Thanks for the Memories (20 page)
He doesn’t have the opportunity to finish his sentence as everything suddenly goes crazy. He is whisked away right in front of my eyes before I can do anything.
Then I am taken to a small cell-like room and ordered to wait.
f t e r f i f t e e n m i n u t e s o f s i t t i n g alone in the sparse A interrogation room with nothing but a table and chair, I hear the door in the next room open, then close. I hear the squeak of chair legs, and then Dad’s voice, as always, louder than everyone else’s. I move closer to the wall and press my ear up against it.
“Who are you traveling with?”
“Gracie.”
“Are you sure about that, Mr. Conway?”
“Of course! She’s my daughter, ask her yourself !”
“Her passport tells us her name is Joyce. Is she lying to us, Mr. Conway? Or are you the one lying?”
“I’m not lying. Oh, I meant Joyce, I meant to say Joyce.”
“Are you changing your story now?”
“What story? I got the name wrong, is all. My wife is Gracie, I get confused.”
“Where is your wife?”
“She’s not with us anymore. She’s in my pocket. I mean, the photograph of her is in my pocket. At least, it was in my pocket until the lads out there took her and put her in the tray. t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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Will I get my toenail clippers back, do you think? They cost me a bit.”
“Mr. Conway, you were told sharp items and lighter fluid are not permitted on the flights.”
“I know that, but my daughter, Gracie—I mean, Joyce—got mad at me yesterday when she found my pack of smokes hidden in the Sugar Puffs, and I didn’t want to take the lighter out of my pocket or she’d lose her head again. I apologize for that, though. I wasn’t intending to blow up the plane or anything.”
“Mr. Conway, please refrain from using such language. Why did you refuse to take off your shoes?”
“I have holes in me socks!”
Silence.
“I’m seventy-five years old, young man. Why on earth do I have to take my shoes off ? Did you think I was going to blow the plane up with a rubber shoe? Or maybe it’s the insoles you’re worried about. Maybe you’re right to arrest me, you can never tell the damage a man can do with a good insole—”
“Mr. Conway, please don’t use such language, and refrain from smart-aleck behavior, or you will not be allowed on the plane. You haven’t been arrested. We just need to ask you some questions. Behavior such as yours is prohibited at this airport, so we need to ascertain if you are a threat to the safety of our passengers.”
“What do you mean, a threat?”
A man clears his throat. “Well, it means finding out if you are a member of any gangs or terrorist organizations before we reconsider allowing you through.”
I hear Dad roar with laughter.
“You must understand that planes are very confined spaces, and we can’t allow anybody through that we aren’t sure of. We have the right to choose who we allow on board.”
“The only threat I’d be in a confined space is when I’ve had a good curry from my local. And terrorist organizations? I’m a mem-
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ber of one, all right. The Monday Club. We meet every Monday except on bank holidays, when we meet on a Tuesday. A bunch of lads and lasses like me gettin’ together for a few pints and a singsong is all it is. Though if you’re lookin’ for juice, Donal’s family was pretty heavily involved in the IRA—”
I hear the man clear his throat again.
“Donal?”
“Donal McCarthy. Ah, leave him alone, he’s ninety-seven, and I’m talkin’ about way back when his dad fought. The only rebellious thing he’s able to do now is whack the chessboard with his cane, and that’s only because he’s frustrated he can’t play. Arthritis in both his hands. Could do with g’ttin’ it in his mouth, if you ask me. Talkin’ is all he does. Annoys Peter to no end, but they’ve never gotten along since he courted Peter’s daughter and broke her heart. She’s seventy-two. Have you ever heard anything more ridiculous? Had a wandering eye, she claimed, but sure, Donal’s as cockeyed as they come. His eye wanders without him even knowing it. I wouldn’t blame the man for that, though he does like to dominate the conversations every week. I can’t wait for him to listen to me for a change.” Dad laughs and sighs in the long pause that follows. “Do you think I could get a cuppa?”
“We won’t be much longer, Mr. Conway. What is the nature of your visit to London?”
