by Greg Johnson
Her mother’s eyes had narrowed. This had marked the moment, as Lucille would say throughout Abby’s teenage years, when she had “seen the light” about her daughter.
After that morning, Lucille enjoyed pointing out that Abby could surely fool her Grandma Sadler, who was so sweet and trusting; or Daddy, who was always preoccupied with his job or his woodworking or whatever he did during his long evenings in the basement; or even the eagle-eyed nuns at school, who were forever sending Abby home with report cards studded with A’s and glowing written comments (bordered with shiny gold-foil crosses) on Abby’s “docile and cooperative” nature, her status as “one of the best-behaved girls in the school.” But, her mother said, Abby couldn’t fool her any longer.
“Once a snoop, always a snoop,” Lucille had pronounced, turning smartly away and leaving her daughter to think about that.
It was true. Never mind that Lucille shared the trait, going through her children’s possessions routinely while they were at school. Once or twice she’d even read the pink-leatherette five-year diary Abby had gotten from Grandma Sadler for her tenth birthday, and she hadn’t troubled to hide the evidence of her tampering, leaving the diary’s metal clasp undone. But yes, it was true that even at age nine or ten, when Thom was too young to take an interest, Abby had gone through her parents’ drawers regularly, whenever she knew they were in the backyard or busy with company out in the den. She’d dug to the bottom of her mother’s stack of nylon underwear and lingerie, she’d pawed through her father’s drawer of boxer shorts and socks, looking for…for what? She hadn’t quite known, and as an adult she hadn’t cared to think about it. Even now, teaching her classes, she felt stray but oddly intense impulses of curiosity toward certain of her students. Once a troubled girl in Abby’s first-year English class had left her notebook behind in Abby’s office, and without hesitation Abby had paged through it, pondering each drawing and doodle, reading all the random girlish sentiments—“I luv luv luv L.C.”—scattered through the pages.
She no longer told herself, as she’d done in college when snooping in her roommate’s desk drawers, that she felt an “innocent curiosity” about other people, wanting to know much more than Abby Sadler in person, with her traits of Southern courtesy and reserve, could ever have found out directly. She was not the kind of girl in whom other girls readily confided, a realization that had helped her decide in her junior year to change her major from psychology (she’d had fantasies of becoming a school counselor) to English. As a teacher of literature, at least, she could dissect the private lives of fictional characters and even their authors with impunity—and without having to reveal anything of herself. Yet she’d stayed intensely curious about the bright-eyed teenage girls in her classes, who hung on Abby’s every word with such absurd expressions of deference and admiration; and about her faculty colleagues, whom she liked but had not really befriended; and above all, and endlessly, about her brother Thom with whom, until last week, she hadn’t spoken for an impossible four and a half years, yet about whom she thought daily, sometimes hourly, telling herself she ought to try and forget him, since he clearly had no further interest in her life.
Yet it was true that her curiosity was seldom “innocent,” as her mother had perceived. Lucille would be the last one to use the word, but Abby was closeted, she thought. A closeted snoop.
While Valerie Patten made her way down the aisle, Abby kept watch on the teenage boys across from her, the only passengers in a position to see what she was doing. Both were fast asleep, their arms folded tightly across their chests. Abby’s hand felt for the purse, fingered the clasp, and extracted the envelope. Quickly she unfolded the note and read:
Thurs.
Val:
You know I’m not the type to write, “By the time you read this,” etc. I don’t want to sound melodramatic. But I’m tired of fighting it. Val—all of it. Nothing is worthwhile without you.
Enclosed is my lawyer’s card. He has a copy of my will, darling, and of course everything is for you. I mention this because Mom and “Big Steve” may try to contest it and I want you to fight, if necessary, for what’s rightfully yours.
God knows, I tried to.
Please don’t feel bad or guilty. I know that you tried as well. It’s better this way.
