Flight (35 page)

“Why would you want to do that?” she asked.

“It’s a treat for me,” Bernice answered. Her voice hummed like a well-tuned car. Her smile seemed genuine and unforced. Carol was unaccountably annoyed by her. “I don’t get many country walks down in Atlanta.”

“Well, the flowers are thriving, but they’re a bit bedraggled after all this rain,” Carol replied. Later, she saw the three of them standing outside the barn. Leanne was waving her hand and talking as the other two gazed up at it, seemingly fascinated.
I might as well get used to it,
Carol thought. That’s what her guests would be like: entranced with country life, or at least a fantasy of it—rustic old barns, chickens scratching in the yard, attractively rusting farm tools. Her guests’ enthusiasm annoys her already. She’s surprised at the strength of her disdain.
So, rustic is what you want? Here it is.

“I think we should put the cheese ball closer to the edge of the table,” Margaret says, “so people can get at it easier. The crudités can go in the middle.” She draws one plate forward and slides the other back, then steps back to examine the result. “Something looks not quite right. Did we bring everything?”

“We forgot the eggs!” Carol heads for the kitchen. Behind her, she can hear Margaret rearranging things again.

In the kitchen, she finds Will leaning into the fridge, one arm on the door. “What are you doing?” she asks. She keeps her voice even. He’s sweaty and still in his grubby work clothes. There are small dark specks splattered all over his face and shirt. It can’t be from the cage—she told them to paint it white.

“I’m starving,” he says.

“We’re having a huge spread in under an hour. Can you wait?”

“Don’t we have any of that salsa left?”

“What salsa? Move, please.” She avoids touching him as she moves around him to get the tray of deviled eggs. He eyes them covetously as they go by, but doesn’t grab one. Out of habit, she pauses for the slightest second, waiting for him to try.

“I’ll just have some cottage cheese,” he says, turning back to the fridge.

“Okay, but then would you please get cleaned up and dressed?” She would prefer to avoid this particular argument, but if she doesn’t get him in and out of the bathroom, she won’t have time to get ready herself.

“As soon as I’ve had a snack.” He pulls a fork from the drawer. Carol stands there as he peels the lid off the blue tub and sets it on the counter.

“I’ll need the bathroom in fifteen minutes,” she says, turning away.

In the dining room, Leanne has replaced Margaret.

“Margaret’s in the shower,” she says as Carol arrives. She’s wearing a blue dress that looks like underwear. It flatters her angular figure, but some of the relatives will definitely think she forgot to put something on over her slip.

“Is that what you’re wearing?” Carol asks. She can see from how Leanne’s grimace quickly melts into patient blankness that she anticipated disapproval.

“I wish this was all over with,” Leanne says. Her voice rasps a bit, as if her mouth is too dry. Carol swallows hard, bidding the annoyance rising in her throat to dissipate. She has been working nonstop for weeks to make this weekend as nice as possible, and Leanne wants it behind her.

“You’re just nervous,” she tells her. Leanne moves away from the table, and Carol notes how different her movements are from
Margaret’s. Margaret moves with purpose and direction, but Leanne drifts. Now she is floating toward the window, her feet paddling along the carpet like the string on a day-old helium balloon.

Margaret has left a space on the table for the eggs. Carol puts them down and surveys the effect. The flowers she gathered from the garden this morning set it all off beautifully.

“Margaret did a nice job with the flowers,” she tells Leanne, gesturing toward them. Carol had wanted to make traditional arrangements: a bunch of roses here, a gathering of daisies there. But Margaret had insisted they use the biggest container they could find, which turned out to be an old butter churn, and pile everything in. At first it looked like a jumble, but as the churn filled with flowers, it took on stature and beauty, its chaos transmuting to an order of its own.

I can use that idea in the bed-and-breakfast,
Carol thinks. The butter churn is just the right touch.

“It’s nice.” Leanne doesn’t sound enthusiastic, and Carol feels that prick of frustration at her daughter’s vagueness.

“I don’t think you appreciate Margaret’s efforts to help you,” she says. “She’s been doing a lot.”

Leanne looks away, like she did when chastised as a child, not denying the error but not owning it, either.

“It’s not easy for her,” Carol says, pushing. “Her life is quite difficult right now.” That sounds stupid, and Leanne gives only a faint nod, the smallest possible sign of acquiescence to Carol’s words.

“I think we’re all a little on edge,” Leanne says. “Things being what they are in the world.”

