Crybaby Ranch (2 page)

“I
s there something I'm supposed to take
personally
about this trip?” Erik asks on the drive to the Toledo airport. I shake my head no. Fifteen miles later he asks, “Do you realize you could have saved yourself a hell of a lot of money on your plane ticket by planning ahead?” I nod yes. Ten miles after that: “Don't you know that if you'd waited for spring break, you needn't have used all your personal days from work?” I tip my head side to side and add a shrug.

All good questions. But for once I have nothing to say in response to him. I think Erik likes it when I'm quiet and slightly miserable. He carries my suitcase to the end of the ticket line and looks me over the way a parent does before sending a child off on the school bus. I hope he likes how this turquoise cotton sweater makes my blue eyes stand out. He kisses me goodbye rather rousingly, and I give a little laugh of pleasure. He frowns down at me.

“Don't get sunburned,” he says and leaves.

I watch him walk off. He's dressed as if he were teaching today instead of heading into a lazy Sunday on the sofa. He wears a blazer, pressed khakis, and one of his dry-cleaned shirts with a tie. Erik moves with authority. Women like to look at him. Me, too. He comes across as neat and clean, simple and straightforward. Actually, he's only neat and clean.

I turn sideways in line and stare out the glass walls of the terminal where gray concrete fades into gray sky. A sudden thrill twirls through me. I'm heading for Florida. Blue sky, seagulls, and salty breezes. Perhaps the beach is the place to talk to my mother about those late-night phone calls. We'll walk holding hands like we do and I'll just tell her they are hard for me.

Once I secure my ticket, I sit with coffee near the windows. So far I've made decisions about this trip the same way I do making jewelry: watch to see what my hands do next. But I'm not used to this method in real life. I prefer thinking in correct grammatical English, punctuated, footnoted, spell-checked. I'm a teacher, after all. This trip must account for more than a response to a strange man's smile or my familiar husband's lack of one.

Perhaps at last I understand that a few new beads each Saturday morning aren't going to hold my life together much longer.

In the early years of our marriage, the unity among the three of us—Erik, Beckett, and me—felt like the ideal of a loving family miraculously drawn from three unlikely sources. But that unity demanded a sacrifice from me. My Tampax was the single belonging not borrowed, displaced, or mutually used. Over time I became especially attached to my Tampax, and that sentiment extended to my periods; I drew into my body and its secret rhythms. Erik and I didn't make love during that week. Also I hid precious things in my Tampax boxes, collected the empty ones for that purpose. Eventually, I acquired fibroid tumors, not a serious problem, but one that ultimately extended my periods to fifteen days of slowed trickle.

I watch people juggle newspapers, briefcases, and coats, as they make temporary nests in their bolted-down plastic seats.

I have been buying space and time.

That's the way women in my family purchase their personal boundaries, with their bodies. My mother suffered a hysterectomy when my father retired from teaching law at the University of Cincinnati and began teaching her how to keep house instead. Aunt Anne lost her thyroid and a breast before Uncle Roy agreed to attend AA.

I must learn a better way.

Next to me a woman struggles with balancing her coffee while trying to unload her tote bag, jacket, and backpack. I set my coffee down, hold her cup for her, and with my free hand, help her shrug out of her ski jacket.

“Thanks.”

“Going on a ski trip?”

“Going home. Where I live we wear ski jackets everywhere. Weddings, funerals.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I've sure felt stupid wearing it here.”

“Where's home?”

“Jackson Hole, Wyoming.”

“That's my dream place,” I say and scoot to the edge of my seat and face her. “We go every June for a week.” I look out the window and nearly have to fight tears at the memory of that isolated valley and the mountains whose icy peaks surround it like a diamond-studded nimbus. “Someday I'll just up and—” I stop and smile.