All my love,
Marty
Abby stared at the note, stricken. She felt a sudden chill, especially in her hands: her fingertips had numbed with cold. Fumbling, she refolded the sheet and stuffed it back inside the envelope. She had already reached for the purse when she heard, from behind her, that unmistakable husky, good-humored voice: “Oops, I’m sorry, hon. Didn’t mean to sideswipe you!”
A moment later Valerie had settled back in her seat, clutching the purse in both hands. She was laughing. “I guess we’re getting into some rough air,” she told Abby. “I practically fell into that poor woman’s lap a couple of rows back.”
Abby had quickly rerouted her outstretched hand and started fiddling with the air control above her seat. Just in time, she’d managed to slide the envelope beneath her hip.
“It’s getting chilly in here, too,” Abby said awkwardly. She was thinking: how long had she sat there, staring at that alarming note? It seemed that Valerie had been gone for less than a minute. Abby added, casually, “That was a quick trip. Did you find the restroom?”
“Yeah, but there are half a dozen people in line,” Valerie said. “I’ll wait a few minutes, I guess.”
Abby felt the light skittering of her heartbeat; her breath came in brief, shallow lunges.
“Let’s see, what were we talking about?” Valerie said. Then, in a subdued voice, “Oh, I remember. You wanted to read Marty’s letter.”
“Oh no, that’s all right,” Abby said quickly. “It’s really none of my business.”
She watched nervously as Valerie fingered the clasp of her purse.
“It’s not that,” Valerie said. “I just didn’t want to impose, I guess. But I haven’t told anyone about—about his letter, or why I’m flying to Atlanta. I guess I would like your opinion, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
Abby took a deep breath. What had her mother said, whenever she suspected Abby or Thom had misbehaved? Confession is good for the soul, you know. Her mother was a never-ending source of clichés, which she pronounced in a lilting, prideful voice, as if her words had been particularly clever. At such moments, Thom usually had confessed; Abby, almost never.
But Valerie didn’t open her handbag. From the speakers above their seats, the captain’s voice had crackled into life. Simultaneously, a gong had sounded, illuminating the FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT warning.
Saved by the bell, Lucille might say. You’re one lucky young lady, Abigail Sadler.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve begun our descent into Atlanta, but we’re encountering some rough air. It’s nothing to worry about, but the city is getting hammered with some pretty strong thunderstorms at the moment. So just hang on, and please keep your seat belt securely fastened. We’ll have to suspend cabin service at this point, but we hope to have you on the ground in about half an hour.”
“Half an hour!” Valerie wailed. She gave Abby a sheepish look. “Why didn’t I use that darned restroom when I had the chance?”
“Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you went back,” Abby said.
“You think not?” Valerie craned her head into the aisle. “All the others have sat back down,” she said doubtfully. “I don’t want to get chewed out by a stewardess half my age.” She sighed. “Oh, I can wait. I guess this is my punishment.”
“Your punishment?” Abby said faintly.
“Yeah, for indulging myself with that glass of wine. Before lunch.” She gave a small, saddened laugh, then settled back into her seat. Abby noticed with relief that she’d inserted the purse into the seat pocket, next to the empty wine bottle. Evidently she had forgotten about the letter.
Abby took up her copy of Wide Sargasso Sea and pretended to
read. She could replace the letter when they landed, she thought. She’d offer to hold Valerie’s purse while she retrieved her coat from the overhead rack, presuming she’d brought one on board, or else seize a moment’s opportunity while Valerie was looking the other way. It would take a couple of seconds, no more. I hope you’ve learned a lesson from this, Lucille’s self-satisfied voice whispered into her ear.
Abby held the book open, turning a page every minute or two, but she could not pay attention. Outside her window, the clouds had darkened steadily; the plane pitched and swayed as it descended through the heavy wind, leaving a queasy sensation in Abby’s stomach. She remembered the young guy she’d seen de-icing the wings at the Philly airport. Lacking a coat or hat, seeming angelic in his rippling white shirt as he ascended through the eddying snow. The man hadn’t really resembled her brother. Even after four years, of course, she would recognize Thom at once, anytime and anywhere. He could never elude her.