“Well, we all haven’t just left our husbands,” Carol says. Leanne looks up in surprise. That got her attention. Carol’s satisfaction at reaching her is quickly replaced with misgiving. “Now, don’t say anything,” she cautions. “It’s a secret.”

“I won’t.” Leanne looks away again, and as quickly as it vanished, her disconnection returns. “I’m not that surprised, actually.”

Carol flicks one hand, dismissing the comment, unwilling to contradict it with so little time left. Besides, she’s not surprised herself. But there’s no time for that conversation, either.

She looks at her watch. In half an hour, guests will start arriving. She looks at the table and ticks things off her mental checklist.
Eggs. Crab dip. Cheese ball and crackers. Crudités. Trout rounds. Napkins.
The toast squares are on baking sheets, waiting to be heated up after the first guests have arrived. Everything is ready, waiting. She will shower, dress, and come downstairs, and then it will start.

They’ve done it. Surveying the dining room table, the flowers commandeering the center, the neat stacks of cocktail napkins in coordinating colors, Margaret experiences the first real sense of pleasure she has felt since arriving. In spite of the awfulness behind her, of David trying to make her life miserable, of Leanne’s odd behavior and the fact that her parents are now barely speaking to each other, they have put together a party worthy of a wedding. She adjusts a plate, suffused with a feeling of possibility. If they can do this, perhaps she can make things work out in her own life. Perhaps the world tends not toward chaos and despair, but toward order and celebration.

As if to confirm the thought, Trevor appears in the doorway. He’s wearing the neat pants and a polo shirt she helped him into, and his hair has been freshly combed.

“Look at you!” she says. “Come give Mom a hug.”

“Grandma combed my hair,” he says, “and the comb was wet.” His face is drawn into the half pout that indicates he could break into laughter or sulks, depending on what happens in the next few moments.

“Silly Grandma,” Margaret says, crouching to get her arms around him. “Doesn’t she know that water is poison to little boys?” He pauses, deciding, and then she can feel the small shudder of a giggle. He moves his head from side to side against her cheek, maximizing contact.

“Is it true,” he says, stopping, “that you picked up a real skunk in the barn?”

“Who told you that?”

“Grandma. I mean, Grandpa.”

Margaret stands up again and then leans over to kiss the top of her son’s head. Nothing in her life has been so pure, so complete and perfect, as her love for Trevor. Anything she does in its name has to be right.

“It’s true,” she tells him. “But I didn’t really do it on purpose. I saw a tiny skunk scurrying along the floor by the spelts bin, and I just grabbed it without thinking.”

His eyes wide, he stares at her. Slowly he crinkles his face into a rodent squint. He giggles again. Eyes bright with his own joke, he turns tail and darts out of the room.

“You can’t hide from me, little skunk!” she calls. She turns back and looks at the table again. She feels calm, prepared, in control.

The feeling continues as the doorbell rings. Everyone else is still upstairs, so she answers it. It’s Eddie, looking awkward at the front door, an entrance he has rarely used. Behind him, his twin seven-year old boys stop shoving each other long enough to size up Margaret. He has also brought a date. Since he and his wife split up six years ago, he rarely has a girlfriend for longer than a few months, at least as Carol reports it. Tonight’s date looks at least ten years younger than he is. She’s short and wears the hairstyle Margaret dubbed “the Ryville Roll” in high school—one long curling ironed roll encircling her face, perfect flatness everywhere else. Margaret smiles at Eddie’s introduction, then promptly forgets the girl’s name. Mentally, she christens her Roll.

“This is a real nice house,” Roll says, although she’s barely inside it.

“Thank you,” Margaret says. “Come on, Eddie, you can help me set out the champagne.” Eddie follows Margaret downstairs to the basement fridge, and Roll comes along, too. The twins trail after, clearly cognizant of the basement’s stash of toys. Trevor follows with a proprietary air. As the twins start rummaging through the toy box under his watchful eye, Margaret leads the others to the fridge. She grabs two bottles of champagne and lodges one under each arm, then grabs two more in her hands. The others follow her lead, and they head upstairs.

“We’re using the kitchen table for the bar,” Margaret says. “There’s an old washbasin full of ice there. We’ll put these bottles in that.” The washbasin had been Carol’s idea, another item purchased in anticipation of the bed-and-breakfast.

The doorbell rings again, and Margaret stops in her tracks, arms full of champagne bottles. Consternation threatens her sense of well-being.

