Flying Lessons

by Peggy Webb

  “Lady.” The hulking young man—Larry, his name tag reads—shifts a wad of something from his left jaw to his right. Chewing gum? Tobacco? “Do you want a room or not?”

  “I do.”

  My feet are swollen, my legs are aching and I need to pee. The trip took a bigger toll than I expected.

  I hand over my credit card. A woman with enough money to pay in full when the bill comes. But, of course, it will be sent to Tupelo, and I’ll be in Pensacola.

  Or will I? The thought of not knowing where I’ll be a week, two weeks, two months from now is unsettling and exhilarating at the same time. Like being a teenager and not knowing what you want to do the rest of your life or where you want to live or who you want to live with. The future full of mystery and promise.

  For an instant I have a crazy desire to call Howard and say, “Listen, you ought to come down and join me. We could start over, not in a plodding, methodical, making-plans sort of way, but wild and free, our lives unfurling like a kite that just broke free and lifted toward the sun.”

  Instead I go into room 126, head straight to the bathroom and pull open the blinds to stare at Wal-Mart. At least my view is of the garden center. A bank of red hibiscus sits near the curb. No mistaking the huge, crepe-paper-like blossoms. And yellow allamanda. Another easy-to-spot tropical. Pots and pots of multihued impatiens. A rack of ferns, wilting in the sun.

  Today is the day I always water my Boston ferns. I wonder if Howard will remember. They’re picky. They want daily misting and regular feeding. Otherwise the leaves will curl under and turn brown.

  I grab the cell phone from my purse and punch in numbers.

  “Hello,” Howard says. “Hello?”

  I can’t have it both ways. I can’t live two lives, the old one in Mississippi and the new one in Florida. New. Exciting. Scary.

  “Elizabeth? Say something.”

  I punch End, and the act seems fraught with weighty significance.

  My phone begins to ring, but when Howard’s number flashes on the screen, I don’t answer. What would I say? He’s going to ask questions and I don’t have any answers.

  Finally the ringing stops. It’s one in the afternoon and I haven’t had lunch. But who cares? I’m no longer bound by the clock. I can eat breakfast at eleven and lunch at four if I want. Or no breakfast, no lunch, no dinner. I can just eat ice cream all day, whenever I get hungry.

  But I haven’t kicked the living-by-the-clock habit yet, and as I stare at my watch the rest of the day stretches before me, hours of time that are mine to fill as I please. I can drive to the beach, lie in the sun, buy binoculars and scan the horizon for bottlenose dolphins. Or I can browse the bookstores, select a sackful of books and do nothing but read and eat potato chips without having to worry about getting dinner on time.

  Once I read a book about a woman going through menopause who stopped making dinner. Just stopped. While her family asked, “What’s for dinner?” she sat on the front porch swing and stared at a gardenia bush. Although white flies were sucking the life out of it and it was her prize bush, she didn’t even get up to spray it with neem oil.

  Of course, I’m not like that fictional character. My flight has nothing to do with the change of life and everything to do with the quality of life.

  But where do I start? My choices are mind-boggling. On the one hand I want to drift along, meander through my days without agenda or destination, and on the other I feel the urge to make some kind of long-range plan.

  First, though, I settle in, unpack my toothbrush in the fifties-style bathroom—wall-hung lavatory with the plumbing showing, uneven pink tile floor, pink toilet—then stow my underwear in the top dresser drawer and my unfinished symphony in the bedside table.

  There are no frills in this room. No notepads and pens stamped with the motel’s name. No desk. No matching bedspread and draperies. A pink chenille spread covers the bed and yellowing Venetian blinds cover the window.

  This unstylish room is a throwback to a time when life was simpler, kinder, slower-paced. It’s the kind of room where I can cocoon myself—rest, heal, grow.

  The first step is to get to the seaside where I once dreamed. When I was eight I saw an entire pod of dolphins cavorting in the Mississippi Sound and imagined myself becoming a marine biologist, a fearless woman who communed with these gentle giants to unlock the mysteries of the sea. At twelve I heard the symphony of the ocean and fell in love with music forever. At twenty-two I stood at the water’s edge and exchanged vows with Howard, believing the touch of his hand would always be magic.