Or rather, she could never escape him. Thom had insisted he was all right, that he felt fine, but still her mind’s eye suffered those long-familiar images from the TV news and occasional magazine reports she’d paged through. Men in their twenties or thirties, in the prime of life, yet their faces sunken and deathly pale, skeletal arms hanging useless at their sides. Their skin ravaged, some of them, by those awful raspberry-colored lesions—scarlet lesions, she’d thought. Nothing to do with her, she must have imagined back then. Idly watching the TV reports in her smug innocence. No connection to her life, she must have assumed as she skimmed through the magazine stories, staring briefly at each gruesome photograph before turning the page.
Even if she’d known about Thom, she might have done the same thing, closing her heart against him. “Serves them right,” she’d heard her bigoted cousin Sandra mutter one day. Abby tasted the syllables: Serves him right. Only now had he summoned her, after all this time. Wanting help. Wanting sympathy. Like the pathetic husband who’d written that suicide note to Valerie Patten, pretending love while thinking only of himself.
Brothers, husbands. Loved ones. Even as her heart churned, Abby felt a vile sensation in her throat, the tingling of nausea.
The plane ride had gotten bumpier; she heard something from Valerie Patten—a little exclamation that sounded like “Goodness!”—but Abby turned in the opposite direction, facing the rain-streaked window. Tears of frustration had filled her eyes and she touched at them quickly, then wiped her fingertips along the side of her skirt. If Valerie noticed, she reasoned, she could say something about the book she was reading. A poignant scene, she could say. A tragic story.
Her blood jumped: a loud cracking of thunder had jarred the plane, like a mighty clap of hands in the unsettled lead-colored air outside her window.
“My goodness!” Valerie said again. Laughing nervously, she glanced at Abby. Valerie opened her mouth to say something else, but she stopped. She must have seen.
“Don’t worry, hon.” She slipped an arm around Abby’s shoulder. “I’ve flown in weather much worse than this, believe it or not.”
“I’m all right,” Abby lied. “This book I’m reading—”
Another crack of thunder, jolting Abby and everyone else into silence. None of the flight attendants had been visible for several minutes. Evidently they’d retreated, strapped themselves into their seats. This time, even Valerie Patten didn’t cry out or give one of her throaty, nervous laughs. An eerie silence overtook the plane. The storm clouds hugging the windows filled the cabin with a sickish half-light. After each blast of thunder, sheets of lightning turned the clouds a ghastly silver, a neon shriek of tin-colored light Abby saw reflected pitifully on Valerie’s pale, damp-looking forehead and cheeks. Across the aisle the two teenage boys sat forward, their heads swiveling between their window and Abby’s. They elbowed each other as though trying to joke themselves out of being afraid. One of the boys had removed his cap, pulling his thick hair upward in dark, surprised-looking tufts.
Valerie leaned close, her hand gripping Abby’s shoulder. “Now I’m getting a little worried,” she said, abashed. “Those clouds, they’re so—”
Again the loudspeaker roared to life. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re encountering some very rough weather.” Just as abruptly, the speaker went dead.
“Thanks for the update, Captain,” Valerie said. She sounded almost angry. “My God, does he think we’re all morons?”
Abby glanced over, trying to smile. As the plane bucked left and right, as thunder boomed and lightning blazed and rain clattered like slanted knives around them, she’d grown strangely calm. Minutes ago she’d felt so anxious, her breath coming fast, but now she felt she could endure or even enjoy whatever might happen. She gave herself up to the violent lurching of the plane like one of the Victorian heroines in the novels she taught, abandoning themselves in torrents of passion to the embraces of tempestuous, dark-browed lovers.
Another crackling of the speakers.
“Sorry for the interruption, folks,” the captain said, “but we were getting some advice from the tower at Hartsfield. Just wanted to assure you that everything’s under control. It’s one of those situations that looks much worse than it is.” He chuckled briefly. “The weather is pretty crabby out there, I know, but—”
A deafening crack of thunder drowned him out.
A few seconds later, as the thunder rumbled off, Valerie whispered in Abby’s ear, “‘Crabby?’ Is that what he said? This guy’s crazy!”
