Happenstance by Carol Shields

Author:Carol Shields [Shields, Carol]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House of Canada
Published: 2022-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirty

LAST year when Jack and Brenda went to San Francisco for the National Historical Society meeting, their plane circled over the bay area for several minutes in a holding pattern, then made a brief descent through sparkling air onto the baked runway. The landing was routine, smooth as glass after the first mild jolt, but for some reason the passengers broke into spontaneous applause the instant the wheels touched down.

Brenda looked sideways at Jack: why this applause? He made a gesture with his hand – a gesture that said, Who knows? Who can explain such things?

A single passenger perhaps, feeling euphoric after a good lunch, might have clapped his hands and started a chain reaction; the others would have joined in out of simple obedience and good nature. Why not? Weren’t they thankful to be here in the white California daylight? The lipsticked stewardess, smiling in the aisle, seemed suddenly a gift from God, as worthy as the gift of providence, the gift of good health. Why not, in the burst of affection that binds fellow travellers at the end of a journey, give thanks for the solid earth?

In contrast, Brenda’s landing at O’Hare on Thursday evening was brisk and without ceremony. The plane had not even reached a full stop when businessmen turned in their seats and began reaching down for their briefcases. The scent of leather and wet raincoats grew strong. Home. Safety. The seatbelts unbuckled. Brenda pulled on her coat. A slice of dark, industrial Chicago sky showed itself at the window, oily and dense and slashed by searchlights. Across the sheen of the runway, less than two hundred yards away, another jet was lifting off, and it seemed to Brenda that the twinkling taillights boasted of a more exotic destiny, Marrakesh, Bombay, God only knows where else.

She was home. She buttoned her coat and tied the belt. It would have to be sent to the cleaner’s; besides the small stain on the collar there was a black smudge on the hem. Maybe Verna really had rolled in the snow.

Jack would be there to meet her. He would come alone, without the children, just as she always came alone to meet him after a short trip. This habit of theirs was like many of their habits, too firmly fixed to merit analysis or even thought. It must have begun out of a need to keep their reunions uncluttered, to give them time on the drive home to find their footing again.

Jack would have prepared two or three amusing stories to tell her. ‘First the good news,’ he would say. Separation seemed to arouse in him an obligation to be once again the amusing and diverting stranger.

The strangeness would last all the way to Elm Park. The drive, in spite of the traffic, always seemed shorter than she thought it would be. As they neared home, the streets and the houses would grow increasingly familiar, until finally they were there, turning off Euclid onto Horace Mann, which led directly to Franklin Boulevard.

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