Short Story

Calling Home

The underground rushed through the city without delay. Every so often it would stop, and when it did the heavily clothed gentleman would inspect his watch. The doors shut and he would return to sleep on a blue roller bag. Any other time of day, the train would be packed. But it was early and there was plenty of clean snow outside to keep them in bed. The gentleman didn't mind the cold; sometimes it even proved useful.

His hands, however, were left bare and numb. When his cellphone rang, they were as cold as breakfast cereal.

“Hello.” he said.
“Hey Ken.”
“Pardon. Who is this?” he asked.
“Only your favorite person in the world.” she responded.
“Sorry. I only speak English.” This was a blatant lie.
“I am speaking English, weirdo. When are you coming home?” She spoke quickly this time. Ken glanced at his watch, hoping time would release him from memories of her glowing eyes.
“I have to catch a flight. You're going to, have to, call me later.” He hung up.
The train was still speeding along the rails. Hearing the shrill of steel, Ken pulled out his butterfly knife. He ran his fingers up the edge to soothe his mind with the melody of metal cutting on cold flesh. The blade was soon tainted in a wrapper of red. The train screeched to a halt.

Ken flipped the knife closed and buried it in his pocket. He exited – leaving the roller bag to rest on the train. The chilly breeze took a swipe at him, but was unable to penetrate the layers of his clothing. He marched toward the airport ticketing counter.

“I need to get to New York. Tonight.” Ken said.
“I'm sorry. You're too late. The flight's scheduled to leave in 11 minutes.” the female agent responded.
“I can’t be late. Eleven minutes is plenty of time. Put me on.”
“It's not possible. The system is already closed. You're too late.”
“You need to get me on that flight. It’s important.”
“The next flight to New York is tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Tomorrow morning? I need to be there tonight. My wife...she's...” The woman's eyebrows lifted like iron gates. She picked up the telephone and dialed three numbers. Ken tensed at the knees. The woman’s expression was unchanged.
“Looks like the gods are smiling. The weather is delaying the flight. There is a seat available. But there still isn’t enough time to put your luggage on.”
“Forget the luggage. Just get me on the flight.” She printed out a ticket and gave it to him.
“You'll have to be quick. It's at gate A5 toward your right.” Ken tried to reciprocate with a curt nod but was caught by the dull blackness in her eyes. He abandoned the knife at the counter; he had to. Security could never be as forgiving...Blinking once, he walked off.
He stepped through the metal detector, all the while glaring at the security guard. The guard, still in his zombie hours, didn’t even notice. Ken was merely a ghost passing by.
The other passengers were all sitting at the gate impatiently. There had been no need to rush; the plane was delayed for at least another hour. Ken slipped out his phone. Slowly, he dialed the first three digits: *67. The rest of the number came out rapidly.
Hello. Ken took in a deep breath. His pulse was jumping. He waited for the image of her face to refill his mind. To the eyes of the stranger, a child’s face seems so perfect. The dark shadows behind her eyes left his thoughts no where else to go. Hello? He could see them clearer now - drilling holes through the back of his head. Stupid pictures. That face wasn’t his; it never would be. With his free hand, Ken ended the call.
They had begun boarding first class passengers and those requiring special assistance. Ken looked around for a way out; this was an emergency.
His hand slipped upon the alarm, summoning his exit. A fiery concert of ringing began. Passengers grabbed their briefcases and sprinted out the doors. Firefighters and policemen tried to enter but were blocked by parents rolling their children out in strollers, closely followed by children rolling their parents out in wheelchairs. The police stood their ground, trying to create order with their radio transmitters and bright badges. If Ken had his knife with him, he could have made quite a mess. He brandished his precious phone, instead.
“I won't be able to make it home tonight. I'm sorry. I really am.” There was no response at first. Then he heard the softness of the dial tone.