In a Perfect World

A Novel

for Bill
with love to Jack & Lucy Abernethy
and with vast eternities of gratitude to Lisa Bankoff

If you are READING
THIS
you are going to DIE!

J
iselle put the diary back on the couch where she found it and went outside with the watering can. It was already eighty-five degrees, but a morning breeze was blowing out of the west, sifting fragrantly through the ravine. She breathed it in, knelt down, and peered beneath the stones that separated the garden from the lawn.

She had been married, and a stepmother, for a month.

In a bit of shade there, a tangled circle of violets was hidden—pale blue and purple. Small, tender, silky, blinking. If they had voices, she thought, they would be giggling.

She’d first noticed them a few days earlier, while raking dead vegetation out of the garden. That splash of color among the washed-out fallen leaves and other summer debris had caught her eye, and she knelt down and counted them
(twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five)
before covering them up again.

Somehow those violets had managed to stay perfectly alive through the scorching summer weather and all through the drought. The hottest, driest summer in a century. Maybe
ever.
They deserved special consideration, didn’t they? If God wasn’t going to give it to them, she would have to.

Now, every day, Jiselle took the watering can outside, and was always surprised to find those violets alive and tucked away in their shady crack.

Still, she knew they couldn’t last much longer—even hotter, drier weather had been predicted—so that morning, after watering them, she plucked just one. She covered the others up and brought the plucked one into the house, set it in a little souvenir shot glass from Las Vegas, with some cold water, placed it on the kitchen counter, and stepped back to admire it, deciding that she liked the little feminine gesture it made in the kitchen (Mark would be home in a day, and he would appreciate such a thing, as if she were settling in, getting comfortable, starting to decorate the place as if it were her own), until she turned her back on it, headed out of the kitchen to the bedroom to make the bed, and heard it
scream.

A high, piercing, horrible, girlish scream that made all the little hairs on Jiselle’s arms rise and a cool film of sweat break out on the back of her neck. She whipped around, heart pounding, and hurried back into the kitchen, a hand covering her own mouth, to see.

Of course the violet hadn’t screamed. It rested quietly where she had placed it, drooping over the side of the shot glass. If anything, it looked more defeated than it had a few seconds before—head bowed in acceptance over the shot glass, as if waiting patiently for the ax.

It would never have been capable of screaming.

That
had been Sara, howling at the news that Britney Spears was dead.

No one had said the word
epidemic
yet, or the word
pandemic.
No one was calling it a
plague.

The first outbreak had swept through a nursing home in Phoenix, Arizona, over a year ago, leaving the elderly miraculously untouched but killing seven nurses and aides. Some people fled Phoenix after that—taking their vacations early, boarding up their houses, staying in cabins in the mountains, visiting relatives—but they did not evacuate in droves. The Phoenix flu seemed contained, explainable. The new carpeting in the nursing home was blamed, and then the contaminated air ducts, in which a dead bat had been found.

It was mummified. It was ashes. The biohazard men came in their orange jumpsuits and took what was left of it away in a plastic bag.

Then, a few celebrities nowhere near Phoenix died of what seemed to be the Phoenix flu—a soap opera star, Shane McDermott, Gena Lee Nolan, and the daughter of an actress who’d had a small role on
The Sopranos
years before—and although the non-celebrity deaths weren’t made public, it was said that the nation’s florists could not keep up with the demand for flowers. FTD changed its one-day delivery service to “Only two full days for most arrangements!” and it was reported that people were buying antibiotics and Tamiflu in bulk off the Internet, which resulted in shortages. But only the hysterical pulled their children out of school or left the country.

When a passenger fell ill after flying in a plane in which the body of a flu victim was being transported in cargo, a law was passed requiring airline passengers to be informed when human remains were aboard their planes. But, with the war on, this was such a common occurrence that it had no noticeable effect on travel habits. Flight attendants were encouraged to time their safety instructions to serve as a distraction while baggage-handlers loaded caskets, but on that side of the plane, the passengers, who had never been interested in safety instructions anyway, watched the procedures solemnly from their seats, sometimes pressing their faces to the windows for a closer look.

