Landing Read Free

and very little inside. Jude heaved a long breath. "The bums in steerage only get about a fifth the oxygen the pilots do, I saw it on MTV," Rizla had told her on the highway. "That's what causes migraines and clots and Sudden Infant Syndromes and shit."
    Jude's skin was crawling, her head hammering. She'd had a whiskey instead of the stuffed chicken breast, but it hadn't helped. She would have bartered a finger for a cigarette. Stiff-necked, she stared around her in the dim cabin. Passengers slept propped up like puppets, thin green blankets tucked under their chins; how did they manage it? Jude began letting down her seat back, but as soon as she felt it make contact with a knee, she released the button and was jerked upright again. Now it felt as if she were being folded forward. She thought of the bed in that Edgar Allan Poe story she'd read Rizla one insomniac night: the bed that waited till you were asleep before it closed up like a mouth.
    That sick bag was really beginning to stink. Her seatmate was sleeping open-mouthed, helpless as a baby. Jude thought of pulling the bag out of his seat pocket, to dispose of it herself, but she feared it might be soggy; she didn't have her friend Gwen's ease with bodily functions. (Gwen liked to horrify new acquaintances with a story about having to remove, by hand, a ninety-five-year-old Sunset resident's impacted stool.)
    A flight attendant went by like a gazelle, a South Asian woman in a green tailored suit of startling brightness, but Jude failed to catch her eye. The man in front let down his seat back, and the plastic tray slipped off its latch and smashed onto Jude's knee. She bit into the soft inside of her lips.
    The plane heaved slightly, and Jude decided that one of its engines had fallen out; they were about to plummet, spin, and smash into the icy Atlantic. A weight landed on her shoulder. Jude blinked into thinning white hair. The old guy's head was on her shoulder, heavy as a bowling ball. She couldn't think how to get rid of it, short of a violent shake. Across the aisle, the nun got up, stretching, and gave her a little smile. Jude felt absurdly embarrassed. The nun walked off, as if there were somewhere to go.
    Five minutes on, Jude decided that was it; the guy's time was up. Canadian politeness only went so far. She wriggled her shoulder. She tried tilting her body into the aisle, but the man slid with her; his head nestled into the crook of her arm like a lover's. At which point she took hold of the cuff of his gray suit with her free hand and gave it a shake. His hand shifted limply.
    "Excuse me?" Jude's words were almost soundless; she hadn't spoken in hours. She cleared her throat. He didn't stir. "Sir? Could you please wake up?"
    And then she knew something was wrong, because her heart was banging like a gong. He had to be ill. Because no adult, not even a worn-out road warrior, could snooze in that position, face slithering into a stranger's lap.
    Bile rose in her throat. She searched the arm of her seat for that little icon you could press to call for help. A light sparked on overhead, the beam hitting her in the eye. The nun came back but put on her headphones before Jude could speak to her; the sound of merry violins leaked from her ears.
    At last a flight attendant hurried up the aisle with a basket; she was the South Asian one Jude had noticed before. "Excuse me?" said Jude, putting her free hand out; it brushed the woman's hip.
    She turned with a smile. "Here you go." With tongs, she dropped a white scalding thing into Jude's hand. Jude yelped and shook it off.
    The woman was staring at her now. "Sorry, didn't you want a hot towel?" Angry? No, more like amused. Her eyes were an odd, tawny shade; her accent seemed British.
    "No, I'm sorry, I just—" Jude looked with helpless revulsion at the man slumped against her. "I think this gentleman may possibly not be feeling well," she said, absurdly formal.
    The woman's face changed. She set her basket of