The city of Rosedale Palm was the kind of place not even a cockroach would go to die. The cloud of pollution that engulfed its streets blotted out the sky so that it seemed night was perpetually upon it. As Dalton sat in the bright fluorescent light of the airport, trying to peer at his new home through the filmy grime of the windows, he began to wonder if Margie’s fat rolls were really bad enough to withstand this place.
He glanced at his watch. 2:30 pm. Miss. Puckett was late…Mr. Fennizwig would be getting a strongly worded letter, if not from him then certainly from his grandmother.
“But Mommy!” shrieked a little girl by the luggage carousel, “he just took it! It’s mine!”. She was wailing, yanking her exhausted mother’s arm, pointing at Dalton.
Just then something hit his heels. He put his head between his knees and peaked under his seat.
“Shhh,” a little boy crouched beneath the seat stared back at him, the unmistakably bright yellow of a Fennizwig Lily scarf clutched in his fist.
Dalton scoffed, Control your brood, woman.
“Ben!” the mother barked, storming toward Dalton and the boy. Irritated and disinterested in being involved in the family squabble, Dalton grabbed his bag and suitcase and got up, eliminating barrier between mother and child.
He couldn’t help but be annoyed; his pick-up was more than an hour late, and he’d been forced out of the one seat he’d managed to make himself mildly comfortable in. He stood beside the sliding doors, crossed his arms and glared at this poor excuse for a mother as she fished the boy out by the arm.
The children began chirping, the girl pinching the boy until he released the bright scarf, the mother screeching orders as she shoved their little arms into little jackets that were adorned with still more big-eyed characters from the Fennizwig universe. Dalton glared harder, attempting to bore into the back of the woman’s neck, he wanted her to be embarrassed, to straighten her out for his inconvenience. No luck. She was too focused on her brats.
A cold wind assailed his back as the sliding doors to the airport flew open. He turned into it and a gush of smog and grime invaded his eyes, nose and lungs, knocking Dalton to the floor.
“Oh my heavens!” sang a woman’s voice.
“God! That’s foul!” He coughed and sputtered, hacking up the taste of sulfur that was stuck in his throat.
“There! You see that?” it was the shrill voice of the crummy mother, “That’s what happens. Now put it on!”
Dalton opened his watering eyes to see her wrapping a blue scarf around the nose and mouth of the boy. The girl was already wrapped up in her bright Fennizwig Lily scarf, the sweetheart face of Fennizwig Lily smiling maddeningly at him.
“Mr. Bennington?” a trembling hand caressed his shoulder and he turned to see a small woman, her face also hidden by a scarf, her wrinkly eyes peering through filthy scuba goggles.
“Miss Puckett?” he rasped, his voice sounding significantly weaker than it was.
She whipped off the goggles and tore away the scarf revealing a wrinkled grin, her brownish teeth making him recoil worse than the smog.
“Oh I knew it was you!” she cried, enveloping him in a hug, “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!”
Her grip was surprisingly strong for such an old woman and he worried his ribs would break.
“I saw you through the window, just the silhouette mind you – hard to see much through windows in Rosedale Palm – but I said to myself, that there is a Bennington’s posture!” She dragged Dalton to his feet and ushered him away from the door as he rubbed his burning eyes, “And it was! It was you! Handsome young Bennington you are too, like your grandfather.”
The burning was awful, and tears were streaming down his face. Good God, am I going blind?
But Miss Puckett didn’t seem too concerned, absentmindedly wiping his tears away. “You know we used to go together, me and your grandfather. Goodness, was that forever ago!”
Horrified to realize she was using the sleeve of her soiled coat, Dalton shoved her hand away and rushed to the window.
Taking no offense, Miss Puckett went on, “Course I was just a girl, then. But never mind that, how was your flight? You weren’t too cramped I hope.”
Grime from the old woman’s coat was streaked across his face, like a line backer. This was a mistake, he thought, fists clenching in rage…or fear.
“Mr. Dalton?” the hag chirped, “Were you cramped?”
“No, Miss Puckett,” he said, turning to face her. “I was not cramped, and the plane arrived right on time. Waiting an hour for you to come get me, here in this godforsaken airport, was not my favorite part of the journey.”
He watched her, waiting for her to shrink back and spout apologies as any of the help back home would have done. But she didn’t. She stared back a moment, her grey eyes blank of emotion. Then she smiled, “Oh pish. The airport’s not so bad. Great place to do some people watching. Fun thing to do, people watching, never know who you’ll see, what stories you’ll discover! Come on now, Mr. Bennington,” she flipped down her goggles and secured her scarf. Then she grabbed his largest suitcase and hoisted it onto her shriveled little back. “This way!”
“Miss – Miss Puckett!” surely, her frail body would be crunched under that suitcase, “It has wheels, Miss Puckett!”
“Ah?” she sqwaked, waddling round to face him. “Oh heavens!” she gasped, throwing the suitcase off her and sending it crashing to the floor as she began fishing into her purse. “Cant have you out in this city like that! Naked as a babe, you are!”
“There are wheels on the bag,” said Dalton, “Give it to me -”
She gagged him with a scarf; the same bright yellow as the little girls — a Fennizwig Lilly scarf.
“Ha Ha!” she cried, standing back and smiling at ridiculous get-up she’d forced on his face. “You’re gonna fit right in, Mr. Bennington. Oh, Mr. Fennizwig will get a kick out of that!” Again, she hoisted the heavy suitcase onto her back and Dalton rolled his eyes. If the old crone didn’t want to listen to him, then so be it. “Let’s hop to it now! She’s been dying to meet you!”
“What?” he stopped. “She, who?”
© 2010 Megs McIsaac
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Writer, intern, Ninja Turtle enthusiast. With her MA in Creative Writing from the University of Winchester and only unpaid internships on the horizon, Megs enjoys living in Toronto scribbling down her daily musings and eating just-add-water potatoes.
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