doesn’t hurt that he’s a partner in your agency.”
“I’m
a partner in the agency.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice rising. “So you’re both partners. It’s what I’m saying. You’re perfect for each other. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”
“Who’s perfect for who and why are you two still standing here?”
We turn. Helen shouldering her way past the kitchen door, her arms filled with the brown bags of apples. I have to say, tied up with their red-and-white-checked ribbons, they look totally adorable.
I reach for the bags. “Here, let me help you.”
Amy shakes her head impatiently. “I was just saying I thought Alex and Charles were really good together. And that I didn’t understand —”
“Well, only if Mrs. McIlleney doesn’t get him first,” Helen says, eyeing me over the bags.
“Mom!”
“Alex, I’m kidding. Although there was the one summer when Mary … Well, never mind. The point is, Charles is lovely,” she says, piling the rest of the bags into my arms. “Now, let’s put these on the dining room table, because we don’t want anyone to leave without their party favor. Something to remember this night.”
I look at the bags and back at her. Helen’s face is unreadable. I can’t tell if she’s kidding, or teasing me, or siding with me over Amy—and that would be a first. Or maybe it’s like with Charles a minute ago. It’s the first time I’ve seen Helen in a long time when she wasn’t annoyed, or tired, or disappointed. “You’re right, Mom,” I say, turning for the dining room with the bags. “We don’t want anyone to forget their gift bag.”
3
And Then There’s Just Marking Time
Somewhere over Palm Springs, the pilot clicks on the way
they do, sounding like Robert Mitchum or Dan Rather, with their all-American drawls—right out of Tulsa or Dallas, football games and barbecues and Purple Hearts won in the war. Like they’ve just flown through hell and back, but damn if they aren’t bringin’ us down for a sweet landing and maybe a nice steak dinner after. It makes you happy just to be alive. Wedged in seat 5B, I pull the blanket around me, craving only more sleep, more of the pilot’s lullaby: “Folks, we sure do thank you for flying with us today.”
No, thank
you
. I burrow deeper into my business-class seat, upgrades being one of the only consolations for the freneticism of my life. Thank
you
, for my cocoon in the sky, this hammock between here and there, between then and next. Like the bubble in a level, I’m perfectly balanced in the air.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to bring your seat back up. We’re about to land.”
So much for my cocoon. I pull the blanket from my head and gaze sleepily around the cabin. Light is pouring in, and everyone is moving in that restless, get-me-out-of-here way, snapping closed briefcases and laptops, jamming magazines and newspapers into the seat back pockets. Like they can’t wait to spring free of this steel canister. Get back to their real lives.
Fools.
I lean into the aisle and check the line to the bathroom. At least three people. Shit. I check my watch. Almost 5:00 P.M. Or it was. I pull out the stem and rewind it, unspooling the hours, hurtling backward. 2:00 P.M. A whole day in front of me. Again. I run my hands through my hair and attempt my first executive decision of the day: do I join the potty line or wait to pull myself together after we land? I reach between my feet for my bag, pull it into my lap, fishing around for my lip gloss and BlackBerry. With one hand I smooth the Sahara of my lips, and with the other I click on for my e-mails.
“Ma’am, please turn off all PDA devices; we’re about to land.”
“I’m not turning it
on
on,” I say futilely as she hustles up the aisle, collecting glasses, napkins, trash as if her life depended on it. Oh, screw it. I toss the blanket aside and scramble to my feet. I can never think clearly when I have to pee.
“Hey, Alex, how was your
“I’m
a partner in the agency.”
“Okay,” she says, her voice rising. “So you’re both partners. It’s what I’m saying. You’re perfect for each other. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.”
“Who’s perfect for who and why are you two still standing here?”
We turn. Helen shouldering her way past the kitchen door, her arms filled with the brown bags of apples. I have to say, tied up with their red-and-white-checked ribbons, they look totally adorable.
I reach for the bags. “Here, let me help you.”
Amy shakes her head impatiently. “I was just saying I thought Alex and Charles were really good together. And that I didn’t understand —”
“Well, only if Mrs. McIlleney doesn’t get him first,” Helen says, eyeing me over the bags.
“Mom!”
“Alex, I’m kidding. Although there was the one summer when Mary … Well, never mind. The point is, Charles is lovely,” she says, piling the rest of the bags into my arms. “Now, let’s put these on the dining room table, because we don’t want anyone to leave without their party favor. Something to remember this night.”
I look at the bags and back at her. Helen’s face is unreadable. I can’t tell if she’s kidding, or teasing me, or siding with me over Amy—and that would be a first. Or maybe it’s like with Charles a minute ago. It’s the first time I’ve seen Helen in a long time when she wasn’t annoyed, or tired, or disappointed. “You’re right, Mom,” I say, turning for the dining room with the bags. “We don’t want anyone to forget their gift bag.”
3
And Then There’s Just Marking Time
Somewhere over Palm Springs, the pilot clicks on the way
they do, sounding like Robert Mitchum or Dan Rather, with their all-American drawls—right out of Tulsa or Dallas, football games and barbecues and Purple Hearts won in the war. Like they’ve just flown through hell and back, but damn if they aren’t bringin’ us down for a sweet landing and maybe a nice steak dinner after. It makes you happy just to be alive. Wedged in seat 5B, I pull the blanket around me, craving only more sleep, more of the pilot’s lullaby: “Folks, we sure do thank you for flying with us today.”
No, thank
you
. I burrow deeper into my business-class seat, upgrades being one of the only consolations for the freneticism of my life. Thank
you
, for my cocoon in the sky, this hammock between here and there, between then and next. Like the bubble in a level, I’m perfectly balanced in the air.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to bring your seat back up. We’re about to land.”
So much for my cocoon. I pull the blanket from my head and gaze sleepily around the cabin. Light is pouring in, and everyone is moving in that restless, get-me-out-of-here way, snapping closed briefcases and laptops, jamming magazines and newspapers into the seat back pockets. Like they can’t wait to spring free of this steel canister. Get back to their real lives.
Fools.
I lean into the aisle and check the line to the bathroom. At least three people. Shit. I check my watch. Almost 5:00 P.M. Or it was. I pull out the stem and rewind it, unspooling the hours, hurtling backward. 2:00 P.M. A whole day in front of me. Again. I run my hands through my hair and attempt my first executive decision of the day: do I join the potty line or wait to pull myself together after we land? I reach between my feet for my bag, pull it into my lap, fishing around for my lip gloss and BlackBerry. With one hand I smooth the Sahara of my lips, and with the other I click on for my e-mails.
“Ma’am, please turn off all PDA devices; we’re about to land.”
“I’m not turning it
on
on,” I say futilely as she hustles up the aisle, collecting glasses, napkins, trash as if her life depended on it. Oh, screw it. I toss the blanket aside and scramble to my feet. I can never think clearly when I have to pee.
“Hey, Alex, how was your
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