it would be smooth, but the engines roared and the wheels clawed at the tarmac, and if it weren't for her belt she'd have been thrown out of her seat.
The nun pulled off her headphones and rubbed her papery lids. "I didn't get a wink," she remarked to Jude, "did you?"
Jude shook her head.
"Well, that's the price of taking the red-eye. Somebody's got a quiet conscience."
"Excuse me?"
"Your friend," said the nun, nodding over Jude's shoulder at the stranger who seemed to be sleeping like a newborn, his face soaked in light.
Sic Transit
On earth we are like travelers staying at a hotel.
—ST. JEAN-BAPTISTE-MARIE VIANNEY
Síle watched an enormous brown case bound with a pink scarf make its jerky progress around the carousel. Then a globe-shaped parcel in snowflake wrapping paper went past again. Her mind was a yo-yo. She shivered, and buttoned her uniform coat to the throat. Smelling a cigarette, she whipped around, jabbing her finger at the sign on the wall: "Can you not read?"
The girl took a long suck of smoke before dropping it on the floor and extinguishing it with her boot. "Cut me some slack, could you?" she muttered.
Síle gave her a second glance. "Oh, sorry, pet, I didn't know you with your hood up."
The Canadian had clean blue eyes in an angular face. Soft brown hair that couldn't be more than two inches long. Very worn blue jeans, and not the kind sold expensively pre-aged. "Who was he?" the girl asked in a low voice.
Síle hesitated, then told her, "The manifest gives the name, that's all: George L. Jackson. He's in the mortuary; his next of kin should be getting the phone call about now. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring," she added, "but then his generation of men often don't."
A silence. "I can't decide which would be worse," said the Canadian, "for him to turn out to have this big devoted family, or—"
"—to have been a bachelor with only a couple of indifferent nephews?"
She nodded.
Jude Turner, Síle dredged up the name from the line on the form that said Witness. "I've just been put through the wringer by the manager of cabin services," she confided, on impulse.
"What could you have done?" Jude Turner asked huskily. "He was stone cold by the time I called you over."
Síle nodded. "The doctor confirmed it. But the airline's policy is always defibrillate. It was a judgment call: I decided that hauling the poor bastard into the aisle to shock him would do nothing but start a general panic."
"What about me," the girl asked, after a second, "didn't you worry I'd panic?"
"You didn't look the type."
Jude Turner flushed slightly, and turned her gaze to the carousel, where bags were beginning to form precarious piles.
"Nineteen years flying the friendly skies," Síle explained, "you get the knack of sizing people up. Canadian, yeah?"
A small grin. "Most Brits can't hear the difference between our accent and an American one."
"The huge maple leaf on the back of your jacket was a bit of a giveaway."
The flush reached the girl's cheekbones this time.
Síle only felt slightly bad about teasing her. "And I'm Irish, actually, not a Brit."
"Right. I meant, you know, from these islands," her hand making an apologetic circle. She stared at the flattened cigarette by her toe—probably wishing she'd had a few more puffs, Síle thought.
The crowd parted like water as three of her colleagues walked through smartly, wheeling their green carry-ons; one of them gave her a little wave.
"How come you have to stand round here with the herd?" asked the girl.
"Oh, it's entirely my own fault: I bought a trampoline."
Jude Turner ducked through a gap between two carts, and came back with a small black backpack. "A trampoline?"
"Mm, one of those cute little ones; you just get up on it and bounce, and the calories drip off you." The girl started to laugh, and Síle joined in through a sudden wave of fatigue. "I know, it sounds like an utter nonsense now I describe it. I spent $179 on the fucker in Detroit, and
The nun pulled off her headphones and rubbed her papery lids. "I didn't get a wink," she remarked to Jude, "did you?"
Jude shook her head.
"Well, that's the price of taking the red-eye. Somebody's got a quiet conscience."
"Excuse me?"
"Your friend," said the nun, nodding over Jude's shoulder at the stranger who seemed to be sleeping like a newborn, his face soaked in light.
Sic Transit
On earth we are like travelers staying at a hotel.
—ST. JEAN-BAPTISTE-MARIE VIANNEY
Síle watched an enormous brown case bound with a pink scarf make its jerky progress around the carousel. Then a globe-shaped parcel in snowflake wrapping paper went past again. Her mind was a yo-yo. She shivered, and buttoned her uniform coat to the throat. Smelling a cigarette, she whipped around, jabbing her finger at the sign on the wall: "Can you not read?"
The girl took a long suck of smoke before dropping it on the floor and extinguishing it with her boot. "Cut me some slack, could you?" she muttered.
Síle gave her a second glance. "Oh, sorry, pet, I didn't know you with your hood up."
The Canadian had clean blue eyes in an angular face. Soft brown hair that couldn't be more than two inches long. Very worn blue jeans, and not the kind sold expensively pre-aged. "Who was he?" the girl asked in a low voice.
Síle hesitated, then told her, "The manifest gives the name, that's all: George L. Jackson. He's in the mortuary; his next of kin should be getting the phone call about now. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring," she added, "but then his generation of men often don't."
A silence. "I can't decide which would be worse," said the Canadian, "for him to turn out to have this big devoted family, or—"
"—to have been a bachelor with only a couple of indifferent nephews?"
She nodded.
Jude Turner, Síle dredged up the name from the line on the form that said Witness. "I've just been put through the wringer by the manager of cabin services," she confided, on impulse.
"What could you have done?" Jude Turner asked huskily. "He was stone cold by the time I called you over."
Síle nodded. "The doctor confirmed it. But the airline's policy is always defibrillate. It was a judgment call: I decided that hauling the poor bastard into the aisle to shock him would do nothing but start a general panic."
"What about me," the girl asked, after a second, "didn't you worry I'd panic?"
"You didn't look the type."
Jude Turner flushed slightly, and turned her gaze to the carousel, where bags were beginning to form precarious piles.
"Nineteen years flying the friendly skies," Síle explained, "you get the knack of sizing people up. Canadian, yeah?"
A small grin. "Most Brits can't hear the difference between our accent and an American one."
"The huge maple leaf on the back of your jacket was a bit of a giveaway."
The flush reached the girl's cheekbones this time.
Síle only felt slightly bad about teasing her. "And I'm Irish, actually, not a Brit."
"Right. I meant, you know, from these islands," her hand making an apologetic circle. She stared at the flattened cigarette by her toe—probably wishing she'd had a few more puffs, Síle thought.
The crowd parted like water as three of her colleagues walked through smartly, wheeling their green carry-ons; one of them gave her a little wave.
"How come you have to stand round here with the herd?" asked the girl.
"Oh, it's entirely my own fault: I bought a trampoline."
Jude Turner ducked through a gap between two carts, and came back with a small black backpack. "A trampoline?"
"Mm, one of those cute little ones; you just get up on it and bounce, and the calories drip off you." The girl started to laugh, and Síle joined in through a sudden wave of fatigue. "I know, it sounds like an utter nonsense now I describe it. I spent $179 on the fucker in Detroit, and
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