"Maybe, but several of the people who nominated him said he was a better teacher than anyone with an office on the executive floor. They weren't honoring a shareholder. They were honoring the man who showed up for them." Imani set the paper beside the framed photograph of Walter standing next to the luggage tractor. For the first time that day, she let herself cry.
The work on the academy continued through the winter. Imani visited the site twice, once in a hard wind that made the construction fence rattle and once on a gray afternoon when the classrooms were nearly ready. She walked through a workshop with training versions of baggage systems and small electric service vehicles, asked questions about tool access and safety instruction, and listened to the instructors explain which skills students would learn first. On one wall she noticed a simple sign above a row of benches: Check the work. Write it down. Ask when something doesn't make sense.
She thought about her father's notebook and the blue folder of complaints from B14. The words were plain, almost boring, but they described the habits that had been missing from the airline's handling of too many people. She asked the instructors to leave the sign exactly as it was. Then she arranged for a copy of Walter's old share-purchase notebook to be displayed in a small case, alongside a note explaining that his investments mattered because they reflected commitment, not because they bought him special treatment.
Evelyn resisted attending the dedication until the final week. "I'm too old for speeches and microphones," she told Imani over the phone. Imani knew her mother wasn't afraid of the trip so much as the absence the event would make visible. "You don't have to give a speech," she said.
"I just want you there to see what his coworkers remembered about him." Evelyn was quiet for a long time, then agreed on one condition. "No fancy introduction that makes me sound important. I'm Walter's wife. That's enough."
On the morning of the ceremony, Imani flew to Chicago with Evelyn seated beside her. She had booked two ordinary tickets and requested adjoining seats near the front because her mother found long walks through narrow aisles painful. Before boarding, she watched the gate agent explain a minor delay to a family with children and then ask whether they needed help finding their new connection. It was a small, competent exchange, but Imani paid attention precisely because nobody had needed to intervene.
When they reached their row, Evelyn paused beside seat 2A and looked at the number above the window. "Your daddy would have loved this seat," she said. Imani helped her settle into it.
"He'd have said the seat doesn't matter." Evelyn laughed and accepted the blanket a flight attendant offered. "He would've said it," she agreed. "And then he'd have asked for extra peanuts."