  The dreams changed with age, but not the source. It was always the ebb and flow of tides that brought them to the surface.

  I head to Wal-Mart, then sprint through the aisles selecting a beach towel, sunscreen, toiletries, a couple of romance novels, T-shirts, shorts, nightshirts and a skirted swimsuit that looks like something Mamie Eisenhower would wear. I’m headed to the checkout counter when I dash back down the housewares aisle. Every woman making herself over needs twelve gardenia candles in cranberry-colored glass votive cups.

  After a whirlwind trip back to the Palm Breeze to change clothes and grab my unfinished symphony, I’m on my way to the beach.

  It’s still a little early for the summer crowd, so I have the beach to myself except for a young mother sounding frazzled as she tells her three little boys not to go out too deep and a handsome gray-haired couple with faces as tanned and wrinkled as peach pits sitting side by side in lawn chairs, holding hands.

  That’s how I imagined it would be with Howard and me. I feel as if I ought to walk over there and congratulate them, ask them, How did you keep romance alive? Instead I leave my belongings on my towel and race toward the water. Well, waddle, is more like it, but in my mind I’m svelte and sixteen, as light and carefree as dandelions in the wind.

  A strong swimmer, I enjoy the feel of gliding through the water watching the shore recede. Though there are always shark sightings along these beaches and incidents of shark attacks, there are no fishing boats, which lessens the likelihood of seeing these fierce predators. They come in for bait, especially in early morning and late afternoon.

  I float with my face to the sun while seagulls soar overhead and a brown pelican dives for fish. Buoyed by salty water I lie perfectly still, listening to the music of life teeming around me, and then I head back to shore.

  Sand squishes between my wet toes and sprinkles across my towel like sugar, but that’s part of the beach experience. When Howard and I were courting in Ocean Springs, we used to lie on a beach towel kissing and laughing about the taste and feel of grit between us.

  Now I just squirm around trying to get comfortable. Sand has sifted everywhere, including the crotch of my swimsuit, and I discover there’s nothing sexy about it when nobody’s there to appreciate it.

  This is the age of loss—kids striking out on their own, people dying, husbands turning indifferent, wives flying the coop. And yet…the senior couple is now strolling on the beach, arms around each other’s waists, hips and thighs touching. Birdlike, the wife tilts her face upward, and her tall husband leans down to kiss her.

  Envy rears its ugly head, and hard on its heels a sense of failure. How did I let my marriage go so wrong?

  Too much introspection is bad for the digestion.

  I take my unfinished symphony out of my beach bag and try to put music on paper. Does this section need to be adagio sostenuto or allegretto? Do I need Beethoven’s haunting melodies or Grieg’s huge, crashing chords?

  And where’s Beth in all this?

  The sweet older couple strolls past my blanket and I wave. Oh Lord. No wonder I can’t write music. Until I figure out how Howard and I turned into Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf instead of these beautiful geriatric lovers, I’m as blocked as somebody in need of a large dose of Kaopectate.

  Instead of music, I put words in the treble clef.

  Dear Howard,

  I’ve lost my way and I can’t tell you exa
ctly why. There was no one moment between us when I said, This is it. I just can’t take it anymore. Instead I feel as if I’ve been standing out in a steady rain for a very long time, and I’m only just now realizing that I’m wet and cold.

  The words pour out, presto agitato, rushing out on a wave of long bottled-up emotion. If I stop to think about what I’m doing I’ll quit, because admitting this kind of fearsome truth makes me feel as though I’m standing in the middle of the street naked, my cottage-cheese thighs, gray pubic hair and all on display.

  I had dreams once, Howard, big dreams. Of course you and the children are part of them, but nobody needs me that much anymore, except maybe Bonnie, and I’m left with this big gaping hole that somehow never got filled.

