I’m realizing it might actually be a good thing old Susannah showed up. This creates the perfect opportunity for us to make her think we’re really working on the story she thinks we are. I can’t let Franklin interrupt my flow. “See the two Delleton-Marachelles Franklin has? One of them is-”
“Stand by,” Susannah interrupts. She flips open a leather-bound portfolio and pulls a calendar out of a pocket, checking the dates with a chunky black ballpoint. She holds up the calendar, her pen pointing to one square. “We’re thinking-first week of November? Thursday? We’ll have a solid lead-in from that new ‘top model’ reality show. Models at ten, then you’re all about fashion at eleven. Perfectamundo. So, Frank? Charlie? Do you love it? I mean, do you love it?”
My turn for a furtive eye-roll. No one calls him Frank. And I don’t love it. Not one bit.
“No problem,” I say. “Can do.” I’m performing my dependable reliable worker-bee act. Then I take the two bags from Franklin’s desk and offer them, one in each hand, to Susannah. Big smile.
“Up for a pop quiz?” I ask. “Think you can pick out the authentic D-M? Franklin just asked me if I can-but maybe you should try.”
“Let’s see if Charlotte can do it,” Franklin says, interrupting. He pushes the two purses back toward me, smiling like a ten-year-old trying to taunt his big sister. “Just for fun.”
“Sure,” I say. I look at Susannah, and try for some wiggle room. “I just got back from Baltimore, though, remember? Franklin’s had more time.”
“Chicken,” Franklin says.
“You’re on.” I wish I could stick my tongue out at him, but I know that’s unprofessional. And it would let him know he’s won.
Okay. How do I tell the real thing? At first, the bags look identical. I choose one, and turn it over, examining, remembering the research Franklin and I have already done. I check the stitching, the leather piping around the edges, the metal d-rings that hold the camel leather handle. The brown-and-tan logo pattern matches at the side seams. That’s a point for authentic. The zipper sticks. Possible fake. The lining is flat and the stitches are even. I open an inner pocket. There’s a tiny brown leather rectangle, stamped in gold with the D-M logo. Good. A tiny label says: made in China. Hmm.
The second bag. This one’s handle is wrapped in protective plastic. When I zip it open, the zipper sticks. There’s no “made in China” label. I zip open an inner pocket. Inside is an identical tiny dark brown leather rectangle, letters on it stamped in gold: Delleton-Marachelle. Below the name, it says: Made in Paris.
“Aha!” I say, pointing a finger to the ceiling in triumph. I attempt a French accent. “I have deescovaired ze secrette. Eeet ess-” I can see Susannah is not amused. To her, humor is as alien a concept as compassion. I hold out the bag marked “made in China” and talk like myself again. “This one.”
Susannah deflates, her shoulders drooping and her lined lips pursed in disapproval. “Made in China? That’s how you tell it’s fake?” Her voice gets more brittle with each word. She taps her folder with that pen. Considering. “I’m thinking we may have to re-slot this story. Maybe hold it for after the sweeps. I mean,” she pauses, closing her eyes as if we’re just too, too ridiculous. “China?”
“No, wait, Susannah,” I say. “You’ve got it wrong.” Almost always, I don’t add.
Franklin’s turn to pantomime applause. “You’re good, McNally,” he says with a double thumbs-up. “How’d you know?”
“Well, it’s the label of origin,” I explain. “Isn’t that it? This one says Paris. And we know-”
“Right,” Franklin interrupts. “Most people think D-M bags are made in France. But we know-”
I turn to Susannah, picking up Franklin’s train of thought. “Their main office is in Paris. Their fabric is made in France. Their hardware is stamped in France. Their brand-new design headquarters are in Atlanta. But these babies are actually put together…”
I pause just long enough for Franklin to know it’s a cue.
“In China.” We say it together.
“Sensational.” Susannah says. She flips her notebook closed with a snap. “Four weeks until airtime. ‘It’s In The Bag.’ Do you love it? I mean, do you love it?”
“Black. With wheels. From Baltimore. It had a name tag.” I should not have come to the airport. I should not be leaning on Logan Airport’s lost luggage counter, at what should be dinnertime, discussing my missing possessions with an overpierced and overworked clerk. The name tag on his wilting blue polyester shirt says Todd. And I predict Todd is just pretending to talk on the phone and check his computer records until I agree to go away. And I do want to go away. But I also want my stuff. And I can’t believe it’s not here somewhere.
“Excuse me?” I say, entreating. I point to the expanse of unclaimed luggage covering the floor. “Could I just look through the misdirected bags you’re holding?”
Todd is talking through a headphone, and covers the tiny mouthpiece with one hand. “I can’t hear you,” he says, obsessively clicking a ballpoint open and closed. And goes back to his “conversation.”
I scan the wretched moonscape of black wheelie bags, stranded and orphaned, a forlorn dumping ground surrounded by a sagging strip of webbing that’s stretched between two stanchions. I shrug at Todd, then head into the forest of black canvas and plastic, picking my way through hundreds of astonishingly identical suitcases. Some with colorful bows, some with leather name tags. Some bigger, some smaller. So far, everyone’s bag but mine.
“Passengers arriving on Flight…” A barely decipherable announcement crackles over the public address system. I squint my ears to understand. But all I get is “…now at Claim Station C.”
Suddenly, a wave of travelers troops wearily past me toward the area ceiling signs designate Claim Station C. Carry-on bags slung over their shoulders, cell phones in their hands, kids in tow. They stand in clumps, staring dully at the still-empty black conveyor belt each one is hoping will hold their belongings. A few more passengers straggle in, also focused on the conveyor belt. With a flashing of red warning lights, the blare of the “luggage arriving” klaxon echoes through the baggage claim area. The segmented belt lurches mechanically into motion. The black plastic strips over the opening flap and flutter as the parade of suitcases begins.
I’m hypnotized, staring in amazement as the once-placid passengers power into fast forward, swarming the conveyor, grabbing bags, yanking them, tossing them onto carts and wheeling them away. Kids ignored, the travelers elbow and shoulder their way closer to the belt, manners and turn-taking forgotten. They’re all talking at once, jockeying for position, and it’s every man for himself. No person and no bag is safe.
And suddenly, it’s clear what’s happened to my suitcase. It’s not lost. It’s stolen.
Sidestepping and tiptoeing my way back through the maze of luggage leftovers, I stomp back to Todd, my realization swelling my tired brain into anger. Todd’s still staring only at his computer screen, playing with his ridiculous pen. I slap both palms on his desk and lean toward him, almost hissing.
“You guys don’t even compare claim checks,” I say. I know it’s not Todd’s fault, exactly, but he’s the only one here. And I’m tired and cranky and need a shower and the stupid airline has lost my suitcase. Again. And I’m sick of being nice about it. “It’s outrageous. And it’s probably why you guys have such a disastrous record of lost luggage. It’s not the curbside check-in agents getting the tags wrong. It’s not the weather. It’s just open season around here. People could just come in and-I mean…”
I wave a disdainful hand at the bag-hungry crowd, shaking my head. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. I’m making myself even crankier, heading toward full-out rant. “Look at them all! Anyone could just walk in and take a bag. Who would know? And they just hope they grab one with good stuff in it, and head for the door.”