Slipstream

by Leslie Larson

  She felt confident as she packed a few essentials. Underwear, jeans, sweaters. As she was tucking in a tube of toothpaste, his voice came to her, as clear as if he were right there in the room. His voice, Vanessa’s father. God has given me this feeling, he told her, just as he had so many years ago. He has put this feeling for you in my heart. He wouldn’t put it there if it wasn’t right. He means for us to do this, to be together like this, to do what we are doing. It is God’s will. We must obey Him.

  That was a lie, Inez realized as she snapped the suitcase shut. The revelation was so clear and simple that, despite the peril of the moment, a smile spread across her face. And that wasn’t the only one, either. The lies she’d been told and the ones she’d told herself. About so many things, even about God himself. She picked up the suitcase and headed for the door. Now that she saw them for what they were, lies spread out before her all the way to the horizon.

  For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under heaven. Now it was time to get away, to leave. That was all that mattered. Later, there would be plenty of time for everything else. She had the rest of her life to figure it out.

  The back door slammed in the kitchen. Inez looked wildly at the front door, measuring the distance, her heart pounding. Where in the world was Vanessa? She had to leave! She couldn’t spend another moment in this house!

  It was one of the agents. A Filipino of all things, a soft-spoken young man with caramel skin and thick black hair cut so that it lay smoothly against his head. He wore a stylish, olive-green pullover. Nothing like you’d expect from a government agent. He was holding a brown grocery bag from Albertson’s.

  “Mrs. Cullen, we’ve found something here. Could you have a look?”

  Inez crossed the living room. When she got near the agent, she could smell his cologne. Something bracing and fresh, with a citrus base. He held open the Albertson’s bag. She looked down into it and there, nestled at the bottom, were her things: the stack of Avon receipts, the packet of photographs, the envelope of money.

  “Mrs. Cullen, is this you?” the agent asked, holding out a piece of paper.

  “Certificate of Live Birth,” Inez read.

  Sex: Female.

  Name: Santos.

  “Santos,” she pronounced, looking up at him with a questioning stare.

  “Is that you, ma’am?” the young man asked. He had such lovely eyes.

  She handed the certificate back to him. “Yes. That’s me. Santos,” she proclaimed, shaking her head with wonder, amazed that she’d found everything, that she had it all back again.

  37

  The ambulance crew came running, pushing through the crowd with their tubes and pumps and paddles, but Wylie could tell by the look on Jewell’s face when she turned and looked up at him that it was too late.

  “Stand aside! Please stand aside!” the lead paramedic shouted, shouldering his way in. When he got to where Wylie was kneeling beside Jewell, he took hold of Wylie’s arm and pulled him away. “Make room, please! Let us in!” he commanded. “Let us do our work!”

  Wylie stood. He felt the crowd behind him, the curious pressing in. Jewell was still bent over Logan, her hair hiding his face and chest. Wylie could only see Logan’s hand, curled as if in sleep, his splayed legs, his feet with the toes pointing out. The shoes were frayed, scuffed on the heels. One was untied.

  Logan had never gotten it quite right, Wylie thought to himself. He’d never really gotten the hang of this world.

  “Come on! Move it!” a short, slight paramedic shouted right next to him. A woman, he saw, with kinky black hair hanging down her back. Tough as nails.

  Wylie stepped aside. The phone was ringing behind the bar.

  He elbowed his way through the crowd, made his way back to the bar, lifted the counter, and stepped behind it. He looked at the place where Logan had been sitting just a few minutes before. His empty glass was still on the bar. Wylie gazed absently at it. Logan had held it in his hand, had raised it to his lips. And now those lips would never take another drink or speak another word or kiss another mouth. No. Logan was done with that. He had no use for it anymore. There was a space where Logan had been. An empty place.

  It occurred to Wylie to take a drink himself. To pour three or four fingers of Scotch and knock it straight back. Instead he walked over to the phone and picked up the receiver.

  He knew it would be her.

  “Jesus Christ, Wylie!” Carolyn burst out. “I was watching the news! I saw the whole thing! Are you okay?”

  It was only when he tried to speak that he realized he couldn’t. He strained, and his throat emitted a dry croak—half grunt, half moan, like he was straining to pick up something very heavy. He clenched his jaw and the tears squeezed out the corners of his eyes. They burned as they trickled down his face. He felt their warmth as they made their way over his lips and into his mouth. He tasted their salt. It had been years since he’d cried. Years and years.