No one had, to Jiselle’s knowledge, ever demanded to be booked on another flight because of a corpse in cargo, and, in general, there was very little talk, public or private, about the Phoenix flu, although there was endless excited talk about what a strange year it had been.

Full of curious weather, meteor showers, and the discovery in rain forests and oceans of species thought to be extinct, it was the kind of year you might associate with an apocalypse if you were prone to making those kinds of associations, which more and more people seemed to be.

Sunspots. Earthquakes. Hurricanes. Tornadoes.

More than a year before, in what would come to seem to her to have been another life, lived by a different woman—Jiselle had been in a bar in a hotel in Atlanta, watching a Weather Channel meteorologist (bleached blonde, hot-pink suit) on the television. The meteorologist held a spinning Earth in the palm of her hand and predicted more crazy weather everywhere.

All across the globe!

It was March, which had come in that year, they were saying, like a lion being chased by a lamb.

When Captain Dorn spoke to her, Jiselle turned from the television to him, holding a glass of wine in her hand—sipping from it, stem dangling between her fingers, the way the blond meteorologist held the world.

“Can I buy you another glass of wine?” the pilot asked.

Jiselle was in her uniform—the pressed blue pencil skirt, silk hose, light-blue blouse—and the little brass wings were spread over her heart, as if her heart might have the gift of flight. She was wearing, too, a pair of beautiful shoes she’d bought weeks earlier in Madrid, at an old-fashioned shoe store in the heart of the city. A salesman with a thin black mustache and goatee had said, watching her walk across the wooden floorboards wearing them,
Perfecto!

Sitting on the barstool, she had one long leg crossed over the other and was swinging the crossed leg slowly, trying to calm herself down after that terrible evening spent stuck on the runway in a driving rainstorm only to be turned back at the gate. It was nearly midnight. As Captain Dorn waited on the barstool beside her for an answer from her, one of the beautiful shoes, the one dangling from the swinging foot, slid right off her foot, and onto the floor.

In less than a second, he was on his knees below Jiselle, holding up the shoe as if considering it in the bar’s dim light, and then he slid it with a swift whisper back onto her foot, while a group of businessmen at a table nearby laughed and clapped, and she blushed, and Captain Dorn stood, smoothing down his pants, and gave her a courtly little bow before he sat back down.

That night, Jiselle was thirty-two years old.

She’d been a bridesmaid six times.

It was always a surprise to her, being asked to be a bridesmaid. In truth, she’d had only a few close friends in her life, and none of them was one of these six brides. But flight attendants made acquaintances quickly, and friendships became intense easily—a long layover, a blizzard, a terrible landing—and ended just as quickly and easily.

“You just look good in an ugly dress,” one of her boyfriends had suggested when Jiselle wondered aloud about her popularity for the position.

And maybe she did.

She had a bridesmaid’s shapely legs, wasp waist, blond hair that fell around her shoulders. The photographers at these weddings always seemed particularly interested in her, waving her over to stand by the cake, calling on her to kneel beside the bride and hold up the lacy train.

She’d worn green satin, and yellow chiffon, and something pink and stiff. She’d worn ribbons in her hair, or pinned to the top of her head, or down around her shoulders. One bride asked her bridesmaids to wear rhinestone tiaras, and although the last time Jiselle had been near a tiara was during a dance recital in second grade,
The Nutcracker,
she did—just as she obediently leaped to catch each bouquet as it sailed over her upturned face while the cameras flashed.

She’d been felt up by the drunken uncles of brides and been crushed on dance floors by their burly brothers. She’d been taken aside by a bride’s mother and asked, “Jiselle, darling, when in the world will we be attending
your
wedding?” and had simply smiled, blinking.

“Always a bridesmaid,” her mother had said on a couple of these occasions, “never a bride.”

“Mom, I—”

“You don’t have to explain to
me,”
her mother said. “Do you think if I had a choice about whether or not to get married again, I would?”

