Flight (38 page)

“Looks fine to me,” Doug says. “A little inactive, maybe. But there’s not anything clearly wrong with it.” He holds the dove against his chest in order to open the cage again, then eases it gently in. “The eyes and feathers look fine.”

“Maybe it’s just depressed,” Margaret says.

Doug turns to her. “So how have you been?” he says.

Margaret flushes. “I’ve been fine,” she says. She raises one arm out to her side, following its progress upward with her eyes, as if it weren’t hers. Realizing this must look strange, she stops. “How about you?”

“Okay, I guess,” Doug says. “Mother’s tired a lot of the time. And she doesn’t walk well. But she’s doing great.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Doug’s mother was never very well, but sometime in the last ten years, she was diagnosed with lupus. Carol heard about it from a friend and told Margaret.

“I always wanted to send you a letter or a card,” Margaret says,
her heart filling with the sense of her own inadequacy as a friend. “I’m really sorry I didn’t.”

Doug looks at her simply, with no malice. “I’m sorry, too,” he says. “It would have been nice to hear from you.”

It’s the sort of thing David would have said. But David would have been aware that it was the right thing to say.

Margaret looks down at her black pumps. She has a familiar longing to tell Doug everything—about David, their marriage, driving up to Michigan in the rain.
I’m afraid the police will come to claim my child,
she wants to say. She could break down and cry, ask him what she ought to do. Go ahead with this horrible divorce, a custody battle fought in courts and adjudicated by complete strangers? Or go back to Evanston and take her chances on being able to sort out something more amicable with David? That’s the riskier route, because it isn’t clear what could happen.

“I wanted you to meet my friend Louis,” Doug says. “Your mother said it would be okay for me to bring someone.”

“Oh …” Margaret feels confused. So he brought someone—as in a date? She looks at Doug, standing there across from her, and it’s clear that she knows nothing about his life. It’s been over ten years since she saw him. Or since she was in the same place with him, rather. She doubts very much that she ever really saw Doug. She remembers standing outside her dorm at night, Doug casting about for words to tell her something about himself. Something he wasn’t sure about. Maybe he was hoping she would help him. But she wasn’t willing. She wasn’t much of a friend.

Doug turns toward the doves. “I’m sure they’re going to be great,” he says. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that big one.”

“He’s probably faking,” Margaret says, relieved. “To get more food.”

“She,” Doug says. “It’s a female. They both are.”

“They’re both girls? Are you sure?” She stares at the birds. Two females! That would definitely shock her mother.

“You don’t expect me to get that wrong, do you?” Doug says.
“I’m a farmer. I ought to know birds.” He smiles as if there’s a private joke between them. But there isn’t. She doesn’t even know this man, and he doesn’t know her. The urge to tell him everything seems silly. What could he say? He can’t help her any more than she could help him in Chicago all those years ago. Besides, she’s made her choice.

Margaret nods. “So they’re girls,” she says. “It doesn’t matter.” She moves toward the door, but he’s standing between her and it. “It doesn’t mean a thing.”

She inclines her head slightly toward him, and Doug steps back to let her pass. She slips by him quickly. The first thing she’s going to do is have another glass of champagne to celebrate her newfound certainty. She can hear Doug following her as she moves forward, in control again, out of the garage and back to the party.

Carol is on the deck. The sun is setting and the wind has risen, but that doesn’t necessarily mean rain. Perhaps a little shower passing over before midnight, leaving time for the water to soak into the ground and the grass to dry out.

There’s a sting on her arm, and she slaps quickly—too late. Mosquitoes are out. The house will be full of them now, what with everyone going in and out, leaving the screen door open. She’ll have to get Will to go around with the Raid before they go to bed. Even that won’t get rid of them all. She’ll do Trevor’s room with extra care and shut the door. She doesn’t want him itching and miserable all day tomorrow.

She looks around for Trevor. She’s seen Margaret doing it, too, keeping track of where he is, not wanting to let too much distance get between them. She doesn’t see Margaret, either; she must be wherever Trevor is.