Though Valerie was trying for sarcasm, Abby could hear the terror in her voice.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I think he’s just trying to—”
Then came a glare of lightning so intense that Abby broke off, blinking. In the same instant the cabin lights blinked off, and the plane tilted wildly to the left, accompanied by a loud Badoom! as though the left wing had been struck by the fist of God.
Somewhere behind Abby, a girl screamed; a man several rows ahead stood abruptly, hitting his head on the luggage bin. “What the hell?” he cried, confused. He bent at the waist, as though readying himself to vomit. “Sit back down!” a woman yelled. “And for God’s sake, fasten your seat belt!” Abby saw the woman’s arm grab at the man and jerk him back down to his seat.
Inside the cabin there was only the dusky light emitted by the pewter-colored storm and occasional sickly-bright flashes of lightning that glittered off the swaying wings. Abby sat numbed, feeling nothing. Valerie Patten’s arm still clutched her shoulder, and when the lights went out she’d pressed her head against Abby’s breast, like a child in need of solace. Abby worried the passengers might panic and rush chaotically into the aisles, but within a few seconds that unearthly silence had filled the plane again.
“Don’t worry,” Abby murmured, though she couldn’t be sure if Valerie Patten heard. The woman had begun to sob, her body shaking in rhythmic spasms. Yet the plane seemed to have righted itself, and unless Abby was imagining it, the clouds had turned a lighter, paler gray. Had the rain stopped? Again came the familiar crackling of the captain’s microphone.
“Folks, we’re just a few minutes from landing. Sorry for that rough patch—and for the loss of the cabin lights. We had a lightning strike on the wing, and sometimes the power gets knocked out when that happens. But it’s nothing to worry about—happens all the time. The worst is behind us, so just sit tight. We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes.”
And they were. The moment the gong sounded, the passengers shambled into the aisles. They hauled down their luggage from the overhead bins and chatted back and forth as if nothing extraordinary had happened. Even Valerie seemed unfazed: she raised her head and shook herself briefly as though waking from a dream and, in the same instant, forgetting it. She said to Abby, “It was fun talking with you, hon. Hope you and your brother have a nice visit.” She smiled briefly, not quite meeting Abby’s eyes; by now her front teeth were liberally smeared with lipstick.
“Yes, thanks,” Abby said awkwardly.
Sh
e sat there, stunned, as the other passengers waited in the aisle. What was she doing here? Why had she come? She felt a wild longing for her life back in Philadelphia, its calm and safety. Only one phone call from her prodigal brother and here she was, risking everything.
The other passengers, including those behind her, were shuffling toward the exit, but Abby waited, her heart chilled at the thought of Thom standing somewhere beyond the gate. She did not know what would happen or what she felt, thinking only that she must compose herself. Her lips had made a small, frozen smile. By now the other passengers had filed off the plane, Valerie among them, but only when Abby felt reasonably sure she could hold the smile in place, no matter what, did she stand and begin feeling around for the purse and book she’d brought on board. Her movements were stiff and preoccupied, as though she’d been temporarily blinded. Only after she exited the plane did she understand that, in her numbed left hand, she held in a tight clutch the letter she had stolen from Valerie Patten.
Chapter 2
“Do I look that bad?” she asked him.
So Thom understood that his face had fallen. He tried to compensate by grinning, and hugging her extra-tight. For an extra-long moment.
But my God, it was true: she looked terrible. For four years he’d been staring at the photo on his bedside table, which he’d snapped during the little party their mother had given to celebrate Abby’s getting her master’s at Emory. Her hair had been longer then, pulled taut and tied in back but nonetheless full and luxuriant, her best feature. That burnished auburn shade he loved with a few lighter, almost-blond streaks, especially the pale tendrils curling at her temples and all but concealing her tiny, elegant ears. She’d stared forthrightly into the camera, with a fixed smile he recognized as a little strained but others would not, and she’d worn a fancy red blouse their mother had bought for the occasion.
