Yield (14 page)

“
No, I
’
ll be working from my car most of the morning,
”
Tracy says impatiently into her cell phone. She tries to merge over to pass a green and yellow Metro Transit bus shuddering to a stop in front of her. Her orange signal blooms, but the Porsche
’
s momentum carries it too close.

Infuriated with the delay, a silver Jaguar X-Type guns it and swings around her. The tail slips out, hitting a large puddle alongside. A dirty wave splashes onto the red sports car
’
s windshield.

“
Lovely,
”
Tracy says, turning her wipers on high.
“
Damn Seattle rain. I can count on one hand the times I
’
ve actually had the convertible top down.
”

*  *  *

“
Tragic,
”
a sarcastic voice responds 170 miles to the south. Isabel
’
s fiery tone is sharper than usual this morning.
“
How do you make it through the day?
”
Wearing a tight, purple and orange-piped Northwest Airlines uniform, Isabel Gonzalez walks reluctantly through the revolving door at the front of Portland International Airport. She rolls a well-used piece of floral-print luggage behind her. The 34-year-old, pregnant Latina adjusts a bulky cellphone against her ear, dragging her Reeboks along the floor towards a check-in mob she wants no part of today.

The creases of maternity already wear on Isabel
’
s slender face. Her light-brown Hispanic skin is etched around chocolate eyes and a pouted mouth used to wearing both the smiles and rebukes of parenting.

“
Is everyone in a cynical mood this morning?
”
Tracy asks.

“
Just pregnant,
”
Isabel says wearily. Her eyes run down the awkward bulge jutting out from an otherwise slight frame. The word itself crushes down upon her shoulders.

“
Well, stop already, Izz. A couple more kids, and you could start your own religion.
”

“
Tell that to my husband,
”
Isabel laughs.
“
I think the fat bastard wants to be the next Buddha. Son of a bitch swore we
’
d stop at three.
”

“
Try pushing him off every now and then,
”
Tracy says.
“
He
’
ll amuse himself in other ways.
”

A feisty smile shoots across the flight attendant
’
s face.

Isabel pulls the phone quickly away from her ear, hearing loud honking and voices on the other end.
“
You okay?
”

*  *  *

Rows of angry protesters shout from in front of the Jackson Federal Building in downtown Seattle. Screaming through their megaphones, the varied dissidents raise angry fists and hastily scrawled signs at a line of countering viewpoints. Heated words smash against steadfast minds in vain, neither backing down. Their voices shriek at one another across the sidewalk. Hate rises into an unintelligible roar.

“
Just some unemployed illiterates protesting downtown,
”
Tracy says.

“
Peace activists?
”

“
Something like that.
”
Tracy slows down to read one of the battered signs.
THE END IS HERE. BRING OUR TROOPS HOME ALIVE.
“
Sounds peaceful, right?
”

*  *  *

“
Yeah,
”
Isabel laughs. She switches the scuffed phone to her other hand. Her eyes dart around the airport lobby. Hundreds of people fill the extended ticket area, clutching bags and children with the same concern.

“
Hey, I
’
m at the airport now,
”
Isabel groans. She can think of at least a million other places she
’
d rather be.
“
I have to check in at my counter.
”
Agitated bodies barely give way to the pregnant woman making her way toward the Northwest line.

“
Give my son a hug for me,
”
Tracy says. Her harsh voice softens as she passes the mothering plea to her oldest friend.

“
Always,
”
Isabel smiles. She easily catches sight of the teen, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the travelers in ticketing.
“
See you tonight.
”

Isabel leans over the extractable line twenty steps in front of the check-in counter and gives Chris Thomas a lopsided hug. The huge basketball star flinches in surprise. He cranes his head down and smiles when he sees his mom
’
s best friend standing almost two full feet below.

Next to him, Darius Jones smiles jealously. He runs a tattooed hand along the two tightly-woven corn rows atop his head, straightening them down to the middle of his neck. He scans the attractive flight attendant suggestively, not dissuaded in the least by her extra baggage.

“
That
’
s from your mom,
”
Isabel says.

“
Hey, Izz,
”
Chris
’
s unnaturally deep voice rumbles.
“
Wow, you look
…
pregnant.
”
A boyish smile spreads across the 17-year-old
’
s face. They used to see each other almost every weekend. Even more than that growing up. But that was before his parents decided to lethally inject their marriage and pistol whip his life as collateral damage. He hasn
’
t seen his surrogate aunt in almost five months now.

“
I feel like a bloated rhino,
”
she says.
“
I
’
m supposed to be on leave, but they called me in anyway.
”
Sensing Darius
’
s eyes, Isabel shoots him back an icy look. A scowl purses the edges of her mouth.
“
You boys staying out of trouble?
”
Isabel glares at Seattle High
’
s mischievous power forward. Her voice is as subtle as a machete.

