MRS. BLOSSOM HAD never been upgraded in her life.
To be fair, until this moment-the last day of March, a Baltimore March that was going out full lion, all blustery winds and horizontal sleet-it had not been a life that offered many opportunities for upgrades. A good life, yes, even an excellent one while her husband was alive, but also a rooted-to-the-ground kind of existence. It wasn't a matter of never getting past the velvet ropes, more an issue of never getting to them.
For one thing, she seldom flew, averaging only a trip or two a year between her native Baltimore and her recent hometown of Phoenix. She always chose Southwest, a no-frills airlines, because she was a no-frills kind of person. Once, just once, she bought a Business Select ticket because circumstances had forced her to book last-minute. The only real advantage was boarding in the first group, a novelty to her. Oh, and there was a drink coupon, but it was 6:30 a.m. She gave it to the nervous flier next to her, who ordered a screwdriver, downed it in three gulps, then fell asleep, his head lolling on her shoulder. Mrs. Blossom had the kind of shoulder that even strangers found inviting.
Meanwhile, when it came to hotels-well, she hadn't stayed in one of those since Mr. Blossom died. Even during the marriage, it had just been the occasional Hampton Inn here and there. Harold Blossom was a homebody, which meant Mrs. Blossom had been a homebody, too. If the person you love likes to stay put, you stay put with them.
Planes, hotels-what other situations offered upgrades? Mrs. Blossom couldn't think of any. Probably because she had never been upgraded.
Which explained her tongue-tied confusion when the young woman at the British Airways ticket counter asked if she wanted to be "bumped up" to business class for her flight to London.
Mrs. Blossom lowered her voice. "How much would that cost?"
She immediately regretted the question. She had vowed she would not ask the price of anything over the next fourteen days. The point was to pretend that money was no object. But who was she fooling? Money, if not the object, was always an object. It wended its way through almost every human transaction, even those we consider pure. You can marry for love, bring children into the world for your own express joy-and it's still part of the US tax code. People thought money was rational because it could be quantified, but Mrs. Blossom found money stranger than love.
And more shameful than sex.
"The upgrade won't cost you anything," the ticket agent said. "The economy cabin is oversold on this flight while business has several open seats. I'm going to have to upgrade two or three people, and you're the first to check in. Besides, you would be so much more comfortable in business. The seats are much wi-" She paused, stopped, started over. "The seats are much more comfortable."
She was probably going to say "wider," Mrs. Blossom realized. Mrs. Blossom was a big woman. Mrs. Blossom was a large woman. OK, fine, she was a fat woman. Her grandchildren kept telling her that the word fat was okay now, even preferable, that it was a factual term that should not be stigmatized. Fat was a fact, fat was neutral, or should be.
Bless their hearts.
Mrs. Blossom loved her three granddaughters, but those three petite tweens had no idea what it was like, FWF: flying while fat. Internet savvy as they were, they probably didn't even realize there was an entire subreddit devoted to the topic.
Because as little as Mrs. Blossom may have flown, the experience was depressingly, consistently humiliating. She usually boarded in the last group, when only middle seats were available because of Southwest's open-seating policy. People would avoid her eyes as she made her way down the aisle, like little children thinking they were invisible if they couldn't see you. When she finally chose a seat, the passengers on either side would sigh, no matter how much she tried to shrink herself. And if she dared to use the armrest, the only perk of a middle seat, they would sigh even more.
She glanced at her British Airways ticket: She was in 36-D, an aisle, but toward the rear of the plane. If an upgrade could spare her those affronted sighs, those worried glances as she walked toward her seat-oh god I hope she's not next to me-then it would be quite the upgrade.
"And it's-free?"
"Yes. Plus, you would be welcome to wait in the Chesapeake Lounge before boarding, which is nice given that you're here"-the young woman checked her wristwatch-"three hours before departure."
"I thought you were supposed to build in a lot of time for-" Mrs. Blossom stopped herself from saying "foreign," a tic her family had been teasing her about as she planned this trip-"international travel."
"I wish more of our fliers were like you," the ticket agent said, her eyes fixed on her screen, her fingers making all those mysterious clicks and clacks that ticket agents apparently require to produce a new paper ticket. "I'm going to put you in 2-F, Mrs. Blossom." Everyone called her "Mrs. Blossom," always had, even when she was a twenty-year-old newlywed, possibly because it was an amusing name to say: Mrs. Blossom. She hadn't liked this when she was young; she felt it aged her. But as she had grown older and the world had become more casual, she found she enjoyed the implicit fealty.
Besides, it was her husband's legacy to her, and every time someone used her surname, it was as if Harold, dead for ten years, lived again for a nanosecond. There could be no Mrs. Blossom without a Mr. Blossom.
Except, it turned out-there could be.
"Here's your ticket, Mrs. Blossom. Don't forget, the Chesapeake Lounge is close to the security checkpoint in Concourse E, but it's a little behind you when you enter. You have to loop back for it."
"I'm worried I'll miss my plane if I'm not sitting at the gate," Mrs. Blossom confessed. She quoted her ticket: "The flight closes thirty minutes before departure."
"Oh, the staff in the lounge won't let you be stranded." It was a man's voice, rich and resonant, coming from behind her. "There will be ample notice and multiple announcements."
Mrs. Blossom turned and saw a silver-haired man waiting patiently for his turn at the counter, a man who also had to be headed to London, as there was only one daily BA flight out of Baltimore. She wasn't the only person to arrive at the recommended three hours before, after all. So there, she said in her head to the ticket agent. (Mrs. Blossom said a lot of So theres! in her head, very few out loud.)
"They announce the flight well in advance," the man continued. "And because you're flying business, you'll be among the first passengers summoned to the gate." He approached the counter and showed the agent his boarding pass, placed his suitcase on the scale, where it registered only ten pounds. Oh, wait, it was probably kilos at British Airways. After all, the ticket agent had a British accent. "I'm already traveling business, as it happens, but if you can seat me close to this kind lady, I'll take good care of her here and at Heathrow."
The man was her age, give or take, although Mrs. Blossom had trouble judging people's ages. The silver hair-quite thick-might be premature. She had let her hair go gray after Mr. Blossom died, then been convinced by her granddaughters to have the gray changed to a subtle platinum. A silly expense, $175 every six weeks, not including tip-but here she was, thinking about money again when, if she were judicious, she could live the rest of her life with any hair color she wanted.
"If you'll wait for me to check in," the man said, "I'll show you the lounge. You don't have to stay there, but I think you'll prefer it to the gate. The international terminal here is pretty bare bones."
She gave a slight, imperious nod, as if she were familiar with the amenities offered in various airports. She had been to exactly three in her life-Baltimore, Phoenix, and Louisville.
He did more than show her the lounge. He narrated Mrs. Blossom's journey through security, a process she found unnerving, despite having flown only last week. He even threw their passports and boarding passes into the same little bowl, as if they were traveling together, then reminded her to take off her charm bracelet, saying it might ping the metal detector. Lovely manners. He reminded her of Mr. Blossom, who had lived to put others at ease.
...
