I never did get to eat that pasta Ellen saved for me. It was gone from her tray when I opened my eyes. But my soul did return in time to nibble on a ham, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich.
This time Ellen slept through the meal service, so I snagged an extra for her one, wrapped in foiled paper. The flight map showed that we were already over Maine. We didn’t have that much farther to go before beginning our descent so I nudged her awake so she could eat while it was still hot.
Thankfully, she was a much lighter ‘sleeper’ than me. Most people were, when their souls weren’t traveling between worlds.
She didn’t say much but a quick thanks. She just gulped it down and chased it with a plastic cup full of orange juice.
She kept giving me funny looks like she expected me to go unconscious again. But this time, there was no sign of any waves. I felt numb. No depression. A touch of anxiety. Some nervous excitement over Luther’s offer, but also a little fear over what was to come in the Deeps.
In short, I had mixed emotions, not a condition conducive to transporting my soul to the Liminality. For that, I would need a good and pure dose of fatalistic despair. Until I could get a handle on my mood, I would be sticking around this existence for a while.
Our flight arrived over Newark about an hour behind schedule. Once the plane landed, we were kept on board until all the other passengers had deplaned. A US Marshal came down the aisle. He had a pot belly that threatened to burst the lower buttons of his uniform shirt. He made straight for the Jamaicans and cuffed them both.
“Hey mon! This is not necessary,” said Frankie. “We won’t cause you any trouble. We are well behaved. Just ask our friends here from Heathrow.”
“Procedure.” That was all the guy said as he maneuvered Frankie and Rudolph out of their seats.
Ellen and I got up followed after them, uncuffed.
“Hey mon, how come we get the special treatment? Is it because we are black men?”
“You two aren’t US citizens,” said the marshal. “I’ll be escorting you straight to your next flight.”
“James! It has been a pleasure to know you,” said Frankie as he swayed and wobbled down the aisle. “May the road rise up to meet you, or however the saying goes. Watch out, Kingston, here we come!”
“Take care, guys.” Rudolph looked back at me with eyes deep as catacombs. I wasn’t the only one on this flight to visit Root.
***
“Welcome home,” said one of the immigration officials as we entered one of the back rooms of the Customs and Border Patrol area. Our privately contracted escorts delivered us into their custody almost immediately upon exiting the plane. I presumed they got to spend the night before heading back to the UK. Weird job, shuttling back and forth like that. I suppose things got more interesting when the deportees were less passive than me and Ellen.
They had us sit on a bench and wait, while a lady went through some files and forms that had accompanied us all the way from London. I don’t know why, but I had thought we would be turned loose immediately upon reaching US soil. I still had a valid passport and I hadn’t committed any crimes while I was in the UK, other than working without a permit.
I wondered if my absconding with Dad’s pickup truck from the county probate lot might finally catch up with me. It hadn’t felt like stealing at the time, more like getting something back from a lost and found, but I’m sure the authorities thought differently.
I had visions of being taken aside and placed into custody once they discovered whatever arrest warrants were active under my name. Not that it mattered. A jail was pretty close to ideal for someone who planned to spend most of his time commuting to Root.
