Losing Julia (57 page)

As the plane took off I stared out the window and smiled, enjoying the dull drone of the engines. I slept through the layover at JFK, which was confusing, but at least I got some rest. When I noticed that it was just after midnight I looked out the window and imagined the black waves miles below, and beneath them miles of cold and silent darkness. I thought of Oscar Bellamy and his checkerboard and his endless fears and I wondered how he felt about flying over oceans. Not so good, I decided.

The young man next to me—he boarded in New York—appeared about thirty, with neat sandy blond hair that looked as though it was cut exactly one week ago and again exactly one week before that. From his expensive leather shoes I assumed he was in finance or at least represented those who were. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, worsted wool I think, and wore a crisp white shirt adorned with a yellow paisley tie. His cologne, recently applied, was a bit too sweet and reminiscent of nothing more than other affluent men his age who smell too sweet. I assumed it was called Wall Street or Attaché or VIP or Portfolio and I imagined him leaning into the mirror each morning as he slapped some on his cheeks, POW! POW! just like in the commercials. His face was handsome, strong chin and straight nose, but lacking in animation. A good face for poker but not for striking up friendships. How much are we the product of our faces and how much are they the product of our personalities? I’ve known people whose faces rested naturally in a smile and I’m certain their lives were much different because of that.

I watched as he stuffed a pillow beneath his lower back and then pulled a thick leather-bound notebook from his briefcase, opened it and stared at the pages. From the graphics I surmised that it was some sort of schedule book.

“Looks like you’re pretty damn busy,” I said, startling him.

He eyed me for a moment, then waved the book and said, “It helps keep me from completely falling apart.”

I wondered what I would write in an appointment book. Take medicine? Review living will?

I plucked the in-flight magazine from the seat pouch and struggled to recline my chair until the young man noticed my difficulty and put a hand at the top and pushed it back. I thanked him and thumbed through the magazine, then closed my eyes and imagined I was a seagull skimming just a few feet over the waves which marched below me in perfect formation across the ocean.

As fast as one wave was mown down, another rolled up behind it. Our machine-gunners say they were absolutely sick of killing them.

—Harold Coulter, British Army.

I WAS TEN
when my father took me to Antietam to study the battlefield and learn about strategy and courage and most of all to stare at his father’s (and my namesake’s) thin white slab jutting from the wet grass. That was 1908, and it was cold and foggy as we walked across the fields and down along the Sunken Road, which my father explained was also called Bloody Lane. He carried a large jug of fresh apple cider in one hand and with the other pointed out where each army stood and I listened carefully for the sound of cannon and pounding hoofs and the clash of metal but I heard only the sound of the cider sloshing in the jug. Still, I felt afraid as I stared across the meadow toward the woods and imagined it full of soldiers drawing a bead on me and preparing to charge.

“Your grandfather fell somewhere right around here,” said Father, surveying a grassy field. “Died fighting slavery and to keep this country together.” Even then I realized that such a death was about as good as it gets and I carefully selected a spot about equidistant between two stands of trees and stared at it until I saw grandfather Delaney lying there with a glorious glow about him as he died again and again for freedom and justice.

“We still have the letter from his captain that said he died in the second charge, dead by the time he hit the ground. Took a minie ball right in the chest.”

I was doubtful but said nothing as we walked across the grass to a cemetery bordered by a low stone wall. To me the rows of tombstones looked like dominoes and I wondered if I pushed the first one hard enough would they all fall? Beneath the grass I saw rows and rows of skeletons still dressed in blues and grays and some even holding swords by their sides.

When we reached my grandfather’s headstone Father knelt down before it. “I still remember the day that letter arrived in the mail,” he said quietly. “I’ll never forget the look on my mother’s face.”

I tried to feel their grief but I was more interested in looking at the worn letters of my name etched in white stone and wondering what my namesake looked like down in the rich black soil beneath my feet.

TRAFFIC USED
to come to a complete standstill in New York City every year for one minute at eleven a.m. on November 11. It’s true. The police would blow their whistles and everybody stopped.

Does anybody remember that? Could they all be gone?

DANIEL?
Daniel? Daniel! I feel fiery hot and there are hands pressing on my shoulders. Julia? I can’t get to him, Julia, I can’t!