“I’m going because my daughter dragged me here, last minute. She gets off the phone yesterday morning and looks at me with a face as white as a sheet. I’m off to London, she says, like it’s somethin’ you just do last minute. Ah, maybe it is what you young people do, but not me. Not what I’m used to at all, at all. Never been on a plane before, you see. So she says, Wouldn’t it be fun if we both go away? And usually I’d say no, I’ve loads to be doin’ in my garden. Have to put down the lilies, tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths in time for the spring, you see, but she says live a little, and I felt like peltin’ her because it’s more livin’ I’ve been doing than her. t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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But because of recent—well, troubles, shall we say—I decided to come with her. And that’s no crime, is it?”
“What recent troubles, Mr. Conway?”
“Ah, my Gracie—”
“Joyce.”
“Yes, thank you. My Joyce, she’s been goin’ through a rough patch. Lost her little baby a few weeks back. Had been trying to have one for years with a fella that plays tennis in little white shorts and things finally looked great but she had an accident. Fell, you see, and she lost the little one. Lost a little of herself too, if I’m to be honest with you. Also lost the husband just last week, but don’t you be feelin’ sorry for her about that—she somehow got a little somethin’ in the process she never had before. Can’t put my finger on exactly what, but whatever it is, I don’t think it’s such a bad thing. Generally things aren’t goin’ right for her, and sure, what kind of a father would I be to let her go off on her own in this state? She’s got no job, no baby, no husband, no mother, and soon no house, and if she wants to go to London for a break, even if it is last minute, then she sure as hell is entitled to go without any more people stopping her from what she wants.
“Here, take my bloody cap. My Joyce is a good girl, never did a thing wrong in her life. She has nothing right now but me and this trip, as far as I can see. So here, take it. If I have to go without my cap and my shoes and my belt and my coat, well, that’s fine by me, but my Joyce isn’t going to London without her father.”
Well, if that isn’t enough to break a girl.
“Mr. Conway, you do know that you get your clothing back once you go through the metal detector?”
“What?” he shouts. “Why the hell didn’t she tell me that? All this feckin’ nonsense for nothing. Honestly, you’d think she almost wants the trouble sometimes. Okay, lads, you can take my things. Will we still make the flight, do you think?”
Any tears that had welled have instantly dried.
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Finally the door to my cell opens, and with a single nod, I’m a free woman.
“Doris, you cannot move the stove in the kitchen. Al, tell her.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Honey, first of all it’s heavy, and second of all, it’s gas. You are not qualified to move around kitchen appliances,” Al explains, and prepares to bite into a doughnut.
Doris whisks it away from him, leaving him to lick dribbles of jam from his fingers. “You two don’t seem to understand that it’s bad feng shui to have a stove facing a door. The person at the stove may instinctively want to glance back at the door, which creates a feeling of unease, which can lead to accidents.”
“Perhaps removing the stove altogether will be a safer option for Dad,” Bea pipes in.
“You have to give me a break,” Justin sighs, sitting down at the new kitchen table. “All the place needs is furniture and a lick of paint, not for you to restructure the entire place according to Yoda.”
“It is not according to Yoda,” Doris huffs. “Donald Trump follows feng shui, you know.”
“Oh, well then,” Al and Justin say in unison.
“Yes, well then. Maybe if you did what he did, you’d be able to walk up the stairs without having to take a lunch break halfway up,” she snaps at Al. “Just because you sell tires, sweetie, doesn’t mean you have to wear them too.”
Bea’s mouth drops, and Justin tries not to laugh. “Come on, Bea, let’s get out of here before it turns to violence.”
“Where are you two going? Can I come?” Al asks.
“I’m going to the dentist, and Bea has rehearsals for tonight.”
“Good luck, blondie.” Al ruffles her hair. “We’ll be cheering for you.”
t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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“Thanks.” She grinds her teeth and fixes her hair. “Oh, that reminds me. One more thing about the woman on the phone, Joyce?”
What, what, what? “What about her?”
“She knows that I’m blond.”
“How did she know?” Doris asks with surprise.
