“I hate flan,” she said.
So did he, he suddenly realized, but hadn’t got round to thinking about it.
Damp palm stuck to damp palm. Shanda shut her eyes and crossed herself. A bubble of saliva popped on Bryant’s lips and Henderson looked past Shanda’s contorted face out of the window. He saw the wonderful airport and the parked planes, then the nose lifted, the plane left the ground and angled up into the sky. In the glass oval he glimpsed spreading suburbs, a new factory, tall glass buildings and a lot of trees. And he left the South and his troubles behind.
PART THREE. Twenty-four hours in New York
Chapter One
At La Guardia airport it was raining heavily. It seemed only right that the weather should have changed. The clouds were low and had that shade of uncompromising greyness that seems to promise their continued presence for a good while yet. But it was surprisingly warm and humid.
Henderson, Shanda and Bryant stood in line waiting for a taxi. He had given Shanda the keys to his apartment and a covering note for the doorman. He didn’t want her around when Bryant was returned to her mother.
He felt some trepidation about this last course of action. He was well aware that in these circumstances relief could turn to anger with illogical speed. The mother hugs the scampering tot who has chased a ball into the road and just missed being squashed by the juggernaut. Then she delivers a stinging slap for ignoring kerbside drill. Melissa would be overwhelmed with joy to see Bryant back, but Henderson expected he would receive the blow. He grimaced slightly. He was glad to be back in New York; glad to be free of the Gage family and Luxora Beach; but he was conscious that some of his failures dwelt here too: Mulholland, Melhuish, Melissa…and Irene. He felt a sudden whimpering need for Irene. Perhaps she would take him back, now that he had no job…And that fact brought the future to mind and all its tedious humiliations: packing up, saying goodbye, returning to London, saying hello again.
Shanda’s taxi arrived and she ducked in promptly, trying not to get wet. Henderson gave her his suitcase and the driver his address.
“I’ll be along in an hour or so,” he said to Shanda. “Or thereabouts,” he added. He had a sudden mad impulse to try and see Irene. He stepped back beneath the eave. The rain was falling with steady purpose. Large puddles formed in the generous declivities of the road surface. Cars had their lights on, so intense was the murk. He felt clammy and uncomfortable — the pathetic fallacy working in his favour as usual. Bryant, who had slept through the entire flight from Atlanta, seemed to be coming round somewhat.
“Where are we?” she said, looking about her with half-closed eyes. “Is Duane here?”
Henderson pushed her into their taxi without replying. She immediately fell asleep again, her head on his shoulder.
“Long trip?” said the taxi driver. His identification card gave his name as Ezekiel Adekunle.
“Atlanta,” Henderson said.
“Ow! Whatin you go dere for? Ah-ah.” The taxi driver sucked in air through his teeth.
Good question, Henderson thought. “Been raining long?” he asked.
“You are Englishman?”
“Yes. Yes I am.”
“I am from Nigeria.”
“Oh. I see. Been raining long?”
“Two days. We done get flash-flood warning.”
With a wet sloshing of tyres the taxi climbed a gentle hill on the freeway. At its crest they were afforded a view of the north end of Manhattan. The clouds hung low over the city. The upper stories of even the more modest skyscrapers were engulfed by grey. His heart lifted at the view, but only by an inch or so. They crossed the Tri-borough Bridge and began the long drive south to Mel-issa’s apartment block. The low clouds, the relentless rain, the teeming umbrellas on the sidewalk made the crowded streets appear more fraught than ever. If your view up is denied in Manhattan, Henderson thought, the place holds about as much appeal as the Edgware Road.
They arrived at Melissa’s door. Henderson propelled Bryant beneath the dripping awning.
“Welcome back, Miss Wax,” said the doorman.
Bryant frowned, her brain trying to grasp this new information.
“Don’t tell her mother we’re here,” Henderson said. “I want it to be a surprise.”
They ascended in the lift, stepped out and pressed the buzzer on the thick door. He heard the harsh yelping of Candice and Gervase. Henderson felt like leaving Bryant on the threshold like a foundling, and tip-toeing away.
The door opened.
“Baby! Darling!” Hugs, tears, lavished kisses. Henderson followed mother and daughter into the sitting room.
“Is Duane here?”
“No, baby, he certainly is not.” Aside, in a cold, distanced voice to Henderson. “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s very tired. Early start. It was a difficult journey. A cold coming we had of it.”
“What are you talking about? Here, Albertine, take Bryant to her room.” Bryant was led away by the maid. Melissa turned to face him.
“Now my fine fellow, what are we going to do about you?”
Henderson listened, head down, as his character was put through the shredder. With the damp toe of his shoe he moved the pile of the carpet this way and that. He interjected the odd rejoinder to the effect that it had been — when all was said and done — Bryant’s decision to come to Luxora and, indeed, come to think of it, Melissa’s enthusiasm about the notion had been conspicuous. But these caveats went unheard in the acid rain of scorn that descended on him.
A natural release, he told himself; all that repressed fear and apprehension has to let itself go somehow. But by now anger had given way to irony. Melissa was wondering how Henderson had spent his ‘precious’ time while her little baby was getting corrupted by some redneck pervert. She had a certain amount to learn yet about her little baby, Henderson thought.
“I suppose you got your precious paintings and you’ll go back to your precious office some kind of a hero. But what about Bryant? What kind of awful trauma?”
“You might be interested to know, Melissa,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again, “that the paintings have been destroyed and I’ve lost my job.”
That silenced her for a while.
“What kind of man are you? You…you jerk-off. What sort of an excuse for a — You’re pathetic. That’s what you are, pah-thetic!”
“Goodbye, Melissa,” Henderson said firmly, stepping abruptly to the door. He didn’t need this. Gervase and Candice bounded from the sofa — where they’d idly been surveying the row- and came yapping and nipping round his ankles.
“Gervase! Candice!” Melissa screamed.
Henderson hornpiped out of her life.
He slammed the apartment door and leant against it, a little breathless, like a heroine who has locked the inept lecher out in the passageway. He pressed the button for the lift, pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. Delete paintings, job and ex-wife. That only left Irene.
Going down in the lift he reflected with false calm that a lot of his sanity now rested on Irene’s strong shoulders. He wondered if the present moment was the one in which to assail her. He looked at his watch. Nearly lunchtime. She would be at work with her bearded brother. She always ate in the same delicatessen…perhaps that would be the place. Just saunter in: “Hi, Irene, I’m back. Wow, what a time I’ve had. Busy tonight?” It sounded good, but he had grave doubts. Still, he was a desperate man now.
“Let me call you a cab, Mr Dores,” the obliging shiny-oilskinned doorman said, opening the glass panels of the doorway and blowing the whistle he wore round his neck on a lanyard.