Munich Airport Read Free Page A

and he is not at home watching golf, he is usually down some megastore aisle of tools or groceries stacked thirty feet high on either side of him, looking for screws, or comparing prices of pasta, or considering a new weedeater that he will use once, maybe twice, then give to the gardener. Other than these places, I don’t think he goes anywhere. I don’t think he goes to the movies, I don’t think he goes for walks, I don’t think he drives to the coast—the Gulf—as he used to do, when we were young and he was home from teaching. So far as I know, he has no friends. We talk about once a month. When I catch him at home, we hang up the phone and go on our laptops, so we can see each other, and usually he’s in a white sleeveless muscle shirt, though his arms are just his bones, and he’s unshaven. About twenty minutes into any conversation, he says, I’m about to faint, gotta go. Sometimes, if it’s hot, he doesn’t wear a shirt at all. His skin is pretty loose, and you can see his ribs.
    Trish and I stand at the same time. We leave my father alone at the table. He slumps in his chair. He seems instantly asleep. Just looking at him, I yawn. I hope this works, says Trish. Me too, I say. We go down the escalator, through the wide and weightless slow space of the terminal. I cannot think of anything to say. Trish and my father have spent a lot of time alone, but Trish and I have never been alone, or only so rarely and briefly that it doesn’t really count. I decide not to say anything. This is a solemn occasion, after all, and speaking isn’t necessary. Trish’s phone beeps. Throughout our hour together in the food hall, her phone has beeped several times. It’s her personal phone—she also has a clunky old Nokia for work. I know, from my father, that she and her husband are going through a difficult period. I don’t know Trish well enough to ask about it, or even to offer sympathy. But my father told me it seems destined to end, and it would not surprise me if it has just ended. She reads her phone. When she’s done, she looks up at me and I realize I’m staring at her. She gives me a funny smile. Sorry, I say, I was just lost in thought there.
    How long will you stay at home? she asks.
    For me, by now, home is London, I say.
    Of course, she says—when will you go back?
    Soon, I say. I can’t afford to stay away much longer. I’m supposed to be starting something new.
    Surely they’ll wait, under the circumstances.
    Maybe, but not too much longer.
    What do you do?
    I’m a marketing consultant.
    I know, I was just wondering what you did as a marketing consultant.
    I devise marketing strategies for clients.
    She gives me a look that says, I know that, I meant what kind of strategies do you devise . But instead of pressing any further, she says, Your dad says you’re quite successful.
    Does he?
    She nods.
    I say nothing. It doesn’t sound like something my father would say. For a moment I’m not sure I ought to believe her—maybe she’s trying to mend a rift she’s perceived between my father and me, a rift for which she may feel some responsibility. But she isn’t responsible. And I am not really successful—by which I mean not as successful as I once believed I should be. I did International Business in college—at Princeton, which was where my father went—and I did all right. I decided not to do an MBA. I wanted to work. I didn’t want to waste any time. But I also wanted to travel. I passed up some good job offers in the States. An internship in London came up—unpaid—and I took it. I never planned to stay a long time in London, but over the years I became increasingly convinced that I could not return home, that I could not leave London and somehow find contentment in a place like Tampa or Dallas. I’d grown accustomed to, and much preferred, the way people lived on top of