“
You notice she
’
s looking at me
,
”
Darius elbows Chris. The innocent look in his eyes tries to outshine the aggressive tattoos peeking out from under the cuffs and collar of his shirt.
“
And how come I
’
m trouble? I could be a fine, upstanding young man.
”

“
Right,
”
Isabel says, meeting his flirtation with her usual fire.
“
Bye, guys.
”
She waves briefly before her curves once again swing behind the dreaded counter.

“
Damn. Wish my mom sent pretty women to hug,
”
Darius says. He watches the tan Latina saunter away. His teenage hormones slowly drift across the lobby to several other attractive ladies, much too old for him but still worthy of the challenge.

*  *  *

Eager adventurers continue to pour into the airport. Glancing up distractedly at a pregnant Northwest employee moving to the check-in desk, Devin Bane looks at his watch for the hundredth time this morning.

Two exceptionally tall teenagers just in front of him laugh at some decidedly crude joke. Their sharp echoes startle him momentarily.

Devin pulls today
’
s edition of
The Oregonian
newspaper out of his carry-on. The newspaper crackles crisply as he folds it, tucking the tragedies of the world under a nervous arm. The bold headline atop an
Around the World
section cuts sharply into the off-white paper
’
s gritty texture. IRAN TESTS FIRST NUCLEAR BOMB.

*  *  *

Fifteen feet behind him, Debbie Yun and her daughter Terra also wait. Terra pushes a strand of her shoulder-length, jet black hair away from a pale, almost pure-white forehead. The modelesque teenager
’
s exotic Asian features have baffled more than their share of men. Thinking she
’
s much more mature than her 18 years, Terra has been pursued by men twice her age. She liked the attention at first, but lately it
’
s become tiresome and boring.

Standing in her designer clothing, Terra looks like the dramatic pause on a fashion runway. Her glittering sky-blue eyes scan the lobby
’
s inhabitants, evaluating. Critiquing.

“
Quit,
”
Debbie says.

“
What?
”
her daughter asks. There
’
s a blank sort of glaze over her eyes.

“
We barely made it in time because of your little makeup marathon this morning, now quit.
”

“
This takes a lot of work,
”
Terra defends as she eyes her compact.
“
You wouldn
’
t understand.
”
The teenager
’
s valley-girl inflection makes her sound even more
hurtful
than she
’
d intended.

“
Gee. Thanks.
”

*  *  *

Isabel looks up after logging into the archaic Northwest terminal. She deliberately takes longer to navigate to the check-in screen in silent protest for being called in.
Streamlining. What a joke
, she thinks.
Used to just be a flight attendant, now I
’
m some peon, check-in clerk
.
And did they give us a raise for all this new responsibility? Oh, hell no.
That would hurt the bottom line and our customers
…
Right.

Isabel
’
s hand flips curtly up to wave an Arab man in a bulky, blue Mariners baseball jersey up to her station.

Abd Al-Aziiz pushes his driver
’
s license across the counter. He quickly pulls his hands back before the woman
’
s fingers come close enough to graze his skin. Abd adjusts the thick black pair of glasses over his ears. He tries to smooth down the patchy, close-cropped beard along the sides of his face before forcing his twitching hands to stop. Abd looks silently back at the woman. He makes himself stand still in preparation for the inspection he knows is coming.

Isabel
’
s eyes narrow. They drift from the dark, recessed eye sockets back to his forced smile. Skeletal arms and a delicate neck emerge from the man
’
s baggy clothing. He looks like a body slowly withering under a fabric guise. She looks down at the identification, rubbing at the edges and picture to check for any signs of alteration.

The Arab man sighs loudly. His crooked smile soon fades as he watches the warning signs of discrimination seen all too often during his travels.

“
8:35 to Seattle?
”
Isabel asks. Her hardening voice makes it sound almost accusing.

“
Yes,
”
Abd answers.

“
Checking any baggage?
”

“
No.
”

Unintentionally, Isabel
’
s hands freeze at the answer. She
’
s entered the same information mindlessly into her keyboard thousands of times before. But this time her fingers pause, frozen over the function keys. A male service representative next to her turns mid-conversation with another passenger to stare back at the Arab man.

“
Look,
”
Abd starts, talking slower to lessen his thick Arabic accent. His black eyes dart back and forth between the two Northwest agents.
“
I
’
m not staying the night. I
’
m just going to a ballgame.
”
He lifts the front of his jersey up above the counter to show the Mariners logo.
“
Please. I
’
ve seen that look many times before. People like you always seem to flag people like me.
”