“Portland Family Court has a video room,” she said. “They used it for our kids in placement when they couldn't have everybody with them in the room. That's the clerk for accommodations. Her name's Paula. She's got horses and she takes her lunch after one.”
“I thought you'd been a school secretary.”
“Do you think kids stop being school kids when they go to court?”
June turned the receipt over. It was dated seven months ago. The address was in Beaverton. “Are you sure it's still the right person?”
“No, dear. That's why the telephone is so wonderful.”
Paula was still there. She still took her lunch after one. A man named Sean answered her phone and said he could not promise anything, but if the family agreed, they could send June a private link that would let her attend through a screen. She'd have to be on the ground. She couldn't record. She would be asked to keep her microphone off until the judge addressed her.
“Is there a rule about playing a song?”
“Ma'am, there is an entire drawer of rules about things you'd never imagine. Let me ask.”
When he came back he said the judge had once allowed a boy to attend wearing scuba fins. A song would be fine so long as it was under two minutes and everybody consented. June wrote down the information, thanked him, and held her phone a long moment to the center of her chest. She might not make the room. She had a way to keep the promise at the heart of the thing.
She showed the receipt to Ruth. “Do you mind if I hug you?”
“Within the limits of our seat belts, make yourself at home.”
The real oxygen came on a cart so small and so quiet that nobody noticed it. The cabin door had been closed for eight minutes before the captain said they were leaving. June looked at the clock. A Portland arrival of 2:56, if they got lucky. Her heart did the sort of arithmetic it was bad at, subtracting feeling rather than minutes. You could carry a promise for two thousand miles and still be fourteen minutes short.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Inez walking toward the back. There was no apron on her now. The yellow duck was gone from her name tag, leaving a little dirty outline. Meredith was behind her carrying both their bags.
Daniel got a text, read it, and turned his face toward the window.
“What?” June asked.
He hesitated. “The company has seen the video. They've decided to have two new attendants meet the plane at Portland for the return flight.”
“Two? What has Inez got to do with anything?”
“They're saying she took the card out of the galley to stage a confrontation.”
The engine note rose. Denver began to slide away. June unzipped her pocket, checked for the cassette, and felt a second, sharper shape beside it. It was the meal card. An hour ago she had wanted very badly to give it back. She was glad now that she hadn't.
“That's one hell of a long way,” she said, “to go to avoid a chicken.”
Chapter 3- A Room with a Door That Closes 8999
On the short flight from Denver to Portland, June had time to make exactly one important mistake. She sent a photograph of the meal card to a woman who introduced herself by email as Northstar's passenger advocate. The email came from a real company address. The woman knew her flight number and the amount she'd paid for her ticket. She wrote that a member of the crew was concerned about another crew member and that June could clear the matter up by simply sharing both sides of the card. June took the pictures against her green sleeve and pressed send.
The reply came nine minutes later. Thank you for authorizing Northstar to use this material in its review and related customer communications.
“I didn't authorize any customer communications,” June said out loud.
Ruth looked up from her book. “Were you signing something, honey?”
“I was helping somebody.”
“More dangerous by a considerable margin.”
June wrote back at once. You may look at those pictures to find out what happened. I don't give permission for you to use them in an ad or to make it look like I agree with a statement. The advocate responded that she understood June's concerns. June had spent enough years dealing with a driver's union to know that this could mean almost anything except yes.
She turned off the internet. In the pocket of the seat in front of her was a blank side of a paper bag. She spread it on the tray and wrote what she had seen, in order, as plainly as she could manage. It was something Marsha had taught her after a bicycle had hit the side of her bus while it was parked. The cyclist was unhurt but frightened, and by the time a traffic officer arrived three separate witnesses could describe in detail how June had turned into his path. Only the engine log established that the bus had been off for six minutes before the accident. Write what you know while you still know it, Marsha said. Wait too long and you'll have to sort it out from what everybody else knows for you.
June wrote, I saw the card when I turned the plate. I did not see who put it there. Meredith said she wrote on it. Inez asked me to keep it after I already had it. Daniel said he recognized the words. She added what time the cart stopped, as well as she could remember. Then she folded the paper bag into her pocket with everything else.