"I didn't flag anything," Tasha said. "But Skyline's flight office offered the charter twice this week, and someone from executive travel called about putting you on a private company aircraft. They would very much like to roll out the red carpet."
Imani closed the file without looking away from the boarding pass. "And I said no twice. Regular fare, my own card, seat 2A, and nobody on that plane knows I'm coming." Tasha gave the resigned little sigh of a woman who had lost this argument repeatedly and would continue losing it.
"They'd be thrilled to know you're there," Tasha said. "That's why they won't know," Imani answered. "My father's rule was never ride on somebody else's name. If the treatment changes when the name changes, you haven't learned anything about how the place works." Tasha agreed and told her the remaining documents had arrived overnight. There were fourteen complaint files from a single gate supervisor at O'Hare, and every one had been closed with the identical conclusion: No violation found.
Imani opened the folder again. "Fourteen complaints against the same man?" she asked. "Gary Whitlock," Tasha confirmed.
"Different passengers, different dates, almost the same complaint. The regional office closed them all without recommending corrective action." Imani read the first name on the cover, followed by the date and the regional manager who had approved the closure. It was Doug Pruitt, the executive scheduled to present Gary with an award that afternoon.
"Does Margaret know I'm looking at these?" Imani asked. "She knows you requested the files, but I don't believe she's read them herself," Tasha replied. "She also says the board vote is at two, and she wants a confirmation you'll be there."
Imani slipped the folder into her bag. "Tell her I'll be on time. Nobody gets to congratulate me before the vote, not even Margaret." Tasha said, "Then I'll just wish you a safe flight, Madam Almost-Chair."
Before she left, Imani called her mother. Evelyn Brooks answered on the second ring, already awake and listening to the morning news in the small brick house outside Chicago where Imani had grown up. "You're flying today," Evelyn said, without bothering with a greeting.
"And you haven't told them who you are." Imani laughed and looked at the photograph of Walter Brooks standing beside a luggage tractor in a faded blue work jacket. "Not yet, Mama. Dad would have wanted it this way."
"Your daddy would've wanted you to eat breakfast before walking through an airport," Evelyn said. "He also would've wanted to know the seat number." Imani told her.
There was a pause before Evelyn answered, "Two A. Your daddy never sat up there once in thirty-one years." Imani traced a finger over the old photograph, remembering the familiar smell of his jacket after a twelve-hour shift. Jet fuel, cold air, rain, the coffee that spilled from his dented thermos every time he turned a corner.