She nods in understanding. “Half the population got there that way, just up and moved. Must be magnets in the mountain slopes for some of us. I was vacationing and didn't go home when I was supposed to. At work I hear stories all the time about people who saw the valley once, dropped everything, and moved there.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “I mean doctors, lawyers. We have the most educated restaurant servers in the country.”

“Where do you work?” I don't care where it is—I want her life. An announcement begins and we pause to listen. “That's my flight.” Reluctantly I gather my coat and purse.

She says, “When you just up and move to Jackson, find me. I work at the bookstore.” She grins. “I recognize your magnet.” She offers her hand. “I'm Tessa.”

I give her my hand. “Suzannah. I love bookstores.”

I dispose of my cup with its dregs of thin coffee and wave goodbye to Tessa. In line for the airplane, I wonder why I don't just step over to the Delta counter and change my ticket for Wyoming. Tessa and I could talk about books all the way to Jackson Hole. I don't go anywhere without a novel tucked in my purse. Then I'll tell her about Beckett, who applied to the University of Wyoming in Laramie because he heard it was the number-one party school in the country and because he thought all of Wyoming looked like Jackson Hole.

Once in my window seat, I wish I'd shown Tessa the small stone I carry in my coat pocket. I found it along the Snake River; a lavender oval, smooth as the water flow that polished it. I've never loved a place more than Jackson Hole, or felt so immediately at one with the dry air, the wild peaks, the scream of the red-tailed hawks. A woman slides past the knees of the boy in the aisle seat and slips herself into the vacant slot between us. I gather my coat tighter around me to give the woman space while tugging on the leash of my purpose for making this trip.

I calculate how many years since my mother began drinking heavily. Six, seven years ago she'd drink her dinners. The late-night phone calls began a couple years after that. Effusively cheery the first thirty minutes, followed by tears the next thirty. My gift to her was sympathetic listening, my cost was trudging scratchy-eyed through the workdays that followed. The almost sickening need for sleep dulled the anger that began building toward her self-involvement, which, in time, turned me from friend into audience.

Two years more before I accepted the fact that if she didn't remember calling me in the night, she didn't remember the loving support I offered. Eventually, I pulled the phone jack before going to bed and doubled up on daytime calls to her. But more and more she sounded uninterested in conversation and was still forgetful about things I told her concerning my life—a punishment I probably deserved after refusing her late-night calls.

My failure to draw boundaries didn't begin with Erik and Beck; it began long ago with her. More than once Mom said to me as a child, “I wish you were the mother and me the daughter.” Often over the years we both seemed to forget which of us was which. She taught me to make decisions for us both when I was three years old. But that can't be right. A three-year-old with ultimate responsibility?

My plane lays over forty minutes in Cincinnati. Murals I remember seeing as a child in the now defunct art deco train station were moved long ago to the airport, and I go looking for them. At a mosaic depicting a burly worker feeding a printing press, I abruptly veer off track at a pay phone and dial Aunt Anne's number. My father's sister and I haven't been close since Erik and I moved from Cincinnati to Findlay a dozen years ago, so I give her time to get over her surprise at hearing from me, and then I ask: Is it true that I helped my mother make up her mind when I was quite young?

“Oh, absolutely,” Aunt Anne says. “Why, I remember telling your uncle Roy, ‘Lizzie sure does lean on that little girl.' You weren't even in school yet.”

Soon I have to hang up so I can rush to wait in another line, this time in the restroom. There I recall the rest of Aunt Anne's talk. “Honey, how's your mother doing? There isn't a thing in this world that's rougher. Roy's sister Mary suffers the same thing. I told your father about the place she got help, but he wouldn't hear of it.”

Is Aunt Anne getting the phone calls now? Of course, somebody would be getting the calls once I refused them. Late-night drinkers develop dialer's finger along with the fierce need to tinkle ice cubes. Did I think I was my mother's only resource? Yes, I did. That's exactly why the burden has been so heavy.

