The Prodigal
They're waiting in line, patiently. Mrs. Mickler has her arm slung around Dr. Mickler's broad back, her other hand tucked in her jeans pocket. Her hat sits on her luggage, ready for action, ready to be snatched up and deposited on her head, should the sun make its way through the clouds outside.
Dr. Mickler shakes his heavy head, muttering something under his breath, and Mrs. Mickler— who is understandably excited about the whole thing— tucks in closer to him, whispers something against his chest and giggles like a teenager. At which Dr. Mickler smiles himself, bends stiffly to grab his luggage, slaps his wife on the rump, and moves forward in line.
Don Juan touches a finger to his upper lip, picks up Mrs. Mickler's bag for her, holding the wide-brimmed hat. "You two, uh, you remind me of the Walrus and the Carpenter. That old poem? In, um— in a good way."
Mrs. Mickler beams at him. She looks like a woman who has been given a present. Probably her husband, who tosses a glance over his shoulder now and gestures them forward.
"Where's this, uh, accent I've heard so much about, Johnny?"
He swallows, thinks of the pills sliding down his throat, of the ebbing desire to take on the world in mano a mano sword combat. One on one. One by one. "Gone, I guess."
"Missing," she corrects him, and he wonders who has been taking lessons from whom— Mrs. Mickler from Dr. Mickler, or the other way around. There's authority in her voice. "Not gone. Just— missing."
She pats him affectionately on the shoulder, much the same way she does to her husband. He smiles.
"Right."
They advance together to Dr. Mickler's side. He's tapping the edges of his credit card on the counter, turning it over and over. He's already told the lady behind the counter the name of the island— she's computing prices, likelihoods, exigencies, exit plans.
"We can set you down at Port George— from there you hire a boat. Half hour trip by water. Or jet ski. Fifteen minutes." She grins at Dr. Mickler, who grins back till his wife gives him a look. Then he coughs.
"We'll, ah, we'll catch a boat. Tell me, how's the weather down there?"
"Beautiful," she assures him.
One eyebrow raises above deep-set eyes, and he looks a bit skeptical. "You can tell me without even checking?"
She nods, brightly. "It's always beautiful, sir."
"Hear that?" he murmurs to his wife, who again is slung around him. She used to hang on him like this when they were young, too, before the marriage. When he took her to drive-ins and threw popcorn at her and laughed and laughed at W. C. Fields. "Always beautiful."
"Mm-hmm," says Mrs. Mickler, holding back a laugh. Don Juan coughs into his hand, sniffs, puts his hand in his pocket. What baggage he has is nearly negligible, but he has plenty of coins, to pay for postage, to send post cards to the doubters back home. The only believers he knows are right in front of him.
"Three of you?" The girl behind the counter is back to business.
Dr. Mickler swings a finger at himself, at Mrs. Mickler, at Don Juan, behind them. "Three of us."
"Right." She accepts his credit card, plays with the mouse a moment. "It's a small plane. Two seats on either side. A and B, C and D. Shall we put your son across the aisle from you, say, C?"
Dr. Mickler smiles. Lifts one of his great shoulders in a shrug. Doesn't glance at Don Juan, who is smiling a little himself.
"Close enough," says the doctor.
"Gracias, senorita," says the patient.
Outside, the sun has broken through the clouds. Dr. Mickler appropriates his wife's hat, and she chases him across the tarmac towards the waiting plane, both of them whooping like children. Don Juan observes the skies closely, and agrees that the weather will most likely be beautiful. There are clouds all about now, of course; but there's a promising glow on the horizon.