  Out of the corner of my eye I watch the beautiful senior couple fold their blanket and steal away, hands linked and faces tilted toward each other, smiling. I can’t remember the last time Howard and I smiled at each other like that. I can’t remember the last time he came home and told me something funny that happened at the office, or I stood waiting at the door, bursting with news I wanted to share with him.

  I continue writing, moving into the bass clef.

  I’m not blaming you, Howard. I’m not blaming anybody, not really, not even Aunt Bonnie Kathleen, though she certainly knew how to hold a prancing filly on a tight rein.

  I don’t want to be the kind of woman I am anymore, the kind everybody consults only when they want to know the best way to remove rust stains from the toilet and dog stains from the rug. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who worries about holding her stomach in and whose major decisions of the day are whether to buy rising flour or plain and what to cook for supper. I don’t want the most important thing I do all day to be making sure the toilet paper rolls out because that’s the way you like it.

  I don’t want to give a flying fart about crow’s-feet and age spots and conventional opinions and dust bunnies under the sofa. I want to dance in the sunrise and race barefoot in the dew and roll naked between clean, crisp sheets feeling that every ounce of me, including my whale belly, is wonderful.

  I chew my fingernails. Do I sound like a woman whose mind has flown the coop? Should I cross out the part about dreams? Will he think I’m blaming him because I never finished my symphony?

  A breeze freshens over the bay, ruffles my hair and lifts it off my neck, catches my fear and blows it into small, manageable parts.

  Howard, writing this letter feels like putting on my most comfortable sweatpants and not caring that the waistband is stretched and the holes show. I always wondered what it would be like to visit you professionally, lie on the couch and tell you my thoughts, and I guess that’s what I just did.

  I don’t know whether I can mail this letter, but writing it feels like opening a cage door and letting loose a cat that has been trapped inside, clawing me to pieces.

  Back in my motel room, I tuck the letter into the top drawer of the bedside table, circle the room trying to decide what to do next. I feel like a dime-store Santa after Christmas. No more people lined up clamoring for my attention.

  Not cooking supper, not having Kate pop by with Bonnie, not having Jenny bouncing downstairs on her way to the movies feels strange. I pick up the phone to call both girls, but all I get is Hi, leave a message at the beep.

  All of sudden I don’t even know what kind of message to leave. I can no longer say, I’ve made apple pie, come over for dinner. The beep sounded long ago, and I feel foolish just hanging up. Finally I say, “Hi, it’s me, give me a call,” stilted and formal, as if my family has already disappeared from my life.

  I can’t stand this intense loneliness another minute. When I arrive in the lobby, out of breath, Larry looks up from a science textbook, of all things.

  “Ms. Martin, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Just call me Beth.”

  Human contact. I feel rescued.

  “You seem in an awful hurry. Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing that can’t be helped by a friendly smile and some comfort food. Preferably chocolate.”

  “This is your lucky day.”

  Larry gives me a big, cheerful smile and a handful of chocolate-covered mints from the bowl sitting on the check-in desk. Then he leans against the front of the desk, still smiling.

  “How’s that?”

  “Much better.”

  I eat two candies, settle into the lobby’s only chair and ask Larry about himself. He’s a student at Pensacola Junior College and has a cute girlfriend named Tammy. I show him pictures of my family.

  This is the lovely thing about giving more than a passing hello to the people we encounter: each time we reach out to another human being we are blessed. Today my blessing is in not feeling alone.

  Day two I wake up expecting to feel different, transformed somehow, a woman unfurling her wings. But the only thing different about me is my sassy new nightshirt, which reads Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History.

  Nobody would call me well behaved anymore, so maybe I’m fixing to burst into artistic fame, a Mississippi musical version of Grandma Moses.

  To celebrate I place my twelve scented candles around the tub, pour in bubble bath and lean back to luxuriate. My decadent pleasure lasts all of two minutes and then I’m floundering around trying to get my head under water. Instead of bursting into fame, I’ve burst into flame: I leaned too close the candles and my hair caught fire.