 

As my plane arcs out over the Atlantic Ocean south of Palm Beach, preparing for an eastern approach to the landing strip, I pull out my comb and lip gloss. I've been pressed against this glass by an immense-bodied man since leaving Cincinnati. He tips toward me, looking out my window, and releases heavy exhalations in my face. I'm seconds away from a screaming fit, and feel claustrophobic against the close curve of metal above my seat. I fidget in my strap. The plane loops over the barrier islands that separate the Indian River from the ocean; then it dips inland. I assure myself that in minutes I'll be unbuckled and standing in the aisle.

West Palm Beach spreads out beneath the right wing of the plane. My father's car is part of the metallic strip I see flashing below me. He is always late and always rushing, cutting off people, maneuvering short cuts, making everyone around him wait. I spot the airport.

As I stare out the window, we fly past the usual approach, past the suburbs and out over orange groves again, then head toward open sea. This isn't right. I look around. No one else seems to notice. I know this isn't right.

Twenty minutes pass before the captain introduces himself over the intercom. “Well, folks, got a little glitch,” he jocularly reports. “The landing gear indicator isn't lighting. Most likely there's just a short in the wiring, so our copilot will head back to the rear cabin, lift the carpet, and take a peek down an opening to see if our landing gear has dropped into place.”

The captain does not use the word
malfunction
. I distinctly note this.

Around me people laugh. Not nervous titters—belly guffaws. I don't join them. I feel heat prickle between my breasts and climb upward to my scalp. I'm certain if I tip my head, perspiration will gather where my hair is parted, and dribble onto my lap.

In the aisle a few rows in front of me the copilot and two attendants lift the carpet, peer down an opening, and claim to see the landing gear in place. Cheers go up from the crowd. But I know they might be fooling us, and even if it is down, is it
locked
into place?

We don't circle around immediately toward the beach. Why not? Because we are emptying the tanks of fuel for a crash landing, of course. I'm dismayed at how poorly I'm handling my fear. My fellow travelers chatter gaily among themselves.

Thirty minutes later we head back for the coast, and half an hour after that, we are once again approaching the airport. I look down and see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles lining the airstrip. I knew it. And I'm not ready.

I'm hot again. So hot. And I can't remember my spiritual philosophy concerning death, or even life. Or how I meant to deal with either. I'm not out of control, but in fear of the fear gaining on me. I'm mushy inside. Formless. I just want to be out of this plane, waiting for my luggage to spit out of the plastic strips and chug along the conveyor belt to where I wait talking about this awful scare.

Another thirty minutes and that's where I am.

 

Dad asks, “So what was the holdup?”

I tell him, my voice quavering.

“I wondered why you landed way at the far end of the airfield,” he says. “Keep alert here for your suitcase now.”

“They kept us away from the terminal in case we blew up!”

Curiosity satisfied, Dad dismisses my near-death drama with statistics that make my itchy scalp and shaky legs prove I'm less evolved than I meant to be and am an alarmist to boot.

“You were safer in that airplane than you'll be driving up A1A in the car this afternoon.”

With him driving that's probably true. But I want to entertain my father, so I begin to parade out the better lines I heard from the fearless jokesters around me. “Some guys fly by the seat of their pants, but I'll have to change mine when—”

Dad stops me. “I'll go get the car and save us some time. Mom's anxious to see you.”

“Is she in the car?” Mom's the one who will kiss me hello, tell me how glad she and my dad are to see me.

“She's home. Get on up there closer,” Dad says, pressing my back through the crowd at the luggage carousel. “We're running late, thanks to you.”

I watch Dad zigzag around people and hurry toward the parking lot, a tall, skinny man with thick white-blond cowlicks sticking up like soda straws around his head. His knobby elbows and knees jut at odd angles from his body as he races to make up lost time. I pull in deep breaths of wonderfully humid air, grateful the West Palm Beach airport still has outdoor luggage pickup. Yet the Florida heat doesn't account for my prickly skin as I keep replaying the landing scare in my mind.