Unfinished Symphony (Logan 3)

Suddenly, Jerome appeared again, looking all out of breath.

"I got a new crisis," he said, "here in New York."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"I've got to return to the city." He picked up his briefcase and then he paused. "The trouble is I had to get these papers to Los Angeles today. Listen, could you do me a great favor? I would be willing to pay you."

"What is it?" I asked.

"There will be a man at the airport waiting at the gate when you arrive. He'll be holding a sign that reads Tonsworth.' Just give him this briefcase. I'll be calling and telling him to expect you. Okay?"

"Just give him the briefcase?"

"That's it," he said. "Okay? Here," he added taking a fifty-dollar bill out of his wallet.

"Oh, you don't have to give me any money for something so simple," I said.

"I insist."

"I won't do it if you insist on giving me money. If we can't do little favors for each other . ."

He smiled.

"You know, I had a feeling it was my lucky day when I saw you standing there and smiling like that. Thanks. And if we ever run into each other again, I'll be sure to buy you another cup of tea."

He pushed the briefcase toward me.

"A man will be standing with a sign . . . Tonsworth.' He won't be hard to find," he declared and then he walked off, disappearing in the crowds of people who had just come off airplanes.

I finished my tea and got up. The briefcase was a little heavier than I had anticipated, but it wasn't too heavy. I walked down the terminal until I reached gate forty-one. There were many people there already. I asked the attendant what I had to do next.

"You'll get your boarding pass at the desk," she instructed and I got into line. Ten minutes later, I reached the desk and handed the attendant my ticket. She gave me my boarding pass and I sat and waited with everyone until the flight attendant announced our plane would begin boarding.

My heart began to beat madly again. When I heard my seat number, I joined the line and made my way to the airplane. The attendant at the door smiled warmly at me and directed me to the right.

"You have the aisle seat," she said. I found it quickly. There was an elderly man in a light brown suit sitting by the window already, his eyes closed. He opened them when I sat beside him.

"Hello there," he said.

"Hello." I put the briefcase under the seat in front of me and buckled my seat belt, just as I had been instru

cted. Then I smiled at him again.

"Going home?"

"No. I'm going to Los Angeles for the first time," I said. "How about you?"

"Going home. I visited my brother in Brooklyn. He's too old to travel anymore so I come to him. Used to be, we took turns. It's not easy to get old, but you know what they say, it beats the alternative," he added and laughed, his thick-lensed glasses bouncing on the bridge of his nose.

"How old is your brother?"

"Ninety-four, two years older than me," he replied.

"You're ninety-two years old?" I asked, astonished.

"Years young. If you think of yourself as being old, you're old," he said plainly. He did have remarkable young-looking light gray eyes, more hair than I thought a man of that age would have and a face that, although crossed with deep wrinkles in his forehead and temples, was not that weathered. He was slim, but he certainly didn't look fragile and weak.

"I'll have to ask you to tell me your secret," I said, smiling.