Peter Passenger and the Mothman

Chapter 2: Airport

Chapter 2: Airport

I was in Cairo when I got the call from Esteban.

“I don’t know how to say this...” he said to me.

That’s when I knew. I knew that it had all caught up with them. I knew that it was time.

I caught the first plane back to DC. The ride was long and tiresome. When I saw myself in the airplane bathroom mirror an hour or so before we landed, I saw that I looked haggard. I have the kind of fine blond hair that even at twenty-eight looks oily if it isn't washed every morning, and I had been up for quite some time. I am told that I have the body of a football player and the face of an old movie star, but neither were looking fabulous tonight. The growth on my face looked less like a five P. M. shadow and more like a thick five A. M. phantom. Overall, the tan corduroy jacket I wore, and my blue jeans had held up well on the plane, but the white button-up shirt I wore beneath the jacket was wrinkled beyond belief. I wasn't concerned. My parents had just died. My appearance was the last thing that I needed to worry about, but I could hear my mother’s words.

“It’s sad, Peter, but it’s true. People do judge us by how we look. Think about your audience when you go into any situation. How do you want them to see you? What do you want from them, Peter? Once you answer those questions, you’ll know how you want to look.”

I smiled. My mother always looked beautiful, and kind, but she was also downright brilliant. So who would I see tonight? Probably just Esteban, but that was rather complicated. What did I want from Esteban? How did I want him to see me? Tonight, I think that all I really want from him is answers, I thought to myself. If anyone knew anything, it was him. As for what else I might want from him, well, we had both been trying to figure that out for a long time, and there was no reason we couldn't sit and wonder again for one more evening.

The plane touched down at Dulles in the late afternoon. About an hour later, after unloading and traveling through customs, I made my way toward the rental cars. I had one carry-on bag, so there was no need to go to the baggage claim area. In the two years I had spent in Cairo, pursuing research my father had felt was important, I had accumulated very few possessions, but a great deal of knowledge. I had lived in a hotel the entire time, and most of the time I took my meals there, in nearby restaurants, or with acquaintances my parents had arranged for me to meet. The hotel had treated me like a prince, even offering to pack and mail the rest of my stuff. I didn't flatter myself and think that it was all because they loved me. I knew the fact that my family was exceptionally wealthy had a lot to do with it. My parents had actually purchased the hotel during my stay.

Growing up, if there were ever discussion of the one percent, not that that’s what we’ve always called those privileged people in the world who have more money than most people could even imagine, but if those discussions did come up I could usually expect a long talk with my parents afterward. You see, my family is not just part of the one percent. We are probably part of the one percent of the one percent. My father came from an old Virginia family that almost lost everything when they sided with the North during the Civil War, but when that war was over, they came back like gangbusters. My mother came from an old Maryland family, who also supported the North in the Civil War. With a shipping industry in Baltimore on one side, and a tobacco plant in Richmond on the other, my parents’ families had made a fortune. As time went on, those family businesses diversified. When my parents, both only children and heirs to humongous fortunes, married, they decided to combine their business interests. What is now Passenger Industries (once again not the real name, but it does put you in mind of it) is a conglomeration of two humongous corporations that have diversified so much that if we lost both of them, all of our other holdings could support me and generations to come without ever having to earn another penny. So, you see, I am fabulously wealthy. Thus the responsibility lectures from my parents.

First of all, let me begin by saying that neither of my parents actually ran the companies they inherited. They did what smart business people do. They stood as figure heads and then hired amazing, and trustworthy, people to run the day-to-day management of those companies, while they, my parents, maintained controlling stock shares. Then they expanded all the other smaller companies they had inherited, and bought or created a ton more. For those smaller companies, they also hired talented people. Frequently, if my parents knew of a worthwhile company that was going bankrupt, they would go in and rescue it by either buying it from an owner who didn't mind taking a huge sum for a failing company and then staying on as CEO with a rather generous salary, or for those owners who wanted to keep their companies, my parents would buy in as partners. In both cases, they brought in consultants who were great at making companies with potential grow with a long-term plan. My mother and father believed in giving people chances, and to be honest, there was always enough money that if these investment companies still failed, which was rare, we were still very okay, and in those instances my parents made sure that the owners, and their employees were alright as well. Usually in those rare cases when a failing company we bought out still failed, we hired the employees in another company we owned. This was part of the responsibility that my parents instilled in me.

“When you have a lot, it’s important to remember that many people don't. It never hurts to help people, Peter. We all need help some days,” they would say.

This was also why it was important to my parents to keep controlling interest in Passenger Industries. They made sure that the corporation offered good benefits, and great wages. Every year we were highlighted in some magazine as one of the best businesses to work for.

“Why should people be loyal to companies that exploit them?” my father would ask. “When you are in charge one day, Peter, we expect you to watch out for not only Passenger Industries, but also for the people who make it up. If you take care of people, they will take care of you.”

This philosophy carried on at home. Several of our servants were people my mother met while volunteering at the homeless shelter. Her personal assistant at work was a woman who had been staying at one of the women's shelters where my mother sat on the board, and our chauffeur was a man who had originally asked my father for change at the airport.

I remembered this while leaving customs at Dulles. A few minutes later, as I approached the rental car area, I heard my father’s voice.

“Peter!” he yelled.

I turned to him, the way I always did when I heard his voice behind me. In my mind, I must have known that he wasn't there; although it's hard to believe that such information could register in only a few hours. My heart had definitely not registered anything. My heart is what turned my body to that voice. My heart is what hoped to see my father as I turned.

It took a moment for my brain to catch up and take charge. I looked behind me, my eyes trying to find my father, when suddenly, they found someone else.

Esteban was there, standing about twenty feet behind me. His dark hair was thick and longer than I remembered. My eyes skimmed over it appreciatively, and somewhere in my mind, I remembered touching it. We looked at each other, and the look somehow bridged the gap. Even from the distance, I noticed the area around his eyes looked haggard and showed that he had not slept much, but his dark eyes were bright and I could tell that he was glad to see me. He wore a stylish suit and a London Fog that I remembered my father picking out for him not so many Christmases ago. He raised his hand to me and called my name again.

“Peter!” he yelled.

I smiled, and then I ran to him. I didn't know how alone I had felt on the plane ride until I reached him. He grabbed me and pulled me close. I let my face fall onto his shoulder. I enjoyed the feel of his arms surrounding me and pulling me in. We stood there for a moment, both silent, breathing into each other.

He leaned down and kissed the top of my head.

“You must be tired,” he said.

“I’m exhausted,” I replied. “I can tell you are as well.”

He released his hug on me, and then grabbed my hand.

“Let's go," he said.

We walked out of the airport with our hands entwined. Perhaps we looked like lovers, or maybe like lost children holding on to each other. We were both.