She picks up her champagne glass off the deck railing. It’s frosty with condensation, and the bubbles are few and far between. She likes it this way—it doesn’t fizz in her nose so much, or make her want to hiccup. She takes a gulp, and the remaining bubbles burn in
her throat as the liquid goes down. She must be thirsty.
I should get some water instead,
she tells herself, but she doesn’t feel like walking across the deck and into the house to get it. Tiredness is starting to dog her.

“Hey, Will!” someone booms.

There’s a general perking up as Will appears on the deck. From where she stands in the darkness at the edge, Carol can see him outlined in light from the living room. When he was young, he had a classic fighter-pilot physique—hard and lean, daring the world to resist him. His body is wider and more settled now, but he still has an electrical charge, an energy that lights him up from within.

“Will, word is you’re going to keep flying.” Janice’s husband, Rem, is the speaker. He was always a fan, encouraging Will to tell flying stories at family gatherings. Everyone loves Will’s stories: the passenger who gets drunk and causes trouble, the uppity flight attendant, the practical jokes played by pilots on each other. He always used to have one in reserve. Lately, he doesn’t talk about the airline as much.

“Guess those Japs don’t care how old you are, do they?” Will’s brother, George, says. Typical: prejudice and ignorance combined. How did Will’s secret application to Cathay become common party gossip? “Cathay is Chinese,” Carol says, draining her glass with a jerk of annoyance. She turns away, looking for the happy couple, but they, like Margaret, seem to have disappeared. Maybe they’re finally getting something to eat.

“What do you think, Carol? You going to like living in Hong Kong and eating Chinese food all the time?” It’s Rem again, making what he thinks is jolly conversation.

“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that,” she says. She holds up her glass, gesturing her desire to get a new one.

Rem ignores the gesture. “What do you mean? You think he won’t go?”

There are other people watching her as well. Carol shrugs, not looking in Will’s direction. “Maybe he won’t pass the physical,” she says.

There’s a small explosion of laughter, as if she’s said something hilarious.

George steps over to Will and pats the slight paunch on him with a proprietary air. “What do you mean?” he chides. “Look at the man! He’s the picture of physical fitness. A real George Foreman.” He points to Will’s head. “Sharp as a tack, too! And eyesight like a hawk!” It’s true. Even now, nearing sixty, Will doesn’t need glasses.

“Yeah,” Carol says without thinking. “But can he hear?”

The laughter is a smaller noise this time, and Carol looks at Will. He’s staring at her, eyes wide. She’s hit the mark. And he’s surprised—it must not have occurred to him yet. She’s a little surprised herself. It’s been a slow decline; she never really noted it consciously.

The breeze flutters up again, feeling even cooler this time. Carol wraps her arms across her body and looks around, wanting to say something to dispel the dampening of cheer her remark has caused. She gives a hesitant, exploratory laugh, a foot in the door of mirth as it edges shut.

“Besides,” she says, “Will needs to be here and be a full-time farmer boy. We’ve got bed-and-breakfast guests coming, and they expect the real thing!” That does it—people laugh, and the conversation starts up again. But Will’s face, even as he joins in the laughter, is edged with sadness.

Clutching her glass, Carol goes inside, closing the screen door tightly behind her.
Mosquitoes out, Carol in,
she thinks.
Will love, Carol fifteen.
She shakes her head, trying to clear it. She must be getting drunk.

People have consolidated in the living room and the kitchen. She’s crossing the empty foyer, trying to erase the image of Will’s eyes, when she gets the feeling she’s not alone. She stops and turns around. Leanne is sitting at the top of the stairs. She sees Carol looking and waves a hand. Actually, she just holds a hand up, fingers spread, as if to say
Stop.
Carol halts, unsure whether to go upstairs. Then she sees Kit coming from the kitchen with a glass of water.

“Hey there,” he says, smiling carefully, and Carol nods to him,
reversing her mental course. Whatever is going on with Leanne, it’s for Kit to handle now. She turns and heads for the kitchen.

Kit climbs the stairs slowly, deliberately, holding a glass of water in his hand. He stops a few stairs below Leanne and squats down, leaning his back against the wall.

“Here.” He holds out the water. Grudgingly, Leanne takes it. She feels dizzy, as if she might pitch forward down the stairs. She knows she should drink the water, but it’s the last thing she feels like doing. She wants to lie down, right there, and go to sleep.

