Flight (21 page)

“This is great!” Trevor said happily. Margaret’s heart always sank when she saw how happily her son, who got homemade bread and organic vegetables at home, ate awful, prepackaged junk. High-fructose corn syrup, she told herself. It’s irresistible.

But the tomato soup tasted good even to her, sweet and warming. She split a cookie with Trevor after the soup, and let him sit on her lap to eat it. Against her sweaty skin, he seemed impossibly clean and soft. She rested her chin on the top of his head and breathed in the smell of his hair.

When she came up to shower, it was with a sense of having made progress toward the ultimate goal: getting Leanne married without having Carol melt down.

She is under the water, rinsing her hair, almost content, when she hears her mother’s shout. “Margie! Telephone!”

She turns off the shower and stands there, not wanting to have heard it.

“It’s your husband!”

Acid fills her stomach. Can she tell him to call back? No, that will just prolong the agony. Better to get it over with. Besides, maybe he’s calmed down. Maybe they can have a reasonable conversation that will move them toward some sort of rapprochement.
There’s even still time for him to get here, to act as though nothing has happened. Clinging to that flicker of hope, she wraps a towel around herself and, dripping heavily, goes to the upstairs extension in her parents’ room. Vasant, she reminds herself. His hands. His eyes.

“I’ve got it,” she shouts before easing the door shut.

“So.” David’s voice is cold, and the minute she hears it, Margaret’s heart begins to thud loudly. He’s still angry. He’s still that other person, the one who threatened her. Her hands begin to sweat, making the receiver slippery. She wipes her free hand on the towel she’s wearing and switches ears.

“So,” she says, striving to make her voice sound normal. “How are things?”

He laughs. It isn’t a pleasant sound. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he asks.

Margaret feels dizzy. “Yes, I do,” she manages to say. “I’ve come to my parents’ home to attend my sister’s wedding.” She can hear him breathing on the other end. “As we planned,” she adds, but it sounds lame and defensive. Her breath catches, and she swallows hard. She can’t let herself be intimidated.

“The police were still here when I got back,” he says. “They were knocking on the door.”

“David …” Margaret doesn’t know what she wants to say, but she has to say something. It’s going to be her only chance.

“They were knocking on the door,” he says, determined not to be sidetracked. “They asked me who I was, and I said I was your husband.”

“Okay.” She won’t be able to do anything besides let him get through the story, she can see that.

“They asked me to unlock the apartment so they could have a look around. They stood right next to me with their hands on their guns. I could tell what they thought.”

“David, it doesn’t matter what they thought. They have to think that way, they’re police officers.”

He isn’t listening to her. “I could tell that they thought I had
done something to you. They were just waiting to have to arrest me.”

Margaret can feel tears filling her eyes, not for David but for the awfulness of the whole situation. She regulates her breathing carefully so he won’t hear her crying.

“So we got inside, and I saw that you had left a note on the table by the door. I picked it up and put it in my pocket so the police wouldn’t see it.”

This confuses Margaret. She dashed the note off quickly—
I’ve taken Trevor to my parents for Leanne’s wedding. We can talk when I get back on Sunday. I don’t want to fight. M.
—but she doesn’t understand why he would hide it from the police.

David continues. “So they looked around the whole apartment, and they saw there was no one else there, and then they asked me what had happened. I said that we had argued about you sleeping with my colleague, and I had left to get some air. When I got back, you were gone. And then I said, ‘Oh my God, our son!’”

“What are you talking about, David? You knew Trevor was with me.”

“I ran upstairs and looked for him. I told them he was gone. The police asked if I had any idea where you had gone, and I said no, none. And then I started crying.”

It’s a confession, but it’s bragging, too. David is describing his next move in the game she started unintentionally when she called 911.

“You know what, Margaret? They started to feel bad for me then. They said I should contact a lawyer. They said if you had taken Trevor out of state to hide him from me, it could be kidnapping. They said I had rights.”

The full horror of the call is dawning on Margaret. “But David, you knew exactly where I had gone. I left that note for you. I wasn’t trying to take Trevor away from you, I was going to my sister’s wedding!” She despises the rising tone of desperation in her voice.

