The Pilot (ON HOLD)

Part 3

He woke up in time for lunch.

I didn't hear him over the dissonance at the table, kids passing the plate of sliced ham, a bowl of lettuce, the mayo and jars of pickles. I was pouring milk into glasses while Claire stirred in Hershey syrup. The children's abrupt silence was the only warning I got.

I half turned, to see him filling the doorway, fingernails dug into the wooden jamb, trying to keep his feet. The fall of his dark hair makes his pallor even more striking. I pushed the chair at the head of the table toward him with my foot, "Sit down, before you fall down." I finish filling the glass I have in my hand and set it near Billy's plate. Glancing around at the five sets of wide eyes, I say, "Everyone, say hello to Mr. Chisholm."

Claire is the first to find her voice, "Hello Mr. Chisholm, may I make you a plate?"

I help him push his chair under the table, he bumps his knee, wincing. "I'll get him some water Claire, perhaps some toast to start?"

"Of course, Bee, pass me the bread please. Bee!"

Bee looks up at Claire's stern tone and passes the plate of sliced bread.

By the time I set a glass of water in front of our guest, Claire is holding thick slices of bread, clamped in the wire toaster over the fire. In the silence of the room, I can plainly hear the sizzle of melting butter dripping into the flames.

"Thank you."

The deep, rough voice jolts us all.

Long fingers wrap around the water glass, his head turns back toward where I stand at his shoulder and his blue eyes lift to mine. "Am I in Canada?" he asks, then coughs and takes a drink of water.

Picking up Billy, I sit on his chair and settle the three year old in my lap. "No, Mr. Chisholm, you're in New Hampshire."

His gaze drops to the plate Claire has just set in front of him, one large hand closes into a fist.

"I'm sorry," I say, "you fell short about two hundred miles of the border." I go on, trying to bridge a gorge with words, though I can't see the other side. "I'd offer you something more substantial, but perhaps something easy for your stomach to start with. You crashed over a week ago and only arrived here last night. I don't know when you ate last."

"I don't know either," he replies.

A muffled sob catches our attention and we look at Claire. Her cheeks turn red at our regard and she wipes her eyes on her napkin. "I'm sorry! I just never thought I'd hear an English accent again and it's so wonderful," she cries into her napkin.

The laugh that escapes me, surprises me as much as everyone else at the table. Except Billy, Billy laughs at everything and he chortles along happily in my lap, craning his chubby face around to look up at me.

Regaining my composure I look at Mr. Chisholm, "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting that."

He smiles, a little helplessly, and a bit lost. "I saw your light. I remember lying in the snow and darkness, I wasn't cold anymore, just tired." He leaned back in the chair. "I saw a light, an actual, electric light."

"Eat some toast, Mr. Chisholm," I say, kissing Billy's head. "There are some questions I'd like to ask you, if you're feeling up to it."

An hour later, he's eaten a piece of toast and I've helped him to the easy chair in front of the fire in my bedroom. I set water near him, wondering how long before Bren and the boys return. I pull a blanket from my bed and drape it over him.

"This isn't what I expected to find in America."

"What did you expect to find?"

"How much do you know, about what's going on out there?"

I sit on the hearth in front of him, trying to pick my words without seeming so. "We're a little out of the loop."

Crystal blue eyes meet mine, unwavering, "What loop?"