  Fortunately, it was on the back and just a tiny spot, so nobody notices, not Larry, who is at the desk again, nor the sweet old couple who wave when I spread my blanket on the beach.

  I smile and wave back, and then pick up my cell phone to check on my daughters, Jenny first because our relationship is free of the guilt I feel over Kate.

  “Hi, Jen girl. How’s it going?”

  “Mom! I’m great, fantastic.” Jenny recounts her tours of red canyons and swirling vortexes, and then we laugh about the bubble bath and the candles.

  Afterward, I sit on my blanket watching the older couple wade into the water, holding hands. I fall into the moment—the beauty of their love, the sunshine on my back, the smell of the sea—and let myself drift there until I’ve found a peaceful center, a place of serenity and succor.

  Then I pick up the phone to call Kate.

  CHAPTER 5

  “How do you get rid of tarnish on a hero?”

  —Kate

  I thought my mother was perfect until she took off to parts unknown without a minute’s notice. She entertains with the pizzazz of Martha Stewart, can talk to anybody with the ease and wit of Oprah and collects friends just by walking into a room. Daddy and Jenny and Bonnie adore her and I idolize her.

  Or did until she ran away, and now I don’t know what to think. Has she been unhappy all these years and merely covering it up or is something happening to her that is too awful to tell?

  If I didn’t have Bonnie and Rick, I guess I’d be going plumb crazy instead of only halfway. As it is, I nearly jump out of my skin when the phone rings and Mom’s number pops up. Ordinarily I’d be eager to talk, but now I think about letting it ring because I don’t know how much more of this drama I can handle.

  That’s why I didn’t call her back last night. What do you say to a mother who has always been your hero and suddenly she’s acting like somebody you hardly know?

  My voice mail is fixing to kick in, and at the last minute I pick up the phone and say hello.

  “Kate, thank goodness.”

  What does that mean? Thank goodness? Is she fixing to tell me she needs a kidney transplant and has run off because the doctors can’t find a kidney and she can’t stand to die in front of her family—which is ridiculous because she’s never had a single kidney problem.

  See how upset this whole thing has made me? I’m no longer rational. Last night I put salt into the cake instead of sugar and had to throw the whole thing into the garbage disposal and start all over.

  “How are you? How’re Bonnie and Rick?”r />
  “Bonnie’s jumping up and down with excitement about play school. And Rick’s working too hard, as usual.”

  The only thing I can say about myself is that I’m confused, and so I don’t say anything.

  “How’s Rufus?”

  The dog? She’s asking about the dog and not Daddy? How bizarre is that.

  “He’s not his usual perky self, but then neither is Daddy. When are you coming home?”

  “Oh… I don’t know. Certainly not by Wednesday. I’ve got to call Emmaline and tell her I won’t be at her book club luncheon.”

  I could care less about Emmaline’s society luncheons, contrary to what my husband wants me to think. If it were left up to him I’d be a member of every women’s club in Tupelo for the express purpose of bandying his name about as Tupelo’s answer to Perry Mason.

  “Are you visiting friends, vacationing alone, what?”

  “I’m just trying to sort things out.”

  “What things? Have we done something to upset you? Have I?”

  “Oh, for goodness sake. No. You’re a good daughter and…”

  It’s that long pause that gets to me. All my life I’ve tried to measure up, but I’ve been a day late and a dollar short, as Aunt Bonnie Kathleen used to say. Not that Mom has ever said anything to indicate that I’ve failed her, but I’ve always known that I was second best. It showed in the way her face lit up when Jenny entered a room, in their easy laughter, in the way the two of them stood united while Dad and I stood on the fringes—the only two in the room who didn’t get the joke.

  “…this simply has nothing to do with you, Kate.”

  “Are you and Dad having problems I don’t know about?”

  “No…and yes. Listen, Kate, a husband and wife will always have problems if they live together long enough. You let little things go by until suddenly they’re like a pink elephant on your piano stool. You’ve got to either do something about it or hold your nose and pretend you don’t smell the stench.”