Flight (12 page)

“I think I need to sleep,” she said. Like that, he gave up. They exchanged a few words—niceties, as if agreeing to put themselves back on an even keel—and then he grinned at her and left.

Once he was gone, Leanne went straight to the minibar. She filled the ice bucket with everything that looked good, filled the bathtub with the hottest water she could get, and climbed in. The heat scalded her skin so that it turned pink and didn’t even feel wet. She twisted the tops off the tiny bottles and stretched her toes to the end of the tub and thought of her sister. Margaret would never get drunk alone in the bathtub. Even if she knew that her soon-to-be-husband had made a pass at her sister the night before their wedding, she wouldn’t respond by sedating herself. She would proceed calmly along some sensible and efficient path for fixing the problem. That was how Margaret was.

The next day, Leanne knew, Margaret would marry David, for better or worse. Later on, if she discovered one of David’s infidelities—because Leanne knew she couldn’t be the only one—she would move on to the next thing. Margaret never stood still. She moved forward all the time, just like their father, who couldn’t wait to leave home and then couldn’t wait to return. Thinking about it made Leanne exhausted. She wanted to stay in one place, hovering, floating, indefinitely. She closed her eyes and floated so that only her heels were touching the tub.

Now, standing in her own wedding dress like an oversize doll, she experiences a wave of the same feeling. She doesn’t want to hem the dress, because then it will be done, and that will be one more step toward the wedding actually happening, toward Kit and Leanne being married, which means she will have told him about her past and they will have stepped through the ceremony into their future as a married couple. And then what? The trip to Mexico, kids maybe, a bigger house, middle age, the empty nest, retirement.
It’s all laid out, a perfect path forward, with no regard for the idea that she might want something else instead.

“There,” Margaret says. She leans back and scrutinizes her work in the mirror, squinting. “That’s as even as I can possibly make it under these circumstances.”

“It looks good,” Leanne says. “At least I won’t trip over it this way.”

“That satin won’t be fun to deal with.” Margaret is gathering up the remaining pins and putting them back in Carol’s sewing box.

“It’s okay,” Leanne says. “I find sewing relaxing.” Margaret frowns at the dress, trying to find a mistake in her work, and watching her in the mirror, Leanne feels sorry for her sister. Margaret is like one of those characters from Greek mythology, perpetually longing for something just out of reach. That’s how her standards work: her expectations are always increasing, so that as soon as her abilities catch up with them, the bar moves a little bit higher, and she is disappointed again.

“It looks good,” Leanne says softly, and Margaret looks up and meets her eyes in the mirror. Over the years, the two of them have grown to look more alike than they did as little girls.
Look at the picture upside down,
their mother used to say.
That’s when you see the resemblance.

“It’ll do,” Margaret says.

Will and Kit are sitting in the living room. They have hauled the luggage in, the girls and Carol have unpacked the groceries, and now the women are all upstairs seeing Leanne’s wedding dress. Will knows Carol well enough to know that not only should Kit avoid going upstairs, he should stay away himself. He’s not the groom, but he’s a man, which allies him with the groom. He can’t be trusted not to report back some detail—a beaded bodice, a sweeping train, a plunging neckline—the anticipation of which would spoil Kit’s delighted surprise when his bride comes rustling down the aisle.

Now, not quite sure what to do, the two of them have retreated
to the living room, awaiting further orders. Will eyes the remote. There’s probably a game on, or news. That means more endless terror coverage. Yellow alert, orange alert, red—who wants to hear it? No TV, then. He wonders if he should offer Kit a beer. He’s not sure if there will be any in the fridge, what with all the party stuff Carol has been stockpiling. It occurs to him that no one has had lunch. In the old days, Kit and Leanne would have eaten on the flight, but now even the occasional in-flight meal is usually a little box of cold sandwiches that passengers pick up on the jetway. Will doesn’t even bother to eat them. He brings his own food now, like a passenger on Greyhound.

“How about something to eat?” he says. Kit looks up, almost as if he’d forgotten Will was in the room.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Actually, that would be great. I’m a bit hungry.” He nods, confirming this new understanding of his physical state.

