from the back seat and kisses Jessie on her dry cheek, surprised to find it powdered and smelling heavily of perfume, the same Alicia uses, Chanel No. 5. I’ll call tonight from Reinhart’s.

      Then his son. He puts his arm around the boy’s tiny shoulders, kisses him on the cheek. He feels strangely self-conscious, as if Cornel were someone else’s child, a stranger’s, and it confuses him. Be a good boy. And take care of your mother, he adds.

      He is mortified by his own words. The tinny, insincere sound of his voice repulses him even more than the words. Well … goodbye. I’ll call in tonight from Reinhart’s, he says again. He grabs his suitcase and briefcase and scrambles clumsily from the vehicle.

      Have a nice flight! Jessie calls.

      He slams the door. He shakes the porter off. Waving a hand at the car, he turns, and he is headed for the glass door when he hears Cornel start to cry and then to sob loudly. Looking back over his shoulder, he sees his son’s small, round face go soft. Fife wants to turn back and comfort the child. He looks away from him and lurches for the door. The porter’s hand snakes in front of his own and swings the door open for him. Fife passes through and into the terminal.

      As he passes, the porter chuckles. That little boy don’t want his daddy to leave.

      Fife keeps on moving.