Gerald N. Lund - One in Thine Hand

Heathrow Airport was like the streets of downtown Saigon at rush hour, masses of bodies jostling back and forth, people milling around aimlessly, always seeming to stop where they could most effectively snarl the traffic flow. And judging from the lines in front of the Trans-World Airlines ticket counter, the majority of this swarm of tourists had not heard there might be other airlines competing with TWA to transport people out of London.

Brad Kennison ignored the crush of people and focused a burning glare in the center of the ample back of the lady ahead of him. She was pawing through her purse in search of her ticket, a bag easily large enough to carry half the files of the National Archives. The scowl darkened his even, tanned features and pulled his mouth, usually quick with an easy smile, into a tight line. He brushed his hand impatiently across his dark brown hair, then massaged the back of his neck.

When they had opened this new ticket window, Brad had jumped quickly and bettered his place in the line by six positions. Now he was still waiting, thanks to this woman, and the man in front of her who had required the frustrated clerk to recite every possible flight time to every possible city in Europe. The man in the line next to him finished and moved away as Brads gray eyes smouldered. Originally that man had been four places behind him.

Suddenly the lady with the huge purse gave a squeal of delight. I knew it was in there, she said triumphantly.

Thank heavens! Brad muttered, more loudly than he had intended.

The lady glanced back at him quickly, flustered and embarrassed.

Hey, come on Kennison, he chided himself. The plane doesnt leave for two hours yet. Why so uptight?

He shrugged off the question, as though absentmindedly brushing away a fly. He had been home from Viet Nam for nearly four months now, and some time ago had come to terms with the fact that he was impatient, easily frustrated, and even irritable at times. He stared out the airport windows, shimmering and wavy in the early August sunshine, peeved as much at himself as at the delay. Maybe in Israel the restlessness that gnawed at him could be put aside.

Finally the lady in front moved hurriedly away, clutching her ticket in her hand. Brad pushed his camera bag across the polished tiles with his foot and stepped up to the counter. The ticket agent was a pert blonde with a dazzling smile. The smile warmed noticeably as she gave him a quick appraising look. After the bumbling, flustered lady, this tall, striking young American would be a welcome reprieve.

Good morning, she said brightly, taking his ticket. Tel Aviv, sir? Her English accent warped the syllables in a delightful way, but he didnt take notice.

Brad nodded. He watched her process the ticket for a moment, then asked, Is this going to be a crowded flight?

She laughed. Not as much as TWA would like. Its only about half full. Everybody seems to be going to America, not to the Middle East.

Good, he said, ignoring her cordiality. I would prefer to be alone. Can you seat me where no one else will be by me?

The smile slowly faded. Im sorry, Mr. Kennison. But its open seating for passengers boarding the flight here in London. This flight originated in New York, and many passengers are continuing on to Greece and Israel. We dont know which seats will be occupied.

The dark scowl returned. On the flight across the Atlantic, Brad had been stuck next to a couple from New York on their way to Italy. Sunglasses, Bermuda shorts, nonstop talk, and a furtive cigarette whenever the flight attendant wasnt around to remind them they were sitting in nonsmoking seatsthey hadnt done much for his mood. In fact, they had pretty well destroyed the deep excitement and anticipation he had felt when he first boarded the plane in Salt Lake City. And he resented that loss, for planning this trip had provided the first real satisfaction he had found in the four months since his return from Viet Nam.

Cant you do something? he demanded.

No, sir. Im sorry. The clerk handed him his ticket and boarding pass, avoiding his eyes. Gate fifty-six. Theyll board at two P.M.

Brad snatched the ticket, his frustration mounting. He yanked up his camera bag and spun away.

As he did so, the ticket agent murmured under her breath, Mister, just give them a look like that and youll have the whole row to yourself.

He whirled around and glared at her. She jerked up, obviously startled, and then instantly her face flamed scarlet. But she stood her ground and stared back at him.

Gradually Brad felt his face relax into a grin. Was it really that bad? he asked.

Her relief at his sudden change was so evident that his smile broadened even more, crinkling the lines around the corner of his eyes.

You were pretty grim, she admitted. Im sorry. I shouldnt have said what I did. That was rude of me.

A flash of the old Brad Kennison flicked across his eyes, and he pulled a wry face at her. To give a man his just due is not rudeness, he said. My mind was somewhere else. It is my rudeness that needs an apology.

That restored her smile completely. Its all right. Have a good flight.

Thank you. Brad shouldered his camera bag and turned away again.

Mr. Kennison?

He turned back in surprise. Yes?

There should be plenty of room on the plane. If you would like to sit alone, you could set your camera bag on the seat next to you until takeoff. It shouldnt be a problem.

Thank you very much, he said, smiling in genuine gratitude. Ill do that.

And then, as he strode down the concourse toward the departure gates, he did something he hadnt done for over a year. He began to whistle softly.

* * * * * *

By the time his flight was announcedforty-five minutes latethe cheerful mood had evaporated, and frustration, like an old familiar jacket he had temporarily displaced, had embraced him again. He fought it at first, then finally surrendered, rationalizing that a good part of it was just fatigue. It was now nearly twenty hours since he had left Salt Lake City and almost thirty since he had had any sleep. His body had switched over to quarter speed. His eyes were bleary and burned from the cigarette smoke that had turned the air of the boarding area a thick blue-gray. His dark hair, thick but cut fairly short, now had a slightly tousled look. Black stubble was taking over his lower face, hiding the square set of his jaw. Normally he had an air of alertness and friendliness that quickly put people at ease. Now he just looked tired and rumpled. As he waited he had slouched into a chair between a cigarsmoking Frenchman and a large black man in an Arab headdress, and anyone seeing him now would have underestimated his height, which was slightly over six feet.