  “Wylie!” Carolyn gasped into the receiver. “Are you there? Are you okay?”

  All he could do was nod.

  “If you’re there, say something, for God’s sake!”

  He managed to squeak, to gurgle, to gag. He was like the Tin Man who had rusted into place. Oil me. His chest heaved. Finally he managed to take a deep breath. It took every bit of his willpower to gasp, “Yes, I’m here. I’m okay.”

  “Thank God, Wylie! Jesus, I was scared! When I saw where it was, I couldn’t believe it! I just happened to switch the TV on and—”

  “My brother got shot,” Wylie interrupted. “Logan.”

  “What? What in the hell are you talking about? Are you kidding? Wylie, what do you mean?”

  The pain in Wylie’s throat reached down into his chest and up into his ears. He swallowed, wet his lips, and struggled with his tongue. “I’ll have to tell you later,” he managed to choke out. “Listen, Carolyn. I have to say this.”

  “What?” she asked anxiously.

  “I love you,” he said.

  The voice didn’t seem to come from him. It sounded familiar, though, as if it belonged to a person he once had been, or might become.

  “And I want to—”

  There was silence on the end of the line. A listening silence. Wylie wondered if the line had gone dead, if Carolyn was there at all.

  “I want—”

  She still didn’t say anything. No one was going to help him out.

  “Let’s,” he finally stammered. “Let’s.”

  Acknowledgments

  My deep gratitude to Rebecca Lowen for the many years she has encouraged me, offered judicious advice, and worked long and hard on my manuscripts. Your generosity still takes me by surprise. My warm thanks to Nina Friedman, who for decades has given her unwavering support to practically every word I’ve ever written—and who has generously shared her gift for pointing out inconsistencies and errors in reasoning. I’m grateful to Michelle Echenique for being what every writer should be so lucky to have—an inspired partner in crime, a sympathetic ear, and a joyful and intelligent reader. Sandra Cisneros has guided me in many ways, both large and small. For helping me hear those voices in our hearts that make us writers, and for tending my work with such care, I will always be grateful.

  Thank you to my friends and colleagues at the University of California Press, who have not only read and commented on my writing but who have also cheered me on and enabled me, one way or another, to create these stories while holding down a full-time job—in particular Hillary Hansen, Joan Parsons, Jim Clark, Mari Coates, Julie Christiansen, and Shira Weisbach.

  To my fellow Macondistas—my loving, dedicated, and wildly talented writing comrades—thank you for building a place where we can bring our most secret and precious things. Thank you to Marcia Donahue for her keen perceptions and for catching all those “who knews.” To Steve Johnson, who simply stepped into my path one morning, asked to see my manuscript, and went on to make a series of brilliant suggestions that greatly im
proved the end result. To Erasmo Guerra, who so generously took time from his own writing to help with mine. To Alex Espinoza, for his loving spirit and for being the first to bring a part of this novel to print. And to my family, where many of these stories begin.

  Space is lacking to describe the many fine qualities of my agent, Stuart Bernstein, for whom I feel an enormous sense of warmth and gratitude. Sally Kim has nurtured this book with her abundant energy, intelligence, persistence, and vision. Many thanks to her and to everyone at Shaye Areheart Books who gave these characters and this story such a fine home.

  I am grateful to Hedgebrook, where I completed this novel during a writer’s residency, and to the John Templeton Foundation Power of Purpose Awards for its generous gift.

  Thanks finally to Carla Trujillo—for all the big things and the many little things and everything in between, and for all the fun we have on the way.

  About the Author

  Leslie Larson was born in San Diego, California. Her work has appeared in Faultline, the East Bay Express, and The Women’s Review of Books, among other publications. She lives in Berkeley, California.

  Copyright © 2006 by Leslie Larson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Shaye Areheart Books, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  SHAYE AREHEART BOOKS, and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Larson, Leslie, 1956–

  Slipstream: a novel/Leslie Larson.—1st ed.1. Los Angeles International Airport—Fiction. 2. Los Angeles (Calif.)—Fiction.3. Airports—Employees—Fiction. 4. Airports—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3612.A7737S58 2006

  813'.6—dc22 2005025399

  eISBN: 978-0-307-34586-8

  v3.0