“What note?” David says, and even in his cold, flat tone, there’s a glimmer of triumph.

Words crowd into her head, but she stops herself from speaking.
You were threatening me! I was scared of you!
She breathes deeply and tries to make her voice calm, reasonable. “David, what are you trying to do?”

There’s a pause as David seems to consider this question. Margaret’s mind races, trying to come up with something she can do or say that might jolt him out of this, might make him see the absurdity and awfulness of turning their unhappiness into all-out war.

“I’m doing the only thing I can do,” he says. “I’m fighting to get my son back.”

“But you haven’t lost him! Why are you saying this?” It doesn’t escape Margaret’s notice that he says nothing about getting his wife back, and she doesn’t bring it up, either.

“Goodbye, Margaret,” David says. She waits, tensed, for him to say something that would be in keeping with the melodramatic tone of the conversation:
I’ll see you in court
or
Have a nice life.
But there’s just silence, and then a click as he hangs up. The phone sounds empty. Margaret clings to the receiver, unwilling to accept that the conversation is over, with no chance of bringing it to a better end. After a few moments, the off-the-hook tone starts warbling.

Margaret returns the phone to its cradle and sits down on the edge of her parents’ bed. She feels completely drained. She can’t get the energy to walk to the bathroom and finish drying off. Numb, she slumps over to her side. She closes her eyes, but she’s too drained even to cry.

After knocking several times, Carol comes in and finds her there.

“Margaret, honey, what’s wrong?” she says. She sits down by Margaret’s side. Margaret feels herself sliding toward the hollow her mother makes.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says.

“Why don’t you start by telling me what’s going on,” Carol says.

Margaret opens her eyes. “You can’t tell anyone else,” she says.

“Of course not.”

Margaret doesn’t know where to begin. She’s afraid that if she opens her mouth, a pathetic, childlike wail will find its way out.

“It’s okay,” Carol says. “Whatever it is, we’ll try to sort it out.”

“It can’t be sorted out,” Margaret says. “There’s no
sorting it out.
”

“Then we’ll just deal with it.”

Margaret puts her hand over her eyes. She shivers, freezing from lying there damp and barely covered up. She wiggles her toes to try and work them under the blanket. Her whole body is shaking with cold. She can’t bear another second of not being under the covers.

“Whatever it is, Margaret, I’m on your side.” Carol sits there, emanating an unusual patience.
I’m on your side.
Margaret repeats the words in her head, trying to squeeze some comfort from them. Her mother is on her side. She always has been. Although why should she be? Every choice Margaret has made has been a direct rejection of the life her mother has lived.

She gets her feet under her parents’ blanket. Shakily, she reaches a hand down and pulls it toward her chin. She gets herself covered and huddles there, trying to focus as much of her consciousness as possible on the awareness of the blanket’s softness against her skin, the small warmth beginning to grow underneath it.

“I’ve been asleep,” she says. “I’ve been like a person asleep at the wheel.”

“That’s okay,” Carol says softly, in a lullaby voice. “You’re awake now.”

The country club is all set, tables, chairs, trellis all ready to go. The florist has been paid. The caterers know what sauce to use with the salmon and which wine to serve with the soup. Everything has been arranged, and Kit and Leanne are almost home, driving in the rain without speaking. Leanne has never felt more uncertain about the wedding happening.

“Well,” Kit says, as she pulls into the driveway and stops the car, “I guess the wheels are in motion, aren’t they?”

Leanne turns off the car. Rain runs in tearlike trails down the windshield. “I think I’ll take a walk,” she says.

“An excellent plan.” Kit’s voice is light. “Stop and smell the wet roses for me, would you?” He pulls the handle and shoves his shoulder against Margaret’s sticky passenger door. “I’m going to go in there,” he says as he gets the door open, “and ransack the cupboards, because I’m sure that somewhere, hiding, leftover from a holiday basket or an office party or the visit of some previous gourmand, there’s a bag of whole coffee beans. And I’m going to find it and make some coffee. So don’t be too long.” He climbs out of the car. “Tallyho!” he cries as he slams the door.

Leanne sits at the wheel, watching Kit walk to the front door and enter the house. He seems to be becoming a part of the family even as Leanne feels she’s drifting away from him. She rests her forehead on the steering wheel and closes her eyes.