Who’s shaking me? My hips and stomach hurt and I breathe faster and faster until suddenly it’s bright. I stare into the light until gradually I see a face. A young man’s face.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“Huh?” I sat motionless for a minute, waiting for everything to stop moving. Then I squinted and looked around. I’m on a plane. A plane to Paris. Just dreams.

“I’m sorry,” I said, coughing. “Bad dream. The medications do it.”

“No problem.” He looked worried and I wondered if he feared I might have some sort of seizure or simply expire right here next to him on the 506 to Paris. I felt embarrassed and apologized again as I pulled my seat forward.

He returned to his paperwork and I to my book. But I couldn’t focus for long on the words and soon I closed the book and stared at the flight attendants. When they were out of view I watched the young man shuffle through his papers.

“What sort of work do you do?” I asked.

“I’m an attorney. Corporate law.”

“Interesting?” A cruel question, but I was bored.

“The money is.”

“Ever think of doing anything else?”

“Oh, lots of things, but they don’t pay enough.”

“Like what?”

“Oh well, let’s see, I guess in my heart of hearts I would have liked to have been a professional musician, but I don’t have the talent.”

“Funny, I always wanted to be a musician too.”

“Did you play an instrument?”

“No, never got around to it. I guess everybody wishes they were a musician. I wonder what musicians long for?”

“Probably a paycheck.”

“Yeah, right. You know, you kind of look like a musician.”

“Really, you think so?” He sat up.

“Hair’s a little short. What instrument do you play?”

“Guitar. It’s a great outlet after work, though my neighbors might disagree.”

“Ever write your own songs?”

“Haven’t for a while because I’ve been so busy, but I used to, especially in college.” He smiled. “After breaking up with a girlfriend the muse came on strong. The problem is, I only wanted to write when I was depressed.”

“That’s the thing about art. It
really
helps to be unhappy.”

“Maybe that’s why so many musicians stop writing good music once they make it big.”

“So be glad you never hit it big.” He chuckled in a way that belied his youth and made me like him.

The blond stewardess served our dinner: chicken, a small salad, a roll and a brownie with nuts sprinkled on top. I traded my brownie for the young man’s roll and we ate in silence. After I finished I pulled out my small black kit bag, unzipped it and began opening pill bottles one by one, returning each bottle back into the bag after I had removed and swallowed a pill.

“Why are you going to Paris?” he asked, as the trays were being removed.

“Job interview.” I popped the last of eight pills into my mouth.

He looked puzzled. I winked. I’ve done a lot of winking since I got old. One quick wink meaning “right-o.” Two rapid winks with mouth agape meaning, “Our little secret, right?” Winking is one of the few things you can do better when you’re older. In fact, I don’t think anyone under sixty-five can really execute a wink properly. When young people wink, they look like they’re having problems with their contacts. When old people wink, it’s like they are firing off great big smoke rings, dense with cryptic meaning. Maybe winking is the secret handshake of old age. But I can’t help but notice that I got really good at winking just about the time I got really bad at screwing. Maybe that’s why old people wink so much, kind of an inside joke like: you can’t keep it up either, huh? (Isn’t God a scream.)

“Actually, I thought I’d look up some old friends while I can still get about,” I said.

“I admire that. I think we’re only as old as we feel.”

“No, actually, I feel quite young, at least inside; your age really. It’s the rest of me that’s so dreadfully dated.”

He laughed. “Good point. I suppose there are some limitations.”

I folded my arms on my chest. “It’s interesting, when you think about it. I mean, you’ve got what I need and I’ve got what you need.”

He looked puzzled.

“You’re wondering what I’ve got, eh?”

“Wisdom, experience,” he said, uncertainly.

“Something even more important.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ve got physical proof that people your age really do turn into people my age. And fast.”

“Time flies,” he said.

“In my case it has flown.” I waved one hand in the air and made a whooshing sound. Then I leaned into him and said, “Do you want to know a little secret?” He nodded hesitantly. “It’s simple, really. Once you become my age, you finally realize that the things that people your age consider important are actually bullshit.” I jabbed my finger into his chest. “Total, absolute, worthless bullshit. But by the time you realize it, it’s too goddamn late to do anything about it, which is
really
bullshit! But at least I’ve warned you.”

He put his tray up and leaned back. “I was debating whether to have a 7-Up or a Scotch, but you’ve just made up my mind.”