Will gets up and leads the way to the kitchen. “I don’t know what Carol’s got in here,” he says, opening the fridge to check it out. He spies a small jar of red sauce with a fancy label and red-checked cloth covering the lid. Must be salsa. Carol had a Tex-Mex phase last year, bringing home black beans and fancy blue-corn tortilla chips and expensive jars of salsa that, as far as Will could tell, didn’t taste any better than Old El Paso. But at least there’s something he can serve to Kit without embarrassment.

“Here’s some salsa,” he says, grabbing the jar and heading for the pantry. “I’ll find some chips.” There’s a bag of chips on the top shelf, not the fancy blue-corn kind but something called “restaurant-style.” Will puts them on the table and then, in deference to Carol’s complaints about his lack of civility, he finds a ceramic bowl and dumps the whole jar of salsa into it. It’s thick and red, and he’s relieved that it doesn’t seem to have any chunks of peppers or onions in it. During the Tex-Mex phase, he was constantly dredging things out of his salsa that shouldn’t be there: corn, beans, raisins.

Kit has the bag of chips open by the time Will gets to the table. “I needed this,” he says. “I was feeling a little queasy on the plane.”

Will’s mistrust of the kid eases up a bit. He helps himself to a
chip, loads it up with a heaping pile of salsa, and leans back in his chair. “So you make videos, right?”

“I work as a video editor right now. But I make documentary films.”

“And those aren’t shot on video?”

Kit breaks a chip in two. “Yeah, they are these days. Digital video—it’s a lot cheaper than celluloid.” Will is about to point out there’s little difference, then, between videos and films, but Kit speaks up first.

“So Leanne tells me you’ll be retiring from flying soon.”

The chip and salsa, which had been tasting perfectly salty and sweet and tangy in Will’s mouth, go as dry as cardboard. He grinds his jaw up and down, but it seems as if he’ll never get the mouthful down. Kit watches him patiently, waiting for an answer. Finally, Will swallows the whole dry lump. It sticks in his throat.

“How about a beer?” he rasps, heading for the fridge.

“No, thanks,” Kit says. Will locates a Bud Light and cracks it open, getting a few swallows down before returning to the table. The beer is cold and malty and slowly removes the lump from his craw.

“It’s damn stupid,” he says, sitting back down. “The FAA plays God, but they don’t have the good sense to do it on an individual basis.”

Kit has taken a bite of a chip heavily loaded with salsa. He frowns, looking confused. Gently, he sets the chip down on the table. “So it’s mandatory retirement?”

“At sixty. No matter what.” Will gulps another swallow of beer and feels it fizzle down his throat. He gestures with his can out the kitchen’s sliding glass doors. “The world is full of second-rate pilots. Not because they’re old. Because they don’t know what they’re doing. Most of the new guys haven’t even come up through the military. They learned to fly on a computer.” He snorts.

“Maybe I
will
have that beer,” Kit says.

Will nearly tells him to help himself, but a vision of Carol’s face stops him. He gets up and goes to the fridge. “Here you go.”

“Thanks. So what will you do with yourself?” Kit opens his can and seems to be sniffing at the top before taking a drink.

Will lifts his own beer in a gesture of uncertainty. Suddenly, he’s tired of talking. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says evasively. He’s not about to play his Far East hand now. “Farm. Raise chickens.”

“You like chickens?” Kit has begun taking neat, slightly prissy sips of beer.

“Aaannnh.” Will shrugs. “We had some once.” He’s reverting to midwestern farmer-speak: short sentences, few words.

Kit looks out the window. “What’s up with Margaret?” he says out of the blue.

Will gazes down into his beer can. There’s a small bit of liquid left in the bottom, giving off a slightly gold shimmer. He’s not surprised by the question. Something is definitely up with Margaret, something he hopes she might tell him about, but he suspects that’s not what Kit means. Kit must mean
What is Margaret really like?
That’s not an easy thing to summarize.

“If Leanne makes sense to you,” he tells Kit, “Margaret won’t.”

Kit makes a funny gesture with one hand. “Leanne doesn’t make sense to you?” It’s a real question, and Will ponders it.

“No,” he says after a few moments. “I guess she doesn’t.” It’s odd to hear himself say it, but as he does, he knows it’s true. He has never really understood Leanne the way he has understood Margaret, even at her most dogmatic or defiant. Perhaps he shouldn’t admit that to Leanne’s future husband, but something about Kit makes him speak honestly.

