The Other Mr. Bax by Rodney Jones Read Free Book Online Page A

coming. I’ll be arriving about that same time.”
    “Oh. You all right?”
    She took a sip from her cup. “Mm… tired. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

    Joyce found her seat—a window seat, just behind the trailing edge of the starboard wing. A man in a dark-gray business suit—round face, bushy eyebrows, mid-fifties—took the seat next to hers. He appeared relaxed and over-confidently cheerful. He smiled, and said, “Not much of a view, is it?”
    She forced a smile and shook her head.
    “Headed for Chicago?”
    “Buffalo,” she said.
    “Oh, really? Me too. You from there?”
    “Just visiting.”
    “I’m there on business. Don’t believe I’d wanna live there. All that snow. Some nice restaurants, though… if you like Italian.” The man’s smile was etched into the lines around his eyes—like one of those rare people who smile more than they don’t. “Roland Barburg’s my name. There’s a bar in every burg.”             
    “Roland,” she said.
    His smile broadened. “A bar in every burg.”
    She was about to ask, but then realized she was being baited. She instead offered her hand. “I’m Joyce Bax.”
    A flight attendant came by, checking seatbelts; another stood up front, going over emergency procedures while Mr. Barburg explained the nature of his restaurant supply business. He paused as the plane began accelerating up the runway, but then, once the wheels left the ground, he continued. Nearly a half-hour into the flight, he quieted, reached down for a bag between his feet, and pulled out a paperback. “You won’t mind if I excuse myself? Catch up on some reading?”
    Joyce assured him she wouldn’t. She turned and gazed out the window to her right, the past twenty-four hours flitting about in her mind in a non-sequential collage. She finally escaped into an earlier memory, returning again to the art festival in Saint Petersburg, where her chance encounter with Roland still carried a spark of awe. The look on his face: one moment, full of pepper, the next, perfectly dumbstruck.
    That moment was still fresh in her mind, their introductions, his hand in hers, the handshake, slow and dream-like, settling, ending. She recalled the look in his eyes, and feeling bewildered by their transformation—from buoyant, to searching, then distant and uncertain, as if he too was in disbelief—and how the realization made her dizzy. His hand, still in hers, for no other reason than they’d forgotten themselves. She relaxed her grip; Roland responded in like, and both withdrew their hands.
    One or the other had said, “Selma, Indiana?” She was not sure now who.
    He’d raised a hand to his mouth—the tips of his fingers touching his lips, as if holding back an uncertain thought.
    She said, “You’re that Roland?”
    He did not readily confirm her supposition. He didn’t need to.
    Later, in the early evening of that same day, as she stepped through the front door of her sister’s apartment—a fat grin upon her face—she was met with a cheerful—“Hey”—followed immediately by a suspicious squint. “Okay, what is it?” her sister said.
    Joyce forced the grin from her face. The feeling, however, still lurking within her chest, tickled her cheeks. She held it back until a tiny squeal leaked out, as though she’d been holding onto the crazy energy for days. Even she was surprised by her girlishness.
    “What, what, what?” Brenda was nearly shouting. “What is it?” She twisted her head—a quick look over her shoulder—shrugged, then placed a hand over her mouth.
    Joyce laughed. “I have a date tonight.”
    “You are kidding.”
    She smiled and wagged her head side to side.
    “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You’re not kidding.”
    “I had the most incredible day, ever. If I gave you a million years, you’d not guess who I ran into.”
    “Okay, but I may only have about eighty years left.”
    “I’ll give you a hint… Selma.”
    “Selma,” Brenda