Claire Voyant Read Free Page B

I’d done a few walk-ons on General Hospital, and maybe that was about to serve some greater purpose. “Are those paddles in the right position?”
    â€œYes, of course,” the exhausted flight attendant snapped.
    â€œBecause you didn’t yell ‘Clear’ very loud. Maybe you’re not doing it right.”
    â€œSomebody get this lady out of here!”
    â€œNo. Wait. See, I’m like that commercial. I’m not a doctor but I’ve played one on TV. And I remember they had me place one paddle on the right breast between the collarbone and the nipple—”
    â€œMa’am, please. You’re interfering,” First Officer Freeman scolded.
    â€œI’m sorry.” I started to sob. “He was such a nice man. A wonderful person.”
    â€œIt’s always the good ones who go first.” He motioned the sign of the cross.
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    The first thing that struck me was that Mr. Fabrikant had been a living, breathing human being for over eighty years, but the instant that his heart stopped, he was just a body. “We’ll have to remove the body through the center exit.” “We’ll have to ship the body back.” So one minute you’re a person, maybe the lone vote that changes the outcome of a Florida election, and the next minute you’re a heavy object that needs to be bubble-wrapped and shipped Federal Express.
    Maybe that’s why I volunteered to get off in Jacksonville and remain with “the body” until family could collect their loved one. I hated thinking that we lost our humanity faster than one could say “will” and “testament.” Besides, it would be nice to somehow sanctify this man’s last day, although I had to admit that I had done nothing to sanctify it when he was still able to line up little pill bottles on his tray table.
    First Officer Freeman thought better of my idea. No way did he want me having the chance to plant the idea in the family’s head that something had gone terribly wrong on board. “Let me assure you that we have trained personnel to handle these matters.” He patted my shoulder as if to demonstrate his airline’s no-fail approach to consolation.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I said. “I feel I should be there for the family.”
    â€œThinkin’ maybe the old guy’s kids will cut you in on the will, huh?”
    No, I’m thinkin’ all men are idiots, and Mrs. Freeman married their king! “No, of course not,” I replied. “But if that man was my father, I’d want to hear exactly what happened.”
    Not that I knew myself. I hoped his loved ones would be too grief-stricken to press me for specifics, because I hated the idea of lying, on top of my original sin, ignoring. For sure I would make repentance my top priority so that I could face the family and still look in a mirror.
    But no sooner did I exit the plane than I was paged to the Admirals Club to await the arrival of Mr. Fabrikant’s next of kin. And, through no fault of my own, to receive the royal treatment. Apparently word was slow to get to God that His child Claire Greene was a selfish, pitiful member of the human race.
    Once inside the lounge, an attendant brought me coffee and made sure that I felt comfortable seated near a TV. I was quite comfortable, thank you, but would I be violating any rules if I switched the channel from CNN to The View ? No, I could do whatever helped me ease my grief. Did that include making out with Ben Affleck’s brother, or whoever that stunning man was sitting alone over by the window?
    How shallow could I get? It mattered not if the stranger with the red power tie was a good kisser. After being dumped by so many men, I didn’t even know if I was a good kisser. I should be agonizing over my thoughtlessness and lack of decency, and what to say to Mr. Fabrikant’s heartbroken family.
    But tribulation would have to wait. For