“Damn this rural promptness,” she mutters. Fortunately, Carol can be heard clattering down the stairs.

“I’ve got it,” she calls out. “Oh no, we forgot all about the champagne. Thank you, Margaret. If your father were helping at all, things like that might be a little easier.”

Margaret leads the way to the kitchen. More relatives can be heard arriving, a large crowd of them, from the sound of it. Margaret takes the bottles from Eddie and Roll and arranges them artfully in the ice. Champagne flutes and other glasses are lined up on the counter.

“We may as well inaugurate this batch,” Margaret says. She holds a bottle under one arm to steady it while she slowly works the cork.

“I hate them corks,” Roll says. “I always get scared one’s going to come flying out and hit me in the face.”

“It won’t if you stay out of its way.” Margaret moves slowly and deliberately, offering her competence as an example. She eases the cork out gently so that it makes only the mildest pop. The champagne fizzes slightly, but not enough to overflow. No locker-room antics for her. She holds up the bottle for Roll, proof that there’s a right way and a wrong way to do anything. Then she pours three glasses.

“Cheers,” she and Eddie say in unison. Roll forces a smile, still struggling to appear at ease. Margaret tries to banish the ungenerous conviction that her attempt at edification has been wasted. Beyond the other two, she can see a gaggle of female relatives moving in their direction. They’re slowed down by the need to stop and fondle Trevor, who has made the dire mistake of emerging from the basement.

“Incoming,” Margaret says, gesturing with her glass.

“Margaret!” cries Aunt Janice. Eddie’s mother has always been demonstrative to the point of brashness. Eddie skirts her deftly, leading Roll out of the kitchen and toward the living room. Loyalty under fire was never his strong suit. Margaret is trapped in the kitchen by the advance of her aunt.

“Hello, Aunt Janice,” Margaret says. She walks forward and leans in, allowing Janice to hug her. She tilts her head, avoiding the wiry texture of her aunt’s much-dyed hair, and holds her glass carefully to the side so as not to spill anything on herself. Beneath the scent of hair spray, faint undertones of honeysuckle and vitamins emanate from her aunt’s skin.

“It’s too bad David couldn’t make it,” Janice says in a low, meaningful tone. “Your mother told me all about it.” Margaret stiffens. The hug is lasting too long. Over Janice’s shoulder, she sees a tall man come in the door and lean over to kiss Carol on the cheek. It’s Doug. Another man hovers behind him, someone Margaret doesn’t know.

She pulls back from Janice and runs one hand down the front of her black dress, smoothing it back into place after the vehemence of familial affection. The feel of the dress calms her, returns her to herself. It’s an expensive dress, silk and linen, bought at Nordstrom for the delivery of a particularly complicated conference paper: “Tacitus and Teleology.” It worked then, and it will work now. She smiles brightly at another relative coming at her, carefully avoiding looking Doug’s way. She draws back her shoulders and lifts her chin.

It’s not that she wants to flirt with Doug. But there’s a stirring in her stomach at the prospect of feeling attractive. She’s not old and done for. Her life is full of possibility. Vasant made her see that. Now, standing in her parents’ kitchen greeting relatives and family friends, she summons the exhilaration she felt at the gas station on the way to Michigan.

After Janice, most of the others settle for graceful pecks on the cheek or happy clasps of the hand. Margaret stands a bit taller on
her heels, grateful for her dress, for having taken the extra time to blow her hair dry. After a few moments, she allows herself to look back at the door. Doug is no longer there, nor is he on his way toward her. Smiling all the way, laying her hand on the arms of relatives, Margaret makes her way across the kitchen to the foyer. He’s not there, either. She hears a laugh, and there he is, in the living room, standing with Eddie and Roll. Roll is saying something, and Doug is laughing loudly. The party seems to be in full swing, so his laughter isn’t out of place. He looks comfortable, at ease. Not like he’s looking for Margaret or even thinking about her presence.

Beyond him, the living room’s sliding glass doors are open, and a few people have spilled out onto the deck. She can see the twins there, and then Trevor, following them as they embark on some plot. Trevor looks awed by his older cousins. Watching him follow them, his face an unguarded portrait of longing, she is struck by his innocence. Up until now, his life has been perfect, with no cause for angst or sadness beyond the usual bumps and scrapes of childhood. What will he think about his parents getting divorced? About seeing his father on weekends and holidays, as a court-ordered schedule decrees?
The divorce:
it will become a physical fact in his life, a thing to live with rather than a way of life.