Fly by Night

by Andrea Thalasinos

  The D’Agostinos had been the closest thing to grandparents Alex would ever know. After moving to Cornell, Alex would ask for them. They’d sold the fish market soon after and had retired down to Florida along with their son and his family—the promised land for the elderly first-generation northeastern immigrants. Neither had lived much long after.

  * * *

  Standing at the Mall of America bus stop, Amelia spotted her bus. She wondered if any of these young mothers were lucky enough to have a Mrs. D’Agostino showing up with grocery bags and hand-me-down baby and toddler clothes. She remembered with crushing humility, wondering if she’d ever have made it without them.

  She watched and listened as the young Maller women checked their phones and made calls to babysitters. How well she knew the torque and strain of such responsibility that never lets one fully relax. Perpetual worry, always on the brink of getting a major utility disconnection or having a grocery store checker load milk on top of bread to squash it all because you’d paid with food stamps.

  The crowd looked up as a line of buses rushed in to snuggle up to the curb. Nearby a garbage truck’s engine whined as it struggled to get free from a fortresslike snow pile that surrounded a set of Dumpsters.

  Christmas music was piped outside, though the Mallers had stopped hearing it weeks ago. “Silent Night” and “The Little Drummer Boy” were lost on most, though a few silently mouthed the words as they stood curbside.

  The bus pulled up. Amelia’s heart pierced. So grateful for all those years, so hard, yet in some ways they’d seemed like they were where the real living had taken place.

  17

  She paced the living room. It was too early to leave to meet Myles. Having rearranged the coffeemaker and toaster, and emptied the crumb trap that she didn’t know existed, Amelia then tackled the refrigerator with a bottle of Clorox, wiping it down like some laboratory protocol. She still had a few minutes.

  Emptying her clothes from the stackable dryer into the white vinyl laundry basket, she carried it over and sat down alongside it on the coffee table next to where Bryce was laying, watching reruns of Deadliest Catch after his shift.

  She glanced at her watch. Not enough time to start anything, too much to be milling about and she certainly wouldn’t show up fifteen minutes early. It was too cold to sit in the Jeep.

  “You hate me,” he said.

  “If only.”

  He glanced at her. Beer bottle in one hand, an open bag of convenience-store popcorn lay on his chest with stray kernels that had missed his mouth littering the collar of the Sea Life polo shirt he’d neglected to change.

  “I told you he’d show up,” he said.

  “So what you did was right.”

  He turned and gave her a look. “That’s not what I said.”

  “What are you saying?” she said.

  “Nothing. You’re still pissed.”

  He resumed watching as the crew of the Northwestern pulled another empty crab pot over the ship’s starboard side from the Bering Sea. “Damn,” he said for them.

  “I think you’re the one who’s pissed,” she said and began to pick out socks from the laundry basket and drape them over her thigh, looking for the mate.

  “And how do you figure that?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” She looked at him.

  He met her eyes and then looked back to the crew pulling another empty crab pot over the side of the ship.

  “Letting Myles in like that was an act of aggression.” She felt as angry as when she’d punched a captain of a trawler who, through drunken negligence, had collided into their ship.

  “Oh please…” He shifted on the couch. “Enough with the Greek drama.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He turned and looked at her hair. “Ni-ice,” he said.

  She got up and entered the bedroom, carrying folded jeans just to cool down. Why were they fighting? She thought to explain that she would have washed her hair anyway, but that was so defensive, and why did she have to explain anything?

  “What do you want me to say, Amelia?” she heard him call to the bedroom.

  She stepped back into the living room.

  “This from the guy who hasn’t been on a date in a year—”

  “Hasn’t gotten laid in a year,” Bryce corrected as he raised his beer, toasting like that was some sort of accomplishment.

  She wondered who he’d been out with.

  The TV got their attention. Another empty steel crab pot was being hauled from the Bering Sea. “God, poor bastards, it looks colder than fuck,” he mumbled just as a monster wave hit the side of the Northwestern, coating the railings in another layer of ice.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Things could be worse. We could be there.”

  But rather than fight any more with Bryce, she riffled through the laundry basket, pulling out more socks and bundling the matching pairs together.

  “You’re still pissed,” he said after tipping up the beer bottle and swallowing.

  She didn’t answer.

  She watched him feel around on the floor for the remote before he gave up.

  “I already said I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it.” She pulled out the remote from under her thigh and handed it over.

  “You know, since Captain Phil died,” he went on, “I just can’t get into this show.”

  Amelia looked at the screen.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  The room was too small to get enough distance to see the whole picture without getting a distortion headache.

  She felt the sudden urge to cry.

  “Think something’s wrong with me, Bryce?” She almost couldn’t get out the words, her throat was too constricted.

  She tossed the last ball of socks into the basket and rested her hands on her thighs.

  “No.”

  “I mean I’m gonna be fifty-five and—”

  “No.”

  Her scalp relaxed at the speed and certainty of his response. She looked up.

  “You’re not with the right guy.”

  Just then a forty-foot wave hit the Northwestern. They both looked. Her heart was on deck with the crew. She longed to see open water, to be tossed about like nothing by something so grand that it could kill you as a matter of course and not have it be personal.