“Drink,” he says.

“Kit,” Leanne says, leaning her face toward the glass (where did he find such a huge plastic glass?), “I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Come on, drink,” he says. Leanne puts her mouth on the edge of the glass, and some of the water sloshes against her upper lip. Maybe she can absorb it that way. Kit continues to watch her, so she lifts her lip and lets some of the water slide into her mouth. She forces herself to swallow.

She has to finish what she started. She has been sitting here, looking down on people at the party, surprised by how easily it went on without her.
It’s okay,
she’s been telling herself.
It’s really okay.
No one will mind having come to a cocktail party if the wedding doesn’t take place. The party was for Carol anyway, and for Will. It was a chance for them to see all their friends, to show off their grown daughters and Trevor. And that has gone fine. Everyone saw Leanne. There’s no need for them to see her getting married.

“Kit,” she says. He puts a hand on hers and pushes the cup toward her again. Dutifully, she drinks. This time she takes a big gulp, and it feels good, icy water going down her throat. She gulps and gulps until it seems that the glass must be empty. When she moves it away from her face, she’s surprised to see that it’s only half gone. She gasps for air.

“Kit,” she says, “I can’t go to Mexico with you. I’m drunk.”

“That you are,” Kit says, nodding solemnly.

“No, I mean, I’m
a
drunk.
A
drunk.” She wonders if he gets it. Perhaps she should say it again, more clearly. “
A
…”

“I know,” Kit says. “Drink some more water. Your father’s going to make a toast.”

Leanne’s heart fills with happiness. She’s told him. He admits that she’s right. They won’t get married after all. He must have known it all along. He’s just been waiting for her to make up her mind. They’re in it together.

Kit stands up and reaches out a hand. Leanne gives him her cup, then her hand, so he can pull her slowly to her feet. He puts her hand on his arm and starts down the stairs, supporting her with one arm, carrying her water with the other. Nice, nice Kit. Her steps are wobbly. She pauses once, and he senses her hesitation and stops, so she can guzzle some more water. Then they move forward. By the time they reach the bottom of the stairs, she’s doing okay. She’s steady enough on her feet, with Kit’s support. She leans into him and walks. Her sense of relief keeps her legs moving. They didn’t have to fight. He understands.

Guests have gathered in the living room. Margaret is standing in the center, next to Will. Leanne doesn’t see Carol, but she must be somewhere close by. People step aside for Kit as he leads Leanne to the front.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Will is saying. “I want to say how glad I am to have all my family and friends here to help us celebrate.”

Standing next to her father, Margaret can feel his hesitation. He hasn’t planned in advance what to say. That’s so typical of him. She’s always thought she was like her father, a mover, a doer, but really, they’re different. She’s a planner, and he charges ahead blind.

Will turns to Kit. “Kit is a great guy,” he says. “He’s the kind of person you can talk to. I admire that. I couldn’t have picked a better husband for Leanne myself.”

Margaret can see Leanne swaying slightly on Kit’s arm. She looks happy, happier than she has looked all night.

“And so,” Will is saying in conclusion, raising his glass, “here’s to the happy couple. May they be as happy …”

Margaret’s eyes widen. Will he say it? She looks around the room for her mother. There she is, standing next to Aunt Janice, a fake smile plastered to her face.

“May they be as happy as they deserve,” Will finishes. Margaret sees, suddenly, Doug standing in the crowd, as relaxed as a benign king. The stranger, Louis, is at his side. Quickly, she steps forward before people can start talking again.

“I’d like to make a toast, too,” she says. A hard knot has formed in her stomach, the bitter offspring of her resolve.

“They say now that one in two marriages ends in divorce,” she says, smiling at the crowd. “I know this worries my father. But I’d like to say to him that, given those odds, I’m sure my sister’s marriage will be a long and happy one.”

“Hear, hear,” shouts Uncle Rem, and others join in, raising their glasses. Margaret looks at Leanne over her glass as she drinks. Leanne is still leaning on Kit, smiling as people lean forward to speak to her. She looks like she’s not hearing a thing. Margaret’s eyes turn to Carol. Carol is staring back at her, shocked.

At least someone got it,
Margaret thinks. She drains her glass.