Kit takes a drink, a real drink this time, and gazes out across the farm. From the sliding doors, the deck extends out toward the barn.

Behind the barn, the cornfield stretches in both directions, wrapping back around the house in a giant U.

“I don’t think she makes sense to me, either,” he says. “At least not all the time. But I don’t really need her to make sense. I need her to fit in. With me. With my not making sense.” He looks back at Will. “You know?”

Will nods. “Yeah,” he says, although for as much as he’s following, the guy might as well be speaking ancient Greek. “Sure.”

“Besides,” Kit continues, “you reach a certain age …” He pauses.

“And they ground you,” Will finishes. Kit laughs softly, an almost sad little laugh, staring down at his beer can. He picks it up again and drinks.

“Grandpa, I found a frog in the basement!” Trevor comes into the room, sheer delight illuming his face. Kit raises his eyebrows at Will.

“What’d you do with it?” Will asks his grandson.

“I chased it!” Trevor cries with glee.

“Did you catch it?”

Trevor pauses, looking serious. “I chased it,” he asserts.

Will nods. “Once your mom caught a skunk in the barn. With her bare hands. It was only a baby.” He looks at Kit. “That was when she really loved the farm.” He stands up, crumpling his empty beer can in one hand. “I’m the only one who loves it now,” he says.

There’s a clatter of feet on the stairs, and he hears Carol talking to the girls.

“Your rooms are so close together, with that bathroom in between,” she is saying. “So if we put a door in the hall just past the linen closet, we can make that into a whole separate suite. People could rent one or both rooms.”

“But those rooms are so small,” Margaret says.

“It’s a bed-and-breakfast,” Carol answers. “People don’t expect four stars. They want atmosphere and country charm.”

“And breakfast,” Leanne says. “That’s what they’ll come back for.” Will recognizes her conciliatory voice, her quiet, unobtrusive way of defusing conflicts.

“Oh yes.” Carol laughs. It’s her real laugh, an authentic welling up of happiness, because no matter how much Margaret picks on her, or Leanne evades her questions, she loves nothing more than having her daughters home again. The three of them burst into the kitchen.

“Will!” Carol cries. “We need you to go to the store!”

“I’ll go with you,” Margaret adds. “I’ve been making a list.”

THE RAIN, NO LONGER A MONSOONLIKE DELUGE THUD
ding on the roof of the car, has throttled back to a dull, steady downpour. As he backs out, starting the grocery run, Will imagines how intensely Carol will watch the eleven PM weather report. Not that the pudgy, cheerful meteorologist on the Grand Rapids channel ever gets it right. Still, Carol will believe him if he says what she wants to hear. If not, tomorrow she’ll be ordering Will to turn on the computer and dredge up a better prognosis from some weather website. Fussing with the computer always makes him tense.

“What’s the almanac say?” Margaret asks, and it takes him a second to realize that she’s talking about the weather, too. She’s always had a way of doing that, registering what people are thinking and stepping right into their thoughts. The question isn’t serious.
The Farmer’s Almanac
is a sort of joke to her, an amusing piece of regionalia. He’s expected to answer like a farmer.

“Whatever it says, it’s lying,” he answers. Margaret smiles, expectations fulfilled, and he lets himself believe that she’s happy to be here in the car with him, speeding toward the next task.

She’s quiet as they start down the road to Ryville. He glances over. She’s looking down at her list, frowning slightly, determined to ferret out whatever has been overlooked. She looks old; not just grown up but aging. Her face has grown thinner, losing the glowing roundness of youth. A few gray hairs mix with the brown at her temples. How did he get so old that his children are no longer young?

“All right,” she murmurs to herself, looking out a window and considering something. She feels very faraway. He wonders if she’ll tell him what’s up. He noticed her looking at her Rabbit as they left the driveway, but she didn’t say anything. Now that they’re here, alone in the car like this, she might confide in him the way she did when they talked on the phone a few years back.

“How’s Trevor doing in preschool?” he asks. It’s a safe topic, he figures, but one that might open up a door for her to tell him what’s going on at home.

“Oh, great. He loves it.” She leans forward to fiddle with the radio, then changes her mind and sits back. “His teacher is really great.”