  He sat up. “Holy shit, that motherfucker just pitched up the whole bow.” The ship breeched like a whale and then slammed down. “That’s enough to knock out your teeth.” Ocean spray knocked the sorting table loose from where it was locked.

  “Look at that thing go,” Bryce said. They both watched it roll like a speeding vehicle across the deck, prompting a string of bleeped expletives from the crew.

  Her stomach jumped, re-experiencing being seaside in a storm.

  She wanted to revisit the man thing.

  “You think it’s just about meeting the right guy?” She expected a complicated missive about demographics and women her age—Bryce was ever the statistician and scientist.

  “Yes.” The answer came quicker than she’d imagined. “You need more of a lunatic.”

  “A lunatic.”

  She felt him look over.

  “Like you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She needed to hear it again and again, but knew there’d be a tiny window of opportunity of information from Bryce.

  “So you think it’s that simple,” she affirmed.

  He gave her a brusque look. “Quit second-guessing yourself, okay?”

  “Have you ever met the right person?”

  He sharply tipped back the beer bottle and swallowed quickly. “Yeah, but I fucked up.”

  Amelia figured Juney. She’d never say what she’d learned from Diane.

  They sat in silence, watching the Bering Sea waves washing over the deck of the ship.

  He exhaled and pursed his lips with disgust.

  Another crab pot was raised up, teeming with moving claws as the crew swung it onto the deck. “Yeah
, baby, now that’s what I’m talking about,” the men started clamoring. Cigarettes dangled from the mouths of the deck crew.

  “Would you date Juney again?”

  “Nope.” He emphasized the p.

  “Even if she dumps that guy?”

  “Never.” He tipped back the bottle.

  Amelia wondered what he’d think if he knew how Juney had worked against them with the NSF grant.

  “Think we get a second chance if we blow the first?” she asked.

  He turned to look at her.

  “Sure hope so.” He said it in a way that suggested he did and pushed up onto one elbow.

  She wondered if she’d gotten a first. Maybe chances had passed by unnoticed. She thought back to the men she’d dated. Even the few who’d practically lived in her house, the “weekenders,” as she’d call them. But even after a great weekend she’d be left with the feeling that she was reaching for something that wasn’t hers. And so far no one had felt that she could “unpack her suitcase” as Penelope, of all people, would say. Men had felt forced or sketchy. Scared would be okay, but sketchy, no. Maybe you had to work for right. Friends who were happily together advised that right was effortless and immediate, albeit scary, but then as easy as an autumn breeze that you hope blows on forever and if you’re smart and maybe lucky, it does.

  * * *

  She looked at her watch. Time to leave and meet Myles at his downtown hotel. Bryce reached over to pat her arm before she stood.

  “Thanks, Bry,” she said. The gesture made her want to cry.

  Tonight she felt more like a prehistoric sturgeon, old and bony-plated with grandma hands.

  Just then the late Captain Phil let loose with a string of profanities that bleeped out a full ten seconds of airtime. They both laughed. The Captain looked into the camera and said “A boat’s not like a woman. Here you can close the door and walk away for six weeks.”

  “Whoa, I loved that guy,” Bryce said, blinking sadly as he raised his beer.

  * * *

  She recalled sprucing up the Revolution House like a madwoman with fresh flowers, new bath towels, bath mats, and shower curtains, hitting Pier 1 commando style in search of new throw pillows for the couch, a trip to Macy’s for new underwear and bras for a shot at a new life. But just as the rusty gates of her heart began to creak open, Myles had bolted. No reason, no explanation given, just no. Not now, not ever.

  “Think I’ll ever be excited about someone again?” she asked, slipping into her coat.

  Bryce set his beer down on the coffee table and turned to study her.

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks, Bry. ’Cause fat or bald, I’m not picky.”

  She reached out and squeezed his meaty forearm, brushing off popcorn kernels from his chest and onto the floor. For some reason tears lined her eyes.

  She looked at her watch. “Oops.” She smoothed down her jeans and grabbed her messenger bag from where she’d tossed it earlier.

  “Who’s paying?”

  She gave him a look to stop but then laughed.

  Light from the aquarium silhouetted the shape of Bryce’s head, his camo cap sitting on the back of the sofa. She ached to lean over, rest her head on his shoulder, but didn’t. The smell of his shaving cream, the tea tree scent from his hair shampoo that she always called his hippy shampoo, was home to her. She stood with her hand on the doorknob, her chest aching. She missed him though she hadn’t left. Tears stung her eyes. Amelia turned to watch the aquarium; coral polyps swayed in the current caused by the oxygen bubbles.

  * * *

  There was street parking a few blocks away from the Grand Hotel and Amelia opted to walk rather than use valet parking just in case.

  It had begun to snow as she walked and flipped up her hood. Her chest felt tight as she slipped her hands into her pockets. Fine grains of snow accumulated on the sidewalk. Not enough to be shoveled, but enough to leave footprints.

  Reaching the hotel, a doorman opened the tall doors as a dressy couple entered. A woman teetering in very high heels on the fine layer of snow made Amelia smile.