“No,” Jiselle said, clumsily, as if it had actually been a question. There
was
no question. After she’d kicked Jiselle’s father out of the house, along with Bingo, the little dog he’d just brought home, Jiselle’s mother had taken their wedding photos out into the backyard and lit them on fire one by one while Jiselle watched from the window over the kitchen sink. They shriveled up into black bats, and then into ashes, before her mother let them go.

Jiselle herself had fallen in love, too early, with two distracted boys—hockey and basketball, respectively. And then a few years escaped from her along with a married man. There’d been a British Royal Marine between scenes, and then a kleptomaniac. A drummer. A baggage-handler with a drinking problem. Then a few years passed during which she thought she’d given up men for good.

Already she’d buried the friend who would have been her maid of honor, and the father who would have walked her down the aisle. When people asked if she’d like to meet their cousin the doctor, their husband’s shy best friend, Jiselle politely declined. She kept busy, pretending to herself and to everyone else that she wasn’t waiting.

When she wasn’t working, she started crochet projects or bought journals she made plans to write in. She needed only a few plates, a couple of cups, in her rented house, while her acquaintances’ lives grew unfathomably cluttered, took on meaning, accumulated in detail. A few of the brides got divorced, and Jiselle bought them margaritas when the paperwork was complete. She attended a few second weddings in courthouses, casinos. She watched their children while they worked out custody disputes with their exes. One night she stayed up late with another flight attendant whose teenage son had disappeared.

“Never have children,” Angela had said, holding her cup of tea so fiercely that all the tiny bones and muscles in her hand glowed in the light of the television, as if lit from within. Down the block, Jiselle could hear a dog bark, sounding terrified and angry at the same time. “Just be glad you have no one, Jiselle,” Angela said, and then looked embarrassed to have said it, but also too distraught to take it back. They both knew what she meant.

When the son came home a few days later with a pierced lip and a tattoo, Angela called Jiselle and said, “When I was done kissing him, I told him I was going to kill him.”

Jiselle felt relieved and heartbroken at the same time, to think she might never know what it was like to love a child like that.

Once, in Florence, on a bus back to the airport, she had glimpsed a love like that. She was sitting behind a beautiful young girl with a glossy black braid down her back. Outside the bus window, a woman stood and watched. Clearly, she was the girl’s mother. The two of them had the same eyes, the same cheekbones. The girl put her hand to the bus window, and the mother put her own hand to her heart, and as the bus slid away, Jiselle couldn’t help but put her own hand to the glass as the mother’s love poured off of her toward them—as rolling fire, great sheets and waves of love, whole cathedrals filled with flickering candles, hurricanes, tornadoes, vast human migrations of love. Jiselle had wanted to keep watching but couldn’t help closing her eyes.

Like Angela’s son, the years ran off. But, unlike that son, they never came back, changed or otherwise.

“You’re only twenty-nine…thirty…thirty-one…thirty-two,” the six brides said. “I hardly think it’s time to give up.”

But Jiselle saw less and less of those brides as the years went by. They were so busy.
So
busy! After a while there was almost nothing to talk with them about on the phone, even if they’d had the time to return her calls, even if there wasn’t usually a child screaming in the background or waiting somewhere to be picked up, either in their arms or in their SUVs.

Also, Jiselle traveled for a living. She never met anyone in her own neighborhood because she was usually there for only a night or two before she left again. All the things people said to do to make friends, meet men—take a class, join a gym, attend a church—were impossible for her to do. She worked out in hotel gyms. She ate in hotel restaurants. She slept in hotel beds, where, occasionally late at night, she paged through the Gideon’s Bible in the hotel nightstand.

Once, in a Holiday Inn in Pittsburgh, she came upon a Gideon’s that had been bookmarked and highlighted for her:

Then I heard a voice from the sanctuary calling to the seven angels, “Go and empty the seven bowls of God’s anger over the earth.”
And HEY PLEASE ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION? was written in small red, block letters in the margin.