When she got near enough to recognize Larry, she stopped. Stopped and released the handle of her wheeled carry-on, her baggage, and waited for Larry to come and pick it up. He did, kissing her paperbag cheek and leading her by the arm out of the terminal into the summery, contrailed air. In the car she kept sifting through her purse. “What are you looking for, Ma?” “I want to show you something.” Eventually she found it, found two, but kept the second—packets they offer on planes in lieu of meals. She pushed it at him. “Open it.” He fiddled with it as he steered, gave up, and tore it open with his teeth. Mini pretzels strafed the dash. “Sorry,” he said. Esther leaned back and closed her eyes, finally at ease. After a minute she raised a finger, righteous and crooked at the top knuckle. “And the orange juice was warm.” “We’re going straight to a restaurant.” “I’m not hungry. I’m trying to make a point.” “Which is?” “Never mind. My disappointments are my own.
