Ruth thought of the octopus in the cave when Thomas was born. He was to be special. Now he was decorated by the army and coming home.

When the plane landed, Ruth stood up, watching, nervous. One by one, the passengers departed. Then there was no one. She waited. Perhaps his bag was in the back. Finally, an employee went over to them and said, “I’m sorry. Everyone is off the plane. Your passenger was not there.” Thomas’s disappointed buddies said nothing to Ruth. They walked out, their pants too low, their walks too arrogant for almost-poor men who spent their nights at the bar. Knowing she disliked them. Knowing why.

A garbled announcement was made for a town whose name no one could understand.

“There must be a mistake.” But Ruth already had a feeling he would not be there. Still, trying not to cry, she asked, “When does the next plane come in?”

Ruth went to the window and looked at the plane. She noticed the fingerprints on the glass, handprints, and thought of them as the ghosts of people who had been there and gone. In the reflection, she watched families meet, happily. Lovers kissing. People parting, reaching out to touch one last time.

She waited.

At four he didn’t arrive, either. She looked at their son, who had never met his father. He was pinning on the wings. He’d seen the pilots.

She looked at her mother in despair. “Why didn’t he call? He could have let us know. I don’t know why he hasn’t called. I want to hear his voice. I just want to hear him. He could have even called us earlier.” Her face was pale and tired. “What’s happened to him that he’d do this? Treat us this way?”

Aurora, thinking he’d broken Ruth’s heart once again, saw her daughter sway. “Come on. Let’s leave. It’s no good here.”

They drove past water and land, logging trucks.

“You don’t know. Anything could have happened.” But Aurora also knew he would not be coming home.

“Why didn’t he just call?”

Marco watched his mother cry. He knew his father was there, somewhere. He’d return.

Hours. Days. Years. Who knew how long?

BODY LIES

Thomas didn’t call. He was a lie. His cells were all lies and his being was made up of lies. Lies couldn’t call out the way truth does. They feared discovery. They were constantly confused and had soft edges that overlapped. Thomas was walking, thinking, My body is made of lies. There are lies on my tongue. He no longer knew the truth.

But lies are the first recognition of truth. He wouldn’t think this, he wouldn’t know it for many years. He would think, instead, My ancestors had purity and purpose. They had songs for everything. They were honest, even in their treaties, which in truth they called entreaties.

Had he gone home, he would have been surrounded by human faces that believed the lies about him and he would have had to act as if they were true, so, in his civilian clothes, he walked away from the airport, carrying only one bag. The other had gone along without him.