  As soon as she entered the paneled lobby, a concierge approached.

  “Amelia Drakos?”

  She was surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “Please come this way.”

  Her stomach was jumpy. She followed the concierge down a long hallway through a set of double wooden doors to a private dining area with only three tables. A roaring stone fireplace covered an entire wall. On top of a small platform was a grand piano and 1940s slow jazz made everything feel smooth.

  Myles stood. “Amelia,” he said, looking at her in that emotional way he used to just before he’d bend over to kiss her.

  She didn’t know what to feel.

  “I can take your coat.” The concierge touched her collar.

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll hold on to it.” Amelia smiled in a gracious way.

  The woman nodded and then quickly left, closing the doors.

  “So good to see you,” Myles said and moved into position to pull out her chair and help her be seated. “You look so lovely.” He then reached down to kiss her on both cheeks, holding still and turning his head in the slightest way as if waiting for her to reach back to kiss his lips, but she didn’t.

  “My God, I’ve forgotten what a beautiful woman you are,” he said as if flustered.

  She hadn’t known Myles to get flustered. Still in an expensive-looking navy-blue suit, minus the tie, he sat down and fabricated a look of wonder as if drinking her in.

  “You got new glasses,” she said, more as an observation. His eyes kept trying to catch hers in this way they had of softening into hers.

  Myles leaned on the table as he gestured toward the musician as if at a loss for what to say. “That’s Doby Manogoian,” he said. “Young guy, very talented pianist, mostly jazz and blues.” Myles filled her in on the times he’d heard him play in Boston, talking like almost five months hadn’t passed since they’d last talked.

  Something about the musician looked familiar. They kept glancing at each other as if trying to figure it out.

  “I’ve been meaning to get some of his CDs,” Myles said. “How lucky to have such a world-class musician here in Minneapolis; I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him, Amelia.”

  It was more of a scolding than a chiding. She didn’t answer.

  The musician looked about Jen’s age. As the man moved to readjust the seat and twist the microphone closer, he stared at Amelia. She looked away. Where did she know him from? Was it from Sea Life with baby mamas and hordes of children? She turned to look at the young man; he looked back with the same puzzlement.

  “So tell me how you are.” Myles unfolded the dinner napkin in his supreme ritual. In the past she’d have quickly copied him, wanting to be part of the club, but now she left it folded on the charger plate.

  “Quite busy. Jen’s here too,” she said.

  “Are you happy with the position?” He clasped his hands together and leaned forward, consciously giving his full and undivided attention. She felt his eyes searching her face like a space probe scanning the surface of Mars.

  Her eyes narrowed. She smiled, realizing what was different. She didn’t like him anymore. She wondered if she ever had.

  Amelia re-crossed her legs under the table, remembering the rush as his car pulled into her driveway. Expensive cologne that she could smell into the next day in the Revolution House, tailored clothes—now he just seemed like some guy who changed his clothes more often than most.

  She had to stifle a snicker, watching him labor to carry a conversation where in the past it would be her doing so.

  “The position’s fine for now.”

  The pianist paused to take a sip of water and then peered at Amelia.

  “And your son?”

  “Assistant professor at the University of Vancouver, diving away, just back from Bimini.”

  “You’ve done so well with Alex given your hi
story.”

  “My history?”

  “You know.” He made circling motions with his hand. “All you’ve been through.”

  What kind of backhanded compliment was that? She couldn’t think of a comeback.

  “Sorry, please don’t take that the wrong way.” He held up both hands and turned his head in a cute forgive-me gesture.

  “Which was what…?” she said and watched him struggle, not at all moved to help him out. So different from how they’d fall into conversation in the warm Providence evenings that past summer. Sitting on her outdoor sofa on the back patio, leaning against each other as they drank coffee on a clear night under the stars at the Revolution House, chatting, never running out of things to say until right before dawn as the sun was about to rise when one or the other of them would fall asleep.

  * * *

  In the weeks after he’d dumped her, Amelia had snooped around in secret on the Facebook page that his daughter had set up for him. She told no one, ashamed and nervous each time she’d logged on. There had been photos of someone named Tina. Tina was tagged on his arm, in his car, at official functions with his investment firm. Tall, strapless dress, nails, hair, diamonds by the yard, she was it.

  “I have to apologize for what happened,” Myles began, hanging his head, reminding her of the ten-year-old boy she’d scolded in the education room that day after he’d written “Fuck” in Magic Marker on the hem of the girl’s coat sitting in front of him.

  Earthquakes happen. Tornadoes happen.

  She looked back at him with no expression.

  “About how I left.”

  Amelia’s eyebrow rose as she folded her hands, leaned her elbows on the edge of the table, and listened.

  “I didn’t tell you this at the time but Shelly, my ex, found a lump. The kids were devastated and I had to be there for them, for her. I had to focus on her and couldn’t have you clinging,” he said, looking down into his hands.

  “Clinging?” Amelia blinked and tilted her head.

  “I had to be there every step of the way, helping to make every medical and surgical decision, being there together as a family.”