“She said she just guessed. But that’s not it. Before she hung up she said, ‘Best of luck with your ballet show.’ ”
“So she’s a thoughtful lucky-guesser.” Al shrugs.
“Well, I was thinking about it afterward, and I don’t remember telling her anything about my show being specifically ballet.”
Justin immediately looks to Al, a little more concerned now that it involves his daughter, but adrenaline still surges. “What do you think?”
“I think watch your back, bro. She could be a fruitcake.” He stands up and heads to the kitchen, rubbing his stomach. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. Fruitcake.”
Deflated, Justin looks to his daughter. “Did she sound like a fruitcake?”
“I dunno.” Bea shrugs. “What does a fruitcake sound like?”
Justin, Al, and Bea all turn to stare at Doris.
“What?” she squeals.
“No.” Bea shakes her head wildly at her father. “Nothing like that at all.”
“What’s this for, Gracie?”
“It’s a sick bag.”
“What does this do?”
“It’s for hanging your coat up.”
“Why is that there?”
“It’s a table.”
“How do you get it down?”
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“By unlatching it, at the top.”
“Sir, please leave your tabletop up until after takeoff.”
Silence, but only for a moment.
“What are they doing outside?”
“Loading the bags.”
“What’s that button?”
“An ejector seat for people who ask three million questions.”
“What’s it, really?”
“For reclining your chair.”
“Sir, could you stay upright until after takeoff, please?”
Silence again.
Then, “What does that do?”
“Fan.”
“What about that?”
“Light.”
“And that one?”
“Yes, sir, can I help you?”
“You pressed the button for assistance.”
“Oh, is that what that little woman on the button is for? I didn’t know. Actually, can I have a drink of water?”
“We can’t serve drinks until after takeoff, sir.”
“Oh, okay. That was a fine display you did earlier. You were the image of my friend Edna when you had that oxygen mask on. She used to smoke sixty a day, you see.”
The flight attendant makes an O shape with her mouth.
“I feel very safe now, but what if we go down over land?”
He raises his voice, and the passengers around us look our way.
“Surely the life jackets are hopeless, unless we blow our whistles while we’re flying through the air and hope someone below hears and catches us. Do we not have parachutes?”
“There’s no need to worry, sir, we won’t go down over land.”
“Okay. That’s very reassuring, indeed. But if we do, tell the pilot to aim for a haystack or something.”
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I take deep breaths and pretend that I don’t know him. I continue reading my book,
The Golden Age of Dutch Painting: Vermeer,
Metsu and Terborch
, and try to convince myself this is not the bad idea it’s turning out to be.
“Where are the toilets?”
“To the front and on the left, but you can’t go until after takeoff,” the attendant responds. Dad’s eyes widen. “And when will that be?”
“In just a few minutes.”
“In just a few minutes,
that
”—he takes the sick bag out from the seat pocket—“won’t be used for what it’s supposed to be used for.”
“We will be in the air in just a few minutes more, I assure you.” The attendant leaves quickly before he can ask another question. I sigh.
“Don’t you be sighing until after takeoff,” Dad says, and the man next to me laughs and pretends to turn it into a cough. Dad looks out the window. “Oh oh oh,” he sings, “we’re moving now, Gracie.”
As soon as we’re off the ground, the wheels moan as they’re brought back up, and then we are light in the air. Dad is suddenly quiet. He is turned sideways in his chair, head filling the window, watching as we reach the beginning of the clouds, mere wisps at first. The plane bumps around as it pushes through. Dad is agog as we’re surrounded by white on all sides of the plane; his head darts around looking at every window possible, and then suddenly it is blue and calm above the fluffy world of clouds. Dad blesses himself. He pushes his nose up against the window, his face lit by the nearby sun, and I take a mental photograph for my own hall of memories.
The Fasten Seatbelt sign goes off with a
bing
, and the cabin crew announces that we may now use electronic devices and the
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facilities, and that food and refreshments will be served shortly. Dad takes down the tabletop, reaches into his pocket, and takes out his photograph of Mum. He places her on the table, facing out the window. He reclines his chair, and they both watch the endless sea of white clouds disappear below us and don’t say a word for the remainder of the flight.
