The Nix(172)

“I wanted to get it in under the wire.”

The man with the clipboard crossed the purple tape and cleared his throat.

“So it looks like we have sort of a problem here,” he said in an unusually upbeat way, like one of those customer-service people you sometimes get on the phone who seem really into their jobs. He was not making eye contact with either of them, staring instead at whatever was on his clipboard. “It looks like, it turns out, you’re on that no-fly list, there.” He seemed uncomfortable having to say this, as if it were his fault.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” Faye said. “I should have known.”

“Oh, no, not you,” the man said, looking surprised. “You’re not on the list. He is.”

“Me?” Samuel said.

“Yes, sir. That’s what it says right here,” tapping the clipboard. “Samuel Andresen-Anderson. Absolutely not allowed on an airplane.”

“How am I on the no-fly list?”

“Well,” he said, flipping through the pages as if he were reading them for the first time. “Were you recently in Iowa?”

“Yes.”

“Did you visit the ChemStar factory while you were there?”

“I stopped by.”

“Did you, um”—and here he lowered his voice, as if he were saying something obscene—“did you take photographs of the factory?”

“A couple, yeah.”

“Well,” he said, and shrugged as if the answer should have been obvious. “There you go.”

“Why were you taking photographs of ChemStar?” Faye said.

“Yes,” the man with the clipboard said. “Why were you?”

“I don’t know. It’s nostalgic.”

“You were taking nostalgic pictures of a factory,” the man said. He frowned. He was dubious. Not buying it. “Who does that?”

“My grandfather works there. Used to work there.”

“That part is true,” Faye said.

“That part? All of it is true. I was visiting my grandfather and took some pictures of all the old childhood places. The old house, the old park, and yes, the old factory. I think the better question here is why am I on the no-fly list for photographing a corn-processing plant?”

“Oh, well, those kinds of facilities have some pretty dangerous toxic chemicals. And it’s right there on the Mississippi. Let’s just say that your presence raised”—and here he put up two fingers to indicate air quotes—“homeland security concerns.”

“I see.”

He flipped to another page on his clipboard. “It says here that they saw you on their closed-circuit cameras, and you fled when security approached.”

“Fled? I didn’t flee. I left. I was done photographing. I never even saw security.”

“That’s exactly what I would say if I were fleeing,” the man said to Faye, who nodded.

“I know,” she said. “You’re exactly right.”

“Would you stop?” Samuel said. “So am I never going to fly again? Is that what this means?”

“It means you’re not going to fly today. But you can take steps to remove yourself from the list. There’s a website for that.”

“A website.”

“Or an 800 number, if you prefer,” he said. “Then an average wait time of six to eight weeks. I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you out of the airport now.”

“And my mother?”

“Oh, she can do whatever she wants. She’s not on the list.”

“I see. Can you give us a second?”

“Oh sure!” the man said. Then he took one step beyond the purple tape and turned his back three-quarters to them and clasped his hands in front of him and began very slightly tilting back and forth like someone whistling and rocking to his own tune.

“Let’s forget about it,” Faye whispered. “Let’s go home. The judge can do whatever he wants. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.”

And Samuel thought about his mother going to jail, thought about his life returning to normal: losing his job, in debt, alone, passing through his days in a digital fog.

“You have to leave,” he said. “I’ll come find you, when I can.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Faye said. “Do you know what the judge will do to you?”

“A lot less than what he’ll do to you. You need to go.”

She looked at him a moment, wondering whether to fight him.

“Don’t argue,” he said. “Just go.”

“Fine,” she said, “but we’re not going to have one of those sappy parent-child moments, right? You’re not going to cry, right?”

“I am not going to cry.”

“Because I was never very good at dealing with that.”

“Have a good flight.”

“Wait,” she said. She grabbed his arm. “This has to be a clean break. If we do this, we won’t be able to contact each other for a while. Radio silence.”

“I know.”

“So I’m asking you, are you prepared to do that? Can you handle that?”

“You want permission?”