Departure

A Boy's Story

Photo: Author

This event marks the Boy for his whole life. It takes place in an airport departure lounge, and goes like this:

The Aunt has been quietly grieving for three days, ever since she found out that her own youngest brother, the Boy's father, had died. She knows that this moment will be the watershed moment in the Boy’s life.

She leans across and squares her face to his. She says his name, and the Boy looks up at her, a little tired, a little bored.

“Something terrible has happened,” she says.

“Is it Zio Amerigo?” the Boy asks, mustering up an imitation of concern, perhaps to fend off the kernel of true concern that takes root in that moment. He had heard snippets of family conversation mentioning that his uncle was having some health problems. He hopes that something pretty bad has happened to Zio Amerigo. He would be fine with that. Any alternative might be a lot worse.

“No, it’s not Zio Amerigo. It’s your father…” She paused. “Your father has died,” the Aunt manages to whisper.

They are sitting side by side in the departure lounge of Gatwick Airport. The huge room is full of disgruntled passengers, all delayed by inclement weather, all anxious to go somewhere warmer and drier than the British Isles for their winter holidays.

There are families sitting on the floor, children slumped against their parents, gray, deflated, waiting for something warmer and brighter to begin. Everyone is miserable, as only British people denied a sunny holiday can be. The departures board clatters as it updates times and destinations, and lines of tired want-to-be holiday makers trudge by with paper cups of tea and bags of crisps.

The Boy stares back at the Aunt, looking for answers with his eyes, unable to do anything else. Then he begins to cry. He cries because there is nothing else he knows to do. He cries because he is twelve and he has no frame of reference for this moment. He knows that this is a bad moment, that’s all. He buries his face in his hands.

The Aunt takes her own wet eyes away from him, blinks several times, looks around the lounge for a moment, and then stands up. She says, “I am going to get us some water.” She walks silently past the board that is furiously clicking out a new list of destinations, and disappears through the maze of seating.

And so the Boy ends up alone in the departure lounge at Gatwick Airport, crying because there is nothing else this twelve-year-old knows to do. He is less than a minute into his new life as a fatherless child, and he is alone.

The Cleaning Lady, who is passing, notices him. Her face is creased by deep wrinkles, her eyes swim behind thick glasses, and she wears a green Gatwick Airport worker’s bib over her blue slacks and flowery shirt. She is dragging along a dustpan and brush, the long kind so that you can sweep up a cigarette butt without bending over. As she nears him, even though his hands are clasped across his face, he notices the acrid scent that precedes a heavy smoker.

“‘Ello luv,” she says.

“What’s wrong? Why you crying then?” She has a heavy East London accent to go along with the hefty punch of tobacco that accompanies her presence.

The Boy answers, “My father died”. He is not able to soften the moment. He does not possess that skill.

The Cleaning Lady’s eyes shift for a moment behind her glasses as she internalizes the answer that the Boy gave her. It was not the answer that she was expecting. The Boy moves his hands and looks up at her, perhaps hoping that somehow she is able to right this moment.

She says, “Well, my luv, ‘e’s up in heaven now surrounded by all the flowers.” She stands there in front of him for a moment, then turns and moves on through the busy lounge.

The Boy looks down and waits for the water.

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