After a few moments, she picks her head up and is surprised to see eyes regarding her from the porch.

“Trevor, what are you doing there?” she asks as she gets out of the car.

“Is it raining now?” he asks, and Leanne notices that the rain has stopped. The sky is still a grayish white and the day still gloomy, but for the first time since she arrived, there’s nothing falling. Still, the air feels so damp it might as well be raining.

Leanne runs her fingers through her hair. “No, it’s not raining anymore,” she says, walking over to her nephew.

Trevor looks up at the sky. His brow furrows with concentration, making him look like Margaret. The blond hair at the crown of his head swirls around in a perfect miniature spiral. He stands there, head tilted back, studying the sky. His face moves up and back, as if he’s trying to take in every inch of it. She watches as he looks up, up, up, until he goes too far and tips over backward, falling onto his behind. Trying not to laugh, Leanne squats down to make sure he’s okay. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“The clouds are really the rain,” he says. “They’re the rain waiting to fall from inside the air.”

“That’s right.” She smiles at him. She’s always felt comfortable around kids, more so than Margaret. It’s funny that Margaret was
the one to have the first grandchild. Whenever they used to go to restaurants or other places where there were rowdy kids, Margaret always fixed them with an icy stare. “Don’t people even
try
to control their kids anymore?” she would mutter.

“You want to come outside and play?” Leanne asks Trevor. He smiles at her as if he has been waiting for exactly this.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I want to.”

“Do you want to play ball?” Leanne is trying to remember whether there are some toys in the garage.

“I want to see the barn,” he says.

Leanne looks at the front door. “Maybe we should ask your mother first,” she says. “The barn is kind of dirty.”

“No,” the boy says, grave. “You shouldn’t ask my mother.”

“Why not?”

“Grandma says she’s sleeping and not to bother her.”

“Oh.” Leanne stands there, unsure what to do.
Oh heck,
she thinks,
the barn’s not so dirty with all the animals gone.

“All right,” she says, holding out a hand. “I’ll take you to see the barn.”

They stop in the garage to check on the doves. The larger one is no longer holding his wing in a funny way, though he still seems subdued. The other one scrabbles around, rustling in the seed shells at the bottom of the cage.

“Those are Grandma’s birds,” Trevor says, watching them.

They walk outside again and go around to the back of the house, where the large deck extends out toward the barn.

“My dad built that deck,” Leanne tells Trevor, “when I was really little. Your mom was about your age.”

“Grandpa Will is my mom’s dad,” he says, serious with the knowledge, but his attention is focused on the large barn as they draw near it.

“Those big doors are for tractors,” Leanne says. “And this small one is for people.”

“Which one do horses use?”

Leanne laughs. “ Either one,” she says. “We used to take them in the small door and straight back to their stalls.”

“What’s a stall?”

“I’ll show you.”

The door creaks as Leanne pushes it open. A thousand memories crowd into her head. Taking her horse out, cleaned and groomed, to put her on a trailer for the horse show. Riding out for an afternoon jaunt, ducking her head down to go under the lintel. Rubbing saddle soap into bridles in the little tack room. The smell of it fills her nostrils. Strange, how physical sensation can reside in a place and just reappear.

“That’s where the saddles and bridles were always kept,” she tells Trevor, pushing open the tack-room door. He looks in hopefully.

“They’re gone now,” she says. “We sold them when we sold the animals.”

“What’s that?” He’s pointing to a large round bin.

“That’s where we kept the spelts. That’s sort of a treat for horses—like cookies for you.”

“It’s a big cookie jar!” He laughs, pleased with himself, then follows her to the row of stalls at the back.

“My horse lived there,” she says, pointing, “and your mom’s lived over there. But they spent most of the summer out in the pasture.” She shows him the door to the pasture, how the stalls could be opened to let the horses go freely in and out. She leans on the stall gate, staring at the open door to the pasture. The smell of the pasture grass on a hot summer day, the buzzing of flies around her, the roughness of a lead rope wrapped around her hand. In the summer sometimes, they rode in shorts and sneakers, the damp warmth of the horses